University of Virginia Library

SCENE IX.

THE TRIAL.
An Austrian Court-martial. A number of Officers as Judges. An empty chair for the President, who enters during the proceedings. A subordinate Officer prosecutes. Various Witnesses. A great crowd of Auditors. The Monk stands in the midst with an abstracted air, murmuring to himself.
Prosecutor.
The court has heard the minstrel,
Henri de Jaloux; the most reverend father,
Ghiotto Ingordo; and the rustic crowd
Brought under guard from Milan.

A Judge.
Speak, old man!

Old Goffo.
So please you, I was working in the fields;
I serve my lord our bishop—and our bull,
Mad with the fly—for, an it please your worships,
Since I drove plough, which will be thirty year
Come Martinmas, for an it please your worships,
My lord the bishop's land—not that I say it
For any ill-will to my lord the bishop—
But so it is—your worships please to ask
Giacchimo,—young Giacchimo—(poor old Giacch,
We wore him out.) Your worships, 'tis no use
Denying it. But as I say, our bull
Curst with the midge——

Prosecutor
Speak to the case, old man,
You see the prisoner!

Old Goffo.
Ay, Sir, ay. Our bull,
Bit like a loach——

A Judge.
Wake up, thou prating loon,
Or have thine ears slit! To the case, I say,
And leave this babble!

Old Goffo.
Good, your worships, yes.
Where was I, please your worships? Ay. Our bull——

A Judge.
Silence!

Another Judge.
Nay, Colonel, let him on. Well,
sirrah!

Old Goffo.
Our bull, your worship—I am seventy year
And more, but let me see the beast, your worship,
That throws me, bull or cow, with a fair odds.
But, as I say, our Lammas calf—a better
Never suck'd dam—'twas eight weeks old that day,
Had took the murrain—as it might be here—
I made a shift—my poor old back, your worships!
And knelt to feed it; when up comes our bull,
And down I am. Not that I think, your worships,——

A Judge.
Babbling old man, hear me. Answer me shortly
What I shall ask thee. Jailor, heat thine irons,
And burn his tongue out if he fails. Now, sirrah,
What of this man?

Old Goffo.
Please you, my lord, he came—
Not that I ever saw him till that hour—
My lord, I am a poor old man, my lords,
I am a very poor old man—the bishop——

A Judge.
Silence! the prisoner saved you? Is it so?

Old Goffo.
Please you, my lord, he did, my lord——

A Judge.
And you?

Old Goffo.
My lords, it was the only piece I had—
By all the saints!—nay, pray, your worships, mercy,
A poor old man! I meant to pay it back—
My lord the bishop's steward that same day,
Says he, Go buy——

A Judge.
Enough! you gave the prisoner
A coin—and why?

Old Goffo.
An offering, please your worships,
An old man's life is sweet—I swear, my lords,
Only an offering—nay——

Another Judge.
Piously done!
Speak up, good man! The prisoner took it?

Old Goffo.
Ah,
Sirs, that an honest man who served his bishop
Good sixty year—nay, I might say, your worships,
Sixty and one: at Martinmas—I mind it
Well—I was hired. My mother—rest her soul,
She was a mother, sirs,—she says—says she——

A Judge.
Jailor, your irons!

Old Goffo.
Mercy, oh, my lords,
I will speak—mercy, oh, my lords——

A Judge.
Hear me.
Say yes or no. The prisoner kept your coin?

Old Goffo.
No, please my lord.

A Judge.
No, sirrah? How?

Old Goffo.
Nay, mercy!
My lords, I will tell all.

Judge.
Peace, fool, say on.

Old Goffo.
Please you, he flung it on the ground, and stamp'd it
Like any ram—my lords—as I stand here,—
And said——

Judge.
Ay, tell us what he said.

Old Goffo.
My lords,
I am a very feeble poor old man,
I pray your worships mercy—on my knees—
My lords—my youngest girl left one small child,
For pity's sake, my lords, remember it,—
My youngest daughter, please your worships,—she
Left him to me—for pity's sake, my lords,
My lords, for pity's sake!

A Judge.
Is there none here
Who will interpret this strange witness?

Prosecutor.
Sir,
The poor half-witted dotard fears to be
Confounded with his benefactor. I,
Marshalling the evidence, heard this from him,
That when the prisoner saw the superscription
And image of my lord the duke, he spurn'd
The money, and declared that masses bought
With king-stamp'd price purchased the soul for hell,
With sundry other ravings, treating of
Rome and Republics.

A Judge.
I this so?

Old Goffo.
My lords,
'Tis very true.

President
(who enters).
Eh—eh—why this is treason,
Treason—eh—said he so?—honest old man,
Speak on—he told thee—eh—yes, yes, he told thee
All kinds of things—eh—yes—to slay the bishop,
Speak out—fear not—to slay the bishop—eh?——

Old Goffo.
My lords, as I shall answer on my soul,
He said not so; rather, my lords, he bade——

President.
There, get you gone—there, get you gone——

Prosecutor.
Call up
Signor Pulito Mansueto. Now, Sir,
What say you?

Mansueto.
Sir, I have a son. The son
Of my grey widowhood. To whose dear tune
I have so play'd my life, in the dim future
Of my old heart I own no single hope
That has not all his features. What he was
To me, a daughter seem'd to my rich neighbour,
Worthy Antonio; and wherein my son
Fail'd of perfection's stature, it did show
Complete in her. Antonio and I,
Old Schoolfellows—had mark'd them for each other,
Well pleased to make our dynasties shake hands
When we might greet no longer.

A Judge.
Is it likely, friend,
The poison wrought no further? Had this knave
No monetary service of your son?
Had he——

President.
Eh—money—eh—old gentleman?
What? Did he rob you?

Mansueto.
On my honour, no.
My child, Sir, is no felon. He took nothing
But his old lyre. Nay, now you urge my thought,
There was an ancient toga which had hung
With other Roman relics in my hall,
He took that with him. And God bless him with it!
Sir, I am not a seer, but methinks
Your house is childless.

Prosecutor.
Call Capo di Matti!
Now, Matti, what are you?

Matti.
My lords, I am,
Or was, my lords, of late, house-steward to
My lord the marquis.

A Judge.
And you know this man?

President.
Eh—eh—you know him? Look the man in the face.
Turn about, prisoner! Eh, you dog——

Matti.
My lords,
He was a frequent guest where I have served,
A very turbulent fellow, good my lords,
And dangerous to the state.

A Judge.
And in your business——

President.
Eh—yes, your business—eh? your daily business
At table, eh? and so forth. You have heard—
Speak up, Sir, you have heard?

Matti.
As this, my lords.
His manner was to say with many words,
Your worships have no right in Italy,
No, not so much as to the ground you stand on.
Then 'twas his pleasure to revile crown'd heads;
His highness is no duke,—his majesty
No emperor or king,—my lord the pope—
A Catholic tongue, my lords, may not deliver
His awful discourse of my lord the pope!
But most, my lords, it was his wont to boast
Of some strange secret known to himself only,
To sweep your worships from this land, without
Gun, sword, or pistol. Which, my lords, I hold
To be some compound hot and devilish
Of his black art. My lords, I know the time
When I have sick'd to hear him. Once, my lords,
As I shall answer on my sinful soul,
The prisoner promised my late lord, the marquis,
To show him all his secret after dinner,
I' the garden house. My lords, some said that eve
It thunder'd. I knew better.

A Judge.
This is fearful.
Well, Sir,——

Matti.
And, please our lordships, at my lord's
He wore no cowl—my lords, he is no priest—
This gown, my lords, is worn the better to carry
His villanous compound. I have heard him say so.

A Judge.
Heaven and earth!

President.
What? What? not a priest, and wear
Priest's clothes? Why, blasphemy—eh? Blasphemy,
Rank blasphemy—put it down so.

A Judge.
Well, fellow,
This shall be thought on.

Matti.
I do fear to say
What more I heard.

A Judge.
Speak out!

Another.
Sirrah, thine oath!

Matti.
Nay then, my lords, nay, to say truth, my lords,
A man is none the worse for what he hears—
Or you, my lords——

A Judge.
Speak to the point!

Matti.
My lords,
Am I held guiltless?—Servants have their duties——

A Judge.
Speak out, I say.

Matti.
My lords, it seems to pass
Man's wickedness—but, as I hope to see
Heaven and the blessed, this man hath conspired
To level every city, small and great,
In all this land save one. Sirs, take it down,
I swear, my lords, even to the very words
A hundred times repeated, till my knees
Shook to stand by—‘Rome all, Rome only,’ so
He phrased it. I speak true, my lords——

Prosecutor.
The Court
Shall hear a confirmation. You may go.
Stand up, Bugiardo Sporco, serving-man
To the aforesaid marquis——

A Voice from the Crowd.
But discharged
(Let the Court take good note of it) for lying,
Theft, and adultery.

Prosecutor.
Silence! my lord marquis.
Now, fellow, have you heard ill of this prisoner?

Sporco.
Times out of mind, my lord.

A Judge.
Tell what was wont
To be his converse at your master's table.

Sporco.
First and foremost, to cut all Austrian throats—
Pillage all churches—ravish all the women,
And hold them afterwards in common; ten
To each man. Then he had a plan to roast——

Shouts from the Crowd.
Down with the rascal! kill him where he stands.
Stones! Stones! Stones!

A Judge.
Soldiers, save the witness.

Another.
Charge
This rabble.

A Friend of the Monk's.
Peace, good people.

The Crowd.
Peace! peace! peace!

Prosecutor.
Call up——

A Judge.
The Court is satisfied. Arraign
The prisoner.

An Officer.
How say'st thou, Vittorio Santo,
Sometime, but falsely, self-styled Monk of Jesus,
And now on trial. Thou hast had free hearing
Of thine accusers. Speak. Guilty ot not?

The Monk
(musing).
‘It is in vain to rise up early, to sit
Up late, to eat the bread of sorrows. So
He giveth His beloved rest.’

Officer.
Vittorio Santo! self-styled Monk of Jesus,
Guilty or not? Answer!

The Monk
(musing).
You, you that cry
‘How long?’ be patient; is not your heaven sweet?

Officer.
Vittorio Santo—self-styled Monk of Jesus,
Guilty or not?

The Monk
(musing).
Brother! it is thy voice;
'Twas well of thee, my brother! to speak now.
The home, the plain, the column by the tower,
Sickness, thy love, loss, death: the revelation,
Resolve, thought, labour, disappointment, triumph,
And now the end. Yes, it was well, my brother!

A Judge.
Shout in his ear. Smite him, ye drowsy guards.
What! shall this slave despise us? Corporal, hither!
Thou hast a voice, cry out, ‘Vittorio Santo,
Guilty or not?’

Corporal
(shouts).
Santo! Vittorio Santo!
Guilty or not?

The Monk.
I am a Roman. Find me
A judge and I refuse not to be tried.

Prosecutor.
Traitor! thou standest at the judgment-seat
Of Wollustling von Bauerhund von Bosen,
Baron of Herrschwuth and Scheinheiligkeit,
Count d'Omicidio, Marshal in the armies
Of that dread sovereign Apostolical
Our Liege and thine—the imperial Ferdinand,
Emperor of Austria—King——

The Monk.
Peace! I have heard
His titles. Find me, friend, a judge, and I
Refuse not to be tried.

The President.
A judge! eh? what?
A judge—eh—are we not a judge? eh? what?
Nay, pull his cowl about his face! There! flout him!
Spit at him! Dog! Nay, we will teach thee, cur!
A judge forsooth! Pluck the mad priest by the nose;
Nay, not a judge? Then hear thy sentence——

The Monk.
Spare
Thy lips, for I appeal.

President.
Appeal, appeal,
Nay, he appeals, the dog! Appeals! hear that!
By Heavens! appeals! Appeal, vile slave? to whom?

The Monk.
To that which—looking o'er your heads and through
These walls, which soon shall be as dust—I see
Rise like an awful spirit from the earth.
To you, as yet, invisible. To me,
Present and filling all things. Strong as fate;
Dreadful as heavenly justice; more imperial
Than all the builders of the Babylons;
Invincible as death; and beautiful
As itself only.

President.
Drag the traitor out!
What! Does he threaten us with ghosts?

Men rush in shouting.
To arms!
To arms!

Others.
The mob!

Others.
Rebellion!

Others.
Carbonari!

A Judge.
Guard the priest!

Enter Soldier.
Soldier.
Captain, twenty thousand men,
By my guess—rogues and peasants——

Captain.
How far hence

Soldier.
Three gunshots.

Captain.
Armed?

Soldier.
Ordnance, they say!

Captain.
Who leads?

Soldier.
A Woman.

A Judge.
Man the gates!

Men (rushing in).
The mob! the mob!

A Spectator
(to the Monk).
Be these thy ghosts then?

The Monk.
Were the troubled waters
The angel? Yet how many at Bethesda
Saw no more than the trouble!

Spectator.
Being heal'd,
What matter?

The Monk.
Good friend, much. The heal'd will worship
The healer.

Men (rushing in).
Haste, haste, haste.

More.
My lords! a woman,
My lords! a woman like a prophetess,
Hair in the winds, and eyes on fire——

A Judge.
We know.
Peace! Guards, remove the prisoner!

President.
Eh—eh—what—
Remove—remove—yes, yes, off with him—eh?
You lag? You dogs! lend me a bayonet! There,
There! by the heels! Drag him out by the heels!

A Judge
(to the Captain).
Tell off two hundred. By the southern gate
Lead out your prisoner. Underneath the walls
Let him be shot. Face right about, and reach
The western heights.

Great shouts without.
Down with the Austrians! Arms!
Blood! Charge! Death—death to tyrants! Victory! Freedom!