University of Virginia Library

Our master will be Cardinal erelong—
Is he not made for one?—so smooth and plump,
With those broad jaws, those half-shut peeping eyes,
Those ankle-heavy legs and knotty feet,
Which only need red stockings. Even now
He totters round with the true Cardinal's gait
Upon his tender toes, while you behind
Demurely follow, scarce an ear-shot off,
The pious footsteps of the holy man.
How many years have you thus stalked along
Behind that broad-brimmed, purple-tasseled hat,
In your stiff lace and livery, trained to pause
Whene'er he pauses, turning half to fix
His Fifthly on his fingers to some dull
Cringing Abbate shuffling at his side?
Then, when that point is drilled into his brain
(Proving the blessedness of poverty,
Or how the Devil has no cursed wiles
To lure the world to hell like liberty—
The only one great good being obedience),
Back go the hands beneath the creased black silk
That streams behind, and on you march again;
While the gilt carriage lumbers in the rear,
And the black stallions nod their tufted crests.

Yours is a noble station, clinging there
Behind it as you clatter through the town,
Your white calves shaking with the pavement's jar,
The mark and sneer of half the world you meet.
Ah, well! 't is wretched business yours and mine;
I know not which is worst—but then it pays;
The cards are dirty, but what matters dirt
To those who win? Though now the stakes are small,
We'll hold the court-cards when the suit is red;—
And so it will be soon; why, even now
I seem to see red stockings on his legs;—
And yesterday I said, “Your Eminence,”
As if I thought he now was Cardinal—
“Your Eminence,” indeed! At that he smiled
That oily smile of his, and rubbed his hands—
Those thick fat hands, on which his emerald ring
Flashes ('t is worth at least a thousand crowns)—
And said, “Good Giacomo, not ‘Eminence,’
I'm but a Monsignore, all 's too much
For my deserts.” Then I, “Your ‘Reverence’
Ought to be ‘Eminence,’ and will be soon;
The tassel 's almost old upon your hat.”
“Sei matto, Giacomo,” he said, and smiled.
You know those smiles, that glitter falsely o'er
His smooth broad cheeks, as if he asked of you,
“Am I not kind and good?” and all the while
Your soul protests, and calls out “Knave and cheat.”
But, then, how can one call him by such names,
When, even with that smile upon his face,
He slips a scudo in one's hand and says,
“Go, Giacomo, and drink my health with this”?
What can one do but bow and try to blush?
“Oh—Reverenza—thanks—you are too good.”

Dear man! sweet man! in all those troublous times
What zeal was his!—how earnestly he worked!
Who can forget his pure self-sacrifice,
His virtuous deeds, above this world's reward—
Done for pure Christian duty—done, of course,
For Holy Church—all was for Holy Church—
(Without a notion of this world's reward)—
All for the good of souls and Holy Church—
(Ora pro nobis, and that sort of thing)—
All to bring sinners back again to God,
And from the harvest root the devil's tares—
In omnia sæcula—amen—amen.
We don't forget—well! you know whom I mean;
No need to mention names, though no one 's nigh;
We don't forget him whose anointed hands
Were flayed by order of his Reverence,
Ere with his bleeding palms they led him down
Into the court-yard, and we, peeping through
The half-closed blind, saw him throw up his hands
And forward fall upon his face, and writhe,
When the sharp volley rang against the walls.

Those oily fingers wrote that sentence down!
That thick voice, with a hypocritic tone,
While both his palms were raised, decreed that doom.
Who could help weeping when that pious man,
Professing horror at his victim's crime,
And bidding him confess and pray to God,
And saying, “God would pardon him, perhaps,
As he himself would, if the power were his,
But, being the instrument of Church and State,
No choice was given,” with his priestly foot
Pushed, you know whom, into a felon's grave?
That bloody stain is still upon the walls,
Of the same colour as the scarlet hat
Our master soon will wear; and, after all,
Who more deserves it? If he stained his soul,
Is not the labourer worthy of his hire?
He shall be raised who doth abase himself!
The good and faithful servant shall be made
The ruler over many! Ah! my friend,
He nothing lost by all those deeds of his.
He erred in zeal, but zeal is not a vice—
'T was all for Holy Church. His secret life,
Perhaps, was not quite perfect? Who of you
Is without sin let him first cast a stone;—
No one, you see; so let us think no more
Of that. Does any Duchess smile the less
At all his compliments and unctuous words
As, leaning o'er her chair, his downcast eyes
He fixes somewhat lower than her lips,—
Upon the jewels on her neck, perchance,
He is so modest,—and with undertone
Whispers, and, deprecating, lifts his hands,
While with her fan she covers half her face?
He knows as well as any man that lives
How far to venture;—covers his foul jokes
With honeyed words, so ladies swallow them;—
Treads on the edge of scandal—not a chance
He will fall in; knows all the secret shoals
Of innuendo;—in pure earnestness
(Oh, nothing more) he seizes their soft hands
And holds them—presses them, as to enforce
His argument;—for this, our Monsignore,
Lifted above temptation, with, of course,
No carnal thought, may do before the world—
Because it must be done through innocence.
Fie on his foul mouth who should hint 't was wrong!
Who 'd be more shock'd than he, the pious man?
He would go home and pray for that lost soul!

And yet, how can a woman pure in heart,
Without disgust, accept his compliments,
And let him feed on her his gloating eyes?
Of course, it 's just because she 's innocent.
Yes! I am lean and dry, a servitor,
Not fat and oily like his Reverence,
And so I can't endure his nauseous ways;—
All right, of course! But yet I sometimes think,
Did San Pietro talk to Martha thus,
And every night, wearing his fisherman's ring,
Show his silk-stocking'd legs in soft saloons,
And fish for women with a net like this?

Those soft fat hands—those sweet anointed hands—
Those hands that wear the glittering emerald ring—
Those hands whose palms are pressed so oft in prayer—
Those hands that fondle high-born ladies' hands—
Those hands that give their blessing to the poor—
Those hateful, hideous hands are red with blood!
Think! Principessa, when you kiss those hands—
Think! Novice, when those hands upon your head
Are laid in consecration—think of this!

Stop, Master Giacomo! don't get too warm!
When Monsignore gave you yesterday,
With those same hateful, hideous, bloody hands,
Your scudo, did you take it, sir, or not?
Yes! I confess! the world will be the world!
One must not ask too much of mortal man,
Nor mortal woman neither, Giacomo!
But yet we cannot always keep a curb
Upon our feelings, school them as we will;
And I, who bow and cringe and smile all day,
Detest at times my very self, and grow
So restless 'neath my rank hypocrisy,
I must break loose and fling out like a horse
In useless kicks, or else I should go mad.
God knows I hate this man, and so at times,
Rather than take him by the throat, I come
And pour my passion out in idle words;
They ease me. You 're my friend; but if I thought
A word of this would reach his ears; but, no!
We know each other both too well for that.

One or two questions I should like to ask,
If Monsignore would but answer them,
As this—what Sora Lisa says to him
At her confession, once a-week at least
(For Monsignore, having her soul in charge,
When she don't come to him, must go to her).
She used to be so poor, but times are changed,
And Sora Lisa keeps her carriage now;
And those old gowns, by some “Hey, presto, change,”
Have turned to rustling silks; and at her ears
Diamonds and rubies dangle, which she shows,
When she 's the mind, in her own opera box.
Well! well! the office that his Reverence
Gave her poor husband from pure love of him
May pay for these; and if it don't, why then,
It don't—what business is it of ours?
And then, who knows, some uncle may have died
(Uncles are always dying for such folks)
And made her rich;—why should we peep and pry?
With Monsignore her soul is safe at least.

And this reminds me—did you ever know
Nina, that tall, majestic, fierce-eyed girl,
With blue-black hair, which, when she loosed it, shook
Its crimpled darkness almost to the floor?—
She that was Monsignore's friend while yet
He was a humble Abbé—born indeed
In the same town and came to live in Rome?
Not know her? She, I mean, who disappeared
Some ten years back, and God knows how or why?
Well, Nina,—are you sure there 's no one near?—
Nina—
Per Dio! how his stinging bell
Startled my blood, as if his Reverence
Cried out, “You, Giacomo; what, there again
At your old trick of talking? Hold your tongue!”
And so I will, per Bacco, so I will;—
Who tells no secrets breaks no confidence.
Nature, as Monsignore often says,
Gave us two eyes, two ears, and but one tongue,
As if to say, “Tell half you see and hear;”
And I'm an ass to let my tongue run on,
After such lessons. There, he rings again!
Vengo—per Dio—Vengo subito.