Over against him is set Caponsacchi, of noble birth, of refined manner, one of those polished and cultivated priests of whom Rome makes such excellent use, and of whom Browning had drawn already a different type in Bishop Blougram.  He hesitated, being young and gay, to enter the Church.  But the archbishop of that easy time, two hundred years ago, told him the Church was strong enough to bear a few light priests, and that he would be set free from many ecclesiastical duties if, by assiduity in society and with women, he strengthened the social weight of the Church.  In that way, making his madrigals and confessing fine ladies, he lived for four years.  This is an admirable sketch of a type of Church society of that date, indeed, of any date in any Church; it is by no means confined to Rome.

On this worldly, careless, indifferent, pleasure-seeking soul Pompilia, in her trouble and the pity of it, rises like a pure star seen through mist that opens at intervals to show her excelling brightness; and in a moment, at the first glimpse of her in the theatre, the false man drops away; his soul breaks up, stands clear, and claims its divine birth.  He is born again, and then transfigured.  The life of convention, of indifference, dies before Pompilia’s eyes; and on the instant he is true to himself, to her, and to God.  The fleeting passions which had absorbed him, and were of the senses, are burned up, and the spiritual love for her purity, and for purity itself—­that eternal, infinite desire—­is now master of his life.  Not as Miranda and Ferdinand changed eyes in youthful love, but as Dante and Beatrice look on one another in Paradise, did Pompilia and Caponsacchi change eyes, and know at once that both were true, and see without speech the central worth of their souls.  They trusted one another and they loved for ever.  So, when she cried to him in her distress, he did her bidding and bore her away to Rome.  He tells the story of their flight, and tells it with extraordinary beauty and vehemence in her defence.  So noble is the tale that he convinces the judges who at first had disbelieved him; and the Pope confesses that his imprudence was a higher good than priestly prudence would have been.  When he makes his defence he has heard that Pompilia has been murdered.  Then we understand that in his conversion to goodness he has not lost but gained passion.  Scorn of the judges, who could not see that neither he was guilty nor Pompilia; fiery indignation with the murderer; infinite grief for the lamb slain by the wolf, and irrevocable love for the soul of Pompilia, whom he will dwell with eternally when they meet in Heaven, a love which Pompilia, dying, declares she has for him, and in which, growing and abiding, she will wait for him—­burn on his lips.  He is fully and nobly a man; yet, at the end—­and he is no less a man for it—­the wild sorrow at his heart breaks him down into a cry: 

    O great, just, good God!  Miserable me!