Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  As younger brother of a Tuscan house

  Whereof the actual representative,

  Count Guido, had employd his youth and age

  In culture of Rome’s most productive plant —

  A cardinal: but years pass and change comes,

  In token of which, here was our Paolo brought

  To broach a weighty business. Might he speak?

  Yes — to Violante somehow caught alone

  While Pietro took his after-dinner doze,

  And the young maiden, busily as befits,

  Minded her broider-frame three chambers off.

  So — giving now his great flap-hat a gloss

  With flat o’ the hand between-whiles, soothing now

  The silk from out its creases o’er the calf,

  Setting the stocking clerical again,

  But never disengaging, once engaged,

  The thin clear grey hold of his eyes on her —

  He dissertated on that Tuscan house,

  Those Franceschini, — very old they were —

  Not rich however — oh, not rich, at least,

  As people look to be who, low i’ the scale

  One way, have reason, rising all they can

  By favour of the money-bag: ‘tis fair —

  Do all gifts go together? But don’t suppose

  That being not so rich means all so poor!

  Say rather, well enough — i’ the way, indeed,

  Ha, ha, to better fortune than the best,

  Since if his brother’s patron-friend kept faith,

  Put into promised play the Cardinalate,

  Their house might wear the red cloth that keeps warm,

  Would but the Count have patience — there’s the point!

  For he was slipping into years apace,

  And years make men restless — they needs must see

  Some certainty, some sort of end assured,

  Sparkle, tho’ from the topmost beacon-tip

  That warrants life a harbour through the haze.

  In short, call him fantastic as you choose,

  Guido was home-sick, yearned for the old sights

  And usual faces, — fain would settle himself

  And have the patron’s bounty when it fell

  Irrigate far rather than deluge near,

  Go fertilise Arezzo, not flood Rome.

  Sooth to say, ‘twas the wiser wish: the Count

  Proved wanting in ambition, — let us avouch,

  Since truth is best, — in callousness of heart,

  Winced at those pin-pricks whereby honours hang

  A ribbon o’er each puncture: his — no soul

  Ecclesiastic (here the hat was brushed)

  Humble but self-sustaining, calm and cold,

  Having, as one who puts his hand to the plough,

  Renounced the over-vivid family-feel —

  Poor brother Guido! All too plain, he pined

  Amid Rome’s pomp and glare for dinginess

  And that dilapidated palace-shell

  Vast as a quarry and, very like, as bare —

  Since to this comes old grandeur now-a-days —

  Or that absurd wild villa in the waste

  O’ the hill side, breezy though, for who likes air,

  Vittiano, nor unpleasant with its vines,

  Outside the city and the summer heats.

  And now his harping on this one tense chord

  The villa and the palace, palace this

  And villa the other, all day and all night

  Creaked like the implacable cicala’s cry

  And made one’s ear-drum ache: nought else would serve

  But that, to light his mother’s visage up

  With second youth, hope, gaiety again,

  He must find straightway, woo and haply win

  And bear away triumphant back, some wife.

  Well now, the man was rational in his way —

  He, the Abate, — ought he to interpose?

  Unless by straining still his tutelage

  (Priesthood leaps over elder-brothership)

  Across this difficulty: then let go,

  Leave the poor fellow in peace! Would that be wrong?

  There was no making Guido great, it seems,

  Spite of himself: then happy be his dole!

  Indeed, the Abate’s little interest

  Was somewhat nearly touched i’ the case, they saw:

  Since if his simple kinsman so were bent,

  Began his rounds in Rome to catch a wife,

  Full soon would such unworldliness surprise

  The rare bird, sprinkle salt on phœnix’ tail,

  And so secure the nest a sparrow-hawk.

  No lack of mothers here in Rome, — no dread

  Of daughters lured as larks by looking-glass!

  The first name-pecking credit-scratching fowl

  Would drop her unfledged cuckoo in our nest

  To gather greyness there, give voice at length

  And shame the brood . . but it was long ago

  When crusades were, and we sent eagles forth!

  No, that at least the Abate could forestall.

  He read the thought within his brother’s word,

  Knew what he purposed better than himself.

  We want no name and fame — having our own:

  No worldly aggrandisement — such we fly:

  But if some wonder of a woman’s-heart

  Were yet untainted on this grimy earth,

  Tender and true — tradition tells of such —

  Prepared to pant in time and tune with ours —

  If some good girl (a girl, since she must take

  The new bent, live new life, adopt new modes)

  Not wealthy — Guido for his rank was poor —

  But with whatever dowry came to hand,

  There were the lady-love predestinate!

  And somehow the Abate’s guardian eye —

  Scintillant, rutilant, fraternal fire, —

  Roving round every way had seized the prize

  — The instinct of us, we, the spiritualty!

  Come, cards on table; was it true or false

  That here — here in this very tenement —

  Yea, Via Vittoria did a marvel hide,

  Lily of a maiden, white with intact leaf

  Guessed thro’ the sheath that saved it from the sun?

  A daughter with the mother’s hands still clasped

  Over her head for fillet virginal,

  A wife worth Guido’s house and hand and heart?

  He came to see; had spoken, he could no less —

  (A final cherish of the stockinged calf)

  If harm were, — well, the matter was off his mind.

  Then with the great air did he kiss, devout,

  Violante’s hand, and rise up his whole height

  (A certain purple gleam about the black)

  And go forth grandly, — as if the Pope came next.

  And so Violante rubbed her eyes awhile,

  Got up too, walked to wake her Pietro soon

  And pour into his ear the mighty news

  How somebody had somehow somewhere seen

  Their tree-top-tuft of bloom above the wall,

  And came now to apprise them the tree’s self

  Was no such crab-sort as should feed the swine,

  But veritable gold, the Hesperian ball

  Ordained for Hercules to haste and pluck,

  And bear and give the Gods to banquet with —

  Hercules standing ready at the door.

  Whereon did Pietro rub his eyes in turn,

  Look very wise, a little woeful too,

  Then, periwig on head, and cane in hand,

  Sally forth dignifiedly into the Square

  Of Spain across Babbuino the six steps,

  Toward the Boat-fountain where our idlers lounge, —

  Ask, for form’s sake, who Hercules might be,

  And have congrat
ulation from the world.

  Heartily laughed the world in his fool’s-face

  And told him Hercules was just the heir

  To the stubble once a corn-field, and brick-heap

  Where used to be a dwelling-place now burned.

  Guido and Franceschini; a Count, — ay:

  But a cross i’ the poke to bless the Countship? No!

  All gone except sloth, pride, rapacity,

  Humours of the imposthume incident

  To rich blood that runs thin, — nursed to a head

  By the rankly-salted soil — a cardinal’s court

  Where, parasite and picker-up of crumbs,

  He had hung on long, and now, let go, said some,

  But shaken off, said others, — in any case

  Tired of the trade and something worse for wear,

  Was wanting to change town for country quick,

  Go home again: let Pietro help him home!

  The brother, Abate Paolo, shrewder mouse,

  Had pricked for comfortable quarters, inched

  Into the core of Rome, and fattened so;

  But Guido, over-burly for rat’s hole

  Suited to clerical slimness, starved outside,

  Must shift for himself: and so the shift was this!

  What, was the snug retreat of Pietro tracked,

  The little provision for his old age snuffed?

  “Oh, make your girl a lady, an you list,

  “But have more mercy on our wit than vaunt

  “Your bargain as we burgesses who brag!

  “Why, Goodman Dullard, if a friend must speak,

  “Would the Count, think you, stoop to you and yours

  “Were there the value of one penny-piece

  “To rattle ‘twixt his palms — or likelier laugh,

  “Bid your Pompilia help you black his shoe?”

  Home again, shaking oft the puzzled pate,

  Went Pietro to announce a change indeed,

  Yet point Violante where some solace lay

  Of a rueful sort, — the taper, quenched so soon,

  Had ended merely in a snuff, not stink —

  Congratulate there was one hope the less

  Not misery the more: and so an end.

  The marriage thus impossible, the rest

  Followed: our spokesman, Paolo, heard his fate,

  Resignedly Count Guido bore the blow:

  Violante wiped away the transient tear,

  Renounced the playing Danae to gold dreams,

  Praised much her Pietro’s prompt sagaciousness,

  Found neighbours’ envy natural, lightly laughed

  At gossips’ malice, fairly wrapped herself

  In her integrity three folds about,

  And, letting pass a little day or two,

  Threw, even over that integrity,

  Another wrappage, namely one thick veil

  That hid her, matron-wise, from head to foot,

  And, by the hand holding a girl veiled too,

  Stood, one dim end of a December day,

  In Saint Lorenzo on the altar-step —

  Just where she lies now and that girl will lie —

  Only with fifty candles’ company

  Now — in the place of the poor winking one

  Which saw, — doors shut and sacristan made sure, —

  A priest — perhaps Abate Paolo — wed

  Guido clandestinely, irrevocably

  To his Pompilia aged thirteen years

  And five months, — witness the church register, —

  Pompilia (thus become Count Guido’s wife

  Clandestinely, irrevocably his),

  Who all the while had borne, from first to last,

  As brisk a part i’ the bargain, as yon lamb,

  Brought forth from basket and set out for sale,

  Bears while they chaffer, wary market-man

  And voluble housewife, o’er it, — each in turn

  Patting the curly calm inconscious head,

  With the shambles ready round the corner there,

  When the talk’s talked out and a bargain struck.

  Transfer complete, why, Pietro was apprised.

  Violante sobbed the sobs and prayed the prayers

  And said the serpent tempted so she fell,

  Till Pietro had to clear his brow apace

  And make the best of matters: wrath at first, —

  How else? pacification presently,

  Why not? — could flesh withstand the impurpled one,

  The very Cardinal, Paolo’s patron-friend?

  Who, justifiably surnamed “a hinge,”

  Knew where the mollifying oil should drop

  To cure the creak o’ the valve, — considerate

  For frailty, patient in a naughty world,

  He even volunteered to supervise

  The rough draught of those marriage-articles

  Signed in a hurry by Pietro, since revoked:

  Trust’s politic, suspicion does the harm,

  There is but one way to brow-beat this world,

  Dumbfounder doubt, and repay scorn in kind, —

  To go on trusting, namely, till faith move Mountains.

  And faith here made the mountains move.

  Why, friends whose zeal cried “Caution ere too late!” —

  Bade “Pause ere jump, with both feet joined, on slough! —

  Counselled “If rashness then, now temperance!” —

  Heard for their pains that Pietro had closed eyes,

  Jumped and was in the middle of the mire,

  Money and all, just what should sink a man.

  By the mere marriage, Guido gained forthwith

  Dowry, his wife’s right; no rescinding there:

  But Pietro, why must he needs ratify

  One gift Violante gave, pay down one doit

  Promised in first fool’s-flurry? Grasp the bag

  Lest the son’s service flag, — is reason and rhyme,

  Above all when the son’s a son-in-law.

  Words to the wind! The parents cast their lot

  Into the lap o’ the daughter: and the son

  Now with a right to lie there, took what fell,

  Pietro’s whole having and holding, house and field,

  Goods, chattels and effects, his worldly worth

  Present and in perspective, all renounced

  In favour of Guido. As for the usufruct —

  The interest now, the principal anon,

  Would Guido please to wait, at Pietro’s death:

  Till when, he must support the couple’s charge,

  Bear with them, housemates, pensionaries, pawned

  To an alien for fulfilment of their pact.

  Guido should at discretion deal them orts,

  Bread-bounty in Arezzo the strange place, —

  They who had lived deliciously and rolled

  Rome’s choicest comfit ‘neath the tongue before.

  Into this quag, “jump” bade the Cardinal!

  And neck-deep in a minute there flounced they.

  But they touched bottom at Arezzo: there —

  Four months’ experience of how craft and greed,

  Quickened by penury and pretentious hate

  Of plain truth, brutify and bestialise, —

  Four months’ taste of apportioned insolence,

  Cruelty graduated, dose by dose

  Of ruffianism dealt out at bed and board,

  And lo, the work was done, success clapped hands.

  The starved, stripped, beaten brace of stupid dupes

  Broke at last in their desperation loose,

  Fled away for their lives, and lucky so;

  Found their account in casting coat afar

  And bearing off a shred of skin at least:

  Left Guido lord o’ the prey, as the lion is,

  And, careless what came after, carried their wrongs

  To Rome, — I nothing doubt, with such remorse

  As fo
lly feels, since pain can make it wise,

  But crime, past wisdom, which is innocence,

  Needs not be plagued with till a later day.

  Pietro went back to beg from door to door,

  In hope that memory not quite extinct

  Of cheery days and festive nights would move

  Friends and acquaintance — after the natural laugh,

  And tributary “Just as we foretold — ”

  To show some bowels, give the dregs o’ the cup,

  Scraps of the trencher, to their host that was,

  Or let him share the mat with the mastiff, he

  Who lived large and kept open house so long.

  Not so Violante: ever a-head i’ the march,

  Quick at the bye-road and the cut-across,

  She went first to the best adviser, God —

  Whose finger unmistakably was felt

  In all this retribution of the past.

  Here was the prize of sin, luck of a lie!

  But here too was the Holy Year would help,

  Bound to rid sinners of sin vulgar, sin

  Abnormal, sin prodigious, up to sin

  Impossible and supposed for Jubilee’ sake:

  To lift the leadenest of lies, let soar

  The soul unhampered by a feather-weight.

  “I will,” said she, “go burn out this bad hole

  “That breeds the scorpion, baulk the plague at least

  “Its hope of further creeping progeny:

  “I will confess my fault, be punished, yes,

  “But pardoned too: Saint Peter pays for all.”

  So, with the crowd she mixed, made for the dome,

  Through the great door new-broken for the nonce

  Marched, muffled more than ever matron-wise,

  Up the left nave to the formidable throne,

  Fell into file with this the poisoner

  And that the parricide, and reached in turn

  The poor repugnant Penitentiary

  Set at this gully-hole o’ the world’s discharge

  To help the frightfullest of filth have vent,

  And then knelt down and whispered in his ear

  How she had bought Pompilia, palmed the babe

  On Pietro, passed the girl off as their child

  To Guido, and defrauded of his due

  This one and that one, — more than she could name,

  Until her solid piece of wickedness

  Happened to split and spread woe far and wide:

  Contritely now she brought the case for cure.

  Replied the throne — ”Ere God forgive the guilt,

  “Make man some restitution! Do your part!

  “The owners of your husband’s heritage,

  “Barred thence by this pretended birth and heir, —

  “Tell them, the bar came so, is broken so,

  “Theirs be the due reversion as before!

  “Your husband who, no partner in the guilt,