Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Fools, alike ignorant of man and God!

  What was there here should have perplexed your wit

  For a wink of the owl-eyes of you? How miss, then,

  What’s now forced on you by this flare of fact —

  As if Saint Peter failed to recognise

  Nero as no apostle, John or James,

  Till someone burned a martyr, make a torch

  O’ the blood and fat to show his features by!

  Could you fail read this cartulary aright

  On head and front of Franceschini there,

  Large-lettered like hell’s masterpiece of print, —

  That he, from the beginning pricked at heart

  By some lust, letch of hate against his wife,

  Plotted to plague her into overt sin

  And shame, would slay Pompilia body and soul,

  And save his mean self — miserably caught

  I’ the quagmire of his own tricks, cheats, and lies?

  — That himself wrote those papers, — from himself

  To himself, — which, i’ the name of me and her,

  His mistress-messenger gave her and me,

  Touching us with such pustules of the soul

  That she and I might take the taint, be shown

  To the world and shuddered over, speckled so?

  — That the agent put her sense into my words,

  Made substitution of the thing she hoped,

  For the thing she had and held, its opposite,

  While the husband in the background bit his lips

  At each fresh failure of his precious plot?

  — That when at the last we did rush each on each,

  By no chance but because God willed it so —

  The spark of truth was struck from out our souls —

  Made all of me, descried in the first glance,

  Seem fair and honest and permissible love

  O’ the good and true — as the first glance told me

  There was no duty patent in the world

  Like daring try be good and true myself,

  Leaving the shows of things to the Lord of Show

  And prince o’ the Power of the Air. Our very flight,

  Even to its most ambiguous circumstance,

  Irrefragably proved how futile, false . . .

  Why, men — men and not boys — boys and not babes —

  Babes and not beasts — beasts and not stocks and stones! —

  Had the liar’s lie been true one pin-point speck,

  Were I the accepted suitor, free o’ the place,

  Disposer of the time, to come at a call

  And go at a wink as who should say me nay, —

  What need of flight, what were the gain therefrom

  But just damnation, failure or success?

  Damnation pure and simple to her the wife

  And me the priest — who bartered private bliss

  For public reprobation, the safe shade

  For the sunshine which men see to pelt me by:

  What other advantage, — we who led the days

  And nights alone i’ the house, — was flight to find?

  In our whole journey did we stop an hour,

  Diverge a foot from strait road till we reached

  Or would have reached — but for that fate of ours —

  The father and mother, in the eye of Rome,

  The eye of yourselves we made aware of us

  At the first fall of misfortune? And indeed

  You did so far give sanction to our flight,

  Confirm its purpose, as lend helping hand,

  Deliver up Pompilia not to him

  She fled, but those the flight was ventured for.

  Why then could you, who stopped short, not go on

  One poor step more, and justify the means,

  Having allowed the end? — not see and say,

  “Here’s the exceptional conduct that should claim

  “To be exceptionally judged on rules

  “Which, understood, make no exception here” —

  Why play instead into the devil’s hands

  By dealing so ambiguously as gave

  Guido the power to intervene like me,

  Prove one exception more? I saved his wife

  Against law: against law he slays her now:

  Deal with him!

  I have done with being judged.

  I stand here guiltless in thought, word and deed,

  To the point that I apprise you, — in contempt

  For all misapprehending ignorance

  O’ the human heart, much more the mind of Christ, —

  That I assuredly did bow, was blessed

  By the revelation of Pompilia. There!

  Such is the final fact I fling you, Sirs,

  To mouth and mumble and misinterpret: there!

  “The priest’s in love,” have it the vulgar way!

  Unpriest me, rend the rags o’ the vestment, do —

  Degrade deep, disenfranchise all you dare —

  Remove me from the midst, no longer priest

  And fit companion for the like of you —

  Your gay Abati with the well-turned leg

  And rose i’ the hat-rim, Canons, cross at neck

  And silk mask in the pocket of the gown,

  Brisk bishops with the world’s musk still unbrushed

  From the rochet; I’ll no more of these good things:

  There’s a crack somewhere, something that’s unsound

  I’ the rattle!

  For Pompilia — be advised,

  Build churches, go pray! You will find me there,

  I know, if you come, — and you will come, I know.

  Why, there’s a Judge weeping! Did not I say

  You were good and true at bottom? You see the truth —

  I am glad I helped you: she helped me just so.

  But for Count Guido, — you must counsel there!

  I bow my head, bend to the very dust,

  Break myself up in shame of faultiness.

  I had him one whole moment, as I said —

  As I remember, as will never out

  O’ the thoughts of me, — I had him in arm’s reach

  There, — as you stand, Sir, now you cease to sit, —

  I could have killed him ere he killed his wife,

  And did not: he went off alive and well

  And then effected this last feat — through me!

  Me — not through you — dismiss that fear! ‘Twas you

  Hindered me staying here to save her, — not

  From leaving you and going back to him

  And doing service in Arezzo. Come,

  Instruct me in procedure! I conceive —

  In all due self-abasement might I speak —

  How you will deal with Guido: oh, not death!

  Death, if it let her life be: otherwise

  Not death, — your lights will teach you clearer! I

  Certainly have an instinct of my own

  I’ the matter: bear with me and weigh its worth!

  Let us go away — leave Guido all alone

  Back on the world again that knows him now!

  I think he will be found (indulge so far!)

  Not to die so much as slide out of life,

  Pushed by the general horror and common hate

  Low, lower, — left o’ the very ledge of things,

  I seem to see him catch convulsively

  One by one at all honest forms of life,

  At reason, order, decency, and use —

  To cramp him and get foothold by at least;

  And still they disengage them from his clutch.

  “What, you are he, then, had Pompilia once

  “And so forwent her? Take not up with us!”

  And thus I see him slowly and surely edged

  Off all the table-land whence life upsprings

  Aspiring to be immortality,

  As the snake, hatched on hill-top
by mischance,

  Despite his wriggling, slips, slides, slidders down

  Hill-side, lies low and prostrate on the smooth

  Level of the outer place, lapsed in the vale:

  So I lose Guido in the loneliness,

  Silence and dusk, till at the doleful end,

  At the horizontal line, creation’s verge,

  From what just is to absolute nothingness —

  Lo, what is this he meets, strains onward still?

  What other man deep further in the fate,

  Who, turning at the prize of a footfall

  To flatter him and promise fellowship,

  Discovers in the act a frightful face —

  Judas, made monstrous by much solitude!

  The two are at one now! Let them love their love

  That bites and claws like hate, or hate their hate

  That mops and mows and makes as it were love!

  There, let them each tear each in devil’s-fun,

  Or fondle this the other while malice aches —

  Both teach, both learn detestability!

  Kiss him the kiss, Iscariot! Pay that back,

  That snatch o’ the slaver blistering on your lip —

  By the better trick, the insult he spared Christ —

  Lure him the lure o’ the letters, Aretine!

  Lick him o’er slimy-smooth with jelly-filth

  O’ the verse-and-prose pollution in love’s guise!

  The cockatrice is with the basilisk!

  There let them grapple, denizens o’ the dark,

  Foes or friends, but indissolubly bound,

  In their one spot out of the ken of God

  Or care of man, for ever and ever more!

  Why, Sirs, what’s this? Why, this is sorry and strange! —

  Futility, divagation: this from me

  Bound to be rational, justify an act

  Of sober man! — whereas, being moved so much,

  I give you cause to doubt the lady’s mind:

  A pretty sarcasm for the world! I fear

  You do her wit injustice, — all through me!

  Like my fate all through, — ineffective help!

  A poor rash advocate I prove myself.

  You might be angry with good cause: but sure

  At the advocate, — only at the undue zeal

  That spoils the force of his own plea, I think?

  My part was just to tell you how things stand,

  State facts and not be flustered at their fume.

  But then ‘tis a priest speaks: as for love, — no!

  If you let buzz a vulgar fly like that

  About your brains, as if I loved, forsooth,

  Indeed, Sirs, you do wrong! We had no thought

  Of such infatuation, she and I:

  There are many points that prove it: do be just!

  I told you, — at one little roadside-place

  I spent a good half-hour, paced to and fro

  The garden; just to leave her free awhile,

  I plucked a handful of Spring herb and bloom:

  I might have sat beside her on the bench

  Where the children were: I wish the thing had been,

  Indeed: the event could not be worse, you know:

  One more half-hour of her saved! She’s dead now, Sirs!

  While I was running on at such a rate,

  Friends should have plucked me by the sleeve: I went

  Too much o’ the trivial outside of her face

  And the purity that shone there — plain to me,

  Not to you, what more natural? Nor am I

  Infatuated, — oh, I saw, be sure!

  Her brow had not the right line, leaned too much,

  Painters would say; they like the straight-up Greek:

  This seemed bent somewhat with an invisible crown

  Of martyr and saint, not such as art approves.

  And how the dark orbs dwelt deep underneath,

  Looked out of such a sad sweet heaven on me —

  The lips, compressed a little, came forward too,

  Careful for a whole world of sin and pain.

  That was the face, her husband makes his plea,

  He sought just to disfigure, — no offence

  Beyond that! Sirs, let us be rational!

  He needs must vindicate his honour, — ay,

  Yet shirks, the coward, in a clown’s disguise,

  Away from the scene, endeavours to escape.

  Now, had he done so, slain and left no trace

  O’ the slayer, — what were vindicated, pray?

  You had found his wife disfigured or a corpse,

  For what and by whom? It is too palpable!

  Then, here’s another point involving law:

  I use this argument to show you meant

  No calumny against us by that title

  O’ the sentence, — liars try to twist it so:

  What penalty it bore, I had to pay

  Till further proof should follow of innocence —

  Probationis ob defectum, — proof?

  How could you get proof without trying us?

  You went through the preliminary form,

  Stopped there, contrived this sentence to amuse

  The adversary. If the title ran

  For more than fault imputed and not proved,

  That was a simple penman’s error, else

  A slip i’ the phrase, — as when we say of you

  “Charged with injustice” — which may either be

  Or not be, — ’tis a name that sticks meanwhile.

  Another relevant matter: fool that I am!

  Not what I wish true, yet a point friends urge:

  It is not true, — yet, since friends think it helps, —

  She only tried me when some others failed —

  Began with Conti, whom I told you of,

  And Guillichini, Guido’s kinsfolk both,

  And when abandoned by them, not before,

  Turned to me. That’s conclusive why she turned.

  Much good they got by the happy cowardice!

  Conti is dead, poisoned a month ago:

  Does that much strike you as a sin? Not much,

  After the present murder, — one mark more

  On the Moor’s skin, — what is black by blacker still?

  Conti had come here and told truth. And so

  With Guillichini; he’s condemned of course

  To the galleys, as a friend in this affair,

  Tried and condemned for no one thing i’ the world,

  A fortnight since by who but the Governor? —

  The just judge, who refused Pompilia help

  At first blush, being her husband’s friend, you know.

  There are two tales to suit the separate courts,

  Arezzo and Rome: he tells you here, we fled

  Alone, unhelped, — lays stress on the main fault,

  The spiritual sin, Rome looks to: but elsewhere

  He likes best we should break in, steal, bear off,

  Be fit to brand and pillory and flog —

  That’s the charge goes to the heart of the Governor:

  If these unpriest me, you and I may yet

  Converse, Vincenzo Marzi-Medici!

  Oh, Sirs, there are worse men than you, I say!

  More easily duped, I mean; this stupid lie,

  Its liar never dared propound in Rome,

  He gets Arezzo to receive, — nay more,

  Gets Florence and the Duke to authorise!

  This is their Rota’s sentence, their Granduke

  Signs and seals! Rome for me henceforward — Rome,

  Where better men are, — most of all, that man

  The Augustinian of the Hospital,

  Who writes the letter, — he confessed, he says,

  Many a dying person, never one

  So sweet and true and pure and beautiful.

  A good man! Will you make him Pope one day?

  Not that
he is not good too, this we have —

  But old, — else he would have his word to speak,

  His truth to teach the world: I thirst for truth,

  But shall not drink it till I reach the source.

  Sirs, I am quiet again. You see, we are

  So very pitiable, she and I,

  Who had conceivably been otherwise.

  Forget distemperature and idle heat!

  Apart from truth’s sake, what’s to move so much?

  Pompilia will be presently with God;

  I am, on earth, as good as out of it,

  A relegated priest; when exile ends,

  I mean to do my duty and live long.

  She and I are mere strangers now: but priests

  Should study passion; how else cure mankind,

  Who come for help in passionate extremes?

  I do but play with an imagined life

  Of who, unfettered by a vow, unblessed

  By the higher call, — since you will have it so, —

  Leads it companioned by the woman there.

  To live, and see her learn, and learn by her,

  Out of the low obscure and petty world —

  Or only see one purpose and one will

  Evolve themselves i’ the world, change wrong to right:

  To have to do with nothing but the true,

  The good, the eternal — and these, not alone

  In the main current of the general life,

  But small experiences of every day,

  Concerns of the particular hearth and home:

  To learn not only by a comet’s rush

  But a rose’s birth, — not by the grandeur, God —

  But the comfort, Christ. All this, how far away!

  Mere delectation, meet for a minute’s dream! —

  Just as a drudging student trims his lamp,

  Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the place

  Of Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close,

  Dreams, “Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!” —

  Then smilingly, contentedly, awakes

  To the old solitary nothingness.

  So I, from such communion, pass content. . . .

  O great, just, good God! Miserable me!

  Pompilia

  I AM just seventeen years and five months old,

  And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;

  ‘Tis writ so in the church’s register,

  Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names

  At length, so many names for one poor child,

  — Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela

  Pompilia Comparini, — laughable!

  Also ‘tis writ that I was married there

  Four years ago; and they will add, I hope,

  When they insert my death, a word or two, —

  Omitting all about the mode of death, —

  This, in its place, this which one cares to know,

  That I had been a mother of a son