Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  And took on trust the unread sense which, read,

  Were recognised but to be spurned at once.

  Allow this calumny, I reiterate!

  Who is so dull as wonder at the pose

  Of our Pompilia in the circumstance?

  Who sees not that the too-ingenuous soul,

  Repugnant even at a duty done

  Which brought beneath too scrutinising glare

  The misdemeanours, — buried in the dark, —

  Of the authors of her being, she believed, —

  Stung to the quick at her impulsive deed,

  And willing to repair what harm it worked,

  She — wise in this beyond what Nero proved,

  Who, when needs were the candid juvenile

  Should sign the warrant, doom the guilty dead,

  “Would I had never learned to write,” quoth he!

  — Pompilia rose above the Roman, cried

  “To read or write I never learned at all!”

  O splendidly mendacious!

  But time fleets:

  Let us not linger: hurry to the end,

  Since end does flight and all disastrously.

  Beware ye blame desert for unsuccess,

  Disparage each expedient else to praise,

  Call failure folly! Man’s best effort fails.

  After ten years’ resistance Troy fell flat:

  Could valour save a town, Troy still had stood.

  Pompilia came off halting in no point

  Of courage, conduct, the long journey through:

  But nature sank exhausted at the close,

  And, as I said, she swooned and slept all night.

  Morn breaks and brings the husband: we assist

  At the spectacle. Discovery succeeds.

  Ha, how is this? What moonstruck rage is here?

  Though we confess to partial frailty now,

  To error in a woman and a wife,

  Is ‘t by the rough way she shall be reclaimed?

  Who bursts upon her chambered privacy?

  What crowd profanes the chaste cubiculum?

  What outcries and lewd laughter, scurril gibe

  And ribald jest to scare the ministrant

  Good angels that commerce with souls in sleep?

  Why, had the worst crowned Guido to his wish,

  Confirmed his most irrational surmise,

  Yet there be bounds to man’s emotion, checks

  To an immoderate astonishment.

  ‘Tis decent horror, regulated wrath,

  Befit our dispensation: have we back

  The old Pagan licence? Shall a Vulcan clap

  His net o’ the sudden and expose the pair

  To the unquenchable universal mirth?

  A feat, antiquity saw scandal in

  So clearly, that the nauseous tale thereof —

  Demodocus his nugatory song —

  Hath ever been concluded modern stuff

  Impossible to the mouth of the grave Muse,

  So, foisted into that Eighth Odyssey

  By some impertinent pickthank. O thou fool,

  Count Guido Franceschini, what were gained

  By publishing thy shame thus to the world?

  Were all the precepts of the wise a waste —

  Bred in thee not one touch of reverence?

  Why, say thy wife — admonish we the fool, —

  Were false, and thou bid chronicle thy shame,

  Much rather should thy teeth bite out thy tongue,

  Dump lip consort with desecrated brow,

  Silence become historiographer,

  And thou — thine own Cornelius Tacitus!

  But virtue, barred, still leaps the barrier, lords!

  — Still, moon-like, penetrates the encroaching mist

  And bursts, all broad and bare, on night, ye know!

  Surprised, then, in the garb of truth, perhaps,

  Pompilia, thus opposed, breaks obstacle,

  Springs to her feet, and stands Thalassian-pure,

  Confronts the foe, — nay, catches at his sword

  And tries to kill the intruder, he complains.

  Why, so she gave her lord his lesson back,

  Crowned him, this time, the virtuous woman’s way,

  With an exact obedience; he brought sword,

  She drew the same, since swords are meant to draw.

  Tell not me ‘tis sharp play with tools on edge!

  It was the husband chose the weapon here.

  Why did not he inaugurate the game

  With some gentility of apophthegm

  Still pregnant on the philosophic page,

  Some captivating cadence still a-lisp

  O’ the poet’s lyre? Such spells subdue the surge,

  Make tame the tempest, much more mitigate

  The passions of the mind, and probably

  Had moved Pompilia to a smiling blush.

  No, he must needs prefer the argument

  O’ the blow: and she obeyed, in duty bound,

  Returned him buffet ratiocinative —

  Ay, in the reasoner’s own interest,

  For wife must follow whither husband leads,

  Vindicate honour as himself prescribes,

  Save him the very way himself bids save!

  No question but who jumps into a quag

  Should stretch forth hand and pray one “Pull me out

  “By the hand!” such were the customary cry:

  But Guido pleased to bid “Leave hand alone!

  “Join both feet, rather, jump upon my head,

  “I extricate myself by the rebound!”

  And dutifully as enjoined she jumped —

  Drew his own sword and menaced his own life,

  Anything to content a wilful spouse.

  And so he was contented — one must do

  Justice to the expedient which succeeds,

  Strange as it seem: at flourish of the blade,

  The crowd drew back, stood breathless and abashed,

  Then murmured “This should be no wanton wife,

  “No conscience-stricken creature, caught i’ the act,

  “And patiently awaiting our first stone:

  “But a poor hard-pressed all-bewildered thing,

  “Has rushed so far, misguidedly perhaps,

  “Meaning no more harm than a frightened sheep.

  “She sought for aid; and if she made mistake

  “I’ the man could aid most, why — so mortals do:

  “Even the blessed Magdalen mistook

  “Far less forgiveably: consult the place —

  “Supposing him to be the gardener,

  “‘Sir,’ said she, and so following.” Why more words?

  Forthwith the wife is pronounced innocent:

  What would the husband more than gain his cause,

  And find that honour flash in the world’s eye,

  His apprehension was lest soil had smirched?

  So, happily the adventure comes to close

  Whereon my fat opponent grounds his charge

  Preposterous: at mid-day he groans “How dark!”

  Listen to me, thou Archangelic swine!

  Where is the ambiguity to blame,

  The flaw to find in our Pompilia? Safe

  She stands, see! Does thy comment follow quick

  “Safe, inasmuch as at the end proposed;

  “But thither she picked way by devious path —

  “Stands dirtied, no dubiety at all!

  “I recognise success, yet, all the same,

  “Importunately will suggestion prick —

  “What, had Pompilia gained the right to boast

  “‘No devious path, no doubtful patch was mine,

  “‘I saved my head nor sacrificed my foot?’

  “Why, being in a peril, show mistrust

  “Of the angels set to guard the innocent?

  “Why rather hold by obvious vulgar help

  “Of stratagem and subterfuge,
excused

  “Somewhat, but still no less a foil, a fault,

  “Since low with high, and good with bad is linked?

  “Methinks I view some ancient bas-relief.

  “There stands Hesione thrust out by Troy,

  “Her father’s hand has chained her to a crag,

  “Her mother’s from the virgin plucked the vest,

  “At a safe distance both distressful watch,

  “While near and nearer comes the snorting orc.

  “I look that, white and perfect to the end,

  “She wait till Jove despatch some demigod;

  “Not that, — impatient of celestial club

  “Alcmena’s son should brandish at the beast, —

  “She daub, disguise her dainty limbs with pitch,

  “And so elude the purblind monster! Ay,

  “The trick succeeds, but ‘tis an ugly trick,

  “Where needs have been no trick!”

  My answer? Faugh!

  Nimis incongrue! Too absurdly put!

  Sententiam ego teneo contrariam,

  Trick, I maintain, had no alternative.

  The heavens were bound with brass, — Jove far at feast

  (No feast like that thou didst not ask me to,

  Arcangeli, — I heard of thy regale!)

  With the unblamed Æthiop, — Hercules spun wool

  I’ the lap of Omphale, while Virtue shrieked —

  The brute came paddling all the faster. You

  Of Troy, who stood at distance, where’s the aid

  You offered in the extremity? Most and least,

  Gentle and simple, here the Governor,

  There the Archbishop, everywhere the friends,

  Shook heads and waited for a miracle,

  Or went their way, left Virtue to her fate.

  Just this one rough and ready man leapt forth!

  — Was found, sole anti-Fabius (dare I say)

  To restore things, with no delay at all,

  Qui, haud cunctando, rem restituit! He,

  He only, Caponsacchi ‘mid a crowd,

  Caught Virtue up, carried Pompilia off

  Thro’ the gaping impotence of sympathy

  In ranged Arezzo: what you take for pitch,

  Is nothing worse, belike, than black and blue,

  Mere evanescent proof that hardy hands

  Did yeoman’s service, cared not where the gripe

  Was more than duly energetic: bruised,

  She smarts a little, but her bones are saved

  A fracture, and her skin will soon show sleek.

  How it disgusts when weakness, false-refined,

  Censures the honest rude effective strength, —

  When sickly dreamers of the impossible

  Decry plain sturdiness which does the feat

  With eyes wide open!

  Did occasion serve,

  I could illustrate, if my lords allow;

  Quid vetat, what forbids, I aptly ask

  With Horace, that I give my anger vent,

  While I let breathe, no less, and recreate

  The gravity of my Judges, by a tale —

  A case in point — what though an apologue

  Graced by tradition, — possibly a fact?

  Tradition must precede all scripture, words

  Serve as our warrant ere our books can be:

  So, to tradition back we needs must go

  For any fact’s authority: and this

  Hath lived so far (like jewel hid in muck)

  O’ the page of that old lying vanity

  Called “Sepher Toldoth Yeschu:” God be praised,

  I read no Hebrew, — take the thing on trust:

  But I believe the writer meant no good

  (Blind as he was to truth in some respects)

  To our pestiferous and schismatic . . . well,

  My lords’ conjecture be the touchstone, show

  The thing for what it is! The author lacks

  Discretion, and his zeal exceeds: but zeal, —

  How rare in our degenerate day! Enough!

  Here is the story, — fear not, I shall chop

  And change a little, else my Jew would press

  All too unmannerly before the Court.

  It happened once, — begins this foolish Jew,

  Pretending to write Christian history, —

  That three, held greatest, best and worst of men,

  Peter and John and Judas, spent a day

  In toil and travel through the country-side

  On some sufficient business — I suspect,

  Suppression of some Molinism i’ the bud.

  Foot-sore and hungry, dropping with fatigue,

  They reached by nightfall a poor lonely grange,

  Hostel or inn: so, knocked and entered there.

  “Your pleasure, great ones?” — ”Shelter, rest and food!”

  For shelter, there was one bare room above;

  For rest therein, three beds of bundled straw:

  For food, one wretched starveling fowl, no more —

  Meat for one mouth, but mockery for three.

  “You have my utmost.” How should supper serve?

  Peter broke silence. “To the spit with fowl!

  “And while ‘tis cooking, sleep! — since beds there be,

  “And, so far, satisfaction of a want.

  “Sleep we an hour, awake at supper-time,

  “Then each of us narrate the dream he had,

  “And he whose dream shall prove the happiest, point

  “The clearliest out the dreamer as ordained

  “Beyond his fellows to receive the fowl,

  “Him let our shares be cheerful tribute to,

  “His the entire meal, may it do him good!”

  Who could dispute so plain a consequence?

  So said, so done: each hurried to his straw,

  Slept his hour’s-sleep and dreamed his dream, and woke.

  “I,” commenced John, “dreamed that I gained the prize

  “We all aspire to: the proud place was mine,

  “Throughout the earth and to the end of time

  “I was the Loved Disciple: mine the meal!”

  “But I,” proceeded Peter, “dreamed, a word

  “Gave me the headship of our company,

  “Made me the Vicar and Vice-regent, gave

  “The keys of Heaven and Hell into my hand,

  “And o’er the earth, dominion: mine the meal!”

  “While I,” submitted in soft under-tone

  The Iscariot — sense of his unworthiness

  Turning each eye up to the inmost white —

  With long-drawn sigh, yet letting both lips smack,

  “I have had just the pitifullest dream

  “That ever proved man meanest of his mates,

  “And born foot-washer and foot-wiper, nay

  “Foot-kisser to each comrade of you all!

  “I dreamed I dreamed; and in that mimic dream

  “(Impalpable to dream as dream to fact)

  “Methought I meanly chose to sleep no wink

  “But wait until I heard my brethren breathe;

  “Then stole from couch, slipped noiseless to the door,

  “Slid downstairs, furtively approached the hearth,

  “Found the fowl duly brown, both back and breast,

  “Hissing in harmony with the cricket’s chirp,

  “Grilled to a point; said no grace but fell to,

  “Nor finished till the skeleton lay bare.

  “In penitence for which ignoble dream,

  “Lo, I renounce my portion cheerfully!

  “Fie on the flesh — be mine the etherial gust,

  “And yours the sublunary sustenance!

  “See, that whate’er be left, ye give the poor!”

  Down the two scuttled, one on other’s heel,

  Stung by a fell surmise; and found, alack,

  A goodly savour, both the drumstick-bones,<
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  And that which henceforth took the appropriate name

  O’ the merry-thought, in memory of the fact

  That to keep wide awake is our best dream.

  So, — as was said once of Thucydides

  And his sole joke, “The lion, lo, hath laughed!” —

  Just so, the Governor and all that’s great

  I’ the city, never meant that Innocence

  Should starve thus while Authority sat at meat.

  They meant to fling a bone at banquet’s end,

  Wished well to our Pompilia — in their dreams,

  Nor bore the secular sword in vain — asleep:

  Just so the Archbishop and all good like him

  Went to bed meaning to pour oil and wine

  I’ the wounds of her, next day, — but long ere day,

  They had burned the one and drunk the other: while

  Just so, again, contrariwise, the priest

  Sustained poor Nature in extremity

  By stuffing barley-bread into her mouth,

  Saving Pompilia (grant the parallel)

  By the plain homely and straightforward way

  Taught him by common-sense. Let others shriek

  “Oh what refined expedients did we dream

  “Proved us the only fit to help the fair!”

  He cried “A carriage waits, jump in with me!”

  And now, this application pardoned, lords, —

  This recreative pause and breathing-while, —

  Back to beseemingness and gravity!

  For Law steps in: Guido appeals to Law,

  Demands she arbitrate, — does well for once.

  O Law, of thee how neatly was it said

  By that old Sophocles, thou hast thy seat

  I’ the very breast of Jove, no meanlier throned!

  Here is a piece of work now, hitherto

  Begun and carried on, concluded near,

  Without an eye-glance cast thy sceptre’s way;

  And, lo the stumbling and discomfiture!

  Well may you call them “lawless,” means men take

  To extricate themselves through mother-wit

  When tangled haply in the toils of life!

  Guido would try conclusions with his foe,

  Whoe’er the foe was and whate’er the offence;

  He would recover certain dowry-dues:

  Instead of asking Law to lend a hand,

  What pother of sword drawn and pistol cocked,

  What peddling with forged letters and paid spies,

  Politic circumvention! — all to end

  As it began — by loss of the fool’s head,

  First in a figure, presently in a fact.

  It is a lesson to mankind at large.

  How other were the end, would men be sage

  And bear confidingly each quarrel straight,

  O Law, to thy recipient mother-knees!

  How would the children light come and prompt go,