Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  This multifarious mass of words and deeds

  Deeper, and reach through guilt to innocence,

  I shall face Guido’s ghost nor blench a jot.

  “God who set me to judge thee, meted out

  “So much of judging faculty, no more:

  “Ask Him if I was slack in use thereof!”

  I hold a heavier fault imputable

  Inasmuch as I changed a chaplain once,

  For no cause, — no, if I must bare my heart, —

  Save that he snuffled somewhat saying mass.

  For I am ware it is the seed of act,

  God holds appraising in His hollow palm,

  Not act grown great thence on the world below,

  Leafage and branchage, vulgar eyes admire.

  Therefore I stand on my integrity,

  Nor fear at all: and if I hesitate,

  It is because I need to breathe awhile,

  Rest, as the human right allows, review,

  Intent the little seeds of act, the tree —

  The thought, to clothe in deed, and give the world

  At chink of bell and push of arrased door.

  O pale departure, dim disgrace of day!

  Winter’s in wane, his vengeful worst art thou,

  To dash the boldness of advancing March!

  Thy chill persistent rain has purged our streets

  Of gossipry; pert tongue and idle ear

  By this, consort ‘neath archway, portico.

  But wheresoe’er Rome gathers in the grey,

  Two names now snap and flash from mouth to mouth —

  (Sparks, flint and steel strike) Guido and the Pope.

  By this same hour to-morrow eve — aha,

  How do they call him? — the sagacious Swede

  Who finds by figures how the chances prove,

  Why one comes rather than another thing,

  As, say, such dots turn up by throw of dice,

  Or, if we dip in Virgil here and there

  And prick for such a verse, when such shall point.

  Take this Swede, tell him, hiding name and rank,

  Two men are in our city this dull eve;

  One doomed to death, — but hundreds in such plight

  Slip aside, clean escape by leave of law

  Which leans to mercy in this latter time;

  Moreover in the plenitude of life

  Is he, with strength of limb and brain adroit,

  Presumably of service here: beside,

  The man is noble, backed by nobler friends:

  Nay, for who wish him well, the city’s self

  Makes common cause with the house-magistrate,

  The lord of hearth and home, domestic judge

  Who ruled his own and let men cavil. Die?

  He’ll bribe a gaoler or break prison first!

  Nay, a sedition may be helpful, give

  Hint to the mob to batter wall, burn gate,

  And bid the favourite malefactor march.

  Calculate now these chances of escape!

  “It is not probable, but well may be.”

  Again, there is another man, weighed now

  By twice eight years beyond the seven-times-ten,

  Appointed overweight to break our branch.

  And this man’s loaded branch lifts, more than snow,

  All the world’s cark and care, though a bird’s nest

  Were a superfluous burthen: notably

  Hath he been pressed, as if his age were youth,

  From to-day’s dawn till now that day departs,

  Trying one question with true sweat of soul

  “Shall the said doomed man fitlier die or live?”

  When a straw swallowed in his posset, stool

  Stumbled on where his path lies, any puff

  That’s incident to such a smoking flax,

  Hurries the natural end and quenches him!

  Now calculate, thou sage, the chances here,

  Say, which shall die the sooner, this or that?

  “That, possibly, this in all likelihood.”

  I thought so: yet thou tripp’st, my foreign friend!

  No, it will be quite otherwise, — to-day

  Is Guido’s last: my term is yet to run.

  But say the Swede were right, and I forthwith

  Acknowledge a prompt summons and lie dead:

  Why, then I stand already in God’s face

  And hear “Since by its fruit a tree is judged,

  “Show me thy fruit, the latest act of thine!

  “For in the last is summed the first and all, —

  “What thy life last put heart and soul into,

  “There shall I taste thy product.” I must plead

  This condemnation of a man to-day.

  Not so! Expect nor question nor reply

  At what we figure as God’s judgment-bar!

  None of this vile way by the barren words

  Which, more than any deed, characterise

  Man as made subject to a curse: no speech —

  That still bursts o’er some lie which lurks inside,

  As the split skin across the coppery snake,

  And most denotes man! since, in all beside,

  In hate or lust or guile or unbelief,

  Out of some core of truth the excrescence comes,

  And, in the last resort, the man may urge

  “So was I made, a weak thing that gave way

  “To truth, to impulse only strong since true,

  “And hated, lusted, used guile, forwent faith.”

  But when man walks the garden of this world

  For his own solace, and, unchecked by law,

  Speaks or keeps silence as himself sees fit,

  Without the least incumbency to lie,

  — Why, can he tell you what a rose is like,

  Or how the birds fly, and not slip to false

  Though truth serve better? Man must tell his mate

  Of you, me and himself, knowing he lies,

  Knowing his fellow knows the same, — will think

  “He lies, it is the method of a man!”

  And yet will speak for answer “It is truth”

  To him who shall rejoin “Again a lie!”

  Therefore this filthy rags of speech, this coil

  Of statement, comment, query and response,

  Tatters all too contaminate for use,

  Have no renewing: He, the Truth, is, too,

  The Word. We men, in our degree, may know

  There, simply, instantaneously, as here

  After long time and amid many lies,

  Whatever we dare think we know indeed

  — That I am I, as He is He, — what else?

  But be man’s method for man’s life at least!

  Wherefore, Antonio Pignatelli, thou

  My ancient self, who wast no Pope so long

  But studied God and man, the many years

  I’ the school, i’ the cloister, in the diocese

  Domestic, legate-rule in foreign lands, —

  Thou other force in those old busy days

  Than this grey ultimate decrepitude, —

  Yet sensible of fires that more and more

  Visit a soul, in passage to the sky,

  Left nakeder than when flesh-robe was new —

  Thou, not Pope but the mere old man o’ the world,

  Supposed inquisitive and dispassionate,

  Wilt thou, the one whose speech I somewhat trust,

  Question the after-me, this self now Pope,

  Hear his procedure, criticise his work?

  Wise in its generation is the world.

  This is why Guido is found reprobate.

  I see him furnished forth for his career,

  On starting for the life-chance in our world,

  With nearly all we count sufficient help:

  Body and mind in balance, a sound frame,

  A solid intellect: the wit to seek,

  Wisdom to cho
ose, and courage wherewithal

  To deal with whatsoever circumstance

  Should minister to man, make life succeed.

  Oh, and much drawback! what were earth without?

  Is this our ultimate stage, or starting-place

  To try man’s foot, if it will creep or climb,

  ‘Mid obstacles in seeming, points that prove

  Advantage for who vaults from low to high

  And makes the stumbling-block a stepping-stone?

  So, Guido, born with appetite, lacks food,

  Is poor, who yet could deftly play-off wealth,

  Straitened, whose limbs are restless till at large:

  And, as he eyes each outlet of the cirque,

  The narrow penfold for probation, pines

  After the good things just outside the grate,

  With less monition, fainter conscience-twitch,

  Rarer instinctive qualm at the first feel

  Of the unseemly greed and grasp undue,

  Than nature furnishes the main mankind, —

  Making it harder to do wrong than right

  The first time, careful lest the common ear

  Break measure, miss the outstep of life’s march.

  Wherein I see a trial fair and fit

  For one else too unfairly fenced about,

  Set above sin, beyond his fellows here,

  Guarded from the arch-tempter, all must fight,

  By a great birth, traditionary name,

  Diligent culture, choice companionship,

  Above all, conversancy with the faith

  Which puts forth for its base of doctrine just

  “Man is born nowise to content himself

  “But please God.” He accepted such a rule,

  Recognised man’s obedience; and the Church,

  Which simply is such rule’s embodiment,

  He clave to, he held on by, — nay, indeed,

  Near pushed inside of, deep as layman durst,

  Professed so much of priesthood as might sue

  For priest’s-exemption where the layman sinned, —

  Got his arm frocked which, bare, the law would bruise.

  Hence, at this moment, what’s his last resource,

  His extreme stray and utmost stretch of hope

  But that, — convicted of such crime as law

  Wipes not away save with a worldling’s blood, —

  Guido, the three-parts consecrate, may ‘scape?

  Nay, the portentous brothers of the man

  Are veritably priests, protected each

  May do his murder in the Church’s pale,

  Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo!

  This is the man proves irreligiousest

  Of all mankind, religion’s parasite!

  This may forsooth plead dinned ear, jaded sense,

  The vice o’ the watcher who bides near the bell,

  Sleeps sound because the clock is vigilant,

  And cares not whether it be shade or shine,

  Doling out day and night to all men else!

  Why was the choice o’ the man to niche himself

  Perversely ‘neath the tower where Time’s own tongue

  Thus undertakes to sermonise the world?

  Why, but because the solemn is safe too,

  The belfry proves a fortress of a sort,

  Has other uses than to teach the hour,

  Turns sunscreen, paravent and ombrifuge

  To whoso seeks a shelter in its pale,

  — Ay, and attractive to unwary folk

  Who gaze at storied portal, statued spire,

  And go home with full head but empty purse

  Nor dare suspect the sacristan the thief!

  Shall Judas, — hard upon the donor’s heel,

  To filch the fragments of the basket, — plead

  He was too near the preacher’s mouth, nor sat

  Attent with fifties in a company?

  No, — closer to promulgated decree,

  Clearer the censure of default. Proceed!

  I find him bound, then, to begin life well;

  Fortified by propitious circumstance,

  Great birth, good breeding, with the Church for guide.

  How lives he? Cased thus in a coat of proof,

  Mailed like a man-at-arms, though all the while

  A puny starveling, — does the breast pant big,

  The limb swell to the limit, emptiness

  Strive to become solidity indeed?

  Rather, he shrinks up like the ambiguous fish,

  Detaches flesh from shell and outside show,

  And steals by moonlight (I have seen the thing)

  In and out, now to prey and now to skulk.

  Armour he boasts when a wave breaks on beach,

  Or bird stoops for the prize: with peril nigh, —

  The man of rank, the much-befriended man,

  The man almost affiliate to the Church,

  Such is to deal with, let the world beware!

  Does the world recognise, pass prudently?

  Do tides abate and sea-fowl hunt i’ the deep?

  Already is the slug from out its mew,

  Ignobly faring with all loose and free,

  Sand-fly and slush-worm at their garbage-feast,

  A naked blotch no better than they all:

  Guido has dropped nobility, slipped the Church,

  Plays trickster if not cut-purse, body and soul

  Prostrate among the filthy feeders — faugh!

  And when Law takes him by surprise at last,

  Catches the foul thing on its carrion-prey,

  Behold, he points to shell left high and dry,

  Pleads “But the case out yonder is myself!”

  Nay, it is thou, Law prongs amid thy peers,

  Congenial vermin; that was none of thee,

  Thine outside, — give it to the soldier-crab!

  For I find this black mark impinge the man,

  That he believes in just the vile of life.

  Low instinct, base pretension, are these truth?

  Then, that aforesaid armour, probity

  He figures in, is falsehood scale on scale;

  Honor and faith, — a lie and a disguise,

  Probably for all livers in this world,

  Certainly for himself! All say good words

  To who will hear, all do thereby bad deeds

  To who must undergo; so thrive mankind!

  See this habitual creed exemplified

  Most in the last deliberate act; as last,

  So, very sum and substance of the soul

  Of him that planned and leaves one perfect piece,

  The sin brought under jurisdiction now,

  Even the marriage of the man: this act

  I sever from his life as sample, show

  For Guido’s self, intend to test him by,

  As, from a cup filled fairly at the fount,

  By the components we decide enough

  Or to let flow as late, or staunch the source.

  He purposes this marriage, I remark,

  On no one motive that should prompt thereto —

  Farthest, by consequence, from ends alleged

  Appropriate to the action; so they were:

  The best, he knew and feigned, the worst he took.

  Not one permissible impulse moves the man,

  From the mere liking of the eye and ear,

  To the true longing of the heart that loves,

  No trace of these: but all to instigate,

  Is what sinks man past level of the brute,

  Whose appetite if brutish is a truth.

  All is the lust for money: to get gold, —

  Why, lie, rob, if it must be, murder! Make

  Body and soul wring gold out, lured within

  The clutch of hate by love, the trap’s pretence!

  What good else get from bodies and from souls?

  This got, there were some life to lead thereby,

  �
�� What, where or how, appreciate those who tell

  How the toad lives: it lives, — enough for me!

  To get this good, — with but a groan or so,

  Then, silence of the victims, — were the feat.

  He foresaw, made a picture in his mind, —

  Of father and mother stunned and echoless

  To the blow, as they lie staring at fate’s jaws

  Their folly danced into, till the woe fell;

  Edged in a month by strenuous cruelty

  From even the poor nook whence they watched the wolf

  Feast on their heart, the lamb-like child his prey;

  Plundered to the last remnant of their wealth,

  (What daily pittance pleased the plunderer dole)

  Hunted forth to go hide head, starve and die,

  So leave the pale awe-stricken wife, past hope

  Of help i’ the world now, mute and motionless

  His slave, his chattel, to use and then destroy:

  All this, he bent mind how to bring about,

  Put this in act and life, as painted plain,

  And have success, the crown of earthly good,

  In this particular enterprise of man,

  A marriage — undertaken in God’s face

  With all those lies so opposite God’s truth,

  For ends so other than man’s end.

  Thus schemes

  Guido, and thus would carry out his scheme:

  But when an obstacle first blocks the path,

  When he finds there is no monopoly

  Of lies and trick i’ the tricking lying world, —

  That sorry timid natures, even this sort

  O’ the Comparini, want nor trick nor lie

  Proper to the kind, — that as the gor-crow treats

  The bramble-finch so treats the finch the moth,

  And the great Guido is minutely matched

  By this same couple — whether true or false

  The revelation of Pompilia’s birth,

  Which in a moment brings his scheme to nought, —

  Then, he is piqued, advances yet a stage,

  Leaves the low region to the finch and fly,

  Soars to the zenith whence the fiercer fowl

  May dare the inimitable swoop. I see.

  He draws now on the curious crime, the fine

  Felicity and flower of wickedness;

  Determines, by the utmost exercise

  Of violence, made safe and sure by craft,

  To satiate malice, pluck one last arch-pang

  From the parents, else would triumph out of reach,

  By punishing their child, within reach yet,

  Who nowise could have wronged, thought, word or deed,

  I’ the matter that now moves him. So plans he,

  Always subordinating (note the point!)

  Revenge, the manlier sin, to interest

  The meaner, — would pluck pang forth, but unclench