Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Wanted to make your great experience mine,

  Save me the personal search and pains so: thanks!

  Take your word on life’s use? When I take his —

  The muzzled ox that treadeth out the corn,

  Gone blind in padding round and round one path, —

  As to the taste of green grass in the field!

  What do you know o’ the world that’s trodden flat

  And salted sterile with your daily dung,

  Leavened into a lump of loathsomeness?

  Take your opinion of the modes of life,

  The aims of life, life’s triumph or defeat,

  How to feel, how to scheme and how to do

  Or else leave undone? You preached long and loud

  On high-days, “Take our doctrine upon trust!

  “Into the mill-house with you! Grind our corn,

  “Relish our chaff, and let the green grass grow!”

  I tried chaff, found I famished on such fare,

  So made this mad rush at the mill-house-door,

  Buried my head up to the ears in dew,

  Browsed on the best, for which you brain me, Sirs!

  Be it so! I conceived of life that way,

  And still declare — life, without absolute use

  Of the actual sweet therein, is death, not life.

  Give me, — pay down, — not promise, which is air, —

  Something that’s out of life and better still,

  Make sure reward, make certain punishment,

  Entice me, scare me, — I’ll forego this life;

  Otherwise, no! — the less that words, mere wind,

  Would cheat me of some minutes while they plague.

  The fulness of revenge here, — blame yourselves

  For this eruption of the pent-up soul

  You prisoned first and played with afterward!

  “Deny myself” meant simply pleasure you,

  The sacred and superior, save the mark!

  You, — whose stupidity and insolence

  I must defer to, soothe at every turn, —

  Whose swine-like snuffling greed and grunting lust

  I had to wink at or help gratify, —

  While the same passions, — dared they perk in me,

  Me, the immeasurably marked, by God,

  Master of the whole world of such as you, —

  I, boast such passions? ‘Twas “Suppress them straight!

  “Or stay, we’ll pick and choose before destroy:

  “Here’s wrath in you, — a serviceable sword, —

  “Beat it into a ploughshare! What’s this long

  “Lance-like ambition? Forge a pruning-hook,

  “May be of service when our vines grow tall!

  “But — sword used swordwise, spear thrust out as spear?

  “Anathema! Suppression is the word!”

  My nature, when the outrage was too gross,

  Widened itself an outlet over-wide

  By way of answer? — sought its own relief

  With more of fire and brimstone than you wished?

  All your own doing: preachers, blame yourselves!

  ‘Tis I preach while the hour-glass runs and runs!

  God keep me patient! All I say just means —

  My wife proved, whether by her fault or mine, —

  That’s immaterial, — a true stumbling-block

  I’ the way of me her husband: I but plied

  The hatchet yourselves use to clear a path,

  Was politic, played the game you warrant wins,

  Plucked at law’s robe a-rustle through the courts,

  Bowed down to kiss divinity’s buckled shoe

  Cushioned i’ the church: efforts all wide the aim!

  Procedures to no purpose! Then flashed truth!

  The letter kills, the spirit keeps alive

  In law and gospel: there be nods and winks

  Instruct a wise man to assist himself

  In certain matters nor seek aid at all.

  “Ask money of me,” — quoth the clownish saw, —

  “And take my purse! But, — speaking with respect, —

  “Need you a solace for the troubled nose?

  “Let everybody wipe his own himself!”

  Sirs, tell me free and fair! Had things gone well

  At the wayside inn: had I surprised asleep

  The runaways, as was so probable,

  And pinned them each to other partridge-wise,

  Through back and breast to breast and back, then bade

  Bystanders witness if the spit, my sword,

  Were loaded with unlawful game for once —

  Would you have interposed to damp the glow

  Applauding me on every husband’s cheek?

  Would you have checked the cry “A judgment, see!

  “A warning, note! Be henceforth chaste, ye wives,

  “Nor stray beyond your proper precinct, priests!”

  If you had, then your house against itself

  Divides, nor stands your kingdom any more.

  Oh, why, why was it not ordained just so?

  Why fell not things out so nor otherwise?

  Ask that particular devil whose task it is

  To trip the all-but-at perfection, — slur

  The line o’ the painter just where paint leaves off

  And life begins, — puts ice into the ode

  O’ the poet while he cries “Next stanza — fire!”

  Inscribes all human effort with one word,

  Artistry’s haunting curse, the Incomplete!

  Being incomplete, the act escaped success.

  Easy to blame now! Every fool can swear

  To hole in net that held and slipped the fish.

  But, treat my act with fair unjaundiced eye,

  What was there wanting to a masterpiece

  Except the luck that lies beyond a man?

  My way with the woman, now proved grossly wrong,

  Just missed of being gravely grandly right

  And making critics laugh o’ the other side.

  Do, for the poor obstructed artist’s sake,

  Go with him over that spoiled work once more!

  Take only its first flower, the ended act

  Now in the dusty pod, dry and defunct!

  I march to the Villa, and my men with me,

  That evening, and we reach the door and stand.

  I say . . . no, it shoots through me lightning-like

  While I pause, breathe, my hand upon the latch,

  “Let me forebode! Thus far, too much success:

  “I want the natural failure — find it where?

  “Which thread will have to break and leave a loop

  “I’ the meshy combination, my brain’s loom

  “Wove this long while and now next minute tests?

  “Of three that are to catch, two should go free,

  “One must: all three surprised, — impossible!

  “Beside, I seek three and may chance on six, —

  “This neighbour, t’other gossip, — the babe’s birth

  “Brings such to fireside and folks give them wine, —

  “‘Tis late: but when I break in presently

  “One will be found outlingering the rest

  “For promise of a posset, — one whose shout

  “Would raise the dead down in the catacombs,

  “Much more the city-watch that goes its round.

  “When did I ever turn adroitly up

  “To sun some brick embedded in the soil,

  “And with one blow crush all three scorpions there?

  “Or Pietro or Violante shambles off —

  “It cannot be but I surprise my wife —

  “If only she is stopped and stamped on, good!

  “That shall suffice: more is improbable.

  “Now I may knock!” And this once for my sake

  The impossible was effected: I called king,

  Queen an
d knave in a sequence, and cards came,

  All three, three only! So, I had my way,

  Did my deed: so, unbrokenly lay bare

  Each tænia that had sucked me dry of juice,

  At last outside me, not an inch of ring

  Left now to writhe about and root itself

  I’ the heart all powerless for revenge! Henceforth

  I might thrive: these were drawn and dead and damned.

  Oh Cardinal, the deep long sigh you heave

  When the load’s off you, ringing as it runs

  All the way down the serpent-stair to hell!

  No doubt the fine delirium flustered me,

  Turned my brain with the influx of success

  As if the sole need now were to wave wand

  And find doors fly wide, — wish and have my will, —

  The rest o’ the scheme would care for itself: escape?

  Easy enough were that, and poor beside!

  It all but proved so, — ought to quite have proved,

  Since, half the chances had sufficed, set free

  Any one, with his senses at command,

  From thrice the danger of my flight. But, drunk,

  Redundantly triumphant, — some reverse

  Was sure to follow! There’s no other way

  Accounts for such prompt perfect failure then

  And there on the instant. And day o’ the week,

  A ducat slid discreetly into palm

  O’ the mute post-master, while you whisper him —

  How you the Count and certain four your knaves,

  Have just been mauling who was malapert,

  Suspect the kindred may prove troublesome,

  Therefore, want horses in a hurry, — that

  And nothing more secures you any day

  The pick o’ the stable! Yet I try the trick,

  Double the bribe, call myself Duke for Count,

  And say the dead man only was a Jew,

  And for my pains find I am dealing just

  With the one scrupulous fellow in all Rome —

  Just this immaculate official stares,

  Sees I want hat on head and sword in sheath,

  Am splashed with other sort of wet than wine,

  Shrugs shoulder, puts my hand by, gold and all,

  Stands on the strictness of the rule o’ the road!

  “Where’s the Permission?” Where’s the wretched rag

  With the due seal and sign of Rome’s Police,

  To be had for asking, half-an-hour ago?

  “Gone? Get another, or no horses hence!”

  He dares not stop me, we five glare too grim,

  But hinders, — hacks and hamstrings sure enough,

  Gives me some twenty miles of miry road

  More to march in the middle of that night

  Whereof the rough beginning taxed the strength

  O’ the youngsters, much more mine, such as you see,

  Who had to think as well as act: dead-beat,

  We gave in ere we reached the boundary

  And safe spot out of this irrational Rome, —

  Where, on dismounting from our steeds next day,

  We had snapped our fingers at you, safe and sound,

  Tuscans once more in blessed Tuscany,

  Where the laws make allowance, understand

  Civilised life and do its champions right!

  Witness the sentence of the Rota there,

  Arezzo uttered, the Granduke confirmed,

  One week before I acted on its hint, —

  Giving friend Guillichini, for his love,

  The galleys, and my wife your saint, Rome’s saint, —

  Rome manufactures saints enough to know, —

  Seclusion at the Stinche for her life,

  All this, that all but was, might all have been,

  Yet was not! baulked by just a scrupulous knave

  Whose palm was horn through handling horses’ hoofs

  And could not close upon my proffered gold!

  What say you to the spite of fortune? Well,

  The worst’s in store: thus hindered, haled this way

  To Rome again by hangdogs, whom find I

  Here, still to fight with, but my pale frail wife?

  — Riddled with wounds by one not like to waste

  The blows he dealt, — knowing anatomy, —

  (I think I told you) one to pick and choose

  The vital parts! ‘Twas learning all in vain!

  She too must shimmer through the gloom o’ the grave,

  Come and confront me — not at judgment-seat

  Where I could twist her soul, as erst her flesh,

  And turn her truth into a lie, — but there,

  O’ the death-bed, with God’s hand between us both,

  Striking me dumb, and helping her to speak,

  Tell her own story her own way, and turn

  My plausibility to nothingness!

  Four whole days did Pompilia keep alive,

  With the best surgery of Rome agape

  At the miracle, — this cut, the other slash,

  And yet the life refusing to dislodge,

  Four whole extravagant impossible days,

  Till she had time to finish and persuade

  Every man, every woman, every child

  In Rome of what she would: the selfsame she

  Who, but a year ago, had wrung her hands,

  Reddened her eyes and beat her breasts, rehearsed

  The whole game at Arezzo, nor availed

  Thereby to move one heart or raise one hand!

  When destiny intends you cards like these,

  What good of skill and preconcerted play?

  Had she been found dead, as I left her dead,

  I should have told a tale brooked no reply:

  You scarcely will suppose me found at fault

  With that advantage! “What brings me to Rome?

  “Necessity to claim and take my wife:

  “Better, to claim and take my new-born babe, —

  “Strong in paternity a fortnight old,

  “When ‘tis at strongest: warily I work,

  “Knowing the machinations of my foe;

  “I have companionship and use the night:

  “I seek my wife and child, — I find — no child

  “But wife, in the embraces of that priest

  “Who caused her to elope from me. These two,

  “Backed by the pander-pair who watch the while,

  “Spring on me like so many tiger-cats,

  “Glad of the chance to end the intruder. I —

  “What should I do but stand on my defence,

  “Strike right, strike left, strike thick and threefold, slay,

  “Not all — because the coward priest escapes.

  “Last, I escape, in fear of evil tongues,

  “And having had my taste of Roman law.”

  What’s disputable, refutable here? —

  Save by just one ghost-thing half on earth,

  Half out of it, — as if she held God’s hand

  While she leant back and looked her last at me,

  Forgiving me (here monks begin to weep)

  Oh, from her very soul, commending mine

  To heavenly mercies which are infinite, —

  While fixing fast my head beneath your knife!

  ‘Tis fate not fortune! All is of a piece!

  What was it you informed me of my youths?

  My rustic four o’ the family, soft swains,

  What sweet surprise had they in store for me,

  Those of my very household, — what did Law

  Twist with her rack-and-cord-contrivance late

  From out their bones and marrow? What but this —

  Had no one of these several stumbling-blocks

  Stopped me, they yet were cherishing a scheme,

  All of their honest country homespun wit,

  To quietly next day at crow of cock,

&
nbsp; Cut my own throat too, for their own behoof,

  Seeing I had forgot to clear accounts

  O’ the instant, nowise slackened speed for that, —

  And somehow never might find memory,

  Once safe back in Arezzo, where things change,

  And a court-lord needs mind no country lout.

  Well, being the arch-offender, I die last, —

  May, ere my head falls, have my eyesight free,

  Nor miss them dangling high on either hand,

  Like scarecrows in a hemp-field, for their pains!

  And then my Trial, — ’tis my Trial that bites

  Like a corrosive, so the cards are packed,

  Dice loaded, and my life-stake tricked away!

  Look at my lawyers, lacked they grace of law,

  Latin or logic? Were not they fools to the height,

  Fools to the depth, fools to the level between,

  O’ the foolishness set to decide the case?

  They feign, they flatter; nowise does it skill,

  Everything goes against me: deal each judge

  His dole of flattery and feigning, — why,

  He turns and tries and snuffs and savours it,

  As an old fly the sugar-grain, your gift;

  Then eyes your thumb and finger, brushes clean

  The absurd old head of him, and whisks away,

  Leaving your thumb and finger dirty. Faugh!

  And finally, after this long-drawn range

  Of affront, failure, failure and affront, —

  This path, twixt crosses leading to a skull,

  Paced by me barefoot, bloodied by my palms

  From the entry to the end, — there’s light at length,

  A cranny of escape, — appeal may be

  To the old man, to the father, to the Pope

  For a little life — from one whose life is spent,

  A little pity — from pity’s source and seat,

  A little indulgence to rank, privilege,

  From one who is the thing personified,

  Rank, privilege, indulgence, grown beyond

  Earth’s bearing, even, ask Jansenius else!

  Still the same answer, still no other tune

  From the cicala perched at the tree-top

  Than crickets noisy round the root, — ’tis “Die!”

  Bids Law — ”Be damned!” adds Gospel, — nay,

  No word so frank, — ’tis rather, “Save yourself!”

  The Pope subjoins — ”Confess and be absolved!

  “So shall my credit countervail your shame,

  “And the world see I have not lost the knack

  “Of trying all the spirits, — yours, my son,

  “Wants but a fiery washing to emerge

  “In clarity! Come, cleanse you, ease the ache

  “Of these old bones, refresh our bowels, boy!”

  Do I mistake your mission from the Pope?