Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Then, bear his Holiness the mind of me!

  I do get strength from being thrust to wall,

  Successively wrenched from pillar and from post

  By this tenacious hate of fortune, hate

  Of all things in, under, and above earth.

  Warfare, begun this mean unmanly mode,

  Does best to end so, — gives earth spectacle

  Of a brave fighter who succumbs to odds

  That turn defeat to victory. Stab, I fold

  My mantle round me! Rome approves my act:

  Applauds the blow which costs me life but keeps

  My honour spotless: Rome would praise no more

  Had I fallen, say, some fifteen years ago,

  Helping Vienna when our Aretines

  Flocked to Duke Charles and fought Turk Mustafa:

  Nor would you two be trembling o’er my corpse

  With all this exquisite solicitude.

  Why is it that I make such suit to live?

  The popular sympathy that’s round me now

  Would break like bubble that o’er-domes a fly —

  Pretty enough while he lies quiet there,

  But let him want the air and ply the wing,

  Why, it breaks and bespatters him, what else?

  Cardinal, if the Pope had pardoned me,

  And I walked out of prison through the crowd,

  It would not be your arm I should dare press!

  Then, if I got safe to my place again,

  How sad and sapless were the years to come!

  I go my old ways and find things grown grey;

  You priests leer at me, old friends look askance;

  The mob’s in love, I’ll wager, to a man,

  With my poor young good beauteous murdered wife:

  For hearts require instruction how to beat,

  And eyes, on warrant of the story, wax

  Wanton at portraiture in white and black

  Of dead Pompilia gracing ballad-sheet,

  Which, had she died unmurdered and unsung,

  Would never turn though she paced street as bare

  As the mad penitent ladies do in France.

  My brothers quietly would edge me out

  Of use and management of things called mine;

  Do I command? “You stretched command before!”

  Show anger? “Anger little helped you once!”

  Advise? “How managed you affairs of old?”

  My very mother, all the while they gird,

  Turns eye up, gives confirmatory groan, —

  For unsuccess, explain it how you will,

  Disqualifies you, makes you doubt yourself,

  — Much more, is found decisive by your friends.

  Beside, am I not fifty years of age?

  What new leap would a life take, checked like mine

  I’ the spring at outset? Where’s my second chance?

  Ay, but the babe . . . I had forgot my son,

  My heir! Now for a burst of gratitude!

  There’s some appropriate service to intone,

  Some gaudeamus and thanksgiving-psalm!

  Old, I renew my youth in him, and poor

  Possess a treasure, — is not that the phrase?

  Only I must wait patient twenty years —

  Nourishing all the while, as father ought,

  The excrescence with my daily blood of life.

  Does it respond to hope, such sacrifice, —

  Grows the wen plump while I myself grow lean?

  Why, here’s my son and heir in evidence,

  Who stronger, wiser, handsomer than I

  By fifty years, relieves me of each load, —

  Tames my hot horse, carries my heavy gun,

  Courts my coy mistress, — has his apt advice

  On house-economy, expenditure,

  And what not? All which good gifts and great growth

  Because of my decline, he brings to bear

  On Guido, but half apprehensive how

  He cumbers earth, crosses the brisk young Count,

  Who civilly would thrust him from the scene.

  Contrariwise, does the blood-offering fail?

  There’s an ineptitude, one blank the more

  Added to earth in semblance of my child?

  Then, this has been a costly piece of work,

  My life exchanged for his! — why he, not I,

  Enjoy the world, if no more grace accrue?

  Dwarf me, what giant have you made of him?

  I do not dread the disobedient son —

  I know how to suppress rebellion there,

  Being not quite the fool my father was.

  But grant the medium measure of a man,

  The usual compromise ‘twixt fool and sage,

  — You know — the tolerably-obstinate,

  The not-so-much-perverse but you may train,

  The true son-servant that, when parent bids

  “Go work, son, in my vineyard!” makes reply

  “I go, Sir!” — Why, what profit in your son

  Beyond the drudges you might subsidise,

  Have the same work from at a paul the head?

  Look at those four young precious olive-plants

  Reared at Vittiano, — not on flesh and blood,

  These twenty years, but black bread and sour wine!

  I bade them put forth tender branch, and hook

  And hurt three enemies I had in Rome:

  They did my hest as unreluctantly,

  At promise of a dollar, as a son

  Adjured by mumping memories of the past!

  No, nothing repays youth expended so —

  Youth, I say, who am young still, — give but leave

  To live my life out, to the last I’d live

  And die conceding age no right of youth!

  It is the will runs the renewing nerve

  Through flaccid flesh, would faint before the time.

  Therefore no sort of use for son have I —

  Sick, not of life’s feast but of steps to climb

  To the house where life prepares her feast, — of means

  To the end: for make the end attainable

  Without the means, — my relish were like yours.

  A man may have an appetite enough

  For a whole dish of robins ready cooked,

  And yet lack courage to face sleet, pad snow,

  And snare sufficiency for supper.

  Thus

  The time’s arrived when, ancient Roman-like,

  I am bound to fall on my own sword, — why not

  Say — Tuscan-like, more ancient, better still?

  Will you hear truth can do no harm nor good?

  I think I never was at any time

  A Christian, as you nickname all the world,

  Me among others: truce to nonsense now!

  Name me, a primitive religionist —

  As should the aboriginary be

  I boast myself, Etruscan, Aretine,

  One sprung, — your frigid Virgil’s fieriest word, —

  From fauns and nymphs, trunks and the heart of oak,

  With, — for a visible divinity, —

  The portent of a Jove Ægiochus

  Descried ‘mid clouds, lightning and thunder, couched

  On topmost crag of your Capitoline —

  ‘Tis in the Seventh Æneid, — what, the Eighth?

  Right, — thanks, Abate, — though the Christian’s dumb,

  The Latinist’s vivacious in you yet!

  I know my grandsire had out tapestry

  Marked with the motto, ‘neath a certain shield

  His grandson presently will give some gules

  To vary azure. First we fight for faiths,

  But get to shake hands at the last of all:

  Mine’s your faith too, — in Jove Ægiochus!

  Nor do Greek gods, that serve as supplement,

  Jar with the simpler scheme, if understood.

  We
want such intermediary race

  To make communication possible;

  The real thing were too lofty, we too low,

  Midway hang these: we feel their use so plain

  In linking height to depth, that we doff hat

  And put no question nor pry narrowly

  Into the nature hid behind the names.

  We grudge no rite the fancy may demand;

  But never, more than needs, invent, refine,

  Improve upon requirement, idly wise

  Beyond the letter, teaching gods their trade,

  Which is to teach us: we’ll obey when taught.

  Why should we do our duty past the due?

  When the sky darkens, Jove is wroth, — say prayer!

  When the sun shines and Jove is glad, — sing psalm!

  But where fore pass prescription and devise

  Blood-offering for sweat-service, lend the rod

  A pungency through pickle of our own?

  Learned Abate, — no one teaches you

  What Venus means and who’s Apollo here!

  I spare you, Cardinal, — but, though you wince,

  You know me, I know you, and both know that!

  So, if Apollo bids us fast, we fast:

  But where does Venus order we stop sense

  When Master Pietro rhymes a pleasantry?

  Give alms prescribed on Friday, — but, hold hand

  Because your foe lies prostrate, — where’s the word

  Explicit in the book debars revenge?

  The rationale of your scheme is just

  “Pay toll here, there pursue your pleasure free!”

  So do you turn to use the medium-powers,

  Mars and Minerva, Bacchus and the rest,

  And so are saved propitiating — what?

  What all good, all wise and all potent Jove

  Vexed by the very sins in man, himself

  Made life’s necessity when man he made?

  Irrational bunglers! So, the living truth

  Revealed to strike Pan dead, ducks low at last,

  Prays leave to hold its own and live good days

  Provided it go masque grotesquely, called

  Christian not Pagan? Oh, you purged the sky

  Of all gods save One, the great and good,

  Clapped hands and triumphed! But the change came fast:

  The inexorable need in man for life —

  Life, — you may mulct and minish to a grain

  Out of the lump, so the grain left but live, —

  Laughed at your substituting death for life,

  And bade you do your worst, — which worst was done

  — Pass that age styled the primitive and pure

  When Saint this, Saint that, dutifully starved,

  Froze, fought with beasts, was beaten and abused,

  And finally ridded of his flesh by fire,

  Keeping the while unspotted from the world! —

  Good: but next age, how goes the game, who gives

  His life and emulates Saint that and this?

  They mutiny, mutter who knows what excuse?

  In fine make up their minds to leave the new,

  Stick to the old, — enjoy old liberty,

  No prejudice, all the same, if so it please,

  To the new profession: sin o’ the sly, henceforth!

  Let the law stand: the letter kills, what then?

  The spirit saves as unmistakeably.

  Omniscience sees, Omnipotence could stop,

  All-mercifulness pardons, — it must be,

  Frown law its fiercest, there’s a wink somewhere.

  Such was the logic in this head of mine:

  I, like the rest, wrote “poison” on my bread;

  But broke and ate: — said “those that use the sword

  “Shall perish by the same;” then stabbed my foe.

  I stand on solid earth, not empty air:

  Dislodge me, let your Pope’s crook hale me hence!

  Not he, nor you! And I so pity both,

  I’ll make the speech you want the wit to make:

  “Count Guido, who reveal our mystery,

  “You trace all issues to the love of life:

  “We have a life to love and guard, like you.

  “Why did you put us upon self-defence?

  “You well knew what prompt pass-word would appease

  “The sentry’s ire when folk infringe his bounds,

  “And yet kept mouth shut: do you wonder then

  “If, in mere decency, he shot you dead?

  “He can’t have people play such pranks as you

  “Beneath his nose at noonday, who disdain

  “To give him an excuse before the world,

  “By crying ‘I break rule to save our camp!’

  “Under the old rule, such offence were death;

  “And so had you heard Pontifex pronounce

  “‘Since you slay foe and violate the form,

  “‘That turns to murder, which were sacrifice

  “‘Had you, while, say, law-suiting him to death,

  “‘But raised an altar to the Unknown God,

  “‘Or else the Genius of the Vatican.’

  “Why then this pother? — all because the Pope

  “Doing his duty, cries ‘A foreigner,

  “‘You scandalise the natives: here at Rome

  “‘Romano vivitur more: wise men, here,

  “‘Put the Church forward and efface themselves.

  “‘The fit defence had been, — you stamped on wheat,

  “‘Intending all the time to trample tares, —

  “‘Were fain extirpate, then, the heretic,

  “‘And now find, in your haste you slew a fool:

  “‘Nor Pietro, nor Violante, nor your wife

  “‘Meant to breed up your babe a Molinist!

  “‘Whence you are duly contrite. Not one word

  “‘Of all this wisdom did you urge! — Which slip

  “‘Death must atone for!”‘

  So, let death atone!

  So ends mistake, so end mistakers! — end

  Perhaps to recommence, — how should I know?

  Only, be sure, no punishment, no pain

  Childish, preposterous, impossible,

  But some such fate as Ovid could foresee, —

  Byblis in fluvium, let the weak soul end

  In water, sed Lycaon in lupum, but

  The strong become a wolf for evermore!

  Change that Pompilia to a puny stream

  Fit to reflect the daisies on its bank!

  Let me turn wolf, be whole, and sate, for once, —

  Wallow in what is now a wolfishness

  Coerced too much by the humanity

  That’s half of me as well! Grow out of man,

  Glut the wolf-nature, — what remains but grow

  Into the man again, be man indeed

  And all man? Do I ring the changes right

  Deformed, transformed, reformed, informed, conformed!

  The honest instinct, pent and crossed through life,

  Let surge by death into a visible flow

  Of rapture: as the strangled thread of flame

  Painfully winds, annoying and annoyed,

  Malignant and maligned, thro’ stone and ore,

  Till earth exclude the stranger: vented once,

  It finds full play, is recognised a-top

  Some mountain as no such abnormal birth.

  Fire for the mount, the streamlet for the vale!

  Ay, of the water was that wife of mine —

  Be it for good, be it for ill, no run

  O’ the red thread through that insignificance!

  Again, how she is at me with those eyes!

  Away with the empty stare! Be holy still,

  And stupid ever! Occupy your patch

  Of private snow that’s somewhere in what world

  May now be growing icy round your head,

  And aguish
at your foot-print, — freeze not me,

  Dare follow not another step I take.

  Not with so much as those detested eyes,

  No, though they follow but to pray me pause

  On the incline, earth’s edge that’s next to hell!

  None of your abnegation of revenge!

  Fly at me frank, tug while I tear again!

  There’s God, go tell Him, testify your worst!

  Not she! There was no touch in her of hate:

  And it would prove her hell, if I reached mine!

  To know I suffered, would still sadden her,

  Do what the angels might to make amends!

  Therefore there’s either no such place as hell,

  Or thence shall I be thrust forth, for her sake,

  And thereby undergo three hells, not one —

  I who, with outlet for escape to heaven,

  Would tarry if such flight allowed my foe

  To raise his head, relieved of that firm foot

  Had pinned him to the fiery pavement else!

  So am I made, “who did not make myself:”

  (How dared she rob my own lip of the word?)

  Beware me in what other world may be! —

  Pompilia, who have brought me to this pass!

  All I know here, will I say there, and go

  Beyond the saying with the deed. Some use

  There cannot but be for a mood like mine,

  Implacable, persistent in revenge.

  She maundered “All is over and at end:

  “I go my own road, go you where God will!

  “Forgive you? I forget you!” There’s the saint

  That takes your taste, you other kind of men!

  How you had loved her! Guido wanted skill

  To value such a woman at her worth!

  Properly the instructed criticise

  “What’s here, you simpleton have tossed to take

  “Its chance i’ the gutter? This a daub, indeed?

  “Why, ‘tis a Rafael that you kicked to rags!”

  Perhaps so: some prefer the pure design:

  Give me my gorge of colour, glut of gold

  In a glory round the Virgin made for me!

  Titian’s the man, not Monk Angelico

  Who traces you some timid chalky ghost

  That turns the church into a charnel: ay,

  Just such a pencil might depict my wife!

  She, — since she, also, would not change herself, —

  Why could not she come in some heart-shaped cloud,

  Rainbowed about with riches, royalty

  Rimming her round, as round the tintless lawn

  Guardingly runs the selvage cloth of gold?

  I would have left the faint fine gauze untouched,

  Needle-worked over with its lily and rose,

  Let her bleach unmolested in the midst,

  Chill that selected solitary spot

  Of quietude she pleased to think was life: