Deliriously-drugged scent, in lieu of odour lacked,
With us, by bee and moth, their banquet to enhance
At morn and eve, when dew, the chilly sustenance,
Needs mixture of some chaste and temperate perfume?
I ask, is she in fault who guards such golden gloom,
Such dear and damning scent, by who cares what devices,
And takes the idle life of insects she entices
When, drowned to heart’s desire, they satiate the inside
O’ the lily, mark her wealth and manifest her pride?
XVIII.
But, wiser, we keep off, nor tempt the acrid juice;
Discreet we peer and praise, put rich things to right use.
No flavourous venomed bell, — the rose it is, I wot,
Only the rose, we pluck and place, unwronged a jot,
No worse for homage done by every devotee,
I’ the proper loyal throne, on breast where rose should be.
Or if the simpler sweets we have to choose among,
Would taste between our teeth, and give its toy the tongue, —
O gorgeous poison-plague, on thee no hearts are set!
We gather daisy meek, or maiden violet:
I think it is Elvire we love, and not Fifine.
XIX.
“How does she make my thoughts be sure of what they mean?”
Judge and be just! Suppose, an age and time long past
Renew for our behoof one pageant more, the last
O’ the kind, sick Louis liked to see defile between
Him and the yawning grave, its passage served to screen.
With eye as grey as lead, with cheek as brown as bronze,
Here where we stand, shall sit and suffer Louis Onze:
The while from yonder tent parade forth, not — oh, no —
Bateleurs, baladines! but range themselves a-row
Those well-sung women-worthies whereof loud fame still finds
Some echo linger faint, less in our hearts than minds.
XX.
See, Helen! pushed in front o’ the world’s worst night and storm,
By Lady Venus’ hand on shoulder: the sweet form
Shrinkingly prominent, though mighty, like a moon
Outbreaking from a cloud, to put harsh things in tune,
And magically bring manking to acquiesce
In its own ravage, — call no curse upon, but bless
(Beldame, a moment since) the outbreaking beauty, now,
That casts o’er all the blood a candour from her brow.
See, Cleopatra! bared, the entire and sinuous wealth
O’ the shining shape; each orb of indolent ripe health,
Captured, just where it finds a fellow-orb as fine
I’ the body: traced about by jewels which outline,
Fire-frame, and keep distinct, perfections — lest they melt
To soft smooth unity ere half their hold be felt:
Yet, o’er that white and wonder, a soul’s predominance
I’ the head so high and haught — except one thievish glance,
From back of oblong eye, intent to count the slain.
Hush, — O I know, Elvire! Be patient, more remain!
What say you to Saint . . . Pish! Whatever Saint you please,
Cold-pinnacled aloft o’ the spire, prays calm the seas
From Pornic Church, and oft at midnight (peasants say)
Goes walking out to save from shipwreck: well she may!
For think how many a year has she been conversant
With nought but winds and rains, sharp courtesy and scant
O’ the wintry snow that coats the pent-house of her shrine,
Covers each knee, climbs near, but spares the smile benign
Which seems to say “I looked for scarce so much from earth!”
She follows, one long thin pure finger in the girth
O’ the girdle — whence the folds of garment, eye and eye,
Besprent with fleurs-de-lys, flow down and multiply
Around her feet, — and one, pressed hushingly to lip:
As if, while thus we made her march, some foundering ship
Might miss her from her post, nearer to God half-way
In heaven, and she inquired “Who that treads earth can pray?
I doubt if even she, the unashamed! though, sure,
She must have stripped herself only to clothe the poor.”
XXI.
This time, enough’s a feast, not one more form, Elvire!
Provided you allow that, bringing up the rear
O’ the bevy I am loth to — by one bird — curtail,
First note may lead to last, an octave crown the scale,
And this feminity be followed — do not flout! —
By — who concludes the masque with curtsey, smile and pout,
Submissive-mutinous? No other than Fifine
Points toe, imposes haunch, and pleads with tambourine!
XXII.
“Well, what’s the meaning here, what does the masque intend,
Which, unabridged, we saw file past us, with no end
Of fair ones, till Fifine came, closed the catalogue?”
XXIII.
Task fancy yet again! Suppose you cast this clog
Of flesh away (that weeps, upbraids, withstands my arm)
And pass to join your peers, paragon charm with charm,
As I shall show you may, — prove best of beauty there!
Yourself confront yourself! This, help me to declare
That yonder-you, who stand beside these, braving each
And blinking none, beat her who lured to Troy-town beach
The purple prows of Greece, — nay, beat Fifine; whose face,
Mark how I will inflame, when seigneur-like I place
I’ the tambourine, to spot the strained and piteous blank
Of pleading parchment, see, no less than a whole franc!
XXIV.
Ah, do you mark the brown o’ the cloud, made bright with fire
Through and through? as, old wiles succeeding to desire,
Quality (you and I) once more compassionate
A hapless infant, doomed (fie on such partial fate!)
To sink the inborn shame, waive privilege of sex,
And posture as you see, support the nods and becks
Of clowns that have their stare, nor always pay its price;
An infant born perchance as sensitive and nice
As any soul of you, proud dames, whom destiny
Keeps uncontaminate from stigma of the stye
She wallows in! You draw back skirts from filth like her
Who, possibly, braves scorn, if, scorned, she minister
To age, want, and disease of parents one or both;
Nay, peradventure, stoops to degradation, loth
That some just-budding sister, the dew yet on the rose,
Should have to share in turn the ignoble trade, — who knows?
XXV.
Ay, who indeed! Myself know nothing, but dare guess
That off she trips in haste to hand the booty . . . yes,
‘Twixt fold and fold of tent, there looms he, dim-discerned,
The ogre, lord of all those lavish limbs have earned!
— Brute — beast-face, — ravage, scar, scowl and malignancy, —
O’ the Strong Man, whom (no doubt, her husband) by-and-by
You shall behold do feats: lift up nor quail beneath
A quintal in each hand, a cart-wheel ‘twixt his teeth.
Oh she prefers sheer strength to ineffective grace,
Breeding and culture! seeks the essential in the case!
To him has flown my franc; and welcome, if that squint
O’ the diabolic eye so soften through absinthe,
That, for once, tambourine, tunic and tricot ‘scape
Their customary curse “Not half the gain o’ the ape!”
&nbs
p; Ay, they go in together!
XXVI.
Yet still her phantom stays
Opposite, where you stand: as steady ‘neath our gaze —
The live Elvire’s and mine — though fancy-stuff and mere
Illusion; to be judged, — dream-figures, — without fear
Or favour, those the false, by you and me the true.
XXVII.
“What puts it in my head to make yourself judge you?”
Well, it may be, the name of Helen brought to mind
A certain myth I mused in years long left behind:
How she that fled from Greece with Paris whom she loved,
And came to Troy, and there found shelter, and so proved
Such cause of the world’s woe, — how she, old stories call
This creature, Helen’s self, never saw Troy at all.
Jove had his fancy-fit, must needs take empty air,
Fashion her likeness forth, and set the phantom there
I’ the midst for sport, to try conclusions with the blind
And blundering race, the game create for Gods, man-kind:
Experiment on these, — establish who would yearn
To give up life for her, who, other-minded, spurn
The best her eyes could smile, — make half the world sublime,
And half absurd, for just a phantom all the time!
Meanwhile true Helen’s self sat, safe and far away,
By a great river-side, beneath a purer day,
With solitude around, tranquillity within;
Was able to lean forth, look, listen, through the din
And stir; could estimate the worthlessness or worth
Of Helen who inspired such passion to the earth,
A phantom all the time! That put it in my head,
To make yourself judge you — the phantom-wife instead
O’ the tearful true Elvire!
XXVIII.
I thank the smile at last
Which thins away the tear! Our sky was overcast,
And something fell; but day clears up: if there chanced rain,
The landscape glistens more. I have not vexed in vain
Elvire: because she knows, now she has stood the test,
How, this and this being good, herself may still be best
O’ the beauty in review; because the flesh that claimed
Unduly my regard, she thought, the taste, she blamed
In me, for things extern, was all mistake, she finds, —
Or will find, when I prove that bodies show me minds,
That, through the outward sign, the inward grace allures,
And sparks from heaven transpierce earth’s coarsest covertures, —
All by demonstrating the value of Fifine!
XXIX.
Partake my confidence! No creature’s made so mean
But that, some way, it boasts, could we investigate,
Its supreme worth: fulfils, by ordinance of fate,
Its momentary task, gets glory all its own,
Tastes triumph in the world, pre-eminent, alone.
Where is the single grain of sand, mid millions heaped
Confusedly on the beach, but, did we know, has leaped
Or will leap, would we wait, i’ the century, some once,
To the very throne of things? — earth’s brightest for the nonce,
When sunshine shall impinge on just that grain’s facette
Which fronts him fullest, first, returns his ray with jet
Of promptest praise, thanks God best in creation’s name!
As firm is my belief, quick sense perceives the same
Self-vindicating flash illustrate every man
And woman of our mass, and prove, throughout the plan,
No detail but, in place allotted it, was prime
And perfect.
XXX.
Witness her, kept waiting all this time!
What happy angle makes Fifine reverberate
Sunshine, least sand-grain, she, of shadiest social state?
No adamantine shield, polished like Helen there,
Fit to absorb the sun, regorge him till the glare,
Dazing the universe, draw Troy-ward those blind beaks
Of equal-sided ships rowed by the well-greaved Greeks!
No Asian mirror, like yon Ptolemaic witch
Able to fix sun fast and tame sun down, enrich,
Not burn the world with beams thus flatteringly rolled
About her, head to foot, turned slavish snakes of gold!
And oh, no tinted pane of oriel sanctity,
Does our Fifine afford, such as permits supply
Of lustrous heaven, revealed, far more than mundane sight
Could master, to thy cell, pure Saint! where, else too bright,
So suits thy sense the orb, that, what outside was noon,
Pales, through thy lozenged blue, to meek benefic moon!
What then? does that prevent each dunghill, we may pass
Daily, from boasting too its bit of looking-glass,
Its sherd which, sun-smit, shines, shoots arrowy fire beyond
That satin-muffled mope, your sulky diamond?
XXXI.
And now, the mingled ray she shoots, I decompose.
Her antecedents, take for execrable! Gloze
No whit on your premiss: let be, there was no worst
Of degradation spared Fifine: ordained from first
To last, in body and soul, for one life-long debauch,
The Pariah of the North, the European Nautch!
This, far from seek to hide, she puts in evidence
Calmly, displays the brand, bids pry without offence
Your finger on the place. You comment “Fancy us
So operated on, maltreated, mangled thus!
Such torture in our case, had we survived an hour?
Some other sort of flesh and blood must be, with power
Appropriate to the vile, unsensitive, tough-thonged,
In lieu of our fine nerve! Be sure, she was not wronged
Too much: you must not think she winced at prick as we!”
Come, come, that ‘s what you say, or would, were thoughts but free.
XXXII.
Well then, thus much confessed, what wonder if there steal
Unchallenged to my heart the force of one appeal
She makes, and justice stamp the sole claim she asserts?
So absolutely good is truth, truth never hurts
The teller, whose worst crime gets somehow grace, avowed.
To me, that silent pose and prayer proclaimed aloud
“Know all of me outside, the rest be emptiness
For such as you! I call attention to my dress,
Coiffure, outlandish features, lithe memorable limbs,
Piquant entreaty, all that eye-glance over-skims.
Does this give pleasure? Then, repay the pleasure, put
Its price i’ the tambourine! Do you seek further? Tut!
I’m just my instrument, — sound hollow: mere smooth skin
Stretched o’er gilt framework, I: rub-dub, nought else within —
Always, for such as you! — if I have use elsewhere, —
If certain bells, now mute, can jingle, need you care?
Be it enough, there’s truth i’ the pleading, which comports
With no word spoken out in cottages or courts,
Since all I plead is ‘Pay for just the sight you see,
‘And give no credit to another charm in me!’
Do I say, like your Love? ‘To praise my face is well,
‘But, who would know my worth, must search my heart to tell!’
Do I say, like your Wife? ‘Had I passed in review
‘The produce of the globe, my man of men were — you!’
Do I say, like your Helen? ‘Yield yourself up, obey
‘Implicitly, nor pause to question, to survey
‘Even the worshipful
! prostrate you at my shrine!
‘Shall you dare controvert what the world counts divine?
‘Array your private taste, own liking of the sense,
‘Own longing of the soul, against the impudence
‘Of history, the blare and bullying of verse?
‘As if man ever yet saw reason to disburse
‘The amount of what sense liked, soul longed for, — given, devised
‘As love, forsooth, — until the price was recognized
‘As moderate enough by divers fellow-men!
‘Then, with his warrant safe that these would love too, then,
‘Sure that particular gain implies a public loss,
‘And that no smile he buys but proves a slash across
‘The face, a stab into the side of somebody —
‘Sure that, along with love’s main-purchase, he will buy
‘Up the whole stock of earth’s uncharitableness,
‘Envy and hatred, — then, decides he to profess
‘His estimate of one, by love discerned, though dim
‘To all the world beside: since what’s the world to him?’
Do I say, like your Queen of Egypt? ‘Who foregoes
‘My cup of witchcraft — fault be on the fool! He knows
‘Nothing of how I pack my wine-press, turn its winch
‘Three-times-three, all the time to song and dance, nor flinch
‘From charming on and on, till at the last I squeeze
‘Out the exhaustive drop that leaves behind mere lees
‘And dregs, vapidity, thought essence heretofore!
‘Sup of my sorcery, old pleasures please no more!
‘Be great, be good, love, learn, have potency of hand
‘Or heart or head, — what boots? You die, nor understand
‘What bliss might be in life: you ate the grapes, but knew
‘Never the taste of wine, such vintage as I brew!’
Do I say, like your Saint? ‘An exquisitest touch
‘Bides in the birth of things: no after-time can much
‘Enhance that fine, that faint, fugitive first of all!
‘What colour paints the cup o’ the May-rose, like the small
‘Suspicion of a blush which doubtfully begins?
‘What sound outwarbles brook, while, at the source, it wins
‘That moss and stone dispart, allow its bubblings breathe?
‘What taste excels the fruit, just where sharp flavours sheathe
‘Their sting, and let encroach the honey that allays?
‘And so with soul and sense; when sanctity betrays
‘First fear lest earth below seem real as heaven above,
‘And holy worship, late, change soon to sinful love —
‘Where is the plenitude of passion which endures
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 155
