Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  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