Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  ‘Comparison with that, I ask of amateurs?’

  Do I say, like Elvire” . . .

  XXXIII.

  (Your husband holds you fast

  Will have you listen, learn your character at last!)

  “Do I say? — like her mixed unrest and discontent,

  Reproachfulness and scorn, with that submission blent

  So strangely, in the face, by sad smiles and gay tears, —

  Quiescence which attacks, rebellion which endears, —

  Say? ‘As you loved me once, could you but love me now!

  ‘Years probably have graved their passage on my brow,

  ‘Lips turn more rarely red, eyes sparkle less than erst;

  ‘Such tribute body pays to time; but, unamerced,

  ‘The soul retains, nay, boasts old treasure multiplied.

  ‘Though dew-prime flee, — mature at noonday, love defied

  ‘Chance, the wind, change, the rain: love, strenuous all the more

  ‘For storm, struck deeper root and choicer fruitage bore,

  ‘Despite the rocking world; yet truth struck root in vain:

  ‘While tenderness bears fruit, you praise, not taste again.

  ‘Why? They are yours, which once were hardly yours, might go

  ‘To grace another’s ground: and then — the hopes we know,

  ‘The fears we keep in mind! — when, ours to arbitrate,

  ‘Your part was to bow neck, bid fall decree of fate.

  ‘Then, O the knotty point — white-night’s work to revolve —

  ‘What meant that smile, that sigh? Not Solon’s self could solve!

  ‘Then, O the deep surmise what one word might express,

  ‘And if what seemed her “No” may not have meant her “Yes!”

  ‘Then, such annoy, for cause — calm welcome, such acquist

  ‘Of rapture if, refused her arm, hand touched her wrist!

  ‘Now, what’s a smile to you? Poor candle that lights up

  ‘The decent household gloom which sends you out to sup

  ‘A tear? worse! warns that health requires you keep aloof

  ‘From nuptial chamber, since rain penetrates the roof!

  ‘Soul, body got and gained, inalienably safe

  ‘Your own, become despised; more worth has any waif

  ‘Or stray from neighbour’s pale: pouch that, — ’t is pleasure, pride,

  ‘Novelty, property, and larceny beside!

  ‘Preposterous thought! to find no value fixed in things,

  ‘To covet all you see, hear, dream of, till fate brings

  ‘About that, what you want, you gain; then follows change.

  ‘Give you the sun to keep, forthwith must fancy range:

  ‘A goodly lamp, no doubt, — yet might you catch her hair

  ‘And capture, as she frisks, the fen-fire dancing there!

  ‘What do I say? at least a meteor’s half in heaven;

  ‘Provided filth but shine, my husband hankers even

  ‘After putridity that’s phosphorescent, cribs

  ‘The rustic’s tallow-rush, makes spoil of urchins’ squibs,

  ‘In short prefers to me — chaste, temperate, serene —

  ‘What sputters green and blue, this fizgig called Fifine!’“

  XXXIV.

  So all your sex mistake! Strange that so plain a fact

  Should raise such dire debate! Few families were racked

  By torture self-supplied, did Nature grant but this —

  That women comprehend mental analysis!

  XXXV.

  Elvire, do you recall when, years ago, our home

  The intimation reached, a certain pride of Rome,

  Authenticated piece, in the third, last and best

  Manner, — whatever fools and connoisseurs contest, —

  No particle disturbed by rude restorer’s touch,

  The palaced picture-pearl, so long eluding clutch

  Of creditor, at last, the Rafael might — could we

  But come to terms — change lord, pass from the Prince to me?

  I think you recollect my fever of a year:

  How the Prince would, and how he would not; now, — too dear

  That promise was, he made his grandsire so long since,

  Rather to boast “I own a Rafael” than “am Prince!”

  And now, the fancy soothed — if really sell he must

  His birthright for a mess of pottage — such a thrust

  I’ the vitals of the Prince were mollified by balm,

  Could he prevail upon his stomach to bear qualm,

  And bequeath Liberty (because a purchaser

  Was ready with the sum — a trifle!) yes, transfer

  His heart at all events to that land where, at least,

  Free institutions reign! And so, its price increased

  Five-fold (Americans are such importunates!),

  Soon must his Rafael start for the United States.

  O alternating bursts of hope now, then despair!

  At last, the bargain’s struck, I’m all but beggared, there

  The Rafael faces me, in fine, no dream at all,

  My housemate, evermore to glorify my wall.

  A week must pass, before heart-palpitations sink,

  In gloating o’er my gain, so late I edged the brink

  Of doom; a fortnight more, I spent in Paradise:

  “Was outline e’er so true, could colouring entice

  So calm, did harmony and quiet so avail?

  How right, how resolute, the action tells the tale!”

  A month, I bid my friends congratulate their best:

  “You happy Don!” (to me): “The blockhead!” (to the rest):

  “No doubt he thinks his daub original, poor dupe!”

  Then I resume my life: one chamber must not coop

  Man’s life in, though it boast a marvel like my prize.

  Next year, I saunter past with unaverted eyes,

  Nay, loll and turn my back: perchance to overlook

  With relish, leaf by leaf, Doré’s last picture-book.

  XXXVI.

  Imagine that a voice reproached me from its frame:

  “Here do I hang, and may! Your Rafael, just the same,

  ‘T is only you that change: no ecstasies of yore!

  No purposed suicide distracts you any more!”

  Prompt would my answer meet such frivolous attack:

  “You misappropriate sensations. What men lack,

  And labour to obtain, is hoped and feared about

  After a fashion; what they once obtain, makes doubt,

  Expectancy’s old fret and fume, henceforward void.

  But do they think to hold such havings unalloyed

  By novel hopes and fears, of fashion just as new,

  To correspond i’ the scale? Nowise, I promise you!

  Mine you are, therefore mine will be, as fit to cheer

  My soul and glad my sense to-day as this-day-year.

  So, any sketch or scrap, pochade, caricature,

  Made in a moment, meant a moment to endure,

  I snap at, seize, enjoy, then tire of, throw aside,

  Find you in your old place. But if a servant cried

  ‘Fire in the gallery!’ — methinks, were I engaged

  In Doré, elbow-deep, picture-books million-paged

  To the four winds would pack, sped by the heartiest curse

  Was ever launched from lip, to strew the universe.

  Would not I brave the best o’ the burning, bear away

  Either my perfect piece in safety, or else stay

  And share its fate, be made its martyr nor repine?

  Inextricably wed, such ashes mixed with mine!”

  XXXVII.

  For which I get the eye, the hand, the heart, the whole

  O’ the wondrous wife again!

  XXXVIII.

  But no, play out your rôle

  I’ the pageant! ‘T is not fit
your phantom leave the stage:

  I want you, there, to make you, here, confess you wage

  Successful warfare, pique those proud ones, and advance

  Claim to . . . equality? nay, but predominance

  In physique o’er them all, where Helen heads the scene

  Closed by its tiniest of tail-tips, pert Fifine.

  How ravishingly pure you stand in pale constraint!

  My new-created shape, without or touch or taint,

  Inviolate of life and worldliness and sin —

  Fettered, I hold my flower, her own cup’s weight would win

  From off the tall slight stalk a-top of which she turns

  And trembles, makes appeal to one who roughly earns

  Her thanks instead of blame, (did lily only know),

  By thus constraining length of lily, letting snow

  Of cup-crown, that’s her face, look from its guardian stake,

  Superb on all that crawls beneath, and mutely make

  Defiance, with the mouth’s white movement of disdain,

  To all that stoops, retires and hovers round again!

  How windingly the limbs delay to lead up, reach

  Where, crowned, the head waits calm: as if reluctant, each,

  That eye should traverse quick such lengths of loveliness,

  From feet, which just are found embedded in the dress

  Deep swathed about with folds and flowings virginal,

  Up to the pleated breasts, rebellious ‘neath their pall,

  As if the vesture’s snow were moulding sleep not death,

  Must melt and so release; whereat, from the fine sheath,

  The flower-cup-crown starts free, the face is unconcealed,

  And what shall now divert me, once the sweet face revealed,

  From all I loved so long, so lingeringly left?

  XXXIX.

  Because indeed your face fits into just the cleft

  O’ the heart of me, Elvire, makes right and whole once more

  All that was half itself without you! As before,

  My truant finds its place! Doubtlessly sea-shells yearn,

  If plundered by sad chance: would pray their pearls return,

  Let negligently slip away into the wave!

  Never may eyes desist, those eyes so grey and grave,

  From their slow sure supply of the effluent soul within!

  And, would you humour me? I dare to ask, unpin

  The web of that brown hair! O’erwash o’ the sudden, but

  As promptly, too, disclose, on either side, the jut

  Of alabaster brow! So part rich rillets dyed

  Deep by the woodland leaf, when down they pour, each side

  O’ the rock-top, pushed by Spring!

  XL.

  “And where i’ the world is all

  This wonder, you detail so trippingly, espied?

  My mirror would reflect a tall, thin, pale, deep-eyed

  Personage, pretty once, it may be, doubtless still

  Loving, — a certain grace yet lingers, if you will, —

  But all this wonder, where?”

  XLI.

  Why, where but in the sense

  And soul of me, Art’s judge? Art is my evidence

  That something was, is, might be; but no more thing itself,

  Than flame is fuel. Once the verse-book laid on shelf,

  The picture turned to wall, the music fled from ear, —

  Each beauty, born of each, grows clearer and more clear,

  Mine henceforth, ever mine!

  XLII.

  But if I would re-trace

  Effect, in Art, to cause, — corroborate, erase

  What’s right or wrong i’ the lines, test fancy in my brain

  By fact which gave it birth? I re-peruse in vain

  The verse, I fail to find that vision of delight

  I’ the Bazzi’s lost-profile, eye-edge so exquisite.

  And, music: what? that burst of pillared cloud by day

  And pillared fire by night, was product, must we say,

  Of modulating just, by enharmonic change, —

  The augmented sixth resolved, — from out the straighter range

  Of D sharp minor, — leap of disimprisoned thrall, —

  Into thy light and life, D major natural?

  XLIII.

  Elvire, will you partake in what I shall impart?

  I seem to understand the way heart chooses heart

  By help of the outside form, — a reason for our wild

  Diversity in choice, — why each grows reconciled

  To what is absent, what superfluous in the mask

  Of flesh that’s meant to yield, — did nature ply her task

  As artist should, — precise the features of the soul,

  Which, if in any case they found expression, whole

  I’ the traits, would give a type, undoubtedly display

  A novel, true, distinct perfection in its way.

  Never shall I believe any two souls were made

  Similar; granting, then, each soul of every grade

  Was meant to be itself, prove in itself complete

  And, in completion, good, — nay, best o’ the kind, — as meet

  Needs must it be that show on the outside correspond

  With inward substance, — flesh, the dress which soul has donned,

  Exactly reproduce, — were only justice done

  Inside and outside too, — types perfect everyone.

  How happens it that here we meet a mystery

  Insoluble to man, a plaguy puzzle? Why

  Each soul is either made imperfect, and deserves

  As rude a face to match, or else a bungler swerves,

  And nature, on a soul worth rendering aright,

  Works ill, or proves perverse, or, in her own despite,

  — Here too much, there too little, — bids each face, more or less,

  Retire from beauty, make approach to ugliness?

  And yet succeeds the same: since, what is wanting to success,

  If somehow every face, no matter how deform,

  Evidence, to some one of hearts on earth, that, warm

  Beneath the veriest ash, there hides a spark of soul

  Which, quickened by love’s breath, may yet pervade the whole

  O’ the grey, and, free again, be fire? — of worth the same,

  Howe’er produced, for, great or little, flame is flame.

  A mystery, whereof solution is to seek.

  XLIV.

  I find it in the fact that each soul, just as weak

  Its own way as its fellow, — departure from design

  As flagrant in the flesh, — goes striving to combine

  With what shall right the wrong, the under or above

  The standard: supplement unloveliness by love.

  — Ask Plato else! And this corroborates the sage,

  That Art, — which I may style the love of loving, rage

  Of knowing, seeing, feeling the absolute truth of things

  For truth’s sake, whole and sole, not any good, truth brings

  The knower, seer, feeler, beside, — instinctive Art

  Must fumble for the whole, once fixing on a part

  However poor, surpass the fragment, and aspire

  To reconstruct thereby the ultimate entire.

  Art, working with a will, discards the superflux,

  Contributes to defect, toils on till. — fiat lux , —

  There’s the restored, the prime, the individual type!

  XLV.

  Look, for example now! This piece of broken pipe

  (Some shipman’s solace erst) shall act as crayon; and

  What tablet better serves my purpose than the sand?

  — Smooth slab whereon I draw, no matter with what skill,

  A face, and yet another, and yet another still.

  There lie my three prime types of beauty!

  XLVI.

  Laugh your
best!

  “Exaggeration and absurdity?” Confessed!

  Yet, what may that face mean, no matter for its nose,

  A yard long, or its chin, a foot short?

  XLVII.

  “You suppose,

  Horror?” Exactly! What’s the odds if, more or less

  By yard or foot, the features do manage to express

  Such meaning in the main? Were I of Gérôme’s force,

  Nor feeble as you see, quick should my crayon course

  O’er outline, curb, excite, till, — so completion speeds

  With Gérôme well at work, — observe how brow recedes,

  Head shudders back on spine, as if one haled the hair,

  Would have the full-face front what pin-point eye’s sharp stare

  Announces; mouth agape to drink the flowing fate,

  While chin protrudes to meet the burst o’ the wave: elate

  Almost, spurred on to brave necessity, expend

  All life left, in one flash, as fire does at its end.

  Retrenchment and addition effect a masterpiece,

  Not change i’ the motive: here diminish, there increase —

  And who wants Horror, has it.

  XLVIII.

  Who wants some other show

  Of soul, may seek elsewhere — this second of the row?

  What does it give for germ, monadic mere intent

  Of mind in face, faint first of meanings ever meant?

  Why, possibly, a grin, that, strengthened, grows a laugh;

  That, softened, leaves a smile; that, tempered, bids you quaff

  At such a magic cup as English Reynolds once

  Compounded: for the witch pulls out of you response

  Like Garrick’s to Thalia, however due may be

  Your homage claimed by that stiff-stoled Melpomene!

  XLIX.

  And just this one face more! Pardon the bold pretence!

  May there not lurk some hint, struggle toward evidence

  In that compressed mouth, those strained nostrils, steadfast eyes

  Of utter passion, absolute self-sacrifice,

  Which, — could I but subdue the wild grotesque, refine

  That bulge of brow, make blunt that nose’s aquiline,

  And let, although compressed, a point of pulp appear

  I’ the mouth, — would give at last the portrait of Elvire?

  L.

  Well, and if so succeed hand-practice on awry

  Preposterous art-mistake, shall soul-proficiency

  Despair, — when exercised on nature, which at worst

  Always implies success, however crossed and curst

  By failure, — such as art would emulate in vain?

  Shall any soul despair of setting free again

  Trait after trait, until the type as wholly start

  Forth, visible to sense, as that minutest part,