Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Benevolent? There never was his like:

  For poverty, he had an open hand

  . . . Or stop — I use the wrong expression here —

  An open purse, then, ever at appeal;

  So that the unreflecting rather taxed

  Profusion than penuriousness in alms.

  One, in his day and generation, deemed

  Of use to the community? I trust

  Clairvaux thus renovated, regalized,

  Paris expounded thus to Normandy,

  Answers that question. Was the man devout?

  After a life — one mere munificence

  To Church and all things churchly, men or mice, —

  Dying, his last bequeathment gave land, goods,

  Cash, every stick and stiver, to the Church,

  And notably to that church yonder, that

  Beloved of his soul, La Ravissante —

  Wherefrom, the latest of his gifts, the Stone

  Gratefully bore me as on arrow-flash

  To Clairvaux, as I told you.

  “Ay, to find

  Your Red desiderated article,

  Where every scratch and scrape provokes my White

  To all the more superb a prominence!

  Why, ‘t is the story served up fresh again —

  How it befell the restive prophet old

  Who came and tried to curse, but blessed the land.

  Come, your last chance! he disinherited

  Children: he made his widow mourn too much

  By this endowment of the other Bride —

  Nor understood that gold and jewelry

  Adorn her in a figure, not a fact.

  You make that White, I want, so very white,

  ‘T is I say now — some trace of Red should be

  Somewhere in this Miranda-sanctitude!”

  Not here, at all events, sweet mocking friend!

  For he was childless; and what heirs he had

  Were an uncertain sort of Cousinry

  Scarce claiming kindred so as to withhold

  The donor’s purpose though fantastical:

  Heirs, for that matter, wanting no increase

  Of wealth, since rich already as himself;

  Heirs that had taken trouble off his hands,

  Bought that productive goldsmith-business he,

  With abnegation wise as rare, renounced

  Precisely at a time of life when youth,

  Nigh on departure, bids mid-age discard

  Life’s other loves and likings in a pack,

  To keep, in lucre, comfort worth them all.

  This Cousinry are they who boast the shop

  Of “Firm-Miranda, London and New-York.”

  Cousins are an unconscionable kind;

  But these — pretension surely on their part

  To share inheritance were too absurd!

  “Remains then, he dealt wrongly by his wife,

  Despoiled her somehow by such testament?”

  Farther than ever from the mark, fair friend!

  The man’s love for his wife exceeded bounds

  Rather than failed the limit. ‘T was to live

  Hers and hers only, to abolish earth

  Outside — since Paris holds the pick of earth —

  He turned his back, shut eyes, stopped ears to all

  Delicious Paris tempts her children with,

  And fled away to this far solitude —

  She peopling solitude sufficiently!

  She, partner in each heavenward flight sublime,

  Was, with each condescension to the ground,

  Duly associate also: hand in hand,

  . . . Or side by side, I say by preference —

  On every good work sidelingly they went.

  Hers was the instigation — none but she

  Willed that, if death should summon first her lord,

  Though she, sad relict, must drag residue

  Of days encumbered by this load of wealth —

  (Submitted to with something of a grace

  So long as her surviving vigilance

  Might worthily administer, convert

  Wealth to God’s glory and the good of man,

  Give, as in life, so now in death, effect

  To cherished purpose) — yet she begged and prayed

  That, when no longer she could supervise

  The House, it should become a Hospital:

  For the support whereof, lands, goods and cash

  Alike will go, in happy guardianship,

  To yonder church, La Ravissante: who debt

  To God and man undoubtedly will pay.

  “Not of the world, your heroine!”

  Do you know

  I saw her yesterday — set eyes upon

  The veritable personage, no dream?

  I in the morning strolled this way, as oft,

  And stood at entry of the avenue.

  When, out from that first garden-gate, we gazed

  Upon and through, a small procession swept —

  Madame Miranda with attendants five.

  First, of herself: she wore a soft and white

  Engaging dress, with velvet stripes and squares

  Severely black, yet scarce discouraging:

  Fresh Paris-manufacture! (Vire’s would do?

  I doubt it, but confess my ignorance.)

  Her figure? somewhat small and darlinglike.

  Her face? well, singularly colourless,

  For first thing: which scarce suits a blonde, you know.

  Pretty you would not call her: though perhaps

  Attaining to the ends of prettiness

  And somewhat more, suppose enough of soul.

  Then she is forty full: you cannot judge

  What beauty was her portion at eighteen,

  The age she married at. So, colourless

  I stick to, and if featureless I add,

  Your notion grows completer: for, although

  I noticed that her nose was aquiline,

  The whole effect amounts with me to — blank!

  I never saw what I could less describe.

  The eyes, for instance, unforgettable

  Which ought to be, are out of mind as sight.

  Yet is there not conceivably a face,

  A set of wax-like features, blank at first,

  Which, as you bendingly grow warm above,

  Begins to take impressment from your breath?

  Which, as your will itself were plastic here

  Nor needed exercise of handicraft,

  From formless moulds itself to correspond

  With all you think and feel and are — in fine

  Grows a new revelation of yourself,

  Who know now for the first time what you want?

  Here has been something that could wait awhile,

  Learn your requirement, nor take shape before,

  But, by adopting it, make palpable

  Your right to an importance of your own,

  Companions somehow were so slow to see!

  — Far delicater solace to conceit

  Than should some absolute and final face,

  Fit representative of soul inside,

  Summon you to surrender — in no way

  Your breath’s impressment, nor, in stranger’s guise,

  Yourself — or why of force to challenge you?

  Why should your soul’s reflection rule your soul?

  (“You” means not you, nor me, nor anyone

  Framed, for a reason I shall keep suppressed,

  To rather want a master than a slave:

  The slavish still aspires to dominate!)

  So, all I say is, that the face, to me

  One blur of blank, might flash significance

  To who had seen his soul reflected there

  By that symmetric silvery phantom-like

  Figure, with other five processional.

  The first, a black-dressed matron — maybe, maid —

  Mature,
and dragonish of aspect, — marched;

  Then four came tripping in a joyous flock,

  Two giant goats and two prodigious sheep

  Pure as the arctic fox that suits the snow

  Tripped, trotted, turned the march to merriment,

  But ambled at their mistress’ heel — for why?

  A rod of guidance marked the Châtelaine ,

  And ever and anon would sceptre wave,

  And silky subject leave meandering.

  Nay, one great naked sheep-face stopped to ask

  Who was the stranger, snuffed inquisitive

  My hand that made acquaintance with its nose,

  Examined why the hand — of man at least —

  Patted so lightly, warmly, so like life!

  Are they such silly natures after all?

  And thus accompanied, the paled-off space,

  Isleted shrubs and verdure, gained the group;

  Till, as I gave a furtive glance, and saw

  Her back-hair was a block of solid gold,

  The gate shut out my harmless question — Hair

  So young and yellow, crowning sanctity,

  And claiming solitude . . . can hair be false?

  “Shut in the hair and with it your last hope

  Yellow might on inspection pass for Red! —

  Red, Red, where is the tinge of promised Red

  In this old tale of town and country life,

  This rise and progress of a family?

  First comes the bustling man of enterprise,

  The fortune-founding father, rightly rough,

  As who must grub and grab, play pioneer.

  Then, with a light and airy step, succee

  The son, surveys the fabric of his sire

  And enters home, unsmirched from top to toe.

  Polish and education qualify

  Their fortunate possessor to confine

  His occupancy to the first-floor suite

  Rather than keep exploring needlessly

  Where dwelt his sire content with cellarage:

  Industry bustles underneath, no doubt,

  And supervisors should not sit too close.

  Next, rooms built, there’s the furniture to buy,

  And what adornment like a worthy wife?

  In comes she like some foreign cabinet,

  Purchased indeed, but purifying quick

  What space receives it from all traffic-taint.

  She tells of other habits, palace-life;

  Royalty may have pried into those depths

  Of sandal-wooded drawer, and set a-creak

  That pygmy portal pranked with lazuli.

  More fit by far the ignoble we replace

  By objects suited to such visitant

  Than that we desecrate her dignity

  By neighbourhood of vulgar table, chair,

  Which haply helped old age to smoke and doze.

  The end is, an exchange of city-stir

  And too intrusive burgess-fellowship,

  For rural isolated elegance,

  Careless simplicity, how preferable!

  There one may fairly throw behind one’s back

  The used-up worn-out Past, we want away,

  And make a fresh beginning of stale life.

  ‘In just the place’ — does anyone object? —

  ‘Where aboriginal gentility

  Will scout the upstart, twit him with each trick

  Of townish trade-mark that stamps word and deed,

  And most of all resent that here town-dross

  He daubs with money-colour to deceive!’

  Rash’y objected! Is there not the Church

  To intercede and bring benefic truce

  At outset? She it is shall equalize

  The labourers i’ the vineyard, last as first.

  Pay court to her, she stops impertinence.

  ‘Duke, once your sires crusaded it, we know:

  Our friend the newcomer observes, no less,

  Your chapel, rich with their emblazonry,

  Wants roofing — might he but supply the means!

  Marquise, you gave the honour of your name,

  Titular patronage, abundant will

  To what should be an Orphan Institute:

  Gave everything but funds, in brief; and these,

  Our friend, the lady newly resident,

  Proposes to contribute, by your leave!’

  Brothers and sisters lie they in thy lap,

  Thou none-excluding, all-collecting Church!

  Sure, one has half a foot i’ the hierarchy

  Of birth, when ‘Nay, my dear,’ laughs out the Duke,

  ‘I’m the crown’s cushion-carrier, but the crown —

  Who gave its central glory, I or you?’

  When Marquise jokes ‘My quest, forsooth? Each doit

  I scrape together goes for Peter-pence

  To purvey bread and water in his bonds

  For Peter’s self imprisoned — Lord, how long?

  Yours, yours alone the bounty, dear my dame,

  You plumped the purse which, poured into the plate,

  Made the Archbishop open brows so broad!

  And if you really mean to give that length

  Of lovely lace to edge the robe!’ . . . Ah, friends,

  Gem better serves so than by calling crowd

  Round shop-front to admire the million’s-worth!

  Lace gets more homage than from lorgnette -stare,

  And comment coarse to match, (should one display

  One’s robe a trifle o’er the baignoire -edge,)

  ‘Well may she line her slippers with the like,

  If minded so! their shop it was produced

  That wonderful parure , the other day,

  Whereof the Baron said it beggared him.’

  And so the paired Mirandas built their house,

  Enjoyed their fortune, sighed for family,

  Found friends would serve their purpose quite as well,

  And come, at need, from Paris — anyhow,

  With evident alacrity, from Vire —

  Endeavour at the chase, at least succeed

  In smoking, eating, drinking, laughing, and

  Preferring country, oh so much to town!

  Thus lived the husband; though his wife would sigh

  In confidence, when Countesses were kind,

  ‘Cut off from Paris and society!’

  White, White, I once more round you in the ears!

  Though you have marked it, in a corner, yours

  Henceforth, — Red-lettered ‘Failure’ very plain,

  I shall acknowledge, on the snowy hem

  Of ordinary Night-cap! Come, enough!

  We have gone round its cotton vastitude,

  Or half-round, for the end’s consistent still,

  A cul-de-sac with stoppage at the sea.

  Here we return upon our steps. One look

  May bid good morning — properly good night —

  To civic bliss, Miranda and his mate!

  Are we to rise and go?”

  No, sit and stay!

  Now comes my moment, with the thrilling throw

  Of curtain from each side a shrouded case.

  Don’t the rings shriek an ominous “Ha! ha!

  So you take Human Nature upon trust?”

  List but with like trust to an incident

  Which speedily shall make quite Red enough

  Burn out of yonder spotless napery!

  Sit on the little mound here, whence you seize

  The whole of the gay front sun-satisfied,

  One laugh of colour and embellishment!

  Because it was there, — past those laurustines,

  On that smooth gravel-sweep ‘twixt flowers and sward, —

  There tragic death befell; and not one grace

  Outspread before you but is registered

  In that sinistrous coil these last two years

  Were occupied in winding smooth ag
ain.

  “True?” Well, at least it was concluded so,

  Sworn to be truth, allowed by Law as such

  (With my concurrence, if it matter here)

  A month ago: at Vire they tried the case.

  II.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda, then, . . . but stay!

  Permit me a preliminary word,

  And, after, all shall go so straight to end!

  Have you, the travelled lady, found yourself

  Inside a ruin, fane or bath or cirque,

  Renowned in story, dear through youthful dream?

  If not, — imagination serves as well.

  Try fancy-land, go back a thousand years,

  Or forward, half the number, and confront

  Some work of art gnawn hollow by Time’s tooth, —

  Hellenic temple, Roman theatre,

  Gothic cathedral, Gallic Tuileries,

  But ruined, one and whichsoe’er you like.

  Obstructions choke what still remains intact,

  Yet proffer change that’s picturesque in turn;

  Since little life begins where great life ends,

  And vegetation soon amalgamates,

  Smooths novel shape from out the shapeless old,

  Till broken column, battered cornice block

  The centre with a bulk half weeds and flowers,

  Half relics you devoutly recognize.

  Devoutly recognizing, — hark, a voice

  Not to be disregarded! “Man worked here

  Once on a time; here needs again to work;

  Ruins obstruct, which man must remedy.”

  Would you demur “Let Time fulfil his task,

  And, till the scythe-sweep find no obstacle,

  Let man be patient”?

  The reply were prompt:

  “Glisteningly beneath the May-night moon,

  Herbage and floral coverture bedeck

  Yon splintered mass amidst the solitude:

  Wolves occupy the background, or some snake

  Glides by at distance; picturesque enough!

  Therefore, preserve it? Nay, pour daylight in, —

  The mound proves swarming with humanity.

  There never was a thorough solitude,

  Now you look nearer: mortal busy life

  First of all brought the crumblings down on pate,

  Which trip man’s foot still, plague his passage much,

  And prove — what seems to you so picturesque

  To him is . . . but experiment yourself

  On how conducive to a happy home

  Will be the circumstance your bed for base

  Boasts tessellated pavement, — equally

  Affected by the scorpion for his nest, —

  While what o’erroofs bed is an architrave,

  Marble, and not unlikely to crush man

  To mummy, should its venerable prop,

  Some fig-tree-stump, play traitor underneath.

  Be wise! Decide! For conservation’s sake,