Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

Hail, heads that ever had such glory once

  Touch you a moment, like God’s cloven tongues

  Of fire! your lambent aureoles lost may leave

  You marked yet, dear beyond true diadems:

  And hold, each foot, nor spurn, to man’s disgrace,

  What other twist of fetid rag may fall!

  Let slink into the sewer the cupping-cloth!

  Lucie, much solaced, I re-finger you,

  The medium article; if ruddy-marked

  With iron-mould, your cambric, — clean at least

  From poison-speck of rot and purulence.

  Lucie Muhlhausen said — ”Such thing am I:

  Love me, or love me not!” Miranda said

  “I do love, more than ever, most for this.”

  The revelation of the very truth

  Proved the concluding necessary shake

  Which bids the tardy mixture crystallize

  Or else stay ever liquid: shoot up shaft,

  Durably diamond, or evaporate —

  Sluggish solution through a minute’s slip.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda took his soul

  In both his hands, as if it were a vase,

  To see what came of the convulsion there,

  And found, amid subsidence, love new-born

  So sparklingly resplendent, old was new.

  “Whatever be my lady’s present, past,

  Or future, this is certain of my soul,

  I love her: in despite of all I know,

  Defiance of the much I have to fear,

  I venture happiness on what I hope,

  And love her from this day for evermore:

  No prejudice to old profound respect

  For certain Powers! I trust they bear in mind

  A most peculiar case, and straighten out

  What’s crooked there, before we close accounts.

  Renounce the world for them — some day I will:

  Meantime, to me let her become the world!”

  Thus mutely might our friend soliloquize

  Over the tradesmen’s bills, his Clara’s gift —

  In the apartment, Coliseum Street,

  Carlino Centofanti’s legacy,

  Provided rent and taxes were discharged —

  In face of Steiner now, De Millefleurs once,

  The tailor’s wife and runaway confessed.

  On such a lady if election light,

  (According to a social prejudice)

  If henceforth “all the world” she constitute

  For any lover, — needs must he renounce

  Our world in ordinary, walked about

  By couples loving as its laws prescribe, —

  Renunciation sometimes difficult.

  But, in this instance, time and place and thing

  Combined to simplify experiment,

  And make Miranda, in the current phrase,

  Master the situation passably.

  For first facility, his brother died —

  Who was, I should have told you, confidant,

  Adviser, referee and substitute,

  All from a distance: but I knew how soon

  This younger brother, lost in Portugal,

  Had to depart and leave our friend at large.

  Cut off abruptly from companionship

  With brother-soul of bulk about as big,

  (Obvious recipient — by intelligence

  And sympathy, poor little pair of souls —

  Of much affection and some foolishness)

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda, meant to lean

  By nature, needs must shift the leaning-place

  To his love’s bosom from his brother’s neck,

  Or fall flat unrelieved of freight sublime.

  Next died the lord of the Aladdin’s cave,

  Master o’ the mint and keeper of the keys

  Of chests chokeful with gold and silver changed

  By Art to forms where wealth forgot itself,

  And caskets where reposed each pullet-egg

  Of diamond, slipping flame from fifty slants.

  In short, the father of the family

  Took his departure also from our scene,

  Leaving a fat succession to his heir

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda, — ”fortunate

  If ever man was, in a father’s death,”

  (So commented the world, — not he, too kind,

  Could that be, rather than scarce kind enough)

  Indisputably fortunate so far,

  That little of incumbrance in his path,

  Which money kicks aside, would lie there long.

  And finally, a rough but wholesome shock,

  An accident which comes to kill or cure,

  A jerk which mends a dislocated joint!

  Such happy chance, at cost of twinge, no doubt,

  Into the socket back again put truth,

  And stopped the limb from longer dragging lie.

  For love suggested “Better shamble on,

  And bear your lameness with what grace you may!”

  And but for this rude wholesome accident,

  Continuance of disguise and subterfuge,

  Retention of first falsehood as to name

  And nature in the lady, might have proved

  Too necessary for abandonment.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda probably

  Had else been loath to cast the mask aside,

  So politic, so self-preservative,

  Therefore so pardonable — though so wrong!

  For see the bugbear in the background! Breathe

  But ugly name, and wind is sure to waft

  The husband news of the wife’s whereabout:

  From where he lies perdue in London town,

  Forth steps the needy tailor on the stage,

  Deity-like from dusk machine of fog,

  And claims his consort, or his consort’s worth

  In rubies which her price is far above.

  Hard to propitiate, harder to oppose, —

  Who but the man’s self came to banish fear,

  A pleasant apparition, such as shocks

  A moment, tells a tale, then goes for good!

  Monsieur Ulysse Muhlhausen proved no less

  Nor more than “Gustave,” lodging opposite

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda’s diamond-cave

  And ruby-mine, and lacking little thence

  Save that its gnome would keep the captive safe,

  Never return his Clara to his arms.

  For why? He was become the man in vogue,

  The indispensable to who went clothed

  Nor cared encounter Paris-fashion’s blame, —

  Such miracle could London absence work.

  Rolling in riches — so translate “the vogue” —

  Rather his object was to keep off claw

  Should griffin scent the gold, should wife lay claim

  To lawful portion at a future day,

  Than tempt his partner from her private spoils.

  Best forage each for each, nor coupled hunt!

  Pursuantly, one morning, — knock at door

  With knuckle, dry authoritative cough,

  And easy stamp of foot, broke startlingly

  On household slumber, Coliseum Street:

  “Admittance in the name of Law!” In marched

  The Commissary and subordinate.

  One glance sufficed them. “A marital pair:

  We certify, and bid good morning, sir!

  Madame, a thousand pardons!” Whereupon

  Monsieur Ulysse Muhlhausen, otherwise

  Called “Gustave” for conveniency of trade,

  Deposing in due form complaint of wrong,

  Made his demand of remedy — divorce

  From bed, board, share of name, and part in goods.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda owned his fault,

  Protested his pure ignorance, from first

  To last, of rights infringed in “Gustave’s” case: />
  Submitted him to judgment. Law decreed

  “Body and goods be henceforth separate!”

  And thereupon each party took its way,

  This right, this left, rejoicing, to abide

  Estranged yet amicable, opposites

  In life as in respective dwelling-place.

  Still does one read on his establishment

  Huge-lettered “Gustave,” — gold out-glittering

  “Miranda, goldsmith,” just across the street —

  “A first-rate hand at riding-habits” — say

  The instructed — ”special cut of chamber-robes.”

  Thus by a rude in seeming — rightlier judged

  Beneficent surprise, publicity

  Stopped further fear and trembling, and what tale

  Cowardice thinks a covert: one bold splash

  Into the mid-shame, and the shiver ends,

  Though cramp and drowning may begin perhaps.

  To cite just one more point which crowned success:

  Madame, Miranda’s mother, most of all

  An obstacle to his projected life

  In licence, as a daughter of the Church,

  Duteous, exemplary, severe by right —

  Moreover one most thoroughly beloved

  Without a rival till the other sort

  Possessed her son, — first storm of anger spent,

  She seemed, though grumblingly and grudgingly,

  To let be what needs must be, acquiesce.

  “With Heaven — accommodation possible!”

  Saint Sganarelle had preached with such effect,

  She saw now mitigating circumstance.

  “The erring one was most unfortunate,

  No question: but worse Magdalens repent.

  Were Clara free, did only Law allow,

  What fitter choice in marriage could have made

  Léonce or anybody?” ‘T is alleged

  And evidenced, I find, by advocate

  “Never did she consider such a tie

  As baleful, springe to snap whate’er the cost.”

  And when the couple were in safety once

  At Clairvaux, motherly, considerate,

  She shrank not from advice. “Since safe you be,

  Safely abide! for winter, I know well,

  Is troublesome in a cold country-house.

  I recommend the south room, that we styled,

  Your sire and I, the winter-chamber.”

  Chance

  Or purpose, — who can read the mystery? —

  Combined, I say, to bid “Entrench yourself,

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda, on this turf,

  About this flower, so firmly that, as tent

  Rises on every side around you both,

  The question shall become, — Which arrogates

  Stability, this tent or those far towers?

  May not the temporary structure suit

  The stable circuit, co-exist in peace? —

  Always until the proper time, no fear!

  ‘Lay flat your tent!’ is easier said than done.”

  So, with the best of auspices, betook

  Themselves Léonce Miranda and his bride —

  Provisionary — to their Clairvaux house,

  Never to leave it — till the proper time.

  I told you what was Clairvaux-Priory

  Ere the improper time: an old demesne

  With memories, — relic half, and ruin whole, —

  The very place, then, to repair the wits

  Worn out with Paris-traffic, when its lord,

  Miranda’s father, took his month of ease

  Purchased by industry. What contrast here!

  Repose, and solitude, and healthy ways.

  That ticking at the back of head, he took

  For motion of an inmate, stopped at once,

  Proved nothing but the pavement’s rattle left

  Behind at Paris: here was holiday.

  Welcome the quaint succeeding to the spruce,

  The large and lumbersome and — might he breathe

  In whisper to his own ear — dignified

  And gentry-fashioned old-style haunts of sleep!

  Palatial gloomy chambers for parade,

  And passage-lengths of lost significance,

  Never constructed as receptacle,

  At his odd hours, for him their actual lord

  By dint of diamond-dealing, goldsmithry.

  Therefore Miranda’s father chopped and changed

  Nor roof-tile nor yet floor-brick, undismayed

  By rains a-top or rats at bottom there.

  Such contrast is so piquant for a month!

  But now arrived quite other occupants

  Whose cry was “Permanency, — life and death

  Here, here, not elsewhere, change is all we dread!”

  Their dwelling-place must be adapted, then,

  To inmates, no mere truants from the town,

  No temporary sojourners, forsooth,

  At Clairvaux: change it into Paradise!

  Fair friend, — who listen and let talk, alas! —

  You would, in even such a state of things,

  Pronounce, — or am I wrong? — for bidding stay

  The old-world inconvenience, fresh as found.

  All folk of individuality

  Prefer to be reminded now and then,

  Though at the cost of vulgar cosiness,

  That the shell-outside only harbours man

  The vital and progressive, meant to build,

  When build he may, with quite a difference,

  Some time, in that far land we dream about,

  Where every man is his own architect.

  But then the couple here in question, each

  At one in project for a happy life,

  Were by no acceptation of the word

  So individual that they must aspire

  To architecture all-appropriate

  And, therefore, in this world impossible:

  They needed house to suit the circumstance,

  Proprietors, not tenants for a term.

  Despite a certain marking, here and there,

  Of fleecy black or white distinguishment,

  These vulgar sheep wore the flock’s uniform.

  They love the country, they renounce the town?

  They gave a kick, as our Italians say,

  To Paris ere it turned and kicked themselves!

  Acquaintances might prove too hard to seek,

  Or the reverse of hard to find, perchance,

  Since Monsieur Gustave’s apparition there.

  And let me call remark upon the list

  Of notabilities invoked, in Court

  At Vire, to witness, by their phrases culled

  From correspondence, what was the esteem

  Of those we pay respect to, for “the pair

  Whereof they knew the inner life,” ‘t is said.

  Three, and three only, answered the appeal.

  First, Monsieur Vaillant, music-publisher,

  “Begs Madame will accept civilities.”

  Next, Alexandre Dumas, — sire, not son, —

  “Sends compliments to Madame and to you.”

  And last — but now prepare for England’s voice!

  I will not mar nor make — here’s word for word —

  “A rich proprietor of Paris, he

  To whom belonged that beauteous Bagatelle

  Close to the wood of Boulogne, Hertford hight,

  Assures of homages and compliments

  Affectionate” — not now Miranda but

  “Madame Muhlhausen.” (Was this friend, the Duke

  Redoubtable in rivalry before?)

  Such was the evidence when evidence

  Was wanted, then if ever, to the worth

  Whereat acquaintances in Paris prized

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda’s household charm.

  No wonder, then, his impulse was to live,

&n
bsp; In Norman solitude, the Paris life:

  Surround himself with Art transported thence,

  And nature like those famed Elysian Fields:

  Then, warm up the right colour out of both,

  By Boulevard friendships tempted to come taste

  How Paris lived again in little there.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda practised Art.

  Do let a man for once live as man likes!

  Politics? Spend your life, to spare the world’s:

  Improve each unit by some particle

  Of joy the more, deteriorate the orb

  Entire, your own: poor profit, dismal loss!

  Write books, paint pictures, or make music — since

  Your nature leans to such life-exercise!

  Ay, but such exercise begins too soon,

  Concludes too late, demands life whole and sole

  Artistry being battle with the age

  It lives in! Half life, — silence, while you learn

  What has been done; the other half, — attempt

  At speech, amid world’s wail of wonderment —

  “Here’s something done was never done before!”

  To be the very breath that moves the age

  Means not to have breath drive you bubble-like

  Before it — but yourself to blow: that’s strain;

  Strain’s worry through the life-time, till there’s peace;

  We know where peace expects the artist-soul.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda knew as much.

  Therefore in Art he nowise cared to be

  Creative; but creation, that had birth

  In storminess long years before was born

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda, — Art, enjoyed

  Like fleshly objects of the chace that tempt

  In cookery, not in capture — these might feast

  The dilettante, furnish tavern-fare

  Open to all with purses open too.

  To sit free and take tribute seigneur -like —

  Now, not too lavish of acknowledgment,

  Now, self-indulgently profuse of pay,

  Always Art’s seigneur , not Art’s serving-man

  Whate’er the style and title and degree, —

  That is the quiet life and easy death

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda would approve

  Wholly — provided (back I go again

  To the first simile) that while glasses clink,

  And viands steam, and banqueting laughs high,

  All that’s outside the temporary tent,

  The dim grim outline of the circuit-wall,

  Forgets to menace “Soon or late will drop

  Pavilion, soon or late you needs must march,

  And laggards will be sorry they were slack!

  Always — unless excuse sound plausible!”

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda knew as much:

  Whence his determination just to paint

  So creditably as might help the eye

  To comprehend how painter’s eye grew dim