Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  And Mother of the Convent, Nun I know,

  With such effect that, in the sequel, proof

  Was tendered to the Court at Vire, last month,

  That in these same two years, expenditure

  At quiet Clairvaux rose to the amount

  Of Forty Thousand English Pounds: whereof

  A trifle went, no inappropriate close

  Of bounty, to supply the Virgin’s crown

  With that stupendous jewel from New-York,

  Now blazing as befits the Star of Sea.

  Such signs of grace, outward and visible,

  I rather give you, for your sake and mine,

  Than put in evidence the inward strife,

  Spiritual effort to compound for fault

  By payment of devotion — thank the phrase!

  That payment was as punctual, do not doubt,

  As its far easier fellow. Yesterday

  I trudged the distance from The Ravissante

  To Clairvaux, with my two feet: but our friend,

  The more to edify the country-folk,

  Was wont to make that journey on both knees.

  “Maliciously perverted incident!”

  Snarled the retort, when this was told at Vire:

  “The man paid mere devotion as he passed,

  Knelt decently at just each wayside shrine!”

  Alas, my lawyer, I trudged yesterday —

  On my two feet, and with both eyes wide ope, —

  The distance, and could find no shrine at all!

  According to his lights, I praise the man.

  Enough! incessant was devotion, say —

  With her, you know of, praying at his side.

  Still, there be relaxations of the tense;

  Or life indemnifies itself for strain,

  Or finds its very strain grow feebleness.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda’s days were passed

  Much as of old, in simple work and play.

  His first endeavour, on recovery

  From that sad ineffectual sacrifice,

  Had been to set about repairing loss:

  Never admitting, loss was to repair.

  No word at any time escaped his lips

  — Betrayed a lurking presence, in his heart,

  Of sorrow; no regret for mischief done —

  Punishment suffered, he would rather say.

  Good-tempered schoolboy-fashion, he preferred

  To laugh away his flogging, fair price paid

  For pleasure out of bounds: if needs must be,

  Get pleasure and get flogged a second time!

  A sullen subject would have nursed the scars

  And made excuse, for throwing grammar by,

  That bench was grown uneasy to the seat.

  No: this poor fellow cheerfully got hands

  Fit for his stumps, and what hands failed to do,

  The other members did in their degree —

  Unwonted service. With his mouth alone

  He wrote, nay, painted pictures — think of that!

  He played on a piano pedal-keyed,

  Kicked out — if it was Bach’s — good music thence.

  He rode, that’s readily conceivable,

  But then he shot and never missed his bird,

  With other feats as dexterous: I infer

  He was not ignorant what hands are worth,

  When he resolved on ruining his own.

  So the two years passed somehow — who shall say

  Foolishly, — as one estimates mankind,

  The work they do, the play they leave undone? —

  Two whole years spent in that experiment

  I told you of, at Clairvaux all the time,

  From April on to April: why that month

  More than another, notable in life?

  Does the awakening of the year arouse

  Man to new projects, nerve him for fresh feats

  Of what proves, for the most part of mankind

  Playing or working, novel folly too?

  At any rate, I see no slightest sign

  Of folly (let me tell you in advance)

  Nothing but wisdom meets me manifest

  In the procedure of the Twentieth Day

  Of April, ‘Seventy, — folly’s year in France.

  It was delightful Spring, and out of doors

  Temptation to adventure. Walk or ride?

  There was a wild young horse to exercise,

  And teach the way to go and pace to keep:

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda chose to ride.

  So, while they clapped soft saddle straight on back,

  And bitted jaw to satisfaction, — since

  The partner of his days must stay at home,

  Teased by some trifling legacy of March

  To throat or shoulder, — visit duly paid

  And “farewell” given and received again, —

  As chamber-door considerately closed

  Behind him, still five minutes were to spend.

  How better, than by clearing, two and two,

  The staircase-steps and coming out aloft

  Upon the platform yonder (raise your eyes!)

  And tasting, just as those two years before,

  Spring’s bright advance upon the tower a-top,

  The feature of the front, the Belvedere?

  Look at it for a moment while I breathe.

  IV.

  Ready to hear the rest? How good you are!

  Now for this Twentieth splendid day of Spring,

  All in a tale, — sun, wind, sky, earth and sea, —

  To bid man “Up, be doing!” Mount the stair,

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda mounts so brisk,

  And look — ere his elastic foot arrive —

  Your longest, far and wide, o’er fronting space.

  Yon white streak — Havre lighthouse! Name and name,

  How the mind runs from each to each relay,

  Town after town, till Paris’ self be touched,

  Superlatively big with life and death

  To all the world, that very day perhaps!

  He who stepped out upon the platform here,

  Pinnacled over the expanse, gave thought

  Neither to Rouher nor Ollivier, Roon

  Nor Bismarck, Emperor nor King, but just

  To steeple, church, and shrine, The Ravissante!

  He saw Her, whom myself saw, but when Spring

  Was passing into Fall: not robed and crowned

  As, thanks to him, and her you know about,

  She stands at present; but She smiled the same.

  Thither he turned — to never turn away.

  He thought . . .

  (Suppose I should prefer “He said?”

  Along with every act — and speech is act —

  There go, a multitude impalpable

  To ordinary human faculty,

  The thoughts which give the act significance.

  Who is a poet needs must apprehend

  Alike both speech and thoughts which prompt to speak.

  Part these, and thought withdraws to poetry:

  Speech is reported in the newspaper.)

  He said, then, probably no word at all,

  But thought as follows — in a minute’s space —

  One particle of ore beats out such leaf!

  “This Spring-morn I am forty-three years old:

  In prime of life, perfection of estate

  Bodily, mental, nay, material too, —

  My whole of worldly fortunes reach their height.

  Body and soul alike on eminence:

  It is not probable I ever raise

  Soul above standard by increase of worth,

  Nor reasonably may expect to lift

  Body beyond the present altitude.

  “Behold me, Lady called The Ravissante!

  Such as I am, I — gave myself to you

  So long since, that I cannot say ‘I give.

  All my belongi
ngs, what is summed in life,

  I have submitted wholly — as man might,

  At least, as I might, who am weak, not strong, —

  Wholly, then, to your rule and governance,

  So far as I had strength. My weakness was —

  I felt a fascination, at each point

  And pore of me, a Power as absolute

  Claiming that soul should recognize her sway.

  O you were no whit clearlier Queen, I see,

  Throughout the life that rolls out ribbon-like

  Its shot-silk length behind me, than the strange

  Mystery — how shall I denominate

  The unrobed One? Robed you go and crowned as well,

  Named by the nations: she is hard to name,

  Though you have spelt out certain characters

  Obscure upon what fillet binds her brow,

  Lust of the flesh, lust of the eye, life’s pride.

  ‘So call her, and contemn the enchantress!’ — ’Crush

  The despot, and recover liberty!’ —

  Cried despot and enchantress at each ear.

  You were conspicuous and pre-eminent,

  Authoritative and imperial, — you

  Spoke first, claimed homage: did I hesitate?

  Born for no mastery, but servitude,

  Men cannot serve two masters, says the Book;

  Master should measure strength with master, then,

  Before on servant is imposed a task.

  You spoke first, promised best, and threatened most;

  The other never threatened, promised, spoke

  A single word, but, when your part was done,

  Lifted a finger, and I, prostrate, knew

  Films were about me, though you stood aloof

  Smiling or frowning ‘Where is power like mine

  To punish or reward thee? Rise, thou fool!

  Will to be free, and, lo, I lift thee loose!’

  Did I not will, and could I rise a whit?

  Lay I, at any time, content to lie?

  ‘To lie, at all events, brings pleasure: make

  Amends by undemanded pain!’ I said.

  Did not you prompt me? ‘Purchase now by pain

  Pleasure hereafter in the world to come!’

  I could not pluck my heart out, as you bade

  Unbidden, I burned off my hands at least.

  My soul retained its treasure; but my purse

  Lightened itself with much alacrity.

  Well, where is the reward? what promised fruit

  Of sacrifice in peace, content? what sense

  Of added strength to bear or to forbear?

  What influx of new light assists me now

  Even to guess you recognize a gain

  In what was loss enough to mortal me?

  But she, the less authoritative voice,

  Oh, how distinct enunciating, how

  Plain dealing! Gain she gave was gain indeed!

  That, you deny: that, you contemptuous call

  Acorns, swine’s food not man’s meat! ‘Spurn the draff!’

  Ay, but those life-tree apples I prefer,

  Am I to die of hunger till they drop?

  Husks keep flesh from starvation, anyhow.

  Give those life-apples! — one, worth woods of oak,

  Worth acorns by the waggon-load, — one shoot

  Through heart and brain, assurance bright and brief

  That you, my Lady, my own Ravissante,

  Feel, through my famine, served and satisfied,

  Own me, your starveling, soldier of a sort!

  Your soldier! do I read my title clear

  Even to call myself your friend, not foe?

  What is the pact between us but a truce?

  At best I shall have staved off enmity,

  Obtained a respite, ransomed me from wrath.

  I pay, instalment by instalment, life,

  Earth’s tribute-money, pleasures great and small,

  Whereof should at the last one penny piece

  Fall short, the whole heap becomes forfeiture.

  You find in me deficient soldiership:

  Want the whole life or none. I grudge that whole,

  Because I am not sure of recompense:

  Because I want faith. Whose the fault? I ask.

  If insufficient faith have done thus much,

  Contributed thus much of sacrifice,

  More would move mountains, you are warrant. Well,

  Grant, you, the grace, I give the gratitude!

  And what were easier? ‘Ask and have’ folk call

  Miranda’s method: ‘Have, nor need to ask!’

  So do they formulate your quality

  Superlative beyond my human grace.

  The Ravissante, you ravish men away

  From puny aches and petty pains, assuaged

  By man’s own art with small expenditure

  Of pill or potion, unless, put to shame,

  Nature is roused and sets things right herself.

  Your miracles are grown our commonplace;

  No day but pilgrim hobbles his last mile,

  Kneels down and rises up, flings crutch away,

  Or else appends it to the reverend heap

  Beneath you, votive cripple-carpentry.

  Some few meet failure — oh, they wanted faith,

  And may betake themselves to La Salette,

  Or seek Lourdes, so that hence the scandal limp!

  The many get their grace and go their way

  Rejoicing, with a tale to tell, — most like,

  A staff to borrow, since the crutch is gone,

  Should the first telling happen at my house,

  And teller wet his whistle with my wine.

  I tell this to a doctor and he laughs:

  ‘Give me permission to cry — Out of bed,

  You loth rheumatic sluggard! Cheat yon chair

  Of laziness, its gouty occupant! —

  You should see miracles performed. But now,

  I give advice, and take as fee ten francs,

  And do as much as does your Ravissante.

  Send her that case of cancer to be cured

  I have refused to treat for any fee,

  Bring back my would-be patient sound and whole,

  And see me laugh on t’ other side my mouth!’

  Can he be right, and are you hampered thus?

  Such pettiness restricts a miracle

  Wrought by the Great Physician, who hears prayer,

  Visibly seated in your mother-lap!

  He, out of nothing, made sky, earth, and sea,

  And all that in them is — man, beast, bird, fish,

  Down to this insect on my parapet.

  Look how the marvel of a minim crawls!

  Were I to kneel among the halt and maimed,

  And pray ‘Who mad’st the insect with ten legs,

  Make me one finger grow where ten were once!’

  The very priests would thrust me out of church.

  ‘What folly does the madman dare expect?

  No faith obtains — in this late age, at least —

  Such cure as that! We ease rheumatics, though!’

  “Ay, bring the early ages back again,

  What prodigy were unattainable?

  I read your annals. Here came Louis Onze,

  Gave thrice the sum he ever gave before

  At one time, some three hundred crowns, to wit —

  On pilgrimage to pray for — health, he found?

  Did he? I do not read it in Commines.

  Here sent poor joyous Marie-Antoinette

  To thank you that a Dauphin dignified

  Her motherhood — called Duke of Normandy

  And Martyr of the Temple, much the same

  As if no robe of hers had dressed you rich;

  No silver lamps, she gave, illume your shrine!

  Here, following example, fifty years

  Ago, in gratitude for birth again


  Of yet another destined King of France,

  Did not the Duchess fashion with her hands,

  And frame in gold and crystal, and present

  A bouquet made of artificial flowers?

  And was he King of France, and is not he

  Still Count of Chambord?

  “Such the days of faith,

  And such their produce to encourage mine!

  What now, if I too count without my host?

  I too have given money, ornament,

  And ‘artificial flowers’ — which, when I plucked,

  Seemed rooting at my heart and real enough:

  What if I gain thereby nor health of mind,

  Nor youth renewed which perished in its prime,

  Burnt to a cinder ‘twixt the red-hot bars,

  Nor gain to see my second baby-hope

  Of managing to live on terms with both

  Opposing potentates, the Power and you,

  Crowned with success? I dawdle out my days

  In exile here at Clairvaux, with mock love,

  That gives — while whispering ‘Would I dared refuse!’ —

  What the loud voice declares my heart’s free gift:

  Mock worship, mock superiority

  O’er those I style the world’s benighted ones,

  That irreligious sort I pity so,

  Dumas and even Hertford who is Duke.

  “Impiety? Not if I know myself!

  Not if you know the heart and soul I bare,

  I bid you cut, hack, slash, anatomize,

  Till peccant part be found and flung away!

  Demonstrate where I need more faith! Describe

  What act shall evidence sufficiency

  Of faith, your warrant for such exercise

  Of power, in my behalf, as all the world

  Except poor praying me declares profuse?

  Poor me? It is that world, not me alone,

  That world which prates of fixed laws and the like,

  I fain would save, poor world so ignorant!

  And your part were — what easy miracle?

  Oh, Lady, could I make your want like mine!”

  Then his face grew one luminosity.

  “Simple, sufficient! Happiness at height!

  I solve the riddle, I persuade mankind.

  I have been just the simpleton who stands —

  Summoned to claim his patrimonial rights —

  At shilly-shally, may he knock or no

  At his own door in his own house and home

  Whereof he holds the very title-deeds!

  Here is my title to this property,

  This power you hold for profit of myself

  And all the world at need — which need is now!

  “My title — let me hear who controverts!

  Count Mailleville built yon church. Why did he so?

  Because he found your image. How came that?

  His shepherd told him that a certain sheep