Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Sells out, buys in, keeps doubling, tripling cash,

  While I do nothing but receive and spend.

  But you, spontaneous generator, hatch

  A wind-egg; cluck, and forth struts Capital

  As Interest to me from egg of gold.

  I am grown curious: pay me by all means!

  How will you make the money?”

  ”Mind your own —

  Not my affair. Enough: or money, or

  Money’s worth, as the case may be, expect

  Ere month’s end, — keep but patient for a month!

  Who’s for a stroll to station? Ten’s the time;

  Your man, with my things, follow in the trap;

  At stoppage of the down-train, play the arrived

  On platform, and you’ll show the due fatigue

  Of the night-journey, — not much sleep, — perhaps,

  Your thoughts were on before you — yes, indeed.

  You join them, being happily awake

  With thought’s sole object as she smiling sits

  At breakfast-table. I shall dodge meantime

  In and out station-precinct, wile away

  The hour till up my engine pants and smokes.

  No doubt, she goes to fetch you. Never fear!

  She gets no glance at me, who shame such saints!”

  II

  So, they ring bell, give orders, pay, depart

  Amid profuse acknowledgment from host

  Who well knows what may bring the younger back.

  They light cigar, descend in twenty steps

  The ‘calm acclivity,’ inhale — beyond

  Tobacco’s balm — the better smoke of turf

  And wood fire, — cottages at cookery

  I’ the morning, — reach the main road straitening on

  ‘Twixt wood and wood, two black walls full of night

  Slow to disperse, though mists thin fast before

  The advancing foot, and leave the flint-dust fine

  Each speck with its fire-sparkle. Presently

  The road’s end with the sky’s beginning mix

  In one magnificence of glare, due East,

  So high the sun rides, — May’s the merry month.

  They slacken pace: the younger stops abrupt.

  Discards cigar, looks his friend full in face.

  “All right; the station comes in view at end;

  Five minutes from the beech-clump, there you are!

  I say: let’s halt, let’s borrow yonder gate

  Of its two magpies, sit and have a talk!

  Do let a fellow speak a moment! More

  I think about and less I like the thing —

  No, you must let me! Now, be good for once!

  Ten thousand pounds be done for, dead and damned!

  We played for love, not hate: yes, hate! I hate

  Thinking you beg or borrow or reduce

  To strychnine some poor devil of a lord

  Licked at Unlimited Loo. I had the cash

  To lose — you knew that! — lose and none the less

  Whistle to-morrow: it’s not every chap

  Affords to take his punishment so well!

  Now, don’t be angry with a friend whose fault

  Is that he thinks — upon my soul, I do —

  Your head the best head going. Oh, one sees

  Names in the newspaper — great this, great that,

  Gladstone, Carlyle, the Laureate: — much I care!

  Others have their opinion, I keep mine:

  Which means — by right you ought to have the things

  I want a head for. Here’s a pretty place,

  My cousin’s place, and presently my place.

  Not yours! I’ll tell you how it strikes a man.

  My cousin’s fond of music and of course

  Plays the piano (it won’t be for long!)

  A brand-new bore she calls a ‘semi-grand,’

  Rosewood and pearl, that blocks the drawing-room.

  And cost no end of money. Twice a week

  Down comes Herr Somebody and seats himself.

  Sets to work teaching — with his teeth on edge —

  I’ve watched the rascal. ‘Does he play first-rate?’

  I ask: ‘I rather think so,’ answers she —

  ‘He’s What’s-his-Name!’ — ’Why give you lessons then?’ —

  ‘I pay three guineas and the train beside.’ —

  ‘This instrument, has he one such at home?’ —

  ‘He? Has to practise on a table-top,

  When he can’t hire the proper thing.’ — ’I see!

  You’ve the piano, he the skill, and God

  The distribution of such gifts.’ So here:

  After your teaching, I shall sit and strum

  Polkas on this piano of a Place

  You’d make resound with Rule Britannia!”

  “Thanks!

  I don’t say but this pretty cousin’s place,

  Appendaged with your million, tempts my hand

  As key-board I might touch with some effect.”

  “Then, why not have obtained the like? House, land,

  Money, are things obtainable, you see.

  By clever head-work: ask my father else!

  You, who teach me, why not have learned, yourself?

  Played like Herr Somebody with power to thump

  And flourish and the rest, not bend demure

  Pointing out blunders — ’ Sharp, not natural!

  Permit me — on the black key use the thumb!’

  There’s some fatality, I’m sure! You say

  ‘Marry the cousin, that’s your proper move!’

  And I do use the thumb and hit the sharp:

  You should have listened to your own head’s hint.

  As I to you! The puzzle’s past my power.

  How you have managed — with such stuff, such means —

  Not to be rich nor great nor happy man:

  Of which three good things where’s a sign at all?

  Just look at Dizzy! Come, — what tripped your heels?

  Instruct a goose that boasts wings and can’t fly!

  I wager I have guessed it! — never found

  The old solution of the riddle fail!

  ‘Who was the Woman?’ I don’t ask, but — ’ Where

  I’ the path of life stood she who tripped you?’ “

  ”Goose

  You truly are! I own to fifty years.

  Why don’t I interpose and cut out — you?

  Compete with five-and-twenty? Age, my boy!”

  “Old man, no nonsense! — even to a boy

  That’s ripe at least for rationality

  Rapped into him, as may be mine was, once!

  I’ve had my small adventure lesson me

  Over the knuckles! — likely, I forget

  The sort of figure youth cuts now and then,

  Competing with old shoulders but young head

  Despite the fifty grizzling years!”

  “Aha?

  Then that means — just the bullet in the blade

  Which brought Dalmatia on the brain, — that, too.

  Came of a fatal creature? Can’t pretend 100

  Now for the first time to surmise as much!

  Make a clean breast! Recount! a secret’s safe

  ‘Twixt you, me and the gate-post!”

  ” — Can’t pretend,

  Neither, to never have surmised your wish!

  It’s no use, — case of unextracted ball —

  Winces at finger-touching. Let things be!”

  “Ah, if you love your love still! I hate mine.”

  “I can’t hate.”

  ”I won’t teach you; and won’t tell

  You, therefore, what you please to ask of me:

  As if I, also, may not have my ache!”

  “My sort of ache? No, no! and yet — perhaps!

  All comes of thinking you superior still.

  B
ut live and learn! I say! Time ‘s up! Good jump!

  You old, indeed! I fancy there’s a cut

  Across the wood, a grass path: shall we try?

  It’s venturesome, however!”

  ”Stop, my boy!

  Don’t think I’m stingy of experience! Life

  — It’s like this wood we leave. Should you and I

  Go wandering about there, though the gaps

  We went in and came out by were opposed

  As the two poles, still, somehow, all the same,

  By nightfall we should probably have chanced

  On much the same main points of interest —

  Both of us measured girth of mossy trunk,

  Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped hands

  At squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow,

  And so forth, — never mind what time betwixt.

  So in our lives; allow I entered mine

  Another way than you: ‘t is possible

  I ended just by knocking head against

  That plaguy low-hung branch yourself began

  By getting bump from; as at last you too

  May stumble o’er that stump which first of all

  Bade me walk circumspectly. Head and feet

  Are vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure,

  Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise.

  I, early old, played young man four years since

  And failed confoundedly: so, hate alike

  Failure and who caused failure, — curse her cant!”

  “Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime,

  Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah —

  But how should chits distinguish? She admired

  Your marvel of a mind, I’ll undertake!

  But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is,

  When years have told on face and figure....”

  ”Thanks,

  Mister Sufficiently-Instructed! Such

  No doubt was bound to be the consequence

  To suit your self-complacency: she liked

  My head enough, but loved some heart beneath

  Some head with plenty of brown hair a-top

  After my young friend’s fashion! What becomes

  Of that fine speech you made a minute since

  About the man of middle age you found

  A formidable peer at twenty-one?

  So much for your mock-modesty! and yet

  I back your first against this second sprout

  Of observation, insight, what you please.

  My middle age, Sir, had too much success!

  It’s odd: my case occurred four years ago —

  I finished just while you commenced that turn

  I’ the wood of life that takes us to the wealth

  Of honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach.

  Now, I don’t boast: it’s bad style, and beside,

  The feat proves easier than it looks: I plucked

  Full many a flower unnamed in that bouquet

  (Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!)

  Good nature sticks into my button-hole.

  Therefore it was with nose in want of snuff

  Rather than Ess or Psidium, that I chanced

  On what — so far from ‘rosebud beauty’ .... Well —

  She’s dead: at least you never heard her name;

  She was no courtly creature, had nor birth

  Nor breeding — mere fine-lady-breeding; but

  Oh, such a wonder of a woman! Grand

  As a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that,

  Style that a Duchess or a Queen, — you know,

  Artists would make an outcry: all the more,

  That she had just a statue’s sleepy grace

  Which broods o’er its own beauty. Nay, her fault

  (Don’t laugh!) was just perfection: for suppose

  Only the little flaw, and I had peeped

  Inside it, learned what soul inside was like.

  At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneath

  A Venus’ forehead with his whittling-knife —

  I wish, — now, — I had played that brute, brought blood

  To surface from the depths I fancied chalk!

  As it was, her mere face surprised so much

  That I stopped short there, struck on heap, as stares

  The cockney stranger at a certain bust

  With drooped eyes, — she’s the thing I have in mind, —

  Down at my Brother’s. All sufficient prize —

  Such outside! Now, — confound me for a prig! —

  Who cares? I’ll make a clean breast once for all!

  Beside, you’ve heard the gossip. My life long

  I’ve been a woman-liker, — liking means

  Loving and so on. There’s a lengthy list

  By this time I shall have to answer for —

  So say the good folk: and they don’t guess half —

  For the worst is, let once collecting-itch

  Possess you, and, with perspicacity, 200

  Keeps growing such a greediness that theft

  Follows at no long distance, — there’s the fact!

  I knew that on my Leporello-list

  Might figure this, that, and the other name

  Of feminine desirability,

  But if I happened to desire inscribe,

  Along with these, the only Beautiful —

  Here was the unique specimen to snatch

  Or now or never. ‘Beautiful’ I said —

  ‘Beautiful’ say in cold blood, — boiling then

  To tune of ‘Haste, secure whate’er the cost

  This rarity, die in the act, be damned,

  So you complete collection, crown your list!’

  It seemed as though the whole world, once aroused

  By the first notice of such wonder’s birth,

  Would break bounds to contest my prize with me

  The first discoverer, should she but emerge

  From that safe den of darkness where she dozed

  Till I stole in, that country-parsonage

  Where, country-parson’s daughter, motherless,

  Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen years

  She had been vegetating lily-like.

  Her father was my brother’s tutor, got

  The living that way: him I chanced to see —

  Her I saw — her the world would grow one eye

  To see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!

  ‘Secure her!’ cried the devil: ‘afterward

  Arrange for the disposal of the prize!’

  The devil’s doing! yet I seem to think —

  Now, when all’s done, — think with ‘a head reposed’

  In French phrase — hope I think I meant to do

  All requisite for such a rarity

  When I should be at leisure, have due time

  To learn requirement. But in evil day —

  Bless me, at week’s end, long as any year,

  The father must begin ‘Young Somebody,

  Much recommended — for I break a rule —

  Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.’ ‘Young!’

  That did it. Had the epithet been ‘rich,’

  ‘ Noble,’ ‘ a genius,’ even ‘ handsome,’ — but

  — ’Young! ‘ “

  ”I say — just a word! I want to know —

  You are not married?”

  ”I?”

  ”Nor ever were?”

  “Never! Why?”

  ”Oh, then — never mind! Go on!

  I had a reason for the question.”

  ”Come, —

  You could not be the young man?”

  ”No, indeed!

  Certainly — if you never married her!”

  “That I did not: and there’s the curse, you’ll see!

  Nay, all of it’s one curse, my life’s mistake

  Which, nourished with manure that’s warranted

  To make
the plant bear wisdom, blew out full

  In folly beyond field-flower-foolishness!

  The lies I used to tell my womankind,

  Knowing they disbelieved me all the time

  Though they required my lies, their decent due,

  This woman — not so much believed, I’ll say,

  As just anticipated from my mouth:

  Since being true, devoted, constant — she

  Found constancy, devotion, truth, the plain

  And easy commonplace of character.

  No mock-heroics but seemed natural

  To her who underneath the face, I knew

  Was fairness’ self, possessed a heart, I judged

  Must correspond in folly just as far

  Beyond the common, — and a mind to match, —

  Not made to puzzle conjurers like me

  Who, therein, proved the fool who fronts you, Sir,

  And begs leave to cut short the ugly rest!

  ‘Trust me!’ I said: she trusted. ‘Marry me!’

  Or rather, ‘We are married: when, the rite?’

  That brought on the collector’s next-day qualm

  At counting acquisition’s cost. There lay

  My marvel, there my purse more light by much

  Because of its late lie-expenditure:

  Ill-judged such moment to make fresh demand —

  To cage as well as catch my rarity!

  So, I began explaining. At first word

  Outbroke the horror. ‘Then, my truths were lies!’

  I tell you, such an outbreak, such new strange

  All-unsuspected revelation — soul

  As supernaturally grand as face

  Was fair beyond example — that at once

  Either I lost — or, if it please you, found

  My senses, — stammered somehow — ‘Jest! and now,

  Earnest! Forget all else but — heart has loved,

  Does love, shall love you ever! take the hand!’

  Not she! no marriage for superb disdain,

  Contempt incarnate!”

  ”Yes, it’s different, —

  It’s only like in being four years since.

  I see now!”

  ”Well, what did disdain do next,

  Think you?”

  ”That’s past me: did not marry you! —

  That’s the main thing I care for, I suppose.

  Turned nun, or what?”

  ”Why, married in a month

  Some parson, some smug crop-haired smooth-chinned sort

  Of curate-creature, I suspect, — dived down,

  Down, deeper still, and came up somewhere else —

  I don’t know where — I’ve not tried much to know, —

  In short, she’s happy: what the clodpoles call

  ‘Countrified’ with a vengeance! leads the life

  Respectable and all that drives you mad:

  Still — where, I don’t know, and that’s best for both.” 300