Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  “Well, that she did not like you, I conceive.

  But why should you hate her, I want to know?”

  “My good young friend, — because or her or else

  Malicious Providence I have to hate.

  For, what I tell you proved the turning-point

  Of my whole life and fortune toward success

  Or failure. If I drown, I lay the fault

  Much on myself who caught at reed not rope,

  But more on reed which, with a packthread’s pith,

  Had buoyed me till the minute’s cramp could thaw

  And I strike out afresh and so be saved.

  It’s easy saying — I had sunk before,

  Disqualified myself by idle days

  And busy nights, long since, from holding hard

  On cable, even, had fate cast me such!

  You boys don’t know how many times men fail

  Perforce o’ the little to succeed i’ the large,

  Husband their strength, let slip the petty prey,

  Collect the whole power for the final pounce.

  My fault was the mistaking man’s main prize

  For intermediate boy’s diversion; clap

  Of boyish hands here frightened game away

  Which, once gone, goes forever. Oh, at first

  I took the anger easily, nor much

  Minded the anguish — having learned that storms

  Subside, and teapot-tempests are akin.

  Time would arrange things, mend whate’er might be

  Somewhat amiss; precipitation, eh?

  Reason and rhyme prompt — reparation! Tiffs

  End properly in marriage and a dance!

  I said ‘We’ll marry, make the past a blank’ —

  And never was such damnable mistake!

  That interview, that laying bare my soul,

  As it was first, so was it last chance — one

  And only. Did I write? Back letter came

  Unopened as it went. Inexorable

  She fled, I don’t know where, consoled herself

  With the smug curate-creature: chop and change!

  Sure am I, when she told her shaveling all

  His Magdalen’s adventure, tears were shed,

  Forgiveness evangelically shown,

  ‘Loose hair and lifted eye,’ — as some one says.

  And now, he’s worshipped for his pains, the sneak!”

  “Well, but your turning-point of life, — what’s here

  To hinder you contesting Finsbury

  With Orton, next election? I don’t see....”

  “Not you! But I see. Slowly, surely, creeps

  Day by day o’er me the conviction — here

  Was life’s prize grasped at, gained, and then let go!

  — That with her — may be, for her — I had felt

  Ice in me melt, grow steam, drive to effect

  Any or all the fancies sluggish here

  I’ the head that needs the hand she would not take

  And I shall never lift now. Lo, your wood —

  Its turnings which I likened life to! Well, —

  There she stands, ending every avenue,

  Her visionary presence on each goal

  I might have gained had we kept side by side!

  Still string nerve and strike foot? Her frown forbids:

  The steam congeals once more: I’m old again!

  Therefore I hate myself — but how much worse

  Do not I hate who would not understand,

  Let me repair things — no, but sent a-slide

  My folly falteringly, stumblingly

  Down, down and deeper down until I drop

  Upon — the need of your ten thousand pounds

  And consequently loss of mine! I lose

  Character, cash, nay, common-sense itself

  Recounting such a lengthy cock-and-bull

  Adventure — lose my temper in the act....”

  “And lose beside, — if I may supplement

  The list of losses, — train and ten-o’clock!

  Hark, pant and puff, there travels the swart sign!

  So much the better! You’re my captive now!

  I’m glad you trust a fellow: friends grow thick

  This way — that’s twice said; we were thickish, though,

  Even last night, and, ere night comes again,

  I prophesy good luck to both of us!

  For see now! — back to ‘balmy eminence’

  Or ‘calm acclivity,’ or what’s the word!

  Bestow you there an hour, concoct at ease

  A sonnet for the Album, while I put

  Bold face on, best foot forward, make for house,

  March in to aunt and niece, and tell the truth —

  (Even white-lying goes against my taste

  After your little story). Oh, the niece

  Is rationality itself! The aunt —

  If she’s amenable to reason too —

  Why, you stooped short to pay her due respect,

  And let the Duke wait (I’ll work well the Duke).

  If she grows gracious, I return for you;

  If thunder’s in the air, why — bear your doom,

  Dine on rump-steaks and port, and shake the dust

  Of aunty from your shoes as off you go

  By evening-train, nor give the thing a thought

  How you shall pay me — that’s as sure as fate,

  Old fellow! Off with you, face left about!

  Yonder’s the path I have to pad. You see,

  I’m in good spirits, God knows why! Perhaps

  Because the woman did not marry you 400

  — Who look so hard at me, — and have the right,

  One must be fair and own.”

  The two stand still

  Under an oak.

  ”Look here!” resumes the youth.

  “I never quite knew how I came to like

  You — so much — whom I ought not court at all;

  Nor how you had a leaning just to me

  Who am assuredly not worth your pains.

  For there must needs be plenty such as you

  Somewhere about, — although I can’t say where, —

  Able and willing to teach all you know;

  While — how can you have missed a score like me

  With money and no wit, precisely each

  A pupil for your purpose, were it — ease

  Fool’s poke of tutor’s honorarium-fee?

  And yet, howe’er it came about, I felt

  At once my master: you as prompt descried

  Your man, I warrant, so was bargain struck.

  Now, these same lines of liking, loving, run

  Sometimes so close together they converge —

  Life’s great adventures — you know what I mean —

  In people. Do you know, as you advanced,

  It got to be uncommonly like fact

  We two had fallen in with — liked and loved

  Just the same woman in our different ways?

  I began life — poor groundling as I prove —

  Winged and ambitious to fly high: why not?

  There’s something in ‘Don Quixote’ to the point,

  My shrewd old father used to quote and praise —

  ‘Am I born man?’ asks Sancho: ‘being man,

  By possibility I may be Pope!’

  So, Pope I meant to make myself, by step

  And step, whereof the first should be to find

  A perfect woman; and I tell you this —

  If what I fixed on, in the order due

  Of undertakings, as next step, had first

  Of all disposed itself to suit my tread,

  And I had been, the day I came of age,

  Returned at head of poll for Westminster

  — Nay, and moreover summoned by the Queen

  At week’s end, when my maiden-speech bore fruit,

  To form and head a Tory ministry —
<
br />   It would not have seemed stranger, no, nor been

  More strange to me, as now I estimate,

  Than what did happen — sober truth, no dream.

  I saw my wonder of a woman, — laugh,

  I’m past that! — in Commemoration-week.

  A plenty have I seen since, fair and foul, —

  With eyes, too, helped by your sagacious wink;

  But one to match that marvel — no least trace,

  Least touch of kinship and community!

  The end was — I did somehow state the fact,

  Did, with no matter what imperfect words,

  One way or other give to understand

  That woman, soul and body were her slave

  Would she but take, but try them — any test

  Of will, and some poor test of power beside:

  So did the strings within my brain grow tense

  And capable of ... hang similitudes!

  She answered kindly but beyond appeal.

  ‘No sort of hope for me, who came too late.

  She was another’s. Love went — mine to her,

  Hers just as loyally to some one else.’

  Of course! I might expect it! Nature’s law —

  Given the peerless woman, certainly

  Somewhere shall be the peerless man to match!

  I acquiesced at once, submitted me

  In something of a stupor, went my way.

  I fancy there had been some talk before

  Of somebody — her father or the like —

  To coach me in the holidays, — that’s how

  I came to get the sight and speech of her, —

  But I had sense enough to break off sharp,

  Save both of us the pain.”

  ”Quite right there!”

  ”Eh?

  Quite wrong, it happens! Now comes worst of all!

  Yes, I did sulk aloof and let alone

  The lovers — I disturb the angel-mates?”

  “Seraph paired off with cherub!”

  ”Thank you! While

  I never plucked up courage to inquire

  Who he was, even, — certain-sure of this,

  That nobody I knew of had blue wings

  And wore a star-crown as he needs must do, —

  Some little lady, — plainish, pock-marked girl, —

  Finds out my secret in my woful face,

  Comes up to me at the Apollo Ball,

  And pityingly pours her wine and oil

  This way into the wound: ‘Dear f-f-friend,

  Why waste affection thus on — must I say,

  A somewhat worthless object? Who’s her choice —

  Irrevocable as deliberate —

  Out of the wide world? I shall name no names —

  But there’s a person in society,

  Who, blessed with rank and talent, has grown gray

  In idleness and sin of every sort

  Except hypocrisy: he’s thrice her age,

  A by-word for “successes with the sex”

  As the French say — and, as we ought to say,

  Consummately a liar and a rogue,

  Since — show me where’s the woman won without

  The help of this one lie which she believes —

  That — never mind how things have come to pass, 500

  And let who loves have loved a thousand times —

  All the same he now loves her only, loves

  Her ever! if by “won” you just mean “sold,”

  That’s quite another compact. Well, this scamp,

  Continuing descent from bad to worse,

  Must leave his fine and fashionable prey

  (Who — fathered, brothered, husbanded, — are hedged

  About with thorny danger) and apply

  His arts to this poor country ignorance

  Who sees forthwith in the first rag of man

  Her model hero! Why continue waste

  On such a woman treasures of a heart

  Would yet find solace, — yes, my f-f-friend —

  In some congenial — fiddle-diddle-dee?’“

  “Pray, is the pleasant gentleman described

  Exact the portrait which my ‘f-f-friends’

  Recognize as so like? ‘T is evident

  You half surmised the sweet original

  Could be no other than myself, just now!

  Your stop and start were flattering!”

  ”Of course

  Caricature’s allowed for in a sketch!

  The longish nose becomes a foot in length,

  The swarthy cheek gets copper-colored, — still,

  Prominent beak and dark-hued skin are facts:

  And ‘parson’s daughter’ — ‘young man coachable’ —

  ‘Elderly party’ — ‘four years since’ — were facts

  To fasten on, a moment! Marriage, though —

  That made the difference, I hope.”

  ”All right!

  I never married; wish I had — and then

  Unwish it: people kill their wives, sometimes!

  I hate my mistress, but I’m murder-free.

  In your case, where’s the grievance? You came last,

  The earlier bird picked up the worm. Suppose

  You, in the glory of your twenty-one,

  Had happened to precede myself! ‘t is odds

  But this gigantic juvenility,

  This offering of a big arm’s bony hand —

  I’d rather shake than feel shake me, I know —

  Had moved my dainty mistress to admire

  An altogether new Ideal — deem

  Idolatry less due to life’s decline

  Productive of experience, powers mature

  By dint of usage, the made man — no boy

  That’s all to make! I was the earlier bird —

  And what I found, I let fall: what you missed

  Who is the fool that blames you for?”

  ”Myself —

  For nothing, everything! For finding out

  She, whom I worshipped, was a worshipper

  In turn of... but why stir up settled mud?

  She married him — the fifty-years-old rake —

  How you have teazed the talk from me! At last

  My secret’s told you. I inquired no more,

  Nay, stopped ears when informants unshut mouth;

  Enough that she and he live, deuce take where,

  Married and happy, or else miserable —

  It’s ‘Cut-the-pack;’ she turned up ace or knave

  And I left Oxford, England, dug my hole

  Out in Dalmatia, till you drew me thence

  Badger-like, — ‘Back to London’ was the word —

  ‘Do things, a many, there, you fancy hard,

  I’ll undertake are easy!’ — the advice.

  I took it, had my twelvemonth’s fling with you —

  (Little hand holding large hand pretty tight

  For all its delicacy — eh, my lord?)

  Until when, t’other day, I got a turn

  Somehow and gave up tired: and ‘Rest!’ bade you,

  ‘Marry your cousin, double your estate,

  And take your ease by all means!’ So, I loll

  On this the springy sofa, mine next month —

  Or should loll, but that you must needs beat rough

  The very down you spread me out so smooth.

  I wish this confidence were still to make!

  Ten thousand pounds? You owe me twice the sum

  For stirring up the black depths! There’s repose

  Or, at least, silence when misfortune seems

  All that one has to bear; but folly — yes,

  Folly, it all was! Fool to be so meek,

  So humble, — such a coward rather say!

  Fool, to adore the adorer of a fool!

  Not to have faced him, tried (a useful hint)

  My big and bony, here, against the bunch

  Of lily-coloure
d five with signet-ring,

  Most like, for little-finger’s sole defence —

  Much as you flaunt the blazon there! I grind

  My teeth, that bite my very heart, to think —

  To know I might have made that woman mine

  But for the folly of the coward — know —

  Or what’s the good of my apprenticeship

  This twelvemonth to a master in the art?

  Mine — had she been mine — just one moment mine

  For honour, for dishonour — anyhow,

  So that my life, instead of stagnant... Well,

  You’ve poked and proved stagnation is not sleep —

  Hang you!”

  ”Hang you for an ungrateful goose!

  All this means — I who since I knew you first

  Have helped you to conceit yourself this cock

  O’ the dunghill with all hens to pick and choose —

  Ought to have helped you when shell first was chipped

  By chick that wanted prompting ‘Use the spur!’

  While I was elsewhere putting mine to use. 600

  As well might I blame you who kept aloof,

  Seeing you could not guess I was alive,

  Never advised me ‘Do as I have done —

  Reverence such a jewel as your luck

  Has scratched up to enrich unworthiness!’

  As your behaviour was, should mine have been,

  — Faults which we both, too late, are sorry for —

  Opposite ages, each with its mistake:

  ‘If youth but would — if age but could,’ you know.

  Don’t let us quarrel! Come, we’re — young and old —

  Neither so badly off! Go you your way,

  Cut to the Cousin! I’ll to Inn, await

  The issue of diplomacy with Aunt,

  And wait my hour on ‘calm acclivity’

  In rumination manifold — perhaps

  About ten thousand pounds I have to pay!”

  III

  Now, as the elder lights the fresh cigar

  Conducive to resource, and saunteringly

  Betakes him to the left-hand backward path, —

  While, much sedate, the younger strides away

  To right and makes for — islanded in lawn

  And edged with shrubbery — the brilliant bit

  Of Barry’s building that’s the Place, — a pair

  Of women, at this nick of time, one young,

  One very young, are ushered with due pomp

  Into the same Inn-parlour — ”disengaged

  Entirely now!” the obsequious landlord smiles,

  “Since the late occupants — whereof but one

  Was quite a stranger!” — (smile enforced by bow)

  “Left, a full two hours since, to catch the train,

  Probably for the stranger’s sake!” (Bow, smile,

  And backing out from door soft closed behind.)

  Woman and girl, the two, alone inside,