Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know.

  Down fell her face upon the good friend’s propping knee;

  His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free 70

  From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed —

  “Loukèria, Loùscha!” — still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed.

  At last her lips formed speech.

  ”Ivàn, dear — you indeed!

  You, just the same dear you! While I . . . O intercede,

  Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty — let his might

  Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night!

  But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you,

  A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two,

  A babe inside my arms, close to my heart — that’s lost

  In morsels o’er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost, 80

  Cannot you bring again my blessed yesterday?”

  When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way.

  “Maybe, a month ago, — was it not? — news came here,

  They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear

  A church and roof it in. ‘We’ll go,’ my husband said:

  ‘None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.’

  So, friends here helped us off — Ivàn, dear, you the first!

  How gay we jingled forth, all five — (my heart will burst) —

  While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track!

  “Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back, 90

  When yesterday — behold, the village was on fire!

  Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher,

  The flames came furious? ‘Haste,’ cried Dmìtri, ‘men must do

  The little good man may: to sledge and in with you,

  You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat

  Each building in its path, — I needs must stay for that, —

  But you . . . no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug,

  Cover the couple close, — you’ll have the babe to hug.

  No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess,

  Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less! 100

  The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon

  You’ll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon.

  Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch!

  Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch,

  All’s safe: I have my pay in pouch, all’s right with me.

  So I but find as safe you and our precious three!

  Off, Droug!’ — because the flames had reached us, and the men

  Shouted ‘But lend a hand, Dmìtri — as good as ten!’

  “So, in we bundled — I, and those God gave me once;

  Old Droug, that’s stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce: 110

  He understood the case, galloping straight ahead.

  Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red

  In that unnatural day — yes, daylight, bred between

  Moon-light and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen

  Such devils from God’s eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow

  Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow!

  Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind

  While we escaped outside their border!

  ”Was that — wind?

  Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs,

  Snorts, — never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough’s 120

  Only the wind: yet, no — our breath goes up too straight!

  Still the low sound, — less low, loud, louder, at a rate

  There’s no mistaking more! Shall I lean out — look — learn

  The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn —

  ‘T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge!

  An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge:

  They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side,

  Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide

  The four-footed steady advance. The foremost — none may pass:

  They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye — green-glowing brass! 130

  But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best:

  Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach, — one reaches . . . How utter the rest?

  O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue,

  How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry among

  The wraps and the rugs! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead!

  Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal, — here’s your mother instead!

  No, he will not be counselled — must cry, poor Stiòpka, so foolish! though first

  Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbours have called him the worst:

  He was puny, an undersized slip, — a darling to me, all the same!

  But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame. 140

  I loved him with heart and soul, yes — but, deal him a blow for a fault,

  He would sulk for whole days. ‘Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault,

  Will snatch you from over my head!’ No use! he cries, screams, — who can hold

  Fast a boy in a frenzy of fear! It follows — as I foretold!

  The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore — and then

  His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, ‘t is men

  The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps

  My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps:

  God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew,

  Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue! 150

  That’s so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst

  Or two, or three — God sends we beat them, arrive the first!

  A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich:

  Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him, — God knows which

  Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine

  And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!

  “O misery! for while I settle to what near seems

  Content, I am ‘ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams —

  Point and point — the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire!

  So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, nought tire 160

  The furies? And yet I think — I am certain the race is slack,

  And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack!

  Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind . . . Ah why?

  We’ll sorrow for that too soon! Now, — gallop, reach home, and die,

  Nor ever again leave house, to trust our hfe in the trap

  For life — we call a sledge! Terioscha, in my lap!

  Yes, I’ll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings

  Here — of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings . . .

  Flings? I flung? Never! But think! — a woman, after all

  Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall, 170

  Terentiì!

  ”How now? What, you still head the race,

  Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face?

  There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! Flash again?

  All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain!

  My fist — why not crunch that? He is wanton for . . . O God,

  Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod

  The earth till out they scratch some corpse — mere putrid flesh!

  Why must this gl
utton leave the faded, choose the fresh?

  Terentiì — God, feel! — his neck keeps fast thy bag

  Of holy things, saints’ bones, this Satan-face will drag 180

  Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared

  The relics were to save from danger!

  ”Spurned, not spared!

  ‘T was through my arms, crossed arms, he — nuzzling now with snout,

  Now ripping, tooth and claw — plucked, pulled Terentiì out,

  A prize indeed! I saw — how could I else but see? —

  My precious one — I bit to hold back — pulled from me!

  Up came the others, fell to dancing — did the imps! —

  Skipped as they scampered round. There’s one is grey, and limps:

  Who knows but old bad Màrpha, — she always owed me spite

  And envied me my births, — skulks out of doors at night 190

  And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood,

  And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood,

  Squats down at door by dawn, spins there demure as erst

  — No strength, old crone, — not she! — to crawl forth half a verst!

  “Well, I escaped with one: ‘twixt one and none there lies

  The space ‘twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes

  The endmost snow: ‘t is dawn, ‘t is day, ‘t is safe at home!

  We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam,

  Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share, —

  Forgetful, in your greed, our finest off we bear, 200

  Tough Droug and I, — my babe, my boy that shall be man,

  My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can

  To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify

  Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die

  The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat!

  ‘Take that!’ we’ll stab you with, — ‘the tenderness we met

  When, wretches, you danced round — not this, thank God — not this!

  Hellhounds, we baulk you!’

  ”But — Ah, God above! — Bliss, bliss —

  Not the band, no! And yet — yes, for Droug knows him! One —

  This only of them all has said ‘She saves a son! 210

  His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes,

  He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves:

  He’s off and after us, — one speck, one spot, one ball

  Grows bigger, bound on bound, — one wolf as good as all!

  Oh but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue!

  That’s the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung

  The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst!

  Now for it — now! Ah me! I know him — thrice-accurst

  Satan-face, — him to the end my foe!

  ”All fight’s in vain:

  This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain. 220

  I fall — fall as I ought — quite on the babe I guard:

  I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard

  To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I — one inch!

  Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch!

  O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder! — see!

  It grinds — it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me,

  Could I do more? Besides he knew wolf’s way to win:

  I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in.

  Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until . . . how feels

  The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels. 230

  Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf

  And bloom and seed unborn?

  ”That slew me: yes, in brief,

  I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped

  Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped

  Thus — how or when or why, — I know not. Tell me, friends,

  All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends!

  Soon I shall find my house: ‘t is over there: in proof,

  Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you’d see the roof

  Which holds my three — my two — my one — not one?

  ”Life’s mixed

  With misery, yet we live — must live. The Satan fixed 240

  His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch

  Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch,

  ‘T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing!

  Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling.

  Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears

  — What good they do! Life’s sweet, and all its after-years,

  Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I!

  May God reward you, dear!”

  Down she sank. Solemnly

  Ivàn rose, raised his axe, — for fitly, as she knelt.

  Her head lay: well-apart, each side, her arms hung, — dealt 250

  Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow — no need of more!

  Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound at core

  (Neighbours were used to say) — cast-iron-kernelled — which

  Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

  The man was scant of words as strokes. “It had to be:

  I could no other: God it was bade ‘Act for me!’ “

  Then stooping, peering round — what is it now he lacks?

  A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe.

  Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind.

  The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind 260

  Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

  At length, still mute, all move: one lifts, — from where it steeps

  Redder each ruddy rag of pine, — the head: two more

  Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before,

  Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends

  Opposite to the church; where halting, — who suspends,

  By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place

  The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace

  Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife

  And mother, loved until this latest of her life. 270

  Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space

  Kept free before the porch for judgment: just the place!

  Presently all the souls, man, woman, child, which make

  The village up, are found assembling for the sake

  Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there:

  A Gipsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair,

  Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes

  And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say, — none breathes.

  Anon from out the church totters the Pope — the priest —

  Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least. 280

  With him, the Commune’s head, a hoary senior too,

  Stàrosta, that ‘s his style, — like Equity Judge with you, —

  Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs,

  Pomeschìk, — Lord of the Land, who wields — and none demurs —

  A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

  Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta — the thorpe’s

  Sagaciousest old man — hears what you just have heard,

  From Droug’s first inrush, all, up to Ivàn’s last word

  “God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!”

  Silence — the Pomeschìk broke with “A wild wrong way 290

  Of righting wrong — if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse!

  Why was not law observed? What article allows

  Whoso may please to play the judge, and, judgment d
ealt,

  Play executioner, as promptly as we pelt

  To death, without appeal, the vermin whose sole fault

  Has been — it dared to leave the darkness of its vault,

  Intrude upon our day! Too sudden and too rash!

  What was this woman’s crime? Suppose the church should crash

  Down where I stand, your lord: bound are my serfs to dare

  Their utmost that I ‘scape: yet, if the crashing scare 300

  My children, — as you are, — if sons fly, one and all,

  Leave father to his fate, — poor cowards though I call

  The runaways, I pause before I claim their life

  Because they prized it more than mine. I would each wife

  Died for her husband’s sake, each son to save his sire:

  ‘T is glory, I applaud — scarce duty, I require.

  Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that’s named

  Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!”

  All turned to the old Pope. “Ay, children, I am old —

  How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled 310

  Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age,

  Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage

  At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern

  Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn

  When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod

  With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God.

  ‘Your young men shall see visions:’ and in my youth I saw

  And paid obedience to man’s visionary law:

  ‘Your old men shall dream dreams:’ and, in my age, a hand

  Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand 320

  Firm on its base, — know cause, who, before, knew effect.

  “The world lies under me: and nowhere I detect

  So great a gift as this — God’s own — of human life.

  ‘Shall the dead praise thee?’ No! ‘The whole live world is rife,

  God, with thy glory,’ rather! Life then, God’s best of gifts,

  For what shall man exchange? For life — when so he shifts

  The weight and turns the scale, lets life for life restore

  God’s balance, sacrifice the less to gain the more,

  Substitute — for low life, another’s or his own —

  Life large and liker God’s who gave it: thus alone 330

  May life extinguish life that life may trulier be!

  How low this law descends on earth, is not for me

  To trace: complexed becomes the simple, intricate

  The plain, when I pursue law’s winding. ‘T is the straight