Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Till thou the lover, know; and I, the knower,

  Love — until both are saved. Aprile, hear!

  We will accept our gains, and use them — now!

  God, he will die upon my breast! Aprile!

  Aprile.

  To speak but once, and die! yet by his side.

  Hush! hush!

  Ha! go you ever girt about

  With phantoms, powers? I have created such,

  But these seem real as I.

  Paracelsus.

  Whom can you see

  Through the accursed darkness?

  Aprile.

  Stay; I know,

  I know them: who should know them well as I?

  White brows, lit up with glory; poets all!

  Paracelsus.

  Let him but live, and I have my reward!

  Aprile.

  Yes; I see now. God is the perfect poet,

  Who in his person acts his own creations.

  Had you but told me this at first! Hush! hush!

  Paracelsus.

  Live! for my sake, because of my great sin,

  To help my brain, oppressed by these wild words

  And their deep import. Live! ‘t is not too late.

  I have a quiet home for us, and friends.

  Michal shall smile on you. Hear you? Lean thus,

  And breathe my breath. I shall not lose one word

  Of all your speech, one little word, Aprile!

  Aprile.

  No, no. Crown me? I am not one of you!

  ‘T is he, the king, you seek. I am not one.

  Paracelsus.

  Thy spirit, at least, Aprile! Let me love!

  — — — — —

  I have attained, and now I may depart.

  Part III. Paracelsus

  Scene. —

  Basil; a chamber in the house of Paracelsus. 1526.

  Paracelsus, Festus.

  Paracelsus.

  Heap logs and let the blaze laugh out!

  Festus.

  True, true!

  ‘T is very fit all, time and chance and change

  Have wrought since last we sat thus, face to face

  And soul to soul — all cares, far-looking fears,

  Vague apprehensions, all vain fancies bred

  By your long absence, should be cast away,

  Forgotten in this glad unhoped renewal

  Of our affections.

  Paracelsus.

  Oh, omit not aught

  Which witnesses your own and Michal’s own

  Affection: spare not that! Only forget

  The honours and the glories and what not,

  It pleases you to tell profusely out.

  Festus.

  Nay, even your honours, in a sense, I waive:

  The wondrous Paracelsus, life’s dispenser,

  Fate’s commissary, idol of the schools

  And courts, shall be no more than Aureole still,

  Still Aureole and my friend as when we parted

  Some twenty years ago, and I restrained

  As best I could the promptings of my spirit

  Which secretly advanced you, from the first,

  To the pre-eminent rank which, since, your own

  Adventurous ardour, nobly triumphing,

  Has won for you.

  Paracelsus.

  Yes, yes. And Michal’s face

  Still wears that quiet and peculiar light

  Like the dim circlet floating round a pearl?

  Festus.

  Just so.

  Paracelsus.

  And yet her calm sweet countenance,

  Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing

  Alone. Does she still sing alone, bird-like,

  Not dreaming you are near? Her carols dropt

  In flakes through that old leafy bower built under

  The sunny wall at Würzburg, from her lattice

  Among the trees above, while I, unseen,

  Sat conning some rare scroll from Tritheim’s shelves

  Much wondering notes so simple could divert

  My mind from study. Those were happy days.

  Respect all such as sing when all alone!

  Festus.

  Scarcely alone: her children, you may guess,

  Are wild beside her.

  Paracelsus.

  Ah, those children quite

  Unsettle the pure picture in my mind:

  A girl, she was so perfect, so distinct:

  No change, no change! Not but this added grace

  May blend and harmonize with its compeers,

  And Michal may become her motherhood;

  But ‘t is a change, and I detest all change,

  And most a change in aught I loved long since.

  So, Michal — you have said she thinks of me?

  Festus.

  O very proud will Michal be of you!

  Imagine how we sat, long winter-nights,

  Scheming and wondering, shaping your presumed

  Adventure, or devising its reward;

  Shutting out fear with all the strength of hope.

  For it was strange how, even when most secure

  In our domestic peace, a certain dim

  And flitting shade could sadden all; it seemed

  A restlessness of heart, a silent yearning,

  A sense of something wanting, incomplete —

  Not to be put in words, perhaps avoided

  By mute consent — but, said or unsaid, felt

  To point to one so loved and so long lost.

  And then the hopes rose and shut out the fears —

  How you would laugh should I recount them now

  I still predicted your return at last

  With gifts beyond the greatest of them all,

  All Tritheim’s wondrous troop; did one of which

  Attain renown by any chance, I smiled,

  As well aware of who would prove his peer

  Michal was sure some woman, long ere this,

  As beautiful as you were sage, had loved . . .

  Paracelsus.

  Far-seeing, truly, to discern so much

  In the fantastic projects and day-dreams

  Of a raw restless boy!

  Festus.

  Oh, no: the sunrise

  Well warranted our faith in this full noon!

  Can I forget the anxious voice which said

  “Festus, have thoughts like these ere shaped themselves

  “In other brains than mine? have their possessors

  “Existed in like circumstance? were they weak

  “As I, or ever constant from the first,

  “Despising youth’s allurements and rejecting

  “As spider-films the shackles I endure?

  “Is there hope for me?” — and I answered gravely

  As an acknowledged elder, calmer, wiser,

  More gifted mortal. O you must remember,

  For all your glorious . . .

  Paracelsus.

  Glorious? ay, this hair,

  These hands — nay, touch them, they are mine! Recall

  With all the said recallings, times when thus

  To lay them by your own ne’er turned you pale

  As now. Most glorious, are they not?

  Festus.

  Why — why —

  Something must be subtracted from success

  So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, truly,

  Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still, Aureole,

  You are changed, very changed! ‘T were losing nothing

  To look well to it: you must not be stolen

  From the enjoyment of your well-won meed.

  Paracelsus.

  My friend! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt:

  You will best gain your point, by talking, not

  Of me, but of yourself.

  Festus.

  Have I not said

  All touching Michal and my children? Sure

  Y
ou know, by this, full well how Aennchen looks

  Gravely, while one disparts her thick brown hair;

  And Aureole’s glee when some stray gannet builds

  Amid the birch-trees by the lake. Small hope

  Have I that he will honour (the wild imp)

  His namesake. Sigh not! ‘t is too much to ask

  That all we love should reach the same proud fate.

  But you are very kind to humour me

  By showing interest in my quiet life;

  You, who of old could never tame yourself

  To tranquil pleasures, must at heart despise . . .

  Paracelsus.

  Festus, strange secrets are let out by death

  Who blabs so oft the follies of this world:

  And I am death’s familiar, as you know.

  I helped a man to die, some few weeks since,

  Warped even from his go-cart to one end —

  The living on princes’ smiles, reflected from

  A mighty herd of favourites. No mean trick

  He left untried, and truly well-nigh wormed

  All traces of God’s finger out of him:

  Then died, grown old. And just an hour before,

  Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes,

  He sat up suddenly, and with natural voice

  Said that in spite of thick air and closed doors

  God told him it was June; and he knew well,

  Without such telling, harebells grew in June;

  And all that kings could ever give or take

  Would not be precious as those blooms to him.

  Just so, allowing I am passing sage,

  It seems to me much worthier argument

  Why pansies, eyes that laugh, bear beauty’s prize

  From violets, eyes that dream — (your Michal’s choice) —

  Than all fools find to wonder at in me

  Or in my fortunes. And be very sure

  I say this from no prurient restlessness,

  No self-complacency, itching to turn,

  Vary and view its pleasure from all points,

  And, in this instance, willing other men

  May be at pains, demonstrate to itself

  The realness of the very joy it tastes.

  What should delight me like the news of friends

  Whose memories were a solace to me oft,

  As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight?

  Ofter than you had wasted thought on me

  Had you been wise, and rightly valued bliss.

  But there ‘s no taming nor repressing hearts:

  God knows I need such! — So, you heard me speak?

  Festus.

  Speak? when?

  Paracelsus.

  When but this morning at my class?

  There was noise and crowd enough. I saw you not.

  Surely you know I am engaged to fill

  The chair here? — that ‘t is part of my proud fate

  To lecture to as many thick-skulled youths

  As please, each day, to throng the theatre,

  To my great reputation, and no small

  Danger of Basil’s benches long unused

  To crack beneath such honour?

  Festus.

  I was there;

  I mingled with the throng: shall I avow

  Small care was mine to listen? — too intent

  On gathering from the murmurs of the crowd

  A full corroboration of my hopes!

  What can I learn about your powers? but they

  Know, care for nought beyond your actual state,

  Your actual value; yet they worship you,

  Those various natures whom you sway as one!

  But ere I go, be sure I shall attend . . .

  Paracelsus.

  Stop, o’ God’s name: the thing ‘s by no means yet

  Past remedy! Shall I read this morning’s labour

  — At least in substance? Nought so worth the gaining

  As an apt scholar! Thus then, with all due

  Precision and emphasis — you, beside, are clearly

  Guiltless of understanding more, a whit,

  The subject than your stool — allowed to be

  A notable advantage.

  Festus.

  Surely, Aureole,

  You laugh at me!

  Paracelsus.

  I laugh? Ha, ha! thank heaven,

  I charge you, if ‘t be so! for I forget

  Much, and what laughter should be like. No less,

  However, I forego that luxury

  Since it alarms the friend who brings it back.

  True, laughter like my own must echo strangely

  To thinking men; a smile were better far;

  So, make me smile! If the exulting look

  You wore but now be smiling, ‘t is so long

  Since I have smiled! Alas, such smiles are born

  Alone of hearts like yours, or herdsmen’s souls

  Of ancient time, whose eyes, calm as their flocks,

  Saw in the stars mere garnishry of heaven,

  And in the earth a stage for altars only.

  Never change, Festus: I say, never change!

  Festus.

  My God, if he be wretched after all

  Paracelsus.

  When last we parted, Festus, you declared,

  — Or Michal, yes, her soft lips whispered words

  I have preserved. She told me she believed

  I should succeed (meaning, that in the search

  I then engaged in, I should meet success)

  And yet be wretched: now, she augured false.

  Festus.

  Thank heaven! but you spoke strangely: could I venture

  To think bare apprehension lest your friend,

  Dazzled by your resplendent course, might find

  Henceforth less sweetness in his own, could move

  Such earnest mood in you? Fear not, dear friend,

  That I shall leave you, inwardly repining

  Your lot was not my own!

  Paracelsus.

  And this for ever!

  For ever! gull who may, they will be gulled!

  They will not look nor think;’t is nothing new

  In them: but surely he is not of them!

  My Festus, do you know, I reckoned, you —

  Though all beside were sand-blind — you, my friend,

  Would look at me, once close, with piercing eye

  Untroubled by the false glare that confounds

  A weaker vision: would remain serene,

  Though singular amid a gaping throng.

  I feared you, or I had come, sure, long ere this,

  To Einsiedeln. Well, error has no end,

  And Rhasis is a sage, and Basil boasts

  A tribe of wits, and I am wise and blest

  Past all dispute! ‘T is vain to fret at it.

  I have vowed long ago my worshippers

  Shall owe to their own deep sagacity

  All further information, good or bad.

  Small risk indeed my reputation runs,

  Unless perchance the glance now searching me

  Be fixed much longer; for it seems to spell

  Dimly the characters a simpler man

  Might read distinct enough. Old Eastern books

  Say, the fallen prince of morning some short space

  Remained unchanged in semblance; nay, his brow

  Was hued with triumph: every spirit then

  Praising, his heart on flame the while: — a tale!

  Well, Festus, what discover you, I pray?

  Festus.

  Some foul deed sullies then a life which else

  Were raised supreme?

  Paracelsus.

  Good: I do well, most well

  Why strive to make men hear, feel, fret themselves

  With what is past their power to comprehend?

  I should not strive now: only, having nursed

  The
faint surmise that one yet walked the earth,

  One, at least, not the utter fool of show,

  Not absolutely formed to be the dupe

  Of shallow plausibilities alone:

  One who, in youth, found wise enough to choose

  The happiness his riper years approve,

  Was yet so anxious for another’s sake,

  That, ere his friend could rush upon a mad

  And ruinous course, the converse of his own,

  His gentle spirit essayed, prejudged for him

  The perilous path, foresaw its destiny,

  And warned the weak one in such tender words,

  Such accents — his whole heart in every tone —

  That oft their memory comforted that friend

  When it by right should have increased despair:

  — Having believed, I say, that this one man

  Could never lose the light thus from the first

  His portion — how should I refuse to grieve

  At even my gain if it disturb our old

  Relation, if it make me out more wise?

  Therefore, once more reminding him how well

  He prophesied, I note the single flaw

  That spoils his prophet’s title. In plain words,

  You were deceived, and thus were you deceived —

  I have not been successful, and yet am

  Most miserable; ‘t is said at last; nor you

  Give credit, lest you force me to concede

  That common sense yet lives upon the world!

  Festus.

  You surely do not mean to banter me?

  Paracelsus.

  You know, or — if you have been wise enough

  To cleanse your memory of such matters — knew,

  As far as words of mine could make it clear,

  That ‘t was my purpose to find joy or grief

  Solely in the fulfilment of my plan

  Or plot or whatsoe’er it was; rejoicing

  Alone as it proceeded prosperously,

  Sorrowing then only when mischance retarded

  Its progress. That was in those Würzburg days!

  Not to prolong a theme I thoroughly hate,

  I have pursued this plan with all my strength;

  And having failed therein most signally,

  Cannot object to ruin utter and drear

  As all-excelling would have been the prize

  Had fortune favoured me. I scarce have right

  To vex your frank good spirit late so glad

  In my supposed prosperity, I know,

  And, were I lucky in a glut of friends,

  Would well agree to let your error live,

  Nay, strengthen it with fables of success.

  But mine is no condition to refuse

  The transient solace of so rare a godsend,

  My solitary luxury, my one friend:

  Accordingly I venture to put off

  The wearisome vest of falsehood galling me,

  Secure when he is by. I lay me bare

  Prone at his mercy — but he is my friend!