Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  This favour at their hands

  I look for earlier than your view of things

  Would warrant. Of the crowd you saw to-day,

  Remove the full half sheer amazement draws,

  Mere novelty, nought else; and next, the tribe

  Whose innate blockish dulness just perceives

  That unless miracles (as seem my works)

  Be wrought in their behalf, their chance is slight

  To puzzle the devil; next, the numerous set

  Who bitterly hate established schools, and help

  The teacher that oppugns them, till he once

  Have planted his own doctrine, when the teacher

  May reckon on their rancour in his turn;

  Take, too, the sprinkling of sagacious knaves

  Whose cunning runs not counter to the vogue

  But seeks, by flattery and crafty nursing,

  To force my system to a premature

  Short-lived development. Why swell the list?

  Each has his end to serve, and his best way

  Of serving it: remove all these, remains

  A scantling, a poor dozen at the best,

  Worthy to look for sympathy and service,

  And likely to draw profit from my pains.

  Festus.

  ‘T is no encouraging picture: still these few

  Redeem their fellows. Once the germ implanted,

  Its growth, if slow, is sure.

  Paracelsus.

  God grant it so!

  I would make some amends: but if I fail,

  The luckless rogues have this excuse to urge,

  That much is in my method and my manner,

  My uncouth habits, my impatient spirit,

  Which hinders of reception and result

  My doctrine: much to say, small skill to speak!

  These old aims suffered not a looking-off

  Though for an instant; therefore, only when

  I thus renounced them and resolved to reap

  Some present fruit — to teach mankind some truth

  So dearly purchased — only then I found

  Such teaching was an art requiring cares

  And qualities peculiar to itself:

  That to possess was one thing — to display

  Another. With renown first in my thoughts,

  Or popular praise, I had soon discovered it:

  One grows but little apt to learn these things.

  Festus.

  If it be so, which nowise I believe,

  There needs no waiting fuller dispensation

  To leave a labour of so little use.

  Why not throw up the irksome charge at once?

  Paracelsus.

  A task, a task!

  But wherefore hide the whole

  Extent of degradation, once engaged

  In the confessing vein? Despite of all

  My fine talk of obedience and repugnance,

  Docility and what not, ‘t is yet to learn

  If when the task shall really be performed,

  My inclination free to choose once more,

  I shall do aught but slightly modify

  The nature of the hated task I quit.

  In plain words, I am spoiled; my life still tends

  As first it tended; I am broken and trained

  To my old habits: they are part of me.

  I know, and none so well, my darling ends

  Are proved impossible: no less, no less,

  Even now what humours me, fond fool, as when

  Their faint ghosts sit with me and flatter me

  And send me back content to my dull round?

  How can I change this soul? — this apparatus

  Constructed solely for their purposes,

  So well adapted to their every want,

  To search out and discover, prove and perfect;

  This intricate machine whose most minute

  And meanest motions have their charm to me

  Though to none else — an aptitude I seize,

  An object I perceive, a use, a meaning,

  A property, a fitness, I explain

  And I alone: — how can I change my soul?

  And this wronged body, worthless save when tasked

  Under that soul’s dominion — used to care

  For its bright master’s cares and quite subdue

  Its proper cravings — not to ail nor pine

  So he but prosper — whither drag this poor

  Tried patient body? God! how I essayed

  To live like that mad poet, for a while,

  To love alone; and how I felt too warped

  And twisted and deformed! What should I do,

  Even tho’ released from drudgery, but return

  Faint, as you see, and halting, blind and sore,

  To my old life and die as I began?

  I cannot feed on beauty for the sake

  Of beauty only, nor can drink in balm

  From lovely objects for their loveliness;

  My nature cannot lose her first imprint;

  I still must hoard and heap and class all truths

  With one ulterior purpose: I must know!

  Would God translate me to his throne, believe

  That I should only listen to his word

  To further my own aim! For other men,

  Beauty is prodigally strewn around,

  And I were happy could I quench as they

  This mad and thriveless longing, and content me

  With beauty for itself alone: alas,

  I have addressed a frock of heavy mail

  Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights;

  And now the forest-creatures fly from me,

  The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no more.

  Best follow, dreaming that ere night arrive,

  I shall o’ertake the company and ride

  Glittering as they!

  Festus.

  I think I apprehend

  What you would say: if you, in truth, design

  To enter once more on the life thus left,

  Seek not to hide that all this consciousness

  Of failure is assumed!

  Paracelsus.

  My friend, my friend,

  I toil, you listen; I explain, perhaps

  You understand: there our communion ends.

  Have you learnt nothing from to-day’s discourse?

  When we would thoroughly know the sick man’s state

  We feel awhile the fluttering pulse, press soft

  The hot brow, look upon the languid eye,

  And thence divine the rest. Must I lay bare

  My heart, hideous and beating, or tear up

  My vitals for your gaze, ere you will deem

  Enough made known? You! who are you, forsooth?

  That is the crowning operation claimed

  By the arch-demonstrator — heaven the hall,

  And earth the audience. Let Aprile and you

  Secure good places: ‘t will be worth the while.

  Festus.

  Are you mad, Aureole? What can I have said

  To call for this? I judged from your own words.

  Paracelsus.

  Oh, doubtless! A sick wretch describes the ape

  That mocks him from the bed-foot, and all gravely

  You thither turn at once: or he recounts

  The perilous journey he has late performed,

  And you are puzzled much how that could be!

  You find me here, half stupid and half mad;

  It makes no part of my delight to search

  Into these matters, much less undergo

  Another’s scrutiny; but so it chances

  That I am led to trust my state to you:

  And the event is, you combine, contrast

  And ponder on my foolish words as though

  They thoroughly conveyed all hidden here —

  Here, loathsome with despair and hate and rage!

  Is t
here no fear, no shrinking and no shame?

  Will you guess nothing? will you spare me nothing?

  Must I go deeper? Ay or no?

  Festus.

  Dear friend . . .

  Paracelsus.

  True: I am brutal — ’t is a part of it;

  The plague’s sign — you are not a lazar-haunter,

  How should you know? Well then, you think it strange

  I should profess to have failed utterly,

  And yet propose an ultimate return

  To courses void of hope: and this, because

  You know not what temptation is, nor how

  ‘T is like to ply men in the sickliest part.

  You are to understand that we who make

  Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end:

  There is not one sharp volley shot at us,

  Which ‘scaped with life, though hurt, we slacken pace

  And gather by the wayside herbs and roots

  To staunch our wounds, secure from further harm:

  We are assailed to life’s extremest verge.

  It will be well indeed if I return,

  A harmless busy fool, to my old ways!

  I would forget hints of another fate,

  Significant enough, which silent hours

  Have lately scared me with.

  Festus.

  Another! and what?

  Paracelsus.

  After all, Festus, you say well: I am

  A man yet: I need never humble me.

  I would have been — something, I know not what;

  But though I cannot soar, I do not crawl.

  There are worse portions than this one of mine.

  You say well!

  Festus.

  Ah!

  Paracelsus.

  And deeper degradation!

  If the mean stimulants of vulgar praise,

  If vanity should become the chosen food

  Of a sunk mind, should stifle even the wish

  To find its early aspirations true,

  Should teach it to breathe falsehood like life-breath —

  An atmosphere of craft and trick and lies;

  Should make it proud to emulate, surpass

  Base natures in the practices which woke

  Its most indignant loathing once . . . No, no!

  Utter damnation is reserved for hell!

  I had immortal feelings; such shall never

  Be wholly quenched: no, no!

  My friend, you wear

  A melancholy face, and certain ‘t is

  There ‘s little cheer in all this dismal work.

  But was it my desire to set abroach

  Such memories and forebodings? I foresaw

  Where they would drive. ‘T were better we discuss

  News from Lucerne or Zurich; ask and tell

  Of Egypt’s flaring sky or Spain’s cork-groves.

  Festus.

  I have thought: trust me, this mood will pass away!

  I know you and the lofty spirit you bear,

  And easily ravel out a clue to all.

  These are the trials meet for such as you,

  Nor must you hope exemption: to be mortal

  Is to be plied with trials manifold.

  Look round! The obstacles which kept the rest

  From your ambition, have been spurned by you;

  Their fears, their doubts, the chains that bind themall,

  Were flax before your resolute soul, which nought

  Avails to awe save these delusions bred

  From its own strength, its selfsame strength disguised,

  Mocking itself. Be brave, dear Aureole! Since

  The rabbit has his shade to frighten him,

  The fawn a rustling bough, mortals their cares,

  And higher natures yet would slight and laugh

  At these entangling fantasies, as you

  At trammels of a weaker intellect, —

  Measure your mind’s height by the shade it casts!

  I know you.

  Paracelsus.

  And I know you, dearest Festus!

  And how you love unworthily; and how

  All admiration renders blind.

  Festus.

  You hold

  That admiration blinds?

  Paracelsus.

  Ay and alas!

  Festus.

  Nought blinds you less than admiration, friend!

  Whether it be that all love renders wise

  In its degree; from love which blends with love —

  Heart answering heart — to love which spends itself

  In silent mad idolatry of some

  Pre-eminent mortal, some great soul of souls,

  Which ne’er will know how well it is adored.

  I say, such love is never blind; but rather

  Alive to every the minutest spot

  Which mars its object, and which hate (supposed

  So vigilant and searching) dreams not of.

  Love broods on such: what then? When first perceived

  Is there no sweet strife to forget, to change,

  To overflush those blemishes with all

  The glow of general goodness they disturb?

  — To make those very defects an endless source

  Of new affection grown from hopes and fears?

  And, when all fails, is there no gallant stand

  Made even for much proved weak? no shrinking-back

  Lest, since all love assimilates the soul

  To what it loves, it should at length become

  Almost a rival of its idol? Trust me,

  If there be fiends who seek to work our hurt,

  To ruin and drag down earth’s mightiest spirits

  Even at God’s foot, ‘t will be from such as love,

  Their zeal will gather most to serve their cause;

  And least from those who hate, who most essay

  By contumely and scorn to blot the light

  Which forces entrance even to their hearts:

  For thence will our defender tear the veil

  And show within each heart, as in a shrine,

  The giant image of perfection, grown

  In hate’s despite, whose calumnies were spawned

  In the untroubled presence of its eyes.

  True admiration blinds not; nor am I

  So blind. I call your sin exceptional;

  It springs from one whose life has passed the bounds

  Prescribed to life. Compound that fault with God!

  I speak of men; to common men like me

  The weakness you reveal endears you more,

  Like the far traces of decay in suns.

  I bid you have good cheer!

  Paracelsus.

  Præclare! Optime!

  Think of a quiet mountain-cloistered priest

  Instructing Paracelsus! yet ‘t is so.

  Come, I will show you where my merit lies.

  ‘T is in the advance of individual minds

  That the slow crowd should ground their expectation

  Eventually to follow; as the sea

  Waits ages in its bed till some one wave

  Out of the multitudinous mass, extends

  The empire of the whole, some feet perhaps,

  Over the strip of sand which could confine

  Its fellows so long time: thenceforth the rest,

  Even to the meanest, hurry in at once,

  And so much is clear gained. I shall be glad

  If all my labours, failing of aught else,

  Suffice to make such inroad and procure

  A wider range for thought: nay, they do this;

  For, whatsoe’er my notions of true knowledge

  And a legitimate success, may be,

  I am not blind to my undoubted rank

  When classed with others: I precede my age:

  And whoso wills is very free to mount

  These labours as a platform whence his own

  May have a pr
osperous outset. But, alas!

  My followers — they are noisy as you heard;

  But, for intelligence, the best of them

  So clumsily wield the weapons I supply

  And they extol, that I begin to doubt

  Whether their own rude clubs and pebble-stones

  Would not do better service than my arms

  Thus vilely swayed — if error will not fall

  Sooner before the old awkward batterings

  Than my more subtle warfare, not half learned.

  Festus.

  I would supply that art, then, or withhold

  New arms until you teach their mystery.

  Paracelsus.

  Content you, ‘t is my wish; I have recourse

  To the simplest training. Day by day I seek

  To wake the mood, the spirit which alone

  Can make those arms of any use to men.

  Of course they are for swaggering forth at once

  Graced with Ulysses’ bow, Achilles’ shield —

  Flash on us, all in armour, thou Achilles!

  Make our hearts dance to thy resounding step!

  A proper sight to scare the crows away!

  Festus.

  Pity you choose not then some other method

  Of coming at your point. The marvellous art

  At length established in the world bids fair

  To remedy all hindrances like these:

  Trust to Frobenius’ press the precious lore

  Obscured by uncouth manner, or unfit

  For raw beginners; let his types secure

  A deathless monument to after-time;

  Meanwhile wait confidently and enjoy

  The ultimate effect: sooner or later

  You shall be all-revealed.

  Paracelsus.

  The old dull question

  In a new form; no more. Thus: I possess

  Two sorts of knowledge; one, — vast, shadowy,

  Hints of the unbounded aim I once pursued:

  The other consists of many secrets, caught

  While bent on nobler prize, — perhaps a few

  Prime principles which may conduct to much:

  These last I offer to my followers here.

  Now, bid me chronicle the first of these,

  My ancient study, and in effect you bid

  Revert to the wild courses just abjured:

  I must go find them scattered through the world.

  Then, for the principles, they are so simple

  (Being chiefly of the overturning sort),

  That one time is as proper to propound them

  As any other — to-morrow at my class,

  Or half a century hence embalmed in print.

  For if mankind intend to learn at all,

  They must begin by giving faith to them

  And acting on them: and I do not see

  But that my lectures serve indifferent well:

  No doubt these dogmas fall not to the earth,

  For all their novelty and rugged setting.

  I think my class will not forget the day