Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  To rest by lying there? Our sires knew well

  (Spite of the grave discoveries of their sons)

  The fitting course for such: dark cells, dim lamps,

  A stone floor one may writhe on like a worm:

  No mossy pillow blue with violets!

  Festus.

  I see no symptom of these absolute

  And tyrannous passions. You are calmer now.

  This verse-making can purge you well enough

  Without the terrible penance you describe.

  You love me still: the lusts you fear will never

  Outrage your friend. To Einsiedeln, once more!

  Say but the word!

  Paracelsus.

  No, no; those lusts forbid:

  They crouch, I know, cowering with half-shut eye

  Beside you; ‘t is their nature. Thrust yourself

  Between them and their prey; let some fool style me

  Or king or quack, it matters not — then try

  Your wisdom, urge them to forego their treat!

  No, no; learn better and look deeper, Festus!

  If you knew how a devil sneers within me

  While you are talking now of this, now that,

  As though we differed scarcely save in trifles!

  Festus.

  Do we so differ? True, change must proceed,

  Whether for good or ill; keep from me, which!

  Do not confide all secrets: I was born

  To hope, and you . . .

  Paracelsus.

  To trust: you know the fruits!

  Festus.

  Listen: I do believe, what you call trust

  Was self-delusion at the best: for, see!

  So long as God would kindly pioneer

  A path for you, and screen you from the world,

  Procure you full exemption from man’s lot,

  Man’s common hopes and fears, on the mere pretext

  Of your engagement in his service — yield you

  A limitless licence, make you God, in fact,

  And turn your slave — you were content to say

  Most courtly praises! What is it, at last,

  But selfishness without example? None

  Could trace God’s will so plain as you, while yours

  Remained implied in it; but now you fail,

  And we, who prate about that will, are fools!

  In short, God’s service is established here

  As he determines fit, and not your way,

  And this you cannot brook. Such discontent

  Is weak. Renounce all creatureship at once!

  Affirm an absolute right to have and use

  Your energies; as though the rivers should say —

  “We rush to the ocean; what have we to do

  “With feeding streamlets, lingering in the vales,

  “Sleeping in lazy pools?” Set up that plea,

  That will be bold at least!

  Paracelsus.

  ’T is like enough.

  The serviceable spirits are those, no doubt,

  The East produces: lo, the master bids, —

  They wake, raise terraces and garden-grounds

  In one night’s space; and, this done, straight begin

  Another century’s sleep, to the great praise

  Of him that framed them wise and beautiful,

  Till a lamp’s rubbing, or some chance akin,

  Wake them again. I am of different mould.

  I would have soothed my lord, and slaved for him

  And done him service past my narrow bond,

  And thus I get rewarded for my pains!

  Beside, ‘t is vain to talk of forwarding

  God’s glory otherwise; this is alone

  The sphere of its increase, as far as men

  Increase it; why, then, look beyond this sphere?

  We are his glory; and if we be glorious,

  Is not the thing achieved?

  Festus.

  Shall one like me

  Judge hearts like yours? Though years have changed you much,

  And you have left your first love, and retain

  Its empty shade to veil your crooked ways,

  Yet I still hold that you have honoured God.

  And who shall call your course without reward?

  For, wherefore this repining at defeat

  Had triumph ne’er inured you to high hopes?

  I urge you to forsake the life you curse,

  And what success attends me? — simply talk

  Of passion, weakness and remorse; in short,

  Anything but the naked truth — you choose

  This so-despised career, and cheaply hold

  My happiness, or rather other men’s.

  Once more, return!

  Paracelsus.

  And quickly. John the thief

  Has pilfered half my secrets by this time:

  And we depart by daybreak. I am weary,

  I know not how; not even the wine-cup soothes

  My brain to-night . . .

  Do you not thoroughly despise me, Festus?

  No flattery! One like you needs not be told

  We live and breathe deceiving and deceived.

  Do you not scorn me from your heart of hearts,

  Me and my cant, each petty subterfuge,

  My rhymes and all this frothy shower of words,

  My glozing self-deceit, my outward crust

  Of lies which wrap, as tetter, morphew, furfair

  Wrapt the sound flesh? — so, see you flatter not!

  Even God flatters: but my friend, at least,

  Is true. I would depart, secure henceforth

  Against all further insult, hate and wrong

  From puny foes; my one friend’s scorn shall brand me:

  No fear of sinking deeper!

  Festus.

  No, dear Aureole!

  No, no; I came to counsel faithfully.

  There are old rules, made long ere we were born,

  By which I judge you. I, so fallible,

  So infinitely low beside your mighty

  Majestic spirit! — even I can see

  You own some higher law than ours which call

  Sin, what is no sin — weakness, what is strength.

  But I have only these, such as they are,

  To guide me; and I blame you where they bid,

  Only so long as blaming promises

  To win peace for your soul: the more, that sorrow

  Has fallen on me of late, and they have helped me

  So that I faint not under my distress.

  But wherefore should I scruple to avow

  In spite of all, as brother judging brother,

  Your fate is most inexplicable to me?

  And should you perish without recompense

  And satisfaction yet — too hastily

  I have relied on love: you may have sinned,

  But you have loved. As a mere human matter —

  As I would have God deal with fragile men

  In the end — I say that you will triumph yet!

  Paracelsus.

  Have you felt sorrow, Festus? — ’t is because

  You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours!

  Well thought on: never let her know this last

  Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared

  Insult me — me she loved: — so, grieve her not!

  Festus.

  Your ill success can little grieve her now.

  Paracelsus.

  Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not craze!

  Festus.

  Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus!

  Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof —

  I cannot bear those eyes.

  Paracelsus.

  Nay, really dead?

  Festus.

  ‘T is scarce a month.

  Paracelsus.

  Stone dead! — then you have laid her

  Among the flow
ers ere this. Now, do you know,

  I can reveal a secret which shall comfort

  Even you. I have no julep, as men think,

  To cheat the grave; but a far better secret.

  Know, then, you did not ill to trust your love

  To the cold earth: I have thought much of it:

  For I believe we do not wholly die.

  Festus.

  Aureole!

  Paracelsus.

  Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason

  For what I say: I think the soul can never

  Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see,

  Very unfit to put so strange a thought

  In an intelligible dress of words;

  But take it as my trust, she is not dead.

  Festus.

  But not on this account alone? you surely,

  — Aureole, you have believed this all along?

  Paracelsus.

  And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews,

  While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes

  For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing,

  As though it mattered how the farce plays out,

  So it be quickly played. Away, away!

  Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize,

  Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats

  And leave a clear arena for the brave

  About to perish for your sport! — Behold!

  Part V. Paracelsus Attains

  Scene. —

  Salzburg; a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian. 1541.

  Festus, Paracelsus.

  Festus.

  No change! The weary night is well-nigh spent,

  The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars

  Grey morning glimmers feebly: yet no change!

  Another night, and still no sigh has stirred

  That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit

  Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body,

  Like torch-flame choked in dust. While all beside

  Was breaking, to the last they held out bright,

  As a stronghold where life intrenched itself;

  But they are dead now — very blind and dead:

  He will drowse into death without a groan.

  My Aureole — my forgotten, ruined Aureole!

  The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast!

  And now not one of those who struck thee down —

  Poor glorious spirit — concerns him even to stay

  And satisfy himself his little hand

  Could turn God’s image to a livid thing.

  Another night, and yet no change! ‘T is much

  That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow,

  And chafe his hands; ‘t is much: but he will sure

  Know me, and look on me, and speak to me

  Once more — but only once! His hollow cheek

  Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh

  At his own state were just about to break

  From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled,

  And yet I could not turn away. In truth,

  They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed

  Resolved to live, to lose no faculty;

  Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength,

  Until they bore him to this stifling cell:

  When straight his features fell, an hour made white

  The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb,

  Only the eye remained intense awhile

  As though it recognized the tomb-like place,

  And then he lay as here he lies.

  Ay, here!

  Here is earth’s noblest, nobly garlanded —

  Her bravest champion with his well-won prize —

  Her best achievement, her sublime amends

  For countless generations fleeting fast

  And followed by no trace; — the creature-god

  She instances when angels would dispute

  The title of her brood to rank with them.

  Angels, this is our angel! Those bright forms

  We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones,

  Are human, but not his; those are but men

  Whom other men press round and kneel before;

  Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind;

  Higher provision is for him you seek

  Amid our pomps and glories: see it here!

  Behold earth’s paragon! Now, raise thee, clay!

  God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that

  Even as I watch beside thy tortured child

  Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him,

  So doth thy right hand guide us through the world

  Wherein we stumble. God! what shall we say?

  How has he sinned? How else should he have done?

  Surely he sought thy praise — thy praise, for all

  He might be busied by the task so much

  As half forget awhile its proper end.

  Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer

  That I should range myself upon his side —

  How could he stop at every step to set

  Thy glory forth? Hadst thou but granted him

  Success, thy honour would have crowned success,

  A halo round a star. Or, say he erred, —

  Save him, dear God; it will be like thee: bathe him

  In light and life! Thou art not made like us;

  We should be wroth in such a case; but thou

  Forgivest — so, forgive these passionate thoughts

  Which come unsought and will not pass away!

  I know thee, who hast kept my path, and made

  Light for me in the darkness, tempering sorrow

  So that it reached me like a solemn joy;

  It were too strange that I should doubt thy love.

  But what am I? Thou madest him and knowest

  How he was fashioned. I could never err

  That way: the quiet place beside thy feet,

  Reserved for me, was ever in my thoughts:

  But he — thou shouldst have favoured him as well!

  Ah! he wakens! Aureole, I am here! ‘t is Festus!

  I cast away all wishes save one wish —

  Let him but know me, only speak to me!

  He mutters; louder and louder; any other

  Than I, with brain less laden, could collect

  What he pours forth. Dear Aureole, do but look!

  Is it talking or singing, this he utters fast?

  Misery that he should fix me with his eye,

  Quick talking to some other all the while!

  If he would husband this wild vehemence

  Which frustrates its intent! — I heard, I know

  I heard my name amid those rapid words.

  Oh, he will know me yet! Could I divert

  This current, lead it somehow gently back

  Into the channels of the past! — His eye

  Brighter than ever! It must recognize me!

  I am Erasmus: I am here to pray

  That Paracelsus use his skill for me.

  The schools of Paris and of Padua send

  These questions for your learning to resolve.

  We are your students, noble master: leave

  This wretched cell, what business have you here?

  Our class awaits you; come to us once more!

  (O agony! the utmost I can do

  Touches him not; how else arrest his ear?)

  I am commissioned . . . I shall craze like him.

  Better be mute and see what God shall send.

  Paracelsus.

  Stay, stay with me!

  Festus.

  I will; I am come here

  To stay with you — Festus, you loved of old;

  Festus, you know, you must know!

  Paracelsus.

  Festus! Where’s

  Aprile, then? Has he not chanted softly

  The melodies I hea
rd all night? I could not

  Get to him for a cold hand on my breast,

  But I made out his music well enough,

  O well enough! If they have filled him full

  With magical music, as they freight a star

  With light, and have remitted all his sin,

  They will forgive me too, I too shall know!

  Festus.

  Festus, your Festus!

  Paracelsus.

  Ask him if Aprile

  knows as he loves — if I shall love and know?

  I try; but that cold hand, like lead — so cold!

  Festus.

  My hand, see!

  Paracelsus.

  Ah, the curse, Aprile, Aprile!

  We get so near — so very, very near!

  ‘T is an old tale: Jove strikes the Titans down,

  Not when they set about their mountain-piling

  But when another rock would crown the work.

  And Phaeton — doubtless his first radiant plunge

  Astonished mortals, though the gods were calm,

  And Jove prepared his thunder: all old tales!

  Festus.

  And what are these to you?

  Paracelsus.

  Ay, fiends must laugh

  So cruelly, so well! most like I never

  Could tread a single pleasure underfoot,

  But they were grinning by my side, were chuckling

  To see me toil and drop away by flakes!

  Hell-spawn! I am glad, most glad, that thus I fail!

  Your cunning has o’ershot its aim. One year,

  One month, perhaps, and I had served your turn!

  You should have curbed your spite awhile. But now,

  Who will believe ‘t was you that held me back?

  Listen: there’s shame and hissing and contempt,

  And none but laughs who names me, none but spits

  Measureless scorn upon me, me alone,

  The quack, the cheat, the liar, — all on me!

  And thus your famous plan to sink mankind

  In silence and despair, by teaching them

  One of their race had probed the inmost truth,

  Had done all man could do, yet failed no less —

  Your wise plan proves abortive. Men despair?

  Ha, ha! why, they are hooting the empiric,

  The ignorant and incapable fool who rushed

  Madly upon a work beyond his wits;

  Nor doubt they but the simplest of themselves

  Could bring the matter to triumphant issue.

  So, pick and choose among them all, accursed!

  Try now, persuade some other to slave for you,

  To ruin body and soul to work your ends!

  No, no; I am the first and last, I think.

  Festus.

  Dear friend, who are accursed? who has done…

  Paracelsus.

  What have I done? Fiends dare ask that? or you,

  Brave men? Oh, you can chime in boldly, backed

  By the others! What had you to do, sage peers?