Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Were you, who threaten thus, a Florentine. . . .

  Lur. Sir, I am nearer Florence than her sons.

  I can, and have perhaps obliged the State,

  Nor paid a mere son’s duty.

  Tib. Even so!

  Were you the son of Florence, yet endued

  With all your present nobleness of soul,

  No question, what I must communicate

  Would not detach you from her.

  Lur. Me, detach?

  Tib. Time urges: you will ruin presently

  Pisa, you never knew, for Florence’ sake

  You think you know. I have from time to time

  Made prize of certain secret missives sent

  From Braccio here, the Commissary, home —

  And knowing Florence otherwise, I piece

  The entire chain out, from these its scattered links.

  Your trial occupies the Signory;

  They sit in judgment on your conduct now!

  When men at home enquire into the acts

  Which in the field e’en foes appreciate. . . .

  Brief, they are Florentines! You, saving them,

  Will seek the sure destruction saviours find.

  Lur. Tiburzio —

  Tib. All the wonder is of course!

  I am not here to teach you, nor direct,

  Only to loyally apprise — scarce that.

  This is the latest letter, sealed and safe,

  As it left here an hour ago. One way

  Of two thought free to Florence, I command.

  The duplicate is on its road: but this, —

  Read it, and then I shall have more to say.

  Lur. Florence!

  Tib. Now, were yourself a Florentine,

  This letter, let it hold the worst it can,

  Would be no reason you should fall away —

  The Mother city is the mother still,

  And recognition of the children’s service

  Her own affair; reward — there’s no reward!

  But you are bound by quite another tie;

  Nor Nature shows, nor Reason, why at first

  A foreigner, born friend to all alike,

  Should give himself to any special State

  More than another, stand by Florence’ side

  Rather than Pisa’s — ’tis as fair a city

  You war against, as that you fight for — famed

  As well as she in story, graced no less

  With noble heads and patriotic hearts, —

  Nor to a stranger’s eye would either cause,

  Stripped of the cumulative loves and hates

  Which take importance from familiar view,

  Stand as the Right, and Sole to be upheld.

  Therefore, should the preponderating gift

  Of love and trust, Florence was first to throw,

  Which made you hers not Pisa’s, void the scale, —

  Old ties dissolving, things resume their place

  And all begins again. Break seal and read!

  At least let Pisa offer for you now!

  And I, as a good Pisan, shall rejoice —

  Tho’ for myself I lose, in gaining you,

  This last fight and its opportunity;

  The chance it brings of saving Pisa yet,

  Or in the turn of battle dying so

  That shame should want its extreme bitterness.

  Lur. Tiburzio, you that fight for Pisa now

  As I for Florence. . . . say my chance were yours!

  You read this letter, and you find. . . . no, no!

  Too mad!

  Tib. I read the letter, find they purpose

  When I have crushed their foe, to crush me: well?

  Lur. You, being their captain, what is it you do?

  Tib. Why as it is, all cities are alike —

  Pisa will pay me much as Florence you;

  I shall be as belied, whate’er the event,

  As you, or more: my weak head, they will say,

  Prompted this last expedient, my faint heart

  Entailed on them indelible disgrace,

  Both which defects ask proper punishment.

  Another tenure of obedience, mine!

  You are no son of Pisa’s: break and read!

  Lur. And act on what I read? What act were fit?

  If the firm-fixed foundation of my faith

  In Florence, which to me stands for Mankind,

  — If that breaks up and, disemprisoning

  From the abyss. . . . Ah friend, it cannot be!

  You may be very sage, yet. . . . all the world

  Having to fail, or your sagacity,

  You do not wish to find yourself alone

  What would the world be worth? Whose love be sure?

  The world remains — you are deceived!

  Tib. Your hand!

  I lead the vanguard. — If you fall, beside,

  The better — I am left to speak! For me,

  This was my duty, nor would I rejoice

  If I could help, it misses its effect:

  And after all you will look gallantly

  Found dead here with that letter in your breast!

  Lur. Tiburzio — I would see these people once

  And test them ere I answer finally!

  At your arrival let the trumpet sound:

  If mine returns not then the wonted cry.

  It means that I believe — am Pisa’s!

  Tib. Well. [Goes.

  Lur. My heart will have it he speaks true! My blood

  Beats close to this Tiburzio as a friend.

  If he had stept into my watch-tent, night

  And the wild desert full of foes around,

  I should have broke the bread and given the salt

  Secure, and, when my hour of watch was done,

  Taken my turn to sleep between his knees,

  Safe in the untroubled brow and honest cheek.

  Oh, world, where all things pass and nought abides,

  Oh, life the long mutation — is it so?

  Is it with life as with the body’s change?

  — Where, e’en tho’ better follow, good must pass,

  Nor manhood’s strength can mate with boyhood’s grace,

  Nor age’s wisdom, in its turn, find strength,

  But silently the first gift dies away,

  And tho the new stays, never both at once!

  Life’s time of savage instinct’s o’er with me,

  It fades and dies away, past trusting more,

  As if to punish the ingratitude

  With which I turned to grow in these new lights,

  And learned to look with European eyes.

  Yet it is better, this cold certain way,

  Where Braccio’s brow tells nothing, — Puccio a mouth,

  Domizia’s eyes reject the searcher — yes —

  For on their calm sagacity I lean,

  Their sense of right, deliberate choice of good,

  Sure, as they know my deeds, they deal with me.

  Yes, that is better — that is best of all!

  Such faith stays when mere wild belief would go

  Yes — when the desert creature’s heart, at fault

  Amid the scattering tempest’s pillared sands,

  Betrays its steps into the pathless drift —

  The calm instructed eye of man holds fast

  By the sole bearing of the visible star,

  Sure that when slow the whirling wreck subsides,

  The boundaries, lost now, shall be found again, —

  The palm-trees and the pyramid over all.

  Yes: I trust Florence — Pisa is deceived!

  Enter BRACCIO, PUCCIO, and DOMIZIA.

  Brac. Noon’s at an end: no Lucca? You must fight.

  Lur. Do you remember ever, gentle friends,

  I am no Florentine?

  Dom. It is yourself

  Who still are forcing us importunately,

  To bear in mind what else
we should forget.

  Lur. For loss! — For what I lose in being none!

  No shrewd man, such as you yourselves respect,

  But would remind you of the stranger’s loss

  In natural friends and advocates at home,

  Hereditary loves, even rivalships,

  With precedents for honour and reward.

  Still, there’s a gain, too! If you take it so,

  The stranger’s lot has special gain as well!

  Do you forget there was my own far East

  I might have given away myself to, once,

  As now to Florence, and for such a gift,

  Stood there like a descended Deity?

  There, worship greets us! what do I get here?

  [Shows the letter.

  See! Chance has put into my hand the means

  Of knowing what I earn, before I work!

  Should I fight better, should I fight the worse,

  With your crown palpably before me? see!

  Here lies my whole reward! Best know it now,

  Or keep it for the end’s entire delight?

  Brac. If you serve Florence as the vulgar serve,

  For swordsman’s pay alone, — break seal and read

  In that case, you will find your full desert!

  Lur. Give me my one last happy moment, friends!

  You need me now, and all the gratitude

  This letter can contain will never balance

  The after-feeling that your need’s at end!

  This moment. . . . Oh, the East has use with you!

  Its sword still flashes — is not flung aside

  With the past praise, in a dark corner yet!

  How say you? ‘Tis not so with Florentines —

  Captains of yours — for them, the ended war

  Is but a first step to the peace begun

  — He who did well in war, just earns the right

  To begin doing well in peace, you know!

  And certain my precursors, — would not such

  Look to themselves in such a chance as this,

  Secure the ground they trod upon, perhaps?

  For I have heard, by fits, or seemed to hear,

  Of strange occurrences, ingratitude,

  Treachery even, — say that one of you

  Surmised this letter carried what might turn

  To harm hereafter, cause him prejudice —

  What would he do?

  Dom. [hastily.] Thank God and take revenge!

  Turn her own force agarnst the city straight,

  And even at the moment when the foe

  Sounded defiance. . . .

  [TIBURZIO’S trumpet sounds in the distance.

  Lur. Ah, you Florentines!

  So would you do? Wisely for you, no doubt!

  My simple Moorish instinct bids me sink

  The obligation you relieve me from,

  Still deeper! (to PUC.] Sound our answer, I should say!

  And thus: — [tearing the paper] — The battle! That solves every doubt!

  Act III

  AFTERNOON

  PUCCIO, as making a report to JACOPO

  Puc. And here, your Captain must report the rest;

  For, as I say, the main engagement over,

  And Lucia’s special part in it performed,

  How could subalterns like myself expect

  Leisure or leave to occupy the field

  And glean what dropped from his wide harvesting?

  I thought, when Lucca at the battle’s end

  Came up, just as the Pisan centre broke,

  That Luria would detach me and prevent

  The flying Pisans seeking what they found,

  Friends in the rear, a point to rally by:

  But no — more honourable proved my post!

  I had the august captive to escort

  Safe to our camp — some other could pursue,

  Fight, and be famous; gentler chance was mine —

  Tiburzio’s wounded spirit must be soothed!

  He’s in the tent there.

  Jac. Is the substance down?

  I write — ”The vanguard beaten, and both wings

  In full retreat — Tiburzio prisoner” —

  And now, — ”That they fell back and formed again

  On Lucca’s coming.” — Why then, after all,

  ‘Tis half a victory, no conclusive one?

  Puc. Two operations where a sole had served.

  Jac. And Luria’s fault was — ?

  Puc. Oh, for fault. . . . not much!

  He led the attack, a thought impetuously,

  — There’s commonly more prudence; now, he seemed

  To hurry measures, otherwise well-judged;

  By over concentrating strength, at first,

  Against the enemy’s van, both sides escaped:

  That’s reparable — yet it is a fault.

  Enter BRACCIO.

  Jac. As good as a full victory to Florence,

  With the advantage of a fault beside —

  What is it, Puccio? — that by pressing forward

  With too impetuous. . . .

  Brac. The report anon!

  Thanks, Sir — you have elsewhere a charge, I know.

  [PUCCIO goes.

  There’s nothing done but I would do again;

  Yet, Lapo, it may be the Past proves nothing,

  And Luria has kept faithful to the end!

  Jac. I was for waiting.

  Brac. Yes: so was not I!

  He could not choose but tear that letter — true!

  Still, certain of his tones, I mind, and looks —

  You saw, too, witht fresher soul than I.

  So, Porzio seemed an injured man, they say!

  Well, I have gone upon the broad, sure ground.

  Enter LURIA, PUCCIO, and DOMIZIA.

  Lur. [to PUC.] Say, at his pleasure I will see Tiburzio:

  All’s at his pleasure.

  Don. [to LUR.] Were I not so sure

  You would reject, as you do constantly,

  Praise, — I might tel! you what you have deserved

  Of Florence by this last and crowning feat:

  But words are vain!

  Lur. Nay, you may praise me now!

  I want instruction every hour, I find,

  On points where once I saw least need of it;

  And praise, I have been used to do without,

  Seems not so easy to dispense with now,

  After a battle half one’s strength is gone —

  And glorious passion in us once appeased,

  Our reason’s calm cold dreadful voice begins.

  All justice, power and beauty scarce appear

  Monopolized by Florence, as of late,

  To me, the stranger; you, no doubt, may know

  Why Pisa needs must give her rival place;

  And I am growing nearer you, perhaps,

  For I, too, want to know and be assured,

  When a cause ceases to reward itself,

  Its friend needs fresh sustainments; praise is one,

  And here stand you — you, Lady, praise me well!

  But yours — (your pardon) — is unlearned praise:

  To the motive, the endeavour, the heart’s self,

  Your quick sense looks; you crown and call aright

  The soul of the purpose, ere ‘tis shaped as act,

  Takes flesh i’ the world, and clothes itself a king;

  But when the act comes, stands for what ‘tis worth,

  — Here’s Puccio, the skilled soldier; he’s my judge!

  Was all well, Puccio?

  Puc. All was. . . . must be well:

  If we beat Lucca presently, as doubtless. . . .

  — No, there’s no doubt, we must — All was well done.

  Lur. In truth? But you are of the trade, my Puccio!

  You have the fellow-craftsman’s sympathy!

  There’s none knows like a fellow of the craft,

&nbs
p; The all unestimatted sum of pains

  That go to a success the world can see;

  They praise then, but the best they never know:

  — But you know! — Oh, if envy mix with it,

  Hate even, still the bottom praise of all,

  Whatever be the dregs, that drop’s pure gold!

  — For nothing’s like it; nothing else records

  Those daily, nightly drippings in the dark

  Of the heart’s blood, the world lets drop away

  For ever. . . . So, pure gold that praise must be!

  And I have yours, my soldier: yet the best

  Is still to come — there’s one looks on apart

  Whom all refers to, failure or success;

  What’s done might be our best, our utmost work,

  And yet inadequate to serve his need:

  Here’s Braccio now, for Florence — here’s our service —

  Well done for us, is it well done for him?

  His chosen engine, tasked to its full strength

  Answers his end? — Should he have chosen higher?

  Do we help Florence, now our best is done?

  Brac. This battle with the foregone services,

  Saves Florence.

  Lur. Why then, all is very well!

  Here am I in the middle of my friends,

  Who know me and who love me, one and all!

  And yet. . . . ’tis like. . . . this instant while I speak

  Is like the turning moment of a dream

  When. . . . Ah, you are not foreigners like me!

  Well then, one always dreams of friends at home,

  And always comes, I say, the turning point

  When something changes in the friendly eyes

  That love and look on you. . . . so slight, so slight. . . .

  And yet it tells you they are dead and gone,

  Or changed and enemies, for all their words,

  And all is mockery, and a maddening show!

  You, now, so kind here, all you Florentines,

  What is it in your eyes. . . . those lips, those brows. . . .

  Nobody spoke it. . . . yet I know it well! —

  Come now — this battle saves you, all’s at end,

  Your use of me is o’er, for good, for evil, —

  Come now, what’s done against me, while I speak,

  In Florence? Come! I feel it in my blood,

  My eyes, my hair, a voice is in my ear

  That spite of all this smiling and kind speech

  You are betraying me! What is it you do?

  Have it your way, and think my use is over;

  That you are saved and may throw off the mask —

  Have it my way, and think more work remains

  Which I could do, — so show you fear me not!

  Or prudent be, or generous, as you choose,

  But tell me — tell what I refused to know

  At noon, lest heart should fail me! Well? That letter?