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Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

Page 80

by Robert Browning

Both eyes shut, like the cockerel that would crow,

  Tries to his own self amorously o’er

  What never will be uttered else than so —

  To the four walls, for Forum and Mars’ Hill,

  Speaks out the poesy which, penned, turns prose.

  Clavecinist debarred his instrument,

  He yet thrums — shirking neither turn nor trill,

  With desperate finger on dumb table-edge —

  The sovereign rondo, shall conclude his Suite,

  Charm an imaginary audience there,

  From old Corelli to young Haendel, both

  I’ the flesh at Rome, ere he perforce go print

  The cold black score, mere music for the mind —

  The last speech against Guido and his gang,

  With special end to prove Pompilia pure.

  How the Fisc vindicates Pompilia’s fame.

  Then comes the all but end, the ultimate

  Judgment save yours. Pope Innocent the Twelfth,

  Simple, sagacious, mild yet resolute,

  With prudence, probity and — what beside

  From the other world he feels impress at times,

  Having attained to fourscore years and six, —

  How, when the court found Guido and the rest

  Guilty, but law supplied a subterfuge

  And passed the final sentence to the Pope,

  He, bringing his intelligence to bear

  This last time on what ball behoves him drop

  In the urn, or white or black, does drop a black,

  Send five souls more to just precede his own,

  Stand him in stead and witness, if need were,

  How he is wont to do God’s work on earth

  The manner of his sitting out the dim

  Droop of a sombre February day

  In the plain closet where he does such work,

  With, from all Peter’s treasury, one stool,

  One table, and one lathen crucifix.

  There sits the Pope, his thoughts for company;

  Grave but not sad, — nay, something like a cheer

  Leaves the lips free to be benevolent,

  Which, all day long, did duty firm and fast.

  A cherishing there is of foot and knee,

  A chafing loose-skinned large-veined hand with hand, —

  What steward but knows when stewardship earns its wage,

  May levy praise, anticipate the lord?

  He reads, notes, lays the papers down at last,

  Muses, then takes a turn about the room;

  Unclasps a huge tome in an antique guise,

  Primitive print and tongue half obsolete,

  That stands him in diurnal stead; opes page,

  Finds place where falls the passage to be conned

  According to an order long in use:

  And, as he comes upon the evening’s chance,

  Starts somewhat, solemnises straight his smile,

  Then reads aloud that portion first to last,

  And at the end lets flow his own thoughts forth

  Likewise aloud, for respite and relief,

  Till by the dreary relics of the west

  Wan through the half-moon window, all his light,

  He bows the head while the lips move in prayer,

  Writes some three brief lines, signs and seals the same,

  Tinkles a hand-bell, bids the obsequious Sir

  Who puts foot presently o’ the closet-sill

  He watched outside of, bear as superscribed

  That mandate to the Governor forthwith:

  Then heaves abroad his cares in one good sigh,

  Traverses corridor with no man’s help,

  And so to sup as a clear conscience should.

  The manner of the judgment of the Pope.

  Then must speak Guido yet a second time,

  Satan’s old saw being apt here — skin for skin,

  All a man hath that will he give for life.

  While life was graspable and gainable, free

  To bird-like buzz her wings round Guido’s brow,

  Not much truth stiffened out the web of words

  He wove to catch her: when away she flew

  And death came, death’s breath rivelled up the lies,

  Left bare the metal thread, the fibre fine

  Of truth, i’ the spinning: the true words come last.

  How Guido, to another purpose quite,

  Speaks and despairs, the last night of his life,

  In that New Prison by Castle Angelo

  At the bridge-foot: the same man, another voice.

  On a stone bench in a close fetid cell,

  Where the hot vapour of an agony,

  Struck into drops on the cold wall, runs down

  Horrible worms made out of sweat and tears —

  There crouch, well nigh to the knees in dungeon-straw,

  Lit by the sole lamp suffered for their sake,

  Two awe-struck figures, this a Cardinal,

  That an Abate, both of old styled friends

  Of the part-man part-monster in the midst,

  So changed is Franceschini’s gentle blood.

  The tiger-cat screams now, that whined before,

  That pried and tried and trod so gingerly,

  Till in its silkiness the trap-teeth join;

  Then you know how the bristling fury foams.

  They listen, this wrapped in his folds of red,

  While his feet fumble for the filth below;

  The other, as beseems a stouter heart,

  Working his best with beads and cross to ban

  The enemy that comes in like a flood

  Spite of the standard set up, verily

  And in no trope at all, against him there:

  For at the prison-gate, just a few steps

  Outside, already, in the doubtful dawn,

  Thither, from this side and from that, slow sweep

  And settle down in silence solidly,

  Crow-wise, the frightful Brotherhood of Death.

  Black-hatted and black-hooded huddle they,

  Black rosaries a-dangling from each waist;

  So take they their grim station at the door,

  Torches alight and cross-bones-banner spread,

  And that gigantic Christ with open arms,

  Grounded. Nor lacks there aught but that the group

  Break forth, intone the lamentable psalm,

  “Out of the deeps, Lord, have I cried to thee!” —

  When inside, from the true profound, a sign

  Shall bear intelligence that the foe is foiled,

  Count Guido Franceschini has confessed,

  And is absolved and reconciled with God.

  Then they, intoning, may begin their march,

  Make by the longest way for the People’s Square,

  Carry the criminal to his crime’s reward:

  A mob to cleave, a scaffolding to reach,

  Two gallows and Mannaia crowning all.

  Now Guido made defence a second time.

  Finally, even as thus by step and step

  I led you from the level of to-day

  Up to the summit of so long ago,

  Here, whence I point you the wide prospect round —

  Let me, by like steps, slope you back to smooth,

  Land you on mother-earth, no whit the worse,

  To feed o’ the fat o’ the furrow: free to dwell,

  Taste our time’s better things profusely spread

  For all who love the level, corn and wine,

  Much cattle and the many-folded fleece.

  Shall not my friends go feast again on sward,

  Though cognisant of country in the clouds

  Higher than wistful eagle’s horny eye

  Ever unclosed for, ‘mid ancestral crags,

  When morning broke and Spring was back once more,

  And he died, heaven, save by his heart, unreached?

  Yet heaven my fancy lifts
to, ladder-like, —

  As Jack reached, holpen of his beanstalk-rungs!

  A novel country: I might make it mine

  By choosing which one aspect of the year

  Suited mood best, and putting solely that

  On panel somewhere in the House of Fame,

  Landscaping what I saved, not what I saw:

  — Might fix you, whether frost in goblin-time

  Startled the moon with his abrupt bright laugh,

  Or, August’s hair afloat in filmy fire,

  She fell, arms wide, face foremost on the world,

  Swooned there and so singed out the strength of things.

  Thus were abolished Spring and Autumn both,

  The land dwarfed to one likeness of the land,

  Life cramped corpse-fashion. Rather learn and love

  Each facet-flash of the revolving year! —

  Red, green, and blue that whirl into a white,

  The variance now, the eventual unity,

  Which make the miracle. See it for yourselves,

  This man’s act, changeable because alive!

  Action now shrouds, now shows the informing thought;

  Man, like a glass ball with a spark a-top,

  Out of the magic fire that lurks inside,

  Shows one tint at a time to take the eye:

  Which, let a finger touch the silent sleep,

  Shifted a hair’s-breadth shoots you dark for bright,

  Suffuses bright with dark, and baffles so

  Your sentence absolute for shine or shade.

  Once set such orbs, — white styled, black stigmatised, —

  A-rolling, see them once on the other side

  Your good men and your bad men every one,

  From Guido Franceschini to Guy Faux,

  Oft would you rub your eyes and change your names.

  Such, British Public, ye who like me not,

  (God love you!) — whom I yet have laboured for,

  Perchance more careful whoso runs may read

  Than erst when all, it seemed, could read who ran, —

  Perchance more careless whoso reads may praise

  Than late when he who praised and read and wrote

  Was apt to find himself the self-same me, —

  Such labour had such issue, so I wrought

  This arc, by furtherance of such alloy,

  And so, by one spirt, take away its trace

  Till, justifiably golden, rounds my ring.

  A ring without a posy, and that ring mine?

  O lyric Love, half-angel and half-bird

  And all a wonder and a wild desire, —

  Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,

  Took sanctuary within the holier blue.

  And sang a kindred soul out to his face, —

  Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart —

  When the first summons from the darkling earth

  Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue,

  And bared them of the glory — to drop down,

  To toil for man, to suffer or to die, —

  This is the same voice: can thy soul know change?

  Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!

  Never may I commence my song, my due

  To God who best taught song by gift of thee,

  Except with bent head and beseeching hand —

  That still, despite the distance and the dark,

  What was, again may be; some interchange

  Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought,

  Some benediction anciently thy smile:

  — Never conclude, but raising hand and head

  Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn

  For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,

  Their utmost up and on, — so blessing back

  In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home,

  Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud,

  Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!

  Half-Rome

  WHAT, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I’d meet.)

  Be ruled by me and have a care o’the crowd:

  This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:

  I’ll tell you like a book and save your shins.

  Fie, what a roaring day we’ve had! Whose fault?

  Lorenzo in Lucina, — here’s a church

  To hold a crowd at need, accommodate

  All comers from the Corso! If this crush

  Make not its priests ashamed of what they show

  For temple-room, don’t prick them to draw purse

  And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out

  The beggarly transept with its bit of apse

  Into a decent space for Christian ease,

  Why, to-day’s lucky pearl is cast to swine.

  Listen and estimate the luck they’ve had!

  (The right man, and I hold him.)

  Sir, do you see,

  They laid both bodies in the church, this morn

  The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,

  Behind the little marble balustrade;

  Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool

  To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife

  On the other side. In trying to count stabs,

  People supposed Violante showed the most,

  Till somebody explained us that mistake;

  His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,

  But she took all her stabbings in the face,

  Since punished thus solely for honour’s sake,

  Honoris causâ, that’s the proper term.

  A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,

  When you avenge your honour and only then,

  That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,

  Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.

  It was Violante gave the first offence,

  Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:

  While Pietro, who helped merely, his, mere death

  Answered the purpose, so his face went free.

  We fancied even, free as you please, that face

  Showed itself still intolerably wronged;

  Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,

  Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,

  Once the worst ended: an indignant air

  O’ the head there was — ’ tis said the body turned

  Round and away, rolled from Violante’s side

  Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.

  If so, if corpses can be sensitive,

  Why did not he roll right down altar-step.

  Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,

  Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,

  Pay back thus the succession of affronts

  Whereto this church had served as theatre?

  For see: at that same altar where he lies,

  To that same inch of step, was brought the babe

  For blessing after baptism, and there styled

  Pompilia, and a string of names beside,

  By his bad wife, some seventeen years ago,

  Who purchased her simply to palm on him,

  Flatter his dotage and defraud the heirs.

  Wait awhile! Also to this very step

  Did this Violante, twelve years afterward,

  Bring, the mock-mother, that child-cheat full-grown,

  Pompilia in pursuance of her plot.

  And there brave God and man a second time

  By linking a new victim to the lie.

  There, having made a match unknown to him,

  She, still unknown to Pietro, tied the knot

  Which nothing cuts except this kind of knife;

  Yes, made her daughter, as the girl was held,

  Marry a man, and honest man beside,

  And man of birth to boot, — clandestinely

  Because of this, because of that, because

  O’ the devil’s wi
ll to work his worst for once, —

  Confident she could top her part at need

  And, when her husband must be told in turn,

  Ply the wife’s trade, play off the sex’s trick

  And, alternating worry with quiet qualms,

  Bravado with submissiveness, quick fool

  Her Pietro into patience: so it proved.

  Ay, ‘tis four years since man and wife they grew,

  This Guido Franceschini and this same

  Pompilia, foolishly thought, falsely declared

  A Comparini and the couple’s child:

  Just at this altar where, beneath the piece

  Of Master Guido Reni, Christ on cross,

  Second to nought observable in Rome,

  That couple lie now, murdered yestereve.

  Even the blind can see a providence here.

  From dawn till now that it is growing dusk,

  A multitude has flocked and filled the church,

  Coming and going, coming back again,

  Till to count crazed one. Rome was at the show.

  People climbed up the columns, fought for spikes

  O’ the chapel-rail to perch themselves upon,

  Jumped over and so broke the wooden work

  Painted like porphyry to deceive the eye;

  Serve the priests right! The organ-loft was crammed,

  Women were fainting, no few fights ensued,

  In short, it was a show repaid your pains:

  For, though their room was scant undoubtedly,

  Yet they did manage matters, to be just,

  A little at this Lorenzo. Body o’me!

  I saw a body exposed once . . . never mind!

  Enough that here the bodies had their due.

  No stinginess in wax, a row all round,

  And one big taper at each head and foot.

  So, people pushed their way, and took their turn,

  Saw, threw their eyes up, crossed themselves, gave place

  To pressure from behind, since all the world

  Knew the old pair, could talk the tragedy

  Over from first to last: Pompilia too,

  Those who had known her — what ‘twas worth to them!

  Guido’s acquaintance was in less request;

  The Count had lounged somewhat too long in Rome,

  Made himself cheap; with him were hand and glove

  Barbers and blear-eyed, as the ancient sings.

  Also he is alive and like to be:

  Had he considerately died, — aha!

  I jostled Luca Cini on his staff,

  Mute in the midst, the whole man one amaze,

  Staring amain and crossing brow and breast.

  “How now?” asked I. “‘Tis seventy years,” quoth he,

  “Since I first saw, holding my father’s hand,

  “Bodies set forth: a many have I seen,

  “Yet all was poor to this I live and see.

  “Here the world’s wickedness seals up the sum:

 

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