Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  “Have at Molinos!” — ”Have at a fool’s head!

  “You a priest? How were marriage possible?

  “There must be Franceschini till time ends —

  “That’s your vocation. Make your brothers priests,

  “Paul shall be porporate, and Girolamo step

  “Red-stockinged in the presence when you choose,

  “But save one Franceschini for the age!

  “Be not the vine but dig and dung its root,

  “Be not a priest but gird up priesthood’s loins,

  “With one foot in Arezzo stride to Rome,

  “Spend yourself there and bring the purchase back!

  “Go hence to Rome, be guided!”

  So I was.

  I turned alike from the hill-side zig-zag thread

  Of way to the table-land a soldier takes,

  Alike from the low-lying pasture-place

  Where churchmen graze, recline, and ruminate,

  — Ventured to mount no platform like my lords

  Who judge the world, bear brain I dare not brag —

  But stationed me, might thus the expression serve,

  As who should fetch and carry, come and go,

  Meddle and make i’ the cause my lords love most —

  The public weal, which hangs to the law, which holds

  By the Church, which happens to be through God himself.

  Humbly I helped the Church till here I stand, —

  Or would stand but for the omoplat, you see!

  Bidden qualify for Rome, I, having a field,

  Went, sold it, laid the sum at Peter’s foot:

  Which means — I settled home-accounts with speed,

  Set apart just a modicum should suffice

  To keep the villa’s head above the waves

  Of weed inundating its oil and wine,

  And prop roof, stanchion wall o’ the palace so

  It should keep breath i’ the body, hold its own

  Amid the advance of neighbouring loftiness —

  (People like building where they used to beg) —

  Till succoured one day, — shared the residue

  Between my mother and brothers and sisters there,

  Black-eyed babe Donna This and Donna That,

  As near to starving as might decently be,

  — Left myself journey-charges, change of suit,

  A purse to put i’ the pocket of the Groom

  O’ the Chamber of the patron, and a glove

  With a ring to it for the digits of the niece

  Sure to be helpful in his household, — then

  Started for Rome, and led the life prescribed.

  Close to the Church, though clean of it, I assumed

  Three or four orders of no consequence,

  They cast out evil spirits and exorcise,

  For example; bind a man to nothing more,

  Give clerical savour to his layman’s-salt,

  Facilitate his claim to loaf and fish

  Should miracle leave, beyond what feeds the flock,

  Fragments to brim the basket of a friend —

  While, for the world’s sake, I rode, danced, and gamed,

  Quitted me like a courtier, measured mine

  With whatsoever blade had fame in fence,

  — Ready to let the basket go its round

  Even though my turn was come to help myself,

  Should Dives count on me at dinner-time

  As just the understander of a joke

  And not immoderate in repartee.

  Utrique sic paratus, Sirs, I said

  “Here,” (in the fortitude of years fifteen,

  So good a pedagogue is penury)

  “Here wait, do service, — serving and to serve!

  “And, in due time, I nowise doubt at all,

  “The recognition of my service comes.

  “Next year I’m only sixteen. I can wait.”

  I waited thirty years, may it please the Court:

  Saw meanwhile many a denizen o’ the dung

  Hop, skip, jump o’er my shoulder, make him wings

  And fly aloft, — succeed, in the usual phrase.

  Every one soon or late comes round by Rome:

  Stand still here, you’ll see all in turn succeed.

  Why, look you, so and so, the physician here,

  My father’s lacquey’s son we sent to school,

  Doctored and dosed this Eminence and that,

  Salved the last Pope his certain obstinate sore,

  Soon bought land as became him, names it now:

  I grasp bell at his griffin-guarded gate,

  Traverse the half-mile avenue, — a term,

  A cypress, and a statue, three and three, —

  Deliver message from my Monsignor,

  With varletry at lounge i’ the vestibule

  I’m barred from, who bear mud upon my shoe.

  My father’s chaplain’s nephew, Chamberlain, —

  Nothing less, please you! — courteous all the same,

  — He does not see me though I wait an hour

  At his staircase-landing ‘twixt the brace of busts,

  A noseless Sylla, Marius maimed to match,

  My father gave him for a hexastich

  Made on my birth-day, — but he sends me down,

  To make amends, that relic I prize most —

  The unburnt end o’ the very candle, Sirs,

  Purfled with paint so prettily round and round,

  He carried in such state last Peter’s day, —

  In token I, his gentleman and squire,

  Had held the bridle, walked his managed mule

  Without a tittup the procession through.

  Nay, the official, — one you know, sweet lords! —

  Who drew the warrant for my transfer late

  To the New Prisons from Tordinona, — he

  Graciously had remembrance — ”Francesc . . . ha?

  “His sire, now — how a thing shall come about! —

  “Paid me a dozen florins above the fee,

  “For drawing deftly up a deed of sale

  “When troubles fell so thick on him, good heart,

  “And I was prompt and pushing! By all means!

  “At the New Prisons be it his son shall lie, —

  “Anything for an old friend!” and thereat

  Signed name with triple flourish underneath.

  These were my fellows, such their fortunes now,

  While I — kept fasts and feasts innumerable,

  Matins and vespers, functions to no end

  I’ the train of Monsignor and Eminence,

  As gentleman-squire, and for my zeal’s reward

  Have rarely missed a place at the table-foot

  Except when some Ambassador, or such like,

  Brought his own people. Brief, one day I felt

  The tick of time inside me, turning-point

  And slight sense there was now enough of this:

  That I was near my seventh climacteric,

  Hard upon, if not over, the middle life,

  And, although fed by the east-wind, fulsome-fine

  With foretaste of the Land of Promise, still

  My gorge gave symptom it might play me false;

  Better not press it further, — be content

  With living and dying only a nobleman,

  Who merely had a father great and rich,

  Who simply had one greater and richer yet,

  And so on back and back till first and best

  Began i’ the night; I finish in the day.

  “The mother must be getting old,” I said,

  “The sisters are well wedded away, our name

  “Can manage to pass a sister off, at need,

  “And do for dowry: both my brothers thrive —

  “Regular priests they are, nor, hat-like, ‘bide

  “‘Twixt flesh and fowl with neither privilege.

  “My spare revenue must keep me a
nd mine.

  “I am tired: Arezzo’s air is good to breathe;

  “Vittiano, — one limes flocks of thrushes there;

  “A leathern coat costs little and lasts long:

  “Let me bid hope good-bye, content at home!”

  Thus, one day, I disbosomed me and bowed.

  Whereat began the little buzz and thrill

  O’ the gazers round me; each face brightened up:

  As when at your Casino, deep in dawn,

  A gamester says at last, “I play no more,

  “Forego gain, acquiesce in loss, withdraw

  “Anyhow:” and the watchers of his ways,

  A trifle struck compunctious at the word,

  Yet sensible of relief, breathe free once more,

  Break up the ring, venture polite advice —

  “How, Sir? So scant of heart and hope indeed?

  “Retire with neither cross nor pile from play? —

  “So incurious, so short-casting? — give your chance

  “To a younger, stronger, bolder spirit belike,

  “Just when luck turns and the fine throw sweeps all?”

  Such was the chorus: and its good will meant —

  “See that the loser leave door handsomely!

  “There’s an ill look, — it’s sinister, spoils sport,

  “When an old bruised and battered year-by-year

  “Fighter with fortune, not a penny in poke,

  “Reels down the steps of our establishment

  “And staggers on broad daylight and the world,

  “In shagrag beard and doleful doublet, drops

  “And breaks his heart on the outside: people prate

  “‘Such is the profit of a trip upstairs!’

  “Contrive he sidle forth, baulked of the blow

  “Best dealt by way of moral, bidding down

  “No curse but blessings rather on our heads

  “For some poor prize he bears at tattered breast,

  “Some palpable sort of kind of good to set

  “Over and against the grievance: give him quick!”

  Whereon protested Paul, “Go hang yourselves!

  “Leave him to me. Count Guido and brother of mine,

  “A word in your ear! Take courage since faint heart

  “Ne’er won . . . aha, fair lady, don’t men say?

  “There’s a sors, there’s a right Virgilian dip!

  “Do you see the happiness o’ the hint? At worst,

  “If the Church want no more of you, the Court

  “No more, and the Camp as little, the ingrates, — come,

  “Count you are counted: still you’ve coat to back,

  “Not cloth of gold and tissue, as we hoped,

  “But cloth with sparks and spangles on its frieze

  “From Camp, Court, Church, enough to make a shine,

  “Entitle you to carry home a wife

  “With the proper dowry, let the worst betide!

  “Why, it was just a wife you meant to take!”

  Now, Paul’s advice was weighty: priests should know:

  And Paul apprised me, ere the week was out,

  That Pietro and Violante, the easy pair,

  The cits enough, with stomach to be more,

  Had just the daughter and exact the sum

  To truck for the quality of myself: “She’s young,

  “Pretty and rich: you’re noble, classic, choice.

  “Is it to be a match?” “A match,” said I.

  Done! He proposed all, I accepted all,

  And we performed all. So I said and did

  Simply. As simply followed, not at first

  But with the outbreak of misfortune, still

  One comment on the saying and doing — ”What?

  “No blush at the avowal you dared buy

  “A girl of age beseems your granddaughter,

  “Like ox or ass? Are flesh and blood a ware?

  “Are heart and soul a chattel?”

  Softly, Sirs!

  Will the Court of its charity teach poor me

  Anxious to learn, of any way i’ the world,

  Allowed by custom and convenience, save

  This same which, taught from my youth up, I trod?

  Take me along with you; where was the wrong step?

  If what I gave in barter, style and state

  And all that hangs to Franceschinihood,

  Were worthless, — why, society goes to ground,

  Its rules are idiot’s-rambling. Honour of birth, —

  If that thing has no value, cannot buy

  Something with value of another sort,

  You’ve no reward nor punishment to give

  I’ the giving or the taking honour; straight

  Your social fabric, pinnacle to base,

  Comes down a-clatter like a house of cards.

  Get honour, and keep honour free from flaw,

  Aim at still higher honour, — gabble o’ the goose!

  Go bid a second blockhead like myself

  Spend fifty years in guarding bubbles of breath,

  Soapsuds with air i’ the belly, gilded brave,

  Guarded and guided, all to break at touch

  O’ the first young girl’s hand and first old fool’s purse!

  All my privation and endurance, all

  Love, loyalty, and labour dared and did,

  Fiddle-de-dee! — why, doer and darer both, —

  Count Guido Franceschini had hit the mark

  Far better, spent his life with more effect,

  As a dancer or a prizer, trades that pay!

  On the other hand, bid this buffoonery cease,

  Admit that honour is a privilege,

  The question follows, privilege worth what?

  Why, worth the market-price, — now up, now down,

  Just so with this as with all other ware:

  Therefore essay the market, sell your name,

  Style and condition to who buys them best!

  “Does my name purchase,” had I dared inquire,

  “Your niece, my lord?” there would have been rebuff

  Though courtesy, your lordship cannot else —

  “Not altogether! Rank for rank may stand:

  “But I have wealth beside, you — poverty;

  “Your scale flies up there: bid a second bid,

  “Rank too, and wealth too!” Reasoned like yourself!

  But was it to you I went with goods to sell?

  This time ‘twas my scale quietly kissed the ground,

  Mere rank against mere wealth — some youth beside,

  Some beauty too, thrown into the bargain, just

  As the buyer likes or lets alone. I thought

  To deal o’ the square: others find fault, it seems:

  The thing is, those my offer most concerned,

  Pietro, Violante, cried they fair or foul?

  What did they make o’ the terms? Preposterous terms?

  Why then accede so promptly, close with such

  Nor take a minute to chaffer? Bargain struck,

  They straight grew bilious, wished their money back,

  Repented them, no doubt: why, so did I,

  So did your lordship, if town-talk be true,

  Of paying a full farm’s worth for that piece

  By Pietro of Cortona — probably

  His scholar Ciro Ferri may have retouched —

  You caring more for colour than design —

  Getting a little tired of cupids too.

  That’s incident to all the folk who buy!

  I am charged, I know, with gilding fact by fraud;

  I falsified and fabricated, wrote

  Myself down roughly richer than I prove,

  Rendered a wrong revenue, — grant it all!

  Mere grace, mere coquetry such fraud, I say:

  A flourish round the figures of a sum

  For fashion’s sake, that deceives nobody.

  The veritable back-bone,
understood

  Essence of this same bargain, blank and bare,

  Being the exchange of quality for wealth, —

  What may such fancy-flights be? Flecks of oil

  Flirted by chapmen where plain dealing grates.

  I may have dripped a drop — ”My name I sell;

  “Not but that I too boast my wealth” — as they,

  “ — We bring you riches; still our ancestor

  “Was hardly the rapscallion, folks saw flogged,

  “But heir to we know who, were rights of force!”

  They knew and I knew where the back-bone lurked

  I’ the writhings of the bargain, lords, believe!

  I paid down all engaged for, to a doit,

  Delivered them just that which, their life long,

  They hungered in the hearts of them to gain —

  Incorporation with nobility thus

  In word and deed: for that they gave me wealth.

  But when they came to try their gain, my gift,

  Quit Rome and qualify for Arezzo, take

  The tone o’ the new sphere that absorbed the old,

  Put away gossip Jack and goody Joan

  And go become familiar with the Great,

  Greatness to touch and taste and handled now, —

  Why, then, — they found that all was vanity,

  Vexation, and what Solomon describes!

  The old abundant city-fare was best,

  The kindly warmth o’ the commons, the glad clap

  Of the equal on the shoulder, the frank grin

  Of the underling at all so many spoons

  Fire-new at neighbourly treat, — best, best and best

  Beyond compare! — down to the loll itself

  O’ the pot-house settle, — better such a bench

  Than the stiff crucifixion by my dais

  Under the piece-meal damask canopy

  With the coroneted coat of arms a-top!

  Poverty and privation for pride’s sake,

  All they engaged to easily brave and bear, —

  With the fit upon them and their brains a-work, —

  Proved unendurable to the sobered sots.

  A banished prince, now, will exude a juice

  And salamander-like support the flame:

  He dines on chestnuts, chucks the husks to help

  The broil o’ the brazier, pays the due baioc,

  Goes off light-hearted: his grimace begins

  At the funny humours of the christening-feast

  Of friend the money-lender, — then he’s touched

  By the flame and frizzles at the babe to kiss!

  Here was the converse trial, opposite mind:

  Here did a petty nature split on rock

  Of vulgar wants predestinate for such —

  One dish at supper and weak wine to boot!

  The prince had grinned and borne: the citizen shrieked,