The eyes with first their twinkle of conceit,
Then, dropped to earth in mock-demureness, — now,
The smile self-satisfied from ear to ear
Now, the prim pursed-up mouth’s protruded lips,
With deferential duck, slow swing of head,
Tempting the sudden fist of man too much, —
That owl-like screw of lid and rock of ruff!
As for the father, — Cardinal, you know,
The kind of idiot! — rife are such in Rome,
But they wear velvet commonly, such fools,
At the end of life, can furnish forth young folk
Who grin and bear with imbecility,
Since the stalled ass, the joker, sheds from jaw
Corn, in the joke, for those who laugh or starve:
But what say we to the same solemn beast
Wagging his ears and wishful of our pat,
When turned, with hide in holes and bones laid bare,
To forage for himself i’ the waste o’ the world,
Sir Dignity i’ the dumps? Pat him? We drub
Self-knowledge, rather, into frowzy pate,
Teach Pietro to get trappings or go hang!
Fancy this quondam oracle in vogue
At Via Vittoria, this personified
Authority when time was, — Pantaloon
Flaunting his tom-fool tawdry just the same
As if Ash-Wednesday were mid-Carnival!
That’s the extreme and unforgivable
Of sins, as I account such. Have you stooped
For your own ends to bestialise yourself
By flattery of a fellow of this stamp?
The ends obtained, or else shown out of reach,
He goes on, takes the flattery for pure truth, —
“You love and honour me, of course: what next?”
What, but the trifle of the stabbing, friend? —
Which taught you how one worships when the shrine
Has lost the relic that we bent before.
Angry? And how could I be otherwise?
‘Tis plain: this pair of old pretentious fools
Meant to fool me: it happens, I fooled them,
Why could not these who sought to buy and sell
Me, — when they found themselves were bought and sold,
Make up their mind to the proved rule of right,
Be chattel and not chapman any more?
Miscalculation has its consequence;
But when the shepherd crooks a sheep-like thing
And meaning to get wool, dislodges fleece
And finds the veritable wolf beneath,
(How that staunch image serves at every turn!)
Does he, by way of being politic,
Pluck the first whisker grimly visible? —
Or rather grow in a trice all gratitude,
Protest this sort-of-what-one-might-name sheep
Beats the old other curly-coated kind,
And shall share board and bed, if so it deign,
With its discoverer, like a royal ram?
Ay, thus, with chattering teeth and knocking knees,
Would wisdom treat the adventure: these, forsooth,
Tried whisker-plucking, and so found what trap
The whisker kept perdue, two rows of teeth —
Sharp, as too late the prying fingers felt.
What would you have? The fools transgress, the fools
Forthwith receive appropriate punishment:
They first insult me, I return the blow,
There follows noise enough: four hubbub months,
Now hue and cry, now whimpering and wail —
A perfect goose-yard cackle of complaint
Because I do not gild the geese their oats, —
I have enough of noise, ope wicket wide,
Sweep out the couple to go whine elsewhere,
Frightened a little, hurt in no respect,
And am just taking thought to breathe again,
Taste the sweet sudden silence all about,
When, there they are at it, the old noise I know,
At Rome i’ the distance! “What, begun once more?
“Whine on, wail ever, ‘tis the loser’s right!”
But eh, what sort of voice grows on the wind?
Triumph it sounds and no complaint at all!
And triumph it is! My boast was premature:
The creatures, I turned forth, clapped wing and crew
Fighting-cock-fashion, — they had filched a pearl
From dung-heap, and might boast with cause enough!
I was defrauded of all bargained for, —
You know, the Pope knows, not a soul but knows
My dowry was derision, my gain — muck,
My wife (the Church declared my flesh and blood)
The nameless bastard of a common whore:
My old name turned henceforth to . . . shall I say
“He that received the ordure in his face?”
And they who planned this wrong, performed this wrong,
And then revealed this wrong to the wide world,
Rounded myself in the ears with my own wrong, —
Why, these were . . . note hell’s lucky malice, now! . . .
These were just they, and they alone, could act
And publish in this wise their infamy,
Secure that men would in a breath believe
Compassionate and pardon them, — for why?
They plainly were too stupid to invent,
Too simple to distinguish wrong from right, —
Inconscious agents they, the silly-sooth,
Of heaven’s retributive justice on the strong
Proud cunning violent oppressor — me!
Follow them to their fate and help your best,
You Rome, Arezzo, foes called friends of mine,
They gave the good long laugh to at my cost!
Defray your share o’ the cost since you partook
The entertainment! Do! — assured the while,
That not one stab, I dealt to right and left,
But went the deeper for a fancy — this —
That each might do me two-fold service, find
A friend’s face at the bottom of each wound,
And scratch its smirk a little!
Panciatichi!
There’s a report at Florence, — is it true? —
That when your relative the Cardinal
Built, only the other day, that barrack-bulk,
The palace in Via Larga, some one picked
From out the street a saucy quip enough
That fell there from its day’s flight through the town,
About the flat front and the windows wide
And ugly heap of cornice, — hitched the joke
Into a sonnet, signed his name thereto,
And forthwith pinned on post the pleasantry.
For which he’s at the galleys, rowing now
Up to his waist in water, — just because
Panciatic and lymphatic rhymed so pat:
I hope, Sir, those who passed this joke on me
Were not unduly punished? What say you,
Prince of the Church, my patron? Nay, indeed!
I shall not dare insult your wits so much
As think this problem difficult to solve!
This Pietro and Violante, then, I say,
These two ambiguous insects, changing name
And nature with the season’s warmth or chill, —
Now, grovelled, grubbing toiling moiling ants,
A very synonym of thrift and peace, —
Anon, with lusty June to prick their heart,
Soared i’ the air, winged flies for more offence,
Circled me, buzzed me deaf and stung me blind,
And stunk me dead with fetor in the face
Until I stopped the nuisance: there’s my crime!
Pity I did not suffer them subside
; Into some further shape and final form
Of execrable life? My masters, no!
I, by one blow, wisely cut short at once
Them and their transformations of disgust
In the snug little Villa out of hand.
“Grant me confession, give bare time for that!” —
Shouted the sinner till his mouth was stopped.
His life confessed! — that was enough for me,
Who came to see that he did penance. ‘S death!
Here’s a coil raised, a pother and for what?
Because strength, being provoked by weakness, fought
And conquered, — the world never heard the like!
Pah, how I spend my breath on them, as if
‘Twas their fate troubled me, too hard to range
Among the right and fit and proper things!
Ay, but Pompilia, — I await your word, —
She, unimpeached of crime, unimplicate
In folly, one of alien blood to these
I punish, why extend my claim, exact
Her portion of the penalty? Yes, friends,
I go too fast: the orator’s at fault:
Yes, ere I lay her, with your leave, by them
As she was laid at San Lorenzo late,
I ought to step back, lead her by degrees,
Recounting at each step some fresh offence,
Up to the red bed, — never fear, I will!
Gaze on her, where you place her, to begin,
Confound me with her gentleness and worth!
The horrible pair have fled and left her now,
She has her husband for her sole concern,
His wife, the woman fashioned for his help,
Flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, the bride
To groom as is the Church and Spouse, to Christ:
There she stands in his presence, — ”Thy desire
“Shall be to the husband, o’er thee shall he rule!”
— ”Pompilia, who declare that you love God,
“You know who said that: then, desire my love,
“Yield me contentment and be ruled aright!”
She sits up, she lies down, she comes and goes,
Kneels at the couch-side, overleans the sill
O’ the window, cold and pale and mute as stone,
Strong as stone also. “Well, are they not fled?
“Am I not left, am I not one for all?
“Speak a word, drop a tear, detach a glance,
“Bless me or curse me of your own accord!
“Is it the ceiling only wants your soul,
“Is worth your eyes?” And then the eyes descend
And do look at me. Is it at the meal?
“Speak!” she obeys, “Be silent!” she obeys,
Counting the minutes till I cry “Depart,”
As brood-bird when you saunter past her eggs,
Departed, just the same through door and wall
I see the same stone strength of white despair.
And all this will be never otherwise!
Before, the parents’ presence lent her life:
She could play off her sex’s armoury,
Intreat, reproach, be female to my male,
Try all the shrieking doubles of the hare,
Go clamour to the Commissary, bid
The Archbishop hold my hands and stop my tongue,
And yield fair sport so: but the tactics change,
The hare stands stock-still to enrage the hound!
Since that day when she learned she was no child
Of those she thought her parents, — that their trick
Had tricked me whom she thought sole trickster late, —
Why, I suppose she said within herself
“Then, no more struggle for my parents’ sake,
“And, for my own sake, why needs struggle be?”
But is there no third party to the pact?
What of her husband’s relish or dislike
For this new game of giving up the game,
This worst offence of not offending more?
I’ll not believe but instinct wrought in this,
Set her on to conceive and execute
The preferable plague . . . how sure they probe, —
These jades, the sensitivest soft of man!
The long black hair was wound now in a wisp, —
Crowned sorrow better than the wild web late:
No more soiled dress, ‘tis trimness triumphs now,
For how should malice go with negligence?
The frayed silk looked the fresher for her spite!
There was an end to springing out of bed,
Praying me, with face buried on my feet,
Be hindered of my pastime, — so an end
To my rejoinder, “What, on the ground at last?
“Vanquished in fight, a supplicant for life?
“What if I raise you? ‘Ware the casting down
“When next you fight me!” Then, she lay there, mine:
Now, mine she is if I please wring her neck, —
A moment of disquiet, working eyes,
Protruding tongue, a long sigh, then no more —
As if one killed the horse one could not ride!
Had I enjoined “Cut off the hair!” — why, snap
The scissors, and at once a yard or so
Had fluttered in black serpents to the floor:
But till I did enjoin it, how she combs,
Uncurls and draws out to the complete length,
Plaits, places the insulting rope on head
To be an eyesore past dishevelment!
Is all done? Then sit still again and stare!
I advise — no one think to bear that look
Of steady wrong, endured as steadily,
— Through what sustainment of deluding hope?
Who is the friend i’ the background that notes all?
Who may come presently and close accounts?
This self-possession to the uttermost,
How does it differ in aught, save degree,
From the terrible patience of God?
”All which just means,
“She did not love you!” Again the word is launched
And the fact fronts me! What, you try the wards
With the true key and the dead lock flies ope?
No, it sticks fast and leaves you fumbling still!
You have some fifty servants, Cardinal, —
Which of them loves you? Which subordinate
But makes parade of such officiousness
That, — if there’s no love prompts it, — love, the sham,
Does twice the service done by love, the true.
God bless us liars, where’s one touch of truth
In what we tell the world, or world tells us,
Oh how we like each other? All the same,
We calculate on word and deed, nor err, —
Bid such a man do such a loving act,
Sure of effect and negligent of cause,
Just as we bid a horse, with cluck of tongue,
Stretch his legs arch-wise, crouch his saddled back
To foot-reach of the stirrup — all for love,
And some for memory of the smart of switch
On the inside of the foreleg — what care we?
Yet where’s the bond obliges horse to man
Like that which binds fast wife to husband? God
Laid down the law: gave man the brawny arm
And ball of fist — woman the beardless cheek
And proper place to suffer in the side:
Since it is he can strike, let her obey!
Can she feel no love? Let her show the more,
Sham the worse, damn herself praiseworthily!
Who’s that soprano Rome went mad about
Last week while I lay rotting in my straw?
The very jailor gossiped in his praise —
How, — dressed up like Armida, t
hough a man;
And painted to look pretty, though a fright, —
He still made love so that the ladies swooned,
Being an eunuch. “Ah, Rinaldo mine!
“But to breathe by thee while Jove slays us both!”
All the poor bloodless creature never felt,
Si, do, re, me, fa, squeak and squall — for what?
Two gold zecchines the evening! Here’s my slave,
Whose body and soul depend upon my nod,
Can’t falter out the first note in the scale
For her life! Why blame me if I take the life?
All women cannot give men love, forsooth!
No, nor all pullets lay the henwife eggs —
Whereat she bids them remedy the fault,
Brood on a chalk-ball: soon the nest is stocked —
Otherwise, to the plucking and the spit!
This wife of mine was of another mood —
Would not begin the lie that ends with truth,
Nor feign the love that brings real love about:
Wherefore I judged, sentenced and punished her.
But why particularise, defend the deed?
Say that I hated her for no one cause
Beyond my pleasure so to do, — what then?
Just on as much incitement acts the world,
All of you! Look and like! You favour one,
Brow-beat another, leave alone a third, —
Why should you master natural caprice?
Pure nature! Try — plant elm by ash in file;
Both unexceptionable trees enough,
They ought to overlean each other, pair
At top and arch across the avenue
The whole path to the pleasaunce: do they so —
Or loathe, lie off abhorrent each from each?
Lay the fault elsewhere, since we must have faults:
Mine shall have been, — seeing there’s ill in the end
Come of my course, — that I fare somehow worse
For the way I took, — my fault . . . as God’s my judge
I see not where the fault lies, that’s the truth!
I ought . . . oh, ought in my own interest
Have let the whole adventure go untried,
This chance by marriage, — or else, trying it,
Ought to have turned it to account some one
O’ the hundred otherwises? Ay, my friend,
Easy to say, easy to do, — step right
Now you’ve stepped left and stumbled on the thing,
— The red thing! Doubt I any more than you
That practice makes man perfect? Give again
The chance, — same marriage and no other wife,
Be sure I’ll edify you! That’s because
I’m practised, grown fit guide for Guido’s self.
You proffered guidance, — I know, none so well, —
You laid down law and rolled decorum out,
From pulpit-corner on the gospel-side, —
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 133