More money for his book, but scarcely gain as much.
CXXIV.
To this it was, this same primæval monument,
That, in my dream, I saw building with building blent
Fall: each on each they fast and founderingly went
Confusion-ward; but thence again subsided fast,
Became the mound you see. Magnificently massed
Indeed, those mammoth-stones, piled by the Protoplast
Temple-wise in my dream! beyond compare with fanes
Which, solid-looking late, had left no least remains
I’ the bald and blank, now sole usurper of the plains
Of heaven, diversified and beautiful before.
And yet simplicity appeared to speak no more
Nor less to me than spoke the compound. At the core,
One and no other word, as in the crust of late,
Whispered, which, audible through the transition-state,
Was no loud utterance in even the ultimate
Disposure. For as some imperial chord subsists,
Steadily underlies the accidental mists
Of music springing thence, that run their mazy race
Around, and sink, absorbed, back to the triad base, —
So, out of that one word, each variant rose and fell
And left the same “All’s change, but permanence as well.”
— Grave note whence — list aloft! — harmonics sound, that mean:
“Truth inside, and outside, truth also; and between
Each, falsehood that is change, as truth is permanence.
The individual soul works through the shows of sense,
(Which, ever proving false, still promise to be true)
Up to an outer soul as individual too;
And, through the fleeting, lives to die into the fixed,
And reach at length ‘God, man, or both together mixed,’
Transparent through the flesh, by parts which prove a whole,
By hints which make the soul discernible by soul —
Let only soul look up, not down, not hate but love,
As truth successively takes shape, one grade above
Its last presentment, tempts as it were truth indeed
Revealed this time; so tempts, till we attain to read
The signs aright, and learn, by failure, truth is forced
To manifest itself through falsehood; whence divorced
By the excepted eye, at the rare season, for
The happy moment, truth instructs us to abhor
The false, and prize the true, obtainable thereby.
Then do we understand the value of a lie;
Its purpose served, its truth once safe deposited,
Each lie, superfluous now, leaves, in the singer’s stead,
The indubitable song; the historic personage
Put by, leaves prominent the impulse of his age;
Truth sets aside speech, act, time, place, indeed, but brings
Nakedly forward now the principle of things
Highest and least.”
CXXV.
Wherewith change ends. What change to dread
When, disengaged at last from every veil, instead
Of type remains the truth? once — falsehood: but anon
Theosuton e broteion eper kekramenon,
Something as true as soul is true, though veils between
Prove false and fleet away. As I mean, did he mean,
The poet whose bird-phrase sits, singing in my ear
A mystery not unlike? What through the dark and drear
Brought comfort to the Titan? Emerging from the lymph,
“God, man, or mixture” proved only to be a nymph:
“From whom the clink on clink of metal” (money, judged
Abundant in my purse) “struck” (bumped at, till it budged)
“The modesty, her soul’s habitual resident”
(Where late the sisterhood were lively in their tent)
“As out of wingèd car” (that caravan on wheels)
“Impulsively she rushed, no slippers to her heels,”
And “Fear not, friends we flock!” soft smiled the sea-Fifine —
Primitive of the veils (if he meant what I mean)
The poet’s Titan learned to lift, ere “Three-formed Fate,
Moirai Trimorphoi “ stood unmasked the Ultimate.
CXXVI.
Enough o’ the dream! You see how poetry turns prose.
Announcing wonder-work, I dwindle at the close
Down to mere commonplace old facts which everybody knows.
So dreaming disappoints! The fresh and strange at first,
Soon wears to trite and tame, nor warrants the outburst
Of heart with which we hail those heights, at very brink
Of heaven, whereto one least of lifts would lead, we think,
But wherefrom quick decline conducts our step, we find,
To homely earth, old facts familiar left behind.
Did not this monument, for instance, long ago
Say all it had to say, show all it had to show,
Nor promise to do duty more in dream?
CXXVII.
Awaking so,
What if we, homeward-bound, all peace and some fatigue,
Trudge, soberly complete our tramp of near a league,
last little mile which makes the circuit just, Elvire?
We end where we began: that consequence is clear.
All peace and some fatigue, wherever we were nursed
To life, we bosom us on death, find last is first
And thenceforth final too.
CXXVIII.
“Why final? Why the more
Worth credence now than when such truth proved false before?”
Because a novel point impresses now: each lie
Redounded to the praise of man, was victory
Man’s nature had both right to get, and might to gain,
And by no means implied submission to the reign
Of other quite as real a nature, that saw fit
To have its way with man, not man his way with it.
This time, acknowledgment and acquiescence quell
Their contrary in man; promotion proves as well
Defeat: and Truth, unlike the False with Truth’s outside,
Neither plumes up his will nor puffs him out with pride.
I fancy, there must lurk some cogency i’ the claim,
Man, such abatement made, submits to, all the same.
Soul finds no triumph, here, to register like Sense
With whom ‘t is ask and have, — the want, the evidence
That the thing wanted, soon or late, will be supplied.
This indeed plumes up will; this, sure, puffs out with pride,
When, reading records right, man’s instincts still attest
Promotion comes to Sense because Sense likes it best;
For bodies sprouted legs, through a desire to run:
While hands, when fain to filch, got fingers one by one,
And nature, that’s ourself, accommodative brings
To bear that, tired of legs which walk, we now bud wings
Since of a mind to fly. Such savour in the nose
Of Sense, would stimulate Soul sweetly, I suppose,
Soul with its proper itch of instinct, prompting clear
To recognize soul’s self Soul’s only master here
Alike from first to last. But, if time’s pressure, light’s
Or rather, dark’s approach, wrest thoroughly the rights
Of rule away, and bid the soul submissive bear
Another soul than it play master everywhere
In great and small, — this time, I fancy, none disputes
There’s something in the fact that such conclusion suits
Nowise the pride of man, nor yet chimes in with attributes
Conspicuous in the lord of nature. He receives
And not demands — no
t first likes faith and then believes.
CXXIX.
And as with the last essence so with its first faint type.
Inconstancy means raw, ‘t is faith alone means ripe
I’ the soul which runs its round: no matter how it range
From Helen to Fifine, Elvire bids back the change
To permanence. Here, too, love ends where love began.
Such ending looks like law, because the natural man
Inclines the other way, feels lordlier free than bound.
Poor pabulum for pride when the first love is found
Last also! and, so far from realizing gain,
Each step aside just proves divergency in vain.
The wanderer brings home no profit from his quest
Beyond the sad surmise that keeping house were best
Could life begin anew. His problem posed aright
Was — ”From the given point evolve the infinite!”
Not — ”Spend thyself in space, endeavouring to joint
Together, and so make infinite, point and point:
Fix into one Elvire a Fair-ful of Fifines!”
Fifine, the foam-flake, she: Elvire, the sea’s self, means
Capacity at need to shower how many such!
And yet we left her calm profundity, to clutch
Foam-flutter, bell on bell, that, bursting at a touch,
Blistered us for our pains. But wise, we want no more
O’ the fickle element. Enough of foam and roar!
Land-locked, we live and die henceforth: for here’s the villa-door.
CXXX.
How pallidly you pause o’ the threshold! Hardly night,
Which drapes you, ought to make real flesh and blood so white!
Touch me, and so appear alive to all intents!
Will the saint vanish from the sinner that repents?
Suppose you are a ghost! A memory, a hope,
A fear, a conscience! Quick! Give back the hand I grope
I’ the dusk for!
CXXXI.
That is well. Our double horoscope
I cast, while you concur. Discard that simile
O’ the fickle element! Elvire is land not sea —
The solid land, the safe. All these word-bubbles came
O’ the sea, and bite like salt. The unlucky bath ‘s to blame.
This hand of yours on heart of mine, no more the bay
I beat, nor bask beneath the blue! In Pornic, say,
The Mayor shall catalogue me duly domiciled,
Contributable, good-companion of the guild
And mystery of marriage. I stickle for the town,
And not this tower apart; because, though, half-way down,
Its mullions wink o’erwebbed with bloomy greenness, yet
Who mounts to staircase top may tempt the parapet,
And sudden there’s the sea! No memories to arouse,
No fancies to delude! Our honest civic house
Of the earth be earthy too! — or graced perchance with shell
Made prize of long ago, picked haply where the swell
Menaced a little once — or seaweed-branch that yet
Dampens and softens, notes a freak of wind, a fret
Of wave: though, why on earth should sea-change mend or mar
The calm contemplative householders that we are?
So shall the seasons fleet, while our two selves abide:
E’en past astonishment how sunrise and springtide
Could tempt one forth to swim; the more if time appoints
That swimming grow a task for one’s rheumatic joints.
Such honest civic house, behold, I constitute
Our villa! Be but flesh and blood, and smile to boot!
Enter for good and all! then fate bolt fast the door,
Shut you and me inside, never to wander more!
CXXXII.
Only, — you do not use to apprehend attack!
No doubt, the way I march, one idle arm, thrown slack
Behind me, leaves the open hand defenceless at the back,
Should an impertinent on tiptoe steal, and stuff
— Whatever can it be? A letter sure enough,
Pushed betwixt palm and glove! That largess of a franc?
Perhaps inconsciously, — to better help the blank
O’ the nest, her tambourine, and, laying egg, persuade
A family to follow, the nest-egg that I laid
May have contained, — but just to foil suspicious folk, —
Between two silver whites a yellow double yolk!
Oh, threaten no farewell! five minutes shall suffice
To clear the matter up. I go, and in a trice
Return; five minutes past, expect me! If in vain —
Why, slip from flesh and blood, and play the ghost again!
EPILOGUE. THE HOUSEHOLDER.
I
Savage I was sitting in my house, late, lone:
Dreary, weary with the long day’s work:
Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a stone:
Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming like a Turk;
When, in a moment, just a knock, call, cry,
Half a pang and all a rapture, there again were we! —
“What, and is it really you again?” quoth I:
”I again, what else did you expect?” quoth She.
II
“Never mind, hie away from this old house —
Every crumbling brick embrowned with sin and shame!
Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes arouse!
Let them — every devil of the night — lay claim,
Make and mend, or rap and rend, for me! Good-bye!
God be their guard from disturbance at their glee,
Till, crash, comes down the carcass in a heap!” quoth I:
’Nay, but there’s a decency required!” quoth She.
III
“Ah, but if you knew how time has dragged, days, nights!
All the neighbour-talk with man and maid — such men!
All the fuss and trouble of street-sounds, window-sights:
All the worry of flapping door and echoing roof; and then,
All the fancies . . . Who were they had leave, dared try
Darker arts that almost struck despair in me?
If you knew but how I dwelt down here!” quoth I:
”And was I so better off up there?” quoth She.
IV
“Help and get it over! Re-united to his wife
(How draw up the paper lets the parish-people know?)
Lies M., or N., departed from this life,
Day the this or that, month and year the so and so.
What i’ the way of final flourish? Prose, verse? Try!
Affliction sore long time he bore , or, what is it to be?
Till God did please to grant him ease . Do end!” quoth I:
”I end with — Love is all and Death is nought!” quoth She.
RED COTTON NIGHT-CAP COUNTRY
OR, TURF AND TOWERS
Controversial at the time of its publication, this 1873 poem in blank verse recounts a story of sexual intrigue, religious obsession and violent death in contemporary France, closely based on the true story of the suicide of the jewellery heir Antoine Mellerio. Having been originally told about the case of Antoine Mellerio in 1870 by his friend Joseph Milsand, Browning researched the facts in detail, reading newspaper reports and transcripts of the legal documents and interviewing residents of the district.
Browning wrote the poem from December 1872 to January 1873, while the case regarding Mellerio’s will was still under appeal. At first the poet used the real names of the characters and places in the affaire Mellerio, but on submitting the manuscript to his friend Lord Coleridge, he was advised that he might be sued for libel and so he changed them.
The first edition’s title page
John Duke Coleridge, 1st Baron Coleridge (1820–1894), was a British la
wyer, judge and Liberal politician, as well as a close friend of Robert Browning.
DEDICATED TO MISS THACKERAY
1873.
RED COTTON NIGHT-CAP COUNTRY, OR, TURF AND TOWERS
I.
And so, here happily we meet, fair friend!
Again once more, as if the years rolled back
And this our meeting-place were just that Rome
Out in the champaign, say, o’er-rioted
By verdure, ravage, and gay winds that war
Against strong sunshine settled to his sleep;
Or on the Paris Boulevard, might it prove,
You and I came together saunteringly,
Bound for some shop-front in the Place Vendôme —
Gold-smithy and Golconda mine, that makes
“The Firm-Miranda” blazed about the world —
Or, what if it were London, where my toe
Trespassed upon your flounce? “Small blame,” you smile,
Seeing the Staircase Party in the Square
Was Small and Early, and you broke no rib.
Even as we met where we have met so oft,
Now meet we on this unpretending beach
Below the little village: little, ay!
But pleasant, may my gratitude subjoin?
Meek, hitherto un-Murrayed bathing-place,
Best loved of sea-coast-nook-ful Normandy!
That, just behind you, is mine own hired house:
With right of pathway through the field in front,
No prejudice to all its growth unsheaved
Of emerald luzern bursting into blue.
Be sure I keep the path that hugs the wall,
Of mornings, as I pad from door to gate!
Yon yellow — what if not wild-mustard flower? —
Of that, my naked sole makes lawful prize,
Bruising the acrid aromatics out,
Till, what they preface, good salt savours sting
From, first, the sifted sands, then sands in slab,
Smooth save for pipy wreath-work of the worm:
(Granite and mussel-shell are ground alike
To glittering paste, — the live worm troubles yet.)
Then, dry and moist, the varech limit-line,
Burnt cinder-black, with brown uncrumpled swathe
Of berried softness, sea-swoln thrice its size;
And, lo, the wave protrudes a lip at last,
And flecks my foot with froth, nor tempts in vain.
Such is Saint-Rambert, wilder very much
Than Joyeux, that famed Joyous-Gard of yours,
Some five miles farther down; much homelier too —
Right for me, — right for you the fine and fair!
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 162