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Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

Page 169

by Robert Browning


  Ere it produced L’Ingegno’s piece of work —

  So to become musician that his ear

  Should judge, by its own tickling and turmoil,

  Who made the Solemn Mass might well die deaf —

  So cultivate a literary knack

  That, by experience how it wiles the time,

  He might imagine how a poet, rapt

  In rhyming wholly, grew so poor at last

  By carelessness about his banker’s-book,

  That the Sieur Boileau (to provoke our smile)

  Began abruptly, — when he paid devoir

  To Louis Quatorze as he dined in state, —

  “Sire, send a drop of broth to Pierre Corneille

  Now dying and in want of sustenance!”

  — I say, these half-hour playings at life’s toil,

  Diversified by billiards, riding, sport —

  With now and then a visitor — Dumas,

  Hertford — to check no aspiration’s flight —

  While Clara, like a diamond in the dark,

  Should extract shining from what else were shade,

  And multiply chance rays a million-fold, —

  How could he doubt that all offence outside, —

  Wrong to the towers, which, pillowed on the turf,

  He thus shut eyes to, — were as good as gone?

  So, down went Clairvaux-Priory to dust,

  And up there rose, in lieu, yon structure gay

  Above the Norman ghosts: and where the stretch

  Of barren country girdled house about,

  Behold the Park, the English preference!

  Thus made undoubtedly a desert smile

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda.

  Ay, but she?

  One should not so merge soul in soul, you think?

  And I think: only, let us wait, nor want

  Two things at once — her turn will come in time.

  A cork-float danced upon the tide, we saw,

  This morning, blinding-bright with briny dews:

  There was no disengaging soaked from sound,

  Earth-product from the sister-element.

  But when we turn, the tide will turn, I think,

  And bare on beach will lie exposed the buoy:

  A very proper time to try, with foot

  And even finger, which was buoying wave,

  Which merely buoyant substance, — power to lift,

  And power to be sent skyward passively.

  Meanwhile, no separation of the pair!

  III.

  And so slipt pleasantly away five years

  Of Paradisiac dream; till, as there flit

  Premonitory symptoms, pricks of pain,

  Because the dreamer has to start awake

  And find disease dwelt active all the while

  In head or stomach through his night-long sleep, —

  So happened here disturbance to content.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda’s last of cares,

  Ere he composed himself, had been to make

  Provision that, while sleeping safe he lay,

  Somebody else should, dragon-like, let fall

  Never a lid, coiled round the apple-stem,

  But watch the precious fruitage. Somebody

  Kept shop, in short, played Paris-substitute.

  Himself, shrewd, well-trained, early-exercised,

  Could take in, at an eye-glance, luck or loss —

  Know commerce throze, though lazily uplift

  On elbow merely: leave his bed, forsooth?

  Such active service was the substitute’s.

  But one October morning, at first drop

  Of appled gold, first summons to be grave

  Because rough Autumn’s play turns earnest now,

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda was required

  In Paris to take counsel, face to face,

  With Madame-mother: and be rated, too,

  Roundly at certain items of expense

  Whereat the government provisional,

  The Paris substitute and shopkeeper,

  Shook head, and talked of funds inadequate:

  Oh, in the long run, — not if remedy

  Occurred betimes! Else, — tap the generous bole

  Too near the quick, — it withers to the root —

  Leafy, prolific, golden apple-tree,

  “Miranda,” sturdy in the Place Vendôme!

  “What is this reckless life you lead?” began

  Her greeting she whom most he feared and loved,

  Madame Miranda. “Luxury, extravagance

  Sardanapalus’ self might emulate, —

  Did your good father’s money go for this?

  Where are the fruits of education, where

  The morals which at first distinguished you,

  The faith which promised to adorn your age?

  And why such wastefulness outbreaking now,

  When heretofore you loved economy?

  Explain this pulling-down and building-up

  Poor Clairvaux, which your father bought because

  Clairvaux he found it, and so left to you,

  Not a gilt-gingerbread big baby-house!

  True, we could somehow shake head and shut eye

  To what was past prevention on our part —

  This reprehensible illicit bond:

  We, in a manner, winking, watched consort

  Our modest well-conducted pious son

  With Dalilah: we thought the smoking flax

  Would smoulder soon away and end in snuff.

  Is spark to strengthen, prove consuming fire?

  No lawful family calls Clairvaux ‘home’ —

  Why play that fool of Scripture whom the voice

  Admonished ‘Whose to-night shall be those things

  Provided for thy morning jollity?’

  To take one specimen of pure caprice

  Out of the heap conspicuous in the plan, —

  Puzzle of change, I call it, — titled big

  ‘Clairvaux Restored:’ what means this Belvedere?

  This Tower, stuck like a fool’s-cap on the roof —

  Do you intend to soar to heaven from thence?

  Tower, truly! Better had you planted turf —

  More fitly would you dig yourself a hole

  Beneath it for the final journey’s help!

  O we poor parents — could we prophesy!”

  Léonce was found affectionate enough

  To man, to woman, child, bird, beast, alike;

  But all affection, all one fire of heart

  Flaming toward Madame-mother. Had she posed

  The question plainly at the outset “Choose!

  Cut clean in half your all-the-world of love,

  The mother and the mistress: then resolve,

  Take me or take her, throw away the one!” —

  He might have made the choice and marred my tale.

  But, much I apprehend, the problem put

  Was “Keep both halves, yet do no detriment

  To either! Prize each opposite in turn!”

  Hence, while he prized at worth the Clairvaux-life

  With all its tolerated naughtiness,

  He, visiting in fancy Quai Rousseau,

  Saw, cornered in the cosiest nook of all

  That range of rooms through number Thirty-three,

  The lady-mother bent o’er her bézique ;

  While Monsieur Curé This, and Sister That —

  Superior of no matter what good House —

  Did duty for Duke Hertford and Dumas,

  Nay — at his mother’s age — for Clara’s self.

  At Quai Rousseau, things comfortable thus,

  Why should poor Clairvaux prove so troublesome?

  She played at cards, he built a Belvedere.

  But here’s the difference: she had reached the Towers

  And there took pastime: he was still on Turf —

  Though fully minded that, when once he marched,
>
  No sportive fancy should distract him more.

  In brief, the man was angry with himself,

  With her, with all the world and much beside:

  And so the unseemly words were interchanged

  Which crystallize what else evaporates,

  And make mere misty petulance grow hard

  And sharp inside each softness, heart and soul.

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda flung at last

  Out of doors, fever-flushed: and there the Seine

  Rolled at his feet, obsequious remedy

  For fever, in a cold Autumnal flow.

  “Go and be rid of memory in a bath!”

  Craftily whispered Who besets the ear

  On such occasions.

  Done as soon as dreamed.

  Back shivers poor Léonce to bed — where else?

  And there he lies a month ‘twixt life and death,

  Raving. “Remorse of conscience!” friends opine.

  “Sirs, it may partly prove so,” represents

  Beaumont — (the family physician, he

  Whom last year’s Commune murdered, do you mind?)

  Beaumont reports “There is some active cause,

  More than mere pungency of quarrel past, —

  Cause that keeps adding other food to fire.

  I hear the words and know the signs, I say!

  Dear Madame, you have read the Book of Saints,

  How Antony was tempted? As for me,

  Poor heathen, ‘t is by pictures I am taught.

  I say then, I see standing here, — between

  Me and my patient, and that crucifix

  You very properly would interpose, —

  A certain woman-shape, one white appeal

  ‘Will you leave me, then, me, me, me for her?’

  Since cold Seine could not quench this flame, since flare

  Of fever does not redden it away, —

  Be rational, indulgent, mute — should chance

  Come to the rescue — Providence, I mean —

  The while I blister and phlebotomize!”

  Well, somehow rescued by whatever power,

  At month’s end, back again conveyed himself

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags,

  Nay, tinder: stuff irreparably spoiled,

  Though kindly hand should stitch and patch its best.

  Clairvaux in Autumn is restorative.

  A friend stitched on, patched ever. All the same,

  Clairvaux looked greyer than a month ago.

  Unglossed was shrubbery, unglorified

  Each copse, so wealthy once; the garden-plots,

  The orchard-walks showed dearth and dreariness.

  The sea lay out at distance crammed by cloud

  Into a leaden wedge; and sorrowful

  Sulked field and pasture with persistent rain.

  Nobody came so far from Paris now:

  Friends did their duty by an invalid

  Whose convalescence claimed entire repose.

  Only a single ministrant was staunch

  At quiet reparation of the stuff —

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda, worn to rags:

  But she was Clara and the world beside.

  Another month, the year packed up his plagues

  And sullenly departed, pedlar-like,

  As apprehensive old-world ware might show

  To disadvantage when the new-comer,

  Merchant of novelties, young ‘Sixty-eight,

  With brand-new bargains, whistled o’er the lea.

  Things brightened somewhat o’er the Christmas hearth,

  As Clara plied assiduously her task.

  “Words are but words and wind. Why let the wind

  Sing in your ear, bite, sounding, to your brain?

  Old folk and young folk, still at odds, of course!

  Age quarrels because spring puts forth a leaf

  While winter has a mind that boughs stay bare;

  Or rather — worse than quarrel — age descries

  Propriety in preaching life to death.

  ‘Enjoy nor youth, nor Clairvaux, nor poor me?’

  Dear Madame, you enjoy your age, ‘t is thought!

  Your number Thirty-three on Quai Rousseau

  Cost fifty times the price of Clairvaux, tipped

  Even with our prodigious Belvedere;

  You entertain the Curé, — we, Dumas:

  We play charades, while you prefer bézique :

  Do lead your own life and let ours alone!

  Cross Old Year shall have done his worst, my friend!

  Here comes gay New Year with a gift, no doubt.

  Look up and let in light that longs to shine —

  One flash of light, and where will darkness hide?

  Your cold makes me too cold, love! Keep me warm!”

  Whereat Léonce Miranda raised his head

  From his two white thin hands, and forced a smile,

  And spoke: “I do look up, and see your light

  Above me! Let New Year contribute warmth —

  I shall refuse no fuel that may blaze.”

  Nor did he. Three days after, just a spark

  From Paris, answered by a snap at Caen

  Or whither reached the telegraphic wire:

  “Quickly to Paris! On arrival, learn

  Why you are wanted!” Curt and critical!

  Off starts Léonce, one fear from head to foot;

  Caen, Rouen, Paris, as the railway helps;

  Then come the Quai and Number Thirty-three.

  “What is the matter, concierge?” — a grimace!

  He mounts the staircase, makes for the main seat

  Of dreadful mystery which draws him there —

  Bursts in upon a bedroom known too well —

  There lies all left now of the mother once.

  Tapers define the stretch of rigid white,

  Nor want there ghastly velvets of the grave.

  A blackness sits on either side at watch,

  Sisters, good souls but frightful all the same,

  Silent: a priest is spokesman for his corpse.

  “Dead, through Léonce Miranda! stricken down

  Without a minute’s warning, yesterday!

  What did she say to you, and you to her,

  Two months ago? This is the consequence!

  The doctors have their name for the disease;

  I, you, and God say — heart-break, nothing more!”

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda, like a stone

  Fell at the bedfoot and found respite so,

  While the priest went to tell the company.

  What follows you are free to disbelieve.

  It may be true or false that this good priest

  Had taken his instructions, — who shall blame? —

  From quite another quarter than, perchance,

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda might suppose

  Would offer solace in such pressing need.

  All he remembered of his kith and kin

  Was they were worthily his substitutes

  In commerce, did their work and drew their pay.

  But they remembered, in addition, this —

  They fairly might expect inheritance,

  As nearest kin, called Family by law

  And gospel both. Now, since Miranda’s life

  Showed nothing like abatement of distaste

  For conjugality, but preference

  Continued and confirmed of that smooth chain

  Which slips and leaves no knot behind, no heir —

  Presumption was, the man, become mature,

  Would at a calculable day discard

  His old and outworn . . . what we blush to name,

  And make society the just amends;

  Scarce by a new attachment — Heaven forbid!

  Still less by lawful marriage: that’s reserved

  For those who make a proper choice at first —

  Not try both courses and would grasp i
n age

  The very treasure youth preferred to spurn.

  No! putting decently such thought aside,

  The penitent must rather give his powers

  To such a reparation of the past

  As, edifying kindred, makes them rich.

  Now, how would it enrich prospectively

  The Cousins, if he lavished such expense

  On Clairvaux? — pretty as a toy, but then

  As toy, so much productive and no more!

  If all the outcome of the goldsmith’s shop

  Went to gild Clairvaux, where remain the funds

  For Cousinry to spread out lap and take?

  This must be thought of and provided for.

  I give it you as mere conjecture, mind!

  To help explain the wholesome unannounced

  Intelligence, the shock that startled guilt,

  The scenic show, much yellow, black and white

  By taper-shine, the nuns — portentous pair,

  And, more than all, the priest’s admonishment —

  “No flattery of self! You murdered her!

  The grey lips, silent now, reprove by mine.

  You wasted all your living, rioted

  In harlotry — she warned and I repeat!

  No warning had she, for she needed none:

  If this should be the last yourself receive?”

  Done for the best, no doubt, though clumsily, —

  Such, and so startling, the reception here,

  You hardly wonder if down fell at once

  The tawdry tent, pictorial, musical,

  Poetical, besprent with hearts and darts;

  Its cobweb-work, betinseled stitchery,

  Lay dust about our sleeper on the turf,

  And showed the outer towers distinct and dread.

  Senseless he fell, and long he lay, and much

  Seemed salutary in his punishment

  To planners and performers of the piece.

  When pain ends, pardon prompt may operate.

  There was a good attendance close at hand,

  Waiting the issue in the great saloon,

  Cousins with consolation and advice.

  All things thus happily performed to point,

  No wonder at success commensurate.

  Once swooning stopped, once anguish subsequent

  Raved out, — a sudden resolution chilled

  His blood and changed his swimming eyes to stone,

  As the poor fellow raised himself upright,

  Collected strength, looked, once for all, his look,

  Then, turning, put officious help aside

  And passed from out the chamber. “For affairs!”

  So he announced himself to the saloon:

  “We owe a duty to the living too!” —

  Monsieur Léonce Miranda tried to smile.

  How did the hearts of Cousinry rejoice

  At their stray sheep returning thus to fold,

  As, with a dignity, precision, sense,

 

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