Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

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Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 244

by Robert Browning


  I let them know the gods of Israel,

  Aëtius, Oribasius, Galen, Rhasis,

  Serapion, Avicenna, Averröes,

  Were blocks!

  Festus.

  And that reminds me, I heard something

  About your waywardness: you burned their books,

  It seems, instead of answering those sages.

  Paracelsus.

  And who said that?

  Festus.

  Some I met yesternight

  With Œcolampadius. As you know, the purpose

  Of this short stay at Basil was to learn

  His pleasure touching certain missives sent

  For our Zuinglius and himself. ‘T was he

  Apprised me that the famous teacher here

  Was my old friend.

  Paracelsus.

  Ah, I forgot: you went . . .

  Festus.

  From Zurich with advices for the ear

  Of Luther, now at Wittenberg — (you know,

  I make no doubt, the differences of late

  With Carolostadius) — and returning sought

  Basil and . . .

  Paracelsus.

  I remember. Here ‘s a case, now,

  Will teach you why I answer not, but burn

  The books you mention. Pray, does Luther dream

  His arguments convince by their own force

  The crowds that own his doctrine? No, indeed!

  His plain denial of established points

  Ages had sanctified and men supposed

  Could never be oppugned while earth was under

  And heaven above them — points which chance or time

  Affected not — did more than the array

  Of argument which followed. Boldly deny!

  There is much breath-stopping, hair-stiffening

  Awhile; then, amazed glances, mute awaiting

  The thunderbolt which does not come: and next,

  Reproachful wonder and inquiry: those

  Who else had never stirred, are able now

  To find the rest out for themselves, perhaps

  To outstrip him who set the whole at work,

  — As never will my wise class its instructor.

  And you saw Luther?

  Festus.

  ‘T is a wondrous soul!

  Paracelsus.

  True: the so-heavy chain which galled mankind

  Is shattered, and the noblest of us all

  Must bow to the deliverer — nay, the worker

  Of our own project — we who long before

  Had burst our trammels, but forgot the crowd,

  We should have taught, still groaned beneath the load:

  This he has done and nobly. Speed that may!

  Whatever be my chance or my mischance,

  What benefits mankind must glad me too;

  And men seem made, though not as I believed,

  For something better than the times produce.

  Witness these gangs of peasants your new lights

  From Suabia have possessed, whom Münzer leads,

  And whom the duke, the landgrave and the elector

  Will calm in blood! Well, well; ‘t is not my world!

  Festus.

  Hark!

  Paracelsus.

  ’T is the melancholy wind astir

  Within the trees; the embers too are grey:

  Morn must be near.

  Festus.

  Best ope the casement: see,

  The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars,

  Is blank and motionless: how peaceful sleep

  The tree-tops altogether! Like an asp,

  The wind slips whispering from bough to bough.

  Paracelsus.

  Ay; you would gaze on a wind-shaken tree

  By the hour, nor count time lost.

  Festus.

  So you shall gaze:

  Those happy times will come again.

  Paracelsus.

  Gone, gone,

  Those pleasant times! Does not the moaning wind

  Seem to bewail that we have gained such gains

  And bartered sleep for them?

  Festus.

  It is our trust

  That there is yet another world to mend

  All error and mischance.

  Paracelsus.

  Another world!

  And why this world, this common world, to be

  A make-shift, a mere foil, how fair soever,

  To some fine life to come? Man must be fed

  With angels’ food, forsooth; and some few traces

  Of a diviner nature which look out

  Through his corporeal baseness, warrant him

  In a supreme contempt of all provision

  For his inferior tastes — some straggling marks

  Which constitute his essence, just as truly

  As here and there a gem would constitute

  The rock, their barren bed, one diamond.

  But were it so — were man all mind — he gains

  A station little enviable. From God

  Down to the lowest spirit ministrant,

  Intelligence exists which casts our mind

  Into immeasurable shade. No, no:

  Love, hope, fear, faith — these make humanity;

  These are its sign and note and character,

  And these I have lost! — gone, shut from me for ever,

  Like a dead friend safe from unkindness more!

  See, morn at length. The heavy darkness seems

  Diluted, grey and clear without the stars;

  The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves as if

  Some snake, that weighed them down all night, let go

  His hold; and from the East, fuller and fuller

  Day, like a mighty river, flowing in;

  But clouded, wintry, desolate and cold.

  Yet see how that broad prickly star-shaped plant,

  Half-down in the crevice, spreads its woolly leaves

  All thick and glistering with diamond dew.

  And you depart for Einsiedeln this day,

  And we have spent all night in talk like this!

  If you would have me better for your love,

  Revert no more to these sad themes.

  Festus.

  One favour,

  And I have done. I leave you, deeply moved;

  Unwilling to have fared so well, the while

  My friend has changed so sorely. If this mood

  Shall pass away, if light once more arise

  Where all is darkness now, if you see fit

  To hope and trust again, and strive again,

  You will remember — not our love alone —

  But that my faith in God’s desire that man

  Should trust on his support, (as I must think

  You trusted) is obscured and dim through you:

  For you are thus, and this is no reward.

  Will you not call me to your side, dear Aureole?

  Part IV. Paracelsus Aspires

  Scene. —

  Colmar in Alsatia: an Inn. 1528.

  Paracelsus, Festus.

  Paracelsus.

  [to Johannes Oporinus, his Secretary]

  Sic itur ad astra! Dear Von Visenburg

  Is scandalized, and poor Torinus paralysed,

  And every honest soul that Basil holds

  Aghast; and yet we live, as one may say,

  Just as though Liechtenfels had never set

  So true a value on his sorry carcass,

  And learned Pütter had not frowned us dumb.

  We live; and shall as surely start to morrow

  For Nuremberg, as we drink speedy scathe

  To Basil in this mantling wine, suffused

  A delicate blush, no fainter tinge is born

  I’ the shut heart of a bud. Pledge me, good John —

  “Basil; a hot plague ravage it, and Pütter

  “Oppose the plague!” Even so? Do you too share


  Their panic, the reptiles? Ha, ha; faint through these,

  Desist for these! They manage matters so

  At Basil, ‘t is like: but others may find means

  To bring the stoutest braggart of the tribe

  Once more to crouch in silence — means to breed

  A stupid wonder in each fool again,

  Now big with admiration at the skill

  Which stript a vain pretender of his plumes:

  And, that done, — means to brand each slavish brow

  So deeply, surely, ineffaceably,

  That henceforth flattery shall not pucker it

  Out of the furrow; there that stamp shall stay

  To show the next they fawn on, what they are,

  This Basil with its magnates, — fill my cup, —

  Whom I curse soul and limb. And now despatch,

  Despatch, my trusty John; and what remains

  To do, whate’er arrangements for our trip

  Are yet to be completed, see you hasten

  This night; we’ll weather the storm at least: to-morrow

  For Nuremberg! Now leave us; this grave clerk

  Has divers weighty matters for my ear:

  [Oporinus goes out.]

  And spare my lungs. At last, my gallant Festus,

  I am rid of this arch-knave that dogs my heels

  As a gaunt crow a gasping sheep; at last

  May give a loose to my delight. How kind,

  How very kind, my first best only friend!

  Why, this looks like fidelity. Embrace me!

  Not a hair silvered yet? Right! you shall live

  Till I am worth your love; you shall be pround,

  And I — but let time show! Did you not wonder?

  I sent to you because our compact weighed

  Upon my conscience — (you recall the night

  At Basil, which the gods confound!) — because

  Once more I aspire. I call you to my side:

  You come. You thought my message strange?

  Festus.

  So strange

  That I must hope, indeed, your messenger

  Has mingled his own fancies with the words

  Purporting to be yours.

  Paracelsus.

  He said no more,

  ‘T is probable, than the precious folk I leave

  Said fiftyfold more roughly. Well-a-day,

  ‘T is true! poor Paracelsus is exposed

  At last; a most egregious quack he proves:

  And those he overreached must spit their hate

  On one who, utterly beneath contempt,

  Could yet deceive their topping wits. You heard

  Bare truth; and at my bidding you come here

  To speed me on my enterprise, as once

  Your lavish wishes sped me, my own friend!

  Festus.

  What is your purpose, Aureole?

  Paracelsus.

  Oh, for purpose,

  There is no lack of precedents in a case

  Like mine; at least, if not precisely mine,

  The case of men cast off by those they sought

  To benefit.

  Festus.

  They really cast you off?

  I only heard a vague tale of some priest,

  Cured by your skill, who wrangled at your claim,

  Knowing his life’s worth best; and how the judge

  The matter was referred to, saw no cause

  To interfere, nor you to hide your full

  Contempt of him; nor he, again, to smother

  His wrath thereat, which raised so fierce a flame

  That Basil soon was made no place for you.

  Paracelsus.

  The affair of Liechtenfels? the shallowest fable,

  The last and silliest outrage — mere pretence!

  I knew it, I foretold it from the first,

  How soon the stupid wonder you mistook

  For genuine loyalty — a cheering promise

  Of better things to come — would pall and pass;

  And every word comes true. Saul is among

  The prophets! Just so long as I was pleased

  To play off the mere antics of my art,

  Fantastic gambols leading to no end,

  I got huge praise: but one can ne’er keep down

  Our foolish nature’s weakness. There they flocked,

  Poor devils, jostling, swearing and perspiring,

  Till the walls rang again; and all for me!

  I had a kindness for them, which was right;

  But then I stopped not till I tacked to that

  A trust in them and a respect — a sort

  Of sympathy for them; I must needs begin

  To teach them, not amaze them, “to impart

  “The spirit which should instigate the search

  “Of truth,” just what you bade me! I spoke out.

  Forthwith a mighty squadron, in disgust,

  Filed off — ”the sifted chaff of the sack,” I said,

  Redoubling my endeavours to secure

  The rest. When lo! one man had tarried so long

  Only to ascertain if I supported

  This tenet of his, or that; another loved

  To hear impartially before he judged,

  And having heard, now judged; this bland disciple

  Passed for my dupe, but all along, it seems,

  Spied error where his neighbours marvelled most;

  That fiery doctor who had hailed me friend,

  Did it because my by-paths, once proved wrong

  And beaconed properly, would commend again

  The good old ways our sires jogged safely o’er,

  Though not their squeamish sons; the other worthy

  Discovered divers verses of St. John,

  Which, read successively, refreshed the soul,

  But, muttered backwards, cured the gout, the stone,

  The colic and what not. Quid multa? The end

  Was a clear class-room, and a quiet leer

  From grave folk, and a sour reproachful glance

  From those in chief who, cap in hand, installed

  The new professor scarce a year before;

  And a vast flourish about patient merit

  Obscured awhile by flashy tricks, but sure

  Sooner or later to emerge in splendour —

  Of which the example was some luckless wight

  Whom my arrival had discomfited,

  But now, it seems, the general voice recalled

  To fill my chair and so efface the stain

  Basil had long incurred. I sought no better,

  Only a quiet dismissal from my post,

  And from my heart I wished them better suited

  And better served. Good night to Basil, then!

  But fast as I proposed to rid the tribe

  Of my obnoxious back, I could not spare them

  The pleasure of a parting kick.

  Festus.

  You smile:

  Despise them as they merit!

  Paracelsus.

  If I smile,

  ‘T is with as very contempt as ever turned

  Flesh into stone. This courteous recompense,

  This grateful . . . Festus, were your nature fit

  To be defiled, your eyes the eyes to ache

  At gangrene-blotches, eating poison-blains,

  The ulcerous barky scurf of leprosy

  Which finds — a man, and leaves — a hideous thing

  That cannot but be mended by hell fire,

  — I would lay bare to you the human heart

  Which God cursed long ago, and devils make since

  Their pet nest and their never-tiring home.

  Oh, sages have discovered we are born

  For various ends — to love, to know: has ever

  One stumbled, in his search, on any signs

  Of a nature in us formed to hate? To hate?

  If that be our true object which evokes


  Our powers in fullest strength, be sure ‘t is hate!

  Yet men have doubted if the best and bravest

  Of spirits can nourish him with hate alone.

  I had not the monopoly of fools,

  It seems, at Basil.

  Festus.

  But your plans, your plans!

  I have yet to learn your purpose, Aureole!

  Paracelsus.

  Whether to sink beneath such ponderous shame,

  To shrink up like a crushed snail, undergo

  In silence and desist from further toil,

  and so subside into a monument

  Of one their censure blasted? or to bow

  Cheerfully as submissively, to lower

  My old pretensions even as Basil dictates,

  To drop into the rank her wits assign me

  And live as they prescribe, and make that use

  Of my poor knowledge which their rules allow,

  Proud to be patted now and then, and careful

  To practise the true posture for receiving

  The amplest benefit from their hoofs’ appliance

  When they shall condescend to tutor me?

  Then, one may feel resentment like a flame

  Within, and deck false systems in truth’s garb,

  And tangle and entwine mankind with error,

  And give them darkness for a dower and falsehood

  For a possession, ages: or one may mope

  Into a shade through thinking, or else drowse

  Into a dreamless sleep and so die off.

  But I, — now Festus shall divine! — but I

  Am merely setting out once more, embracing

  My earliest aims again! What thinks he now?

  Festus.

  Your aims? the aims? — to know? and where is found

  The early trust . . .

  Paracelsus.

  Nay, not so fast; I say,

  The aims — not the old means. You know they made me

  A laughing-stock; I was a fool; you know

  The when and the how: hardly those means again!

  Not but they had their beauty; who should know

  Their passing beauty, if not I? Still, dreams

  They were, so let them vanish, yet in beauty

  If that may be. Stay: thus they pass in song!

  [He sings.]

  Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes

  Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,

  Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes

  From out her hair: such balsam falls

  Down sea-side mountain pedestals,

  From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,

  Spent with the vast and howling main,

  To treasure half their island-gain.

  And strew faint sweetness from some old

  Egyptian’s fine worm-eaten shroud

  Which breaks to dust when once unrolled;

  Or shredded perfume, like a cloud

  From closet long to quiet vowed,

  With mothed and dropping arras hung,

  Mouldering her lute and books among,

 

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