(This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears rise up
Too hot . . A thin mist — is it blood? — enwraps
The face I loved so!) Then, shall the meeting be!
Then — then — then — I may kiss that hand, I know!
STRAFFORD.
(Walks calmly up to PYM and offers his hand.)
I have loved England too; we’ll meet then, Pym!
As well to die! Youth is the time — our youth,
To think and to decide on a great course:
Age with its action follows; but ‘tis dreary
To have to alter one’s whole life in age —
The time past, the strength gone! as well die now.
When we meet, Pym, I’d be set right — not now!
I’d die as I have lived . . too late to change!
Best die. Then if there’s any fault, it will
Be smothered up: much best! You’ll be too busy
With your hereafter, you will have achieved
Too many triumphs to be always dwelling
Upon my downfall, Pym? Poor little Laud
May dream his dream out of a perfect Church
In some blind corner? And there’s no one left . . .
(He glances on the KING.)
I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym!
And yet . . I know not! What if with this weakness . . .
And I shall not be there . . . And he’ll betray
His friends — if he has any . . . And he’s false . .
And loves the Queen, and . .
Oh, my fate is nothing —
Nothing! But not that awful head . . not that!
Pym, save the King! Pym, save him! Stay — you shall . . .
For you love England! I, that am dying, think
What I must see . . ‘tis here . . all here! My God!
Let me but gasp out, in one word of fire,
How Thou wilt plague him, satiating Hell!
What? England that you love — our land — become
A green and putrefying charnel, left
Our children . . . some of us have children, Pym —
Some who, without that, still must ever wear
A darkened brow, an over-serious look,
And never properly be young . . .
No word!
You will not say a word — to me — to Him!
(Turning to CHARLES.)
Speak to him . . . as you spoke to me . . . that day!
Nay, I will let you pray to him, my King —
Pray to him! He will kiss your feet, I know!
What if I curse you? Send a strong Curse forth
Clothed from my heart, lapped round with horror, till
She’s fit, with her white face, to walk the world
Scaring kind natures from your cause and you — —
Then to sit down with you, at the board-head,
The gathering for prayer. . . .
VANE.
O speak, Pym! Speak!
STRAFFORD.
. . . Creep up, and quietly follow each one home —
You — you — you — be a nestling Care for each
To sleep with, hardly moaning in his dreams . . .
She gnaws so quietly . . . until he starts —
Gets off with half a heart eaten away . . .
Oh you shall ‘scape with less, if she’s my child!
VANE (to PYM).
We never thought of this . . . surely not dreamed
Of this . . it never can . . . could come to this!
PYM (after a pause).
If England should declare her will to me . . .
STRAFFORD.
No — not for England, now — not for Heaven, now . . .
See, Pym — for me! My sake! I kneel to you!
There . . I will thank you for the death . . . my friend,
This is the meeting . . . you will send me proud
To my chill grave! Dear Pym — I’ll love you well!
Save him for me, and let me love you well!
PYM.
England — — I am thine own! Dost thou exact
That service? I obey thee to the end!
STRAFFORD (as he totters out).
O God, I shall die first — I shall die first!
Curtain falls.
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. I: PIPPA PASSES
This dramatic piece was published in 1841 as the first volume of Browning’s Bells and Pomegranates series, in a very inexpensive two-column edition for sixpence. It was republished seven years later as Poems, when it received more critical attention. It was dedicated to Thomas Noon Talfourd, who had recently attained fame as the author of the tragedy Ion. Browning described the work as “the first of a series of dramatic pieces”.
The narrative concerns an innocent silk-winding girl, who wanders through the environs of Asolo, in her mind attributing kindness and virtue to the people she encounters. She sings as she goes, her song influencing others to act for good and reminding them of the existence of a moral order. Interestingly, the dramatic poem contains the famous quotation: “God’s in his Heaven/All’s right with the world!”.
An 1854 illustration of the dramatic poem
CONTENTS
Day
I — MORNING.
II — NOON.
III. — EVENING.
IV. — NIGHT.
I DEDICATE MY BEST INTENTIONS, IN THIS POEM,
ADMIRINGLY TO THE AUTHOR OF ‘ION,’ —
AFFECTIONATELY TO MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD.
London, 1841.
R.B.
Day
NEW YEAR’S DAY AT ASOLO IN THE TREVISAN.
A large, mean, airy chamber. A girl, PIPPA, from the silk-mills, springing out of bed.
DAY!
Faster and more fast,
O’er night’s brim, day boils at last;
Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim
Where spurting and supprest it lay —
For not a froth-flake touched the rim
Of yonder gap in the solid gray
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be supprest,
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.
Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,
A mite of my twelve-hours’ treasure,
The least of thy gazes or glances,
(Be they grants thou art bound to, or gifts above measure)
One of thy choices, or one of thy chances,
(Be they tasks God imposed thee, or freaks at thy pleasure)
— My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure,
Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!
Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing,
Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good —
Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going,
As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood —
All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not
As the prosperous are treated, these who live
At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot,
In readiness to take what thou wilt give,
And free to let alone what thou refusest;
For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest
Me, who am only Pippa, — old-year’s sorrow,
Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow —
Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow
Sufficient strength of thee for new-year’s sorrow.
All other men and women that this earth
Belongs to, who all days alike possess,
Make general plenty cure particular dearth,
Get more joy, one way, if another, less:
Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven
What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven, —
Sole light that h
elps me through the year thy sun’s!
Try, now! Take Asolo’s Four Happiest Ones —
And let thy morning rain on that superb
Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb
Her Sebald’s homage? All the while thy rain
Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane,
He will but press the closer, breathe more warm
Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm?
And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom
O’er Jules and Phene, — what care bride and groom
Save for their dear selves? ‘Tis their marriage-day;
And while they leave church, and go home their way,
Hand clasping hand, — within each breast would be
Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee!
Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve
With mist, — will Luigi and his mother grieve —
The Lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,
She in her age, as Luigi in his youth,
For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close,
And safe, the sooner that thou art morose,
Receives them! And yet once again, out-break
In storm at night on Monsignor, they make
Such stir about, — whom they expect from Rome
To visit Asolo, his brother’s home,
And say here masses proper to release
A soul from pain, — what storm dares hurt his peace?
Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward
Thy thunder off, nor want the angels’ guard!
But Pippa — just one such mischance would spoil
Her day that lightens the next twelve-month’s toil
At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil!
And here I let time slip for nought!
Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam — caught
With a single splash from my ewer!
You that would mock the best pursuer,
Was my basin over-deep?
One splash of water ruins you asleep,
And up, up fleet your brilliant bits
Wheeling and counterwheeling,
Reeling, broken beyond healing —
Now grow together on the ceiling!
That will task your wits!
Whoever quenched fire first, hoped to see
Morsel after morsel flee
As merrily, as giddily . . .
Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,
Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple?
Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon?
New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes’ nipple,
Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird’s poll!
Be sure if corals, branching ‘neath the ripple
Of ocean, bud there, — fairies watch unroll
Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse
Thick red flame through that dusk green universe!
I am queen of thee, floweret;
And each fleshy blossom
Preserve I not — (safer
Than leaves that enbower it,
Or shells that embosom)
— From weevil and chafer?
Laugh through my pane, then; solicit the bee;
Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,
Love thy queen, worship me!
— Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,
Whate’er I please? What shall I please to-day?
My morning, noon, eve, night — how spend my day?
To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk,
The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk:
But, this one day, I have leave to go,
And play out my fancy’s fullest games;
I may fancy all day — and it shall be so —
That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names
Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo!
See! Up the Hill-side yonder, through the morning,
Some one shall love me, as the world calls love:
I am no less than Ottima, take warning!
The gardens, and the great stone house above,
And other house for shrubs, all glass in front,
Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont,
To court me, while old Luca yet reposes;
And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses,
I . . . what, now? — give abundant cause for prate
About me — Ottima, I mean — of late,
Too bold, too confident she’ll still face down
The spitefullest of talkers in our town —
How we talk in the little town below!
But love, love love — there’s better love, I know!
This foolish love was only day’s first offer;
I choose my nest love to defy the scoffer:
For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally
Out of Possagno church at noon?
Their house looks over Orcana valley —
Why should not I be the bride as soon
As Ottima? For I saw, beside,
Arrive last night that little bride —
Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash
Of the pale, snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses,
Blacker than all except the black eyelash;
I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!
— So strict was she, the veil
Should cover close her pale
Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and scarce touch,
Scarce touch, remember, Jules! — for are not such
Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature,
As if one’s breath would fray the lily of a creature?
A soft and easy life these ladies lead!
Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed —
Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,
Keep that toot its lady primness,
Let those ankles never swerve
From their exquisite reserve,
Yet have to trip along the streets like me,
All but naked to the knee!
How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss
So startling as her real first infant kiss?
Oh, no — not envy, this!
— Not envy, sure! — for if you gave me
Leave to take or to refuse,
In earnest, do you think I’d choose
That sort of new love to enslave me?
Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning;
As little fear of losing it as winning!
Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives,
And only parents’ love can last our lives.
At eve the son and mother, gentle pair,
Commune inside our Turret; what prevents
My being Luigi? while that mossy lair
Of lizards through the winter-time, is stirred
With each to each imparting sweet intents
For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird —
(For I observe of late, the evening walk
Of Luigi and his mother, always ends
Inside our ruined turret, where they talk,
Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends)
— Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,
And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;
Let me be Luigi! If I only knew
What was my mother’s face — my father, too!
Nay, if you come to that, best love of all
Is God’s; then why not have God’s love befall
Myself as, in the Palace by the Dome,
Monsignor? — who to-night will bless the home
Of his dead brother; and God will bless in turn
That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn
With love for all men: I, to-night at least,
Would be that holy and beloved priest!
Now Wait! — even I already seem to share
In
God’s love: what does New-year’s hymn declare?
What other meaning do these verses bear?
All service ranks the same with God:
If now, as formerly He trod
Paradise, His presence fills
Our earth, each only as God wills
Can work — God’s puppets, best and worst,
Are we; there is no last nor first.
Say not ‘a small event!’ Why ‘small?’
Costs it more pain than this, ye call
A ‘great event,’ should come to pass,
Than that? Untwine me from the mass
Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in, or exceed!
And more of it, and more of it! — oh, yes —
I will pass by, and see their happiness,
And envy none — being just as great, no doubt,
Useful to men, and dear to God, as they!
A pretty thing to care about
So mightily, this single holiday!
But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine?
— With thee to lead me, O Day of mine,
Down the grass-path grey with dew,
Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs,
Where the swallow never flew
As yet, nor cicala dared carouse —
Dared carouse!
I — MORNING.
Up the Hill-side, inside the Shrub-house. LUCA’S Wife, OTTIMA, and her Paramour the German SEBALD.
Seb. [sings.]
Let the watching lids wink!
Day’s a-blaze with eyes, think —
Deep into the night, drink!
Otti. Night? Such may be your Rhineland nights, perhaps;
But this blood-red beam through the shutter’s chink,
— We call such light, the morning’s: let us see!
Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tall
Naked geraniums straggle! Push the lattice
Behind that frame! — Nay, do I bid you? — Sebald,
It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of course
The slide-bolt catches. — Well, are you content,
Or must I find you something else to spoil?
Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is it full morning?
Oh, don’t speak then!
Seb. Ay, thus it used to be!
Ever your house was, I remember, shut
Till mid-day — I observed that, as I strolled
On mornings through the vale here: country girls
Were noisy, washing garments in the brook
Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills,
But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye!
And wisely — you were plotting one thing there,
Nature, another outside: I looked up —
Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 258