And I must break my battle up, send forth,
Surround on this side, hold in check on that —
Then comes to-morrow, we negotiate,
You make me send for fresh instructions home,
— Incompleteness, incompleteness!
Brac. Ah, we scribes!
Why, I had registered that very point,
The non-appearance of our foes’ ally,
As a most happy fortune; both at once
Were formidable — singly faced, each falls.
Lur. So no great battle for my Florentines!
No crowning deed, decisive and complete,
For all of them, the simple as the wise,
Old, young, alike, that do not understand
Our wearisome pedantic art of war,
By which we prove retreat may be success,
Delay — best speed, — half loss, at times, — whole gain:
They want results — as if it were their fault!
And you, with warmest wish to be my friend,
Will not be able now to simply say
“Your servant has performed his task — enough!
“You ordered, he has executed: good!
“Now walk the streets in holiday attire,
“Congratulate your friends, till noon strikes fierce,
“Then form bright groups beneath the Duomo’s shade!
No! you will have to argue and explain,
Persuade them all is not so ill in the end,
Tease, tire them out! Arrive, arrive, Lucchese!
Dom. Well, you will triumph for the Past enough,
Whatever be the Present’s chance — no service
Falls to the ground with Florence; she awaits
Her saviour, will receive him fittingly.
Lur. Ah, Braccio, you know Florence. . . . will she, think you,
Receive one. . . what means “fittingly receive?”
— Receive compatriots, doubtless — I am none
And yet Domizia promises so much!
Brac. Kind women still give men a woman’s prize.
I know not o’er which gate most boughs will arch,
Nor if the Square will wave red flags or blue —
I should have judged, the fullest of rewards
Our State gave Luria, when she made him chief
Of her whole force, in her best Captain’s place.
Lur. That my reward? Florence on my account
Relieved Ser Puccio? — mark you, my reward!
And Puccio’s having all the fight’s true joy —
Goes here and there, directs, may fight himself,
While I must order, stand aloof, o’ersee!
That was my calling — there was my true place!
I should have felt, in some one over me,
Florence impersonate, my visible Head,
As I am over Puccio, — taking life
Directly from her eye! — They give me you!
But do you cross me, set me half to work?
I enjoy nothing — but I will, for once!
Decide, shall we join battle? may I wait?
Brac. Let us compound the matter; wait till noon;
Then, no arrival, —
Lur. Ah, noon comes too fast!
I wonder, do you guess why I delay
Involuntarily the final blow
As long as possible? Peace follows it!
Florence at peace, and the calm studious heads
Come out again, the penetrating eyes;
As if a spell broke, all’s resumed, each art
You boast, more vivid that it slept awhile!
‘Gainst the glad heaven, o’er the white palace-front
The interrupted scaffold climbs anew;
The walls are peopled by the Painter’s brush;
The Statue to its niche ascends to dwell;
The Present’s noise and trouble have retired
And left the eternal Past to rule once more. —
You speak its speech and read its records plain,
Greece lives with you, each Roman breathes your friend,
— But Luria — where will then be Luria’s place?
Dom. Highest in honour, for that Past’s own sake,
Of which his actions, sealing up the sum
By saving all that went before from wreck,
Will range as part, with which be worshipped too.
Lur. Then I may walk and watch you in your streets
Leading the life my rough life helps no more,
So different, so new, so beautiful —
Nor fear that you will tire to see parade
The club that slew the lion, now that crooks
And shepherd-pipes come into use again?
For very lone and silent seems my East
In its drear vastness — still it spreads, and still
No Braccios, no Domizias anywhere —
Not ever more! — Well, well, to-day is ours!
Dom. [to BRAC.] Should he not have been one of us?
Lur. Oh, no!
Not one of you, and so escape the thrill
Of coming into you, and changing thus, —
Feeling a soul grow on me that restricts
The boundless unrest of the savage heart!
The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o’er the land,
Breaks there and buries its tumultuous strength;
Horror, and silence, and a pause awhile;
Lo, inland glides the gulf-stream, miles away,
In rapture of assent, subdued and still,
‘Neath those strange banks, those unimagined skies!
Well, ‘tis not sure the quiet lasts for ever!
Your placid heads still find our hands new work;
Some minutes’ chance — there comes the need of mine —
And, all resolved on, I too hear at last.
Oh, you must find some use for me, Ser Braccio!
You hold my strength; ‘twere best dispose of it!
What you created, see that you find food for —
I shall be dangerous else!
Brac. How dangerous, Sir?
Lur. Oh, there are many ways, Domizia warns me,
And one with half the power that I possess,
Grows very formidable! Do you doubt?
Why, first, who holds the army. . . .
Dom. While we talk
Morn wears, we keep you from your proper place
In the field! —
Lur. Nay, to the field I move no more!
My part is done, and Puccio’s may begin!
I cannot trench upon his province longer
With any face. — You think yourselves so safe?
Why see — in concert with Tiburzio, now —
One could. . .
Dom. A trumpet!
Lur. My Lucchese at last!
Arrived, as sure as Florence stands! your leave!
[Springs out.
Dom. How plainly is true greatness characters
By such unconsciousness as Luria’s here,
And sharing least the secret of itself!
Be it with head that schemes or hand that acts,
Such save the world which none but they could save,
Yet think whate’er they did, that world could do.
Brac. Yes: and how worthy note, that those same great ones
In hand or head, with such unconsciousness
And all its due entailed humility,
Should never shrink, so far as I perceive,
From taking up whatever offices
Involve the whole world’s safety or mishap,
Into their mild hands as a thing of course!
The Statist finds it natural to lead
The mob who might as easily lead him —
The Soldier marshals men who know as much —
Statist and Soldier verily believe!
While we poor scribes. . . . you catch me thinking, now,
That I shall in this very letter write
&n
bsp; What none of you are able! To it, Lapo!
[DOMIZIA goes.
This last, worst, all affected childish fit
Of Luria’s, this be-praised unconsciousness,
Convinces me: the Past was no child’s play;
It was a man beat Pisa, — not a child.
All’s mere dissimulation — to remove
The fear, he best knows we should entertain.
The utmost danger was at hand. Is’t written?
Now make a duplicate, lest this should fail,
And speak your fullest on the other side.
Sec. I noticed he was busily repairing
My half-effacement of his Duomo sketch,
And, while he spoke of Florence, turned to it,
As the Mage Negro King to Christ the Babe. —
I judge his childishness the true relapse
To boyhood of a man who has worked lately,
And presently will work, so, meantime plays:
Whence more than ever I believe in him.
Brac. [after a pause.] The sword! At best, the soldier, as he says,
In Florence — the black face, the barbarous name,
For Italy to boast her show of the age,
Her man of men! — To Florence with each letter!
Act II
NOON
Dom. Well, Florence, shall I reach thee, pierce thy heart
Thro’ all its safeguards? Hate is said to help —
Quicken the eye, invigorate the arm,
And this my hate, made up of many hates,
Might stand in scorn of visible instrument,
And will thee dead: — yet do I trust it not.
Nor Man’s devices, nor Heaven’s memory
Of wickedness forgot on Earth so soon,
But thy own nature, — Hell and thee I trust,
To keep thee constant in that wickedness,
Where my revenge may meet thee: turn aside
A single step, for gratitude, or shame, —
Grace but this Luria, this wild mass of rage
That I prepare to launch against thee now,
With other payment than thy noblest found, —
Give his desert for once its due reward, —
And past thee would my sure destruction roll.
But thou, who mad’st our House thy sacrifice,
It cannot be thou wilt except this Moor
From the accustomed fate of zeal and truth;
Thou wilt deny his looked-for recompense,
And then — I reach thee! Old and trained, my sire
Could bow down on his quiet broken heart,
Die awe-struck and submissive, when at last
The strange blow came for the expected wreath;
And Porzio passed in blind bewilderment
To exile, never to return, — they say,
Perplexed in his frank simple honest soul,
As if some natural law had changed, — how else
Could Florence, on plain fact pronouncing thus,
Judge Porzio’s actions worthy such an end?
But Berto, with the ever-passionate pulse,
— Oh that long night, its dreadful hour on hour,
In which no way of getting his fair fame
From their inexplicable charges free,
Was found, save pouring forth the impatient blood
To show its colour whether false or no!
My brothers never had a friend like me
Close in their need to watch the time, then speak,
— Burst with a wakening laughter on their dream,
Say, Florence was all falseness, so false here, —
And show them what a simple task remained —
To leave dreams, rise, and punish in God’s name
The City wedded to its wickedness —
None stood by them as I by Luria stand!
So, when the stranger cheated of his due
Turns on thee as his rapid nature bids,
Then, Florence, think, a hireling at thy throat
For the first outrage, think who bore thy last,
Yet mutely in forlorn obedience died!
lie comes. . . . his friend. . . . black faces in the camp
Where moved those peerless brows and eyes of old!
Enter LURIA and HUSAIN.
Dom. Well, and the movement — is it as you hope?
‘Tis Lucca?
Lur. Ah, the Pisan trumpet merely!
Tiburzio’s envoy, I must needs receive —
Don. Whom I withdraw before; yet if I lingered
You could not wonder, for my time fleets fast;
The overtaking night brings such reward! —
And where will then be room for me? Yet still
Remember who was first to promise it,
And envies those who also can perform! [Goes.
Lur. This trumpet from the Pisans? —
Hus. In the camp;
A very noble presence — Braccio’s visage
On Puccio’s body — calm and fixed and good;
A man I seem as I had seen before —
Most like, it was some statue had the face.
Lur. Admit him! This will prove the last delay!
Hus. Ay, friend, go on, and die thou going on!
Thou heard’st what the grave woman said but now:
To-night rewards thee! That is well to hear!
But stop not therefore; hear it, and go on!
Lur. Oh, their reward and triumph and the rest
They round me in the ears with, all day long?
All that, I never take for earnest, friend!
Well would it suit us, — their triumphal arch
Or storied pillar, — thee and me, the Moors!
But gratitude in those Italian eyes —
That, we shall get?
Hus. It is too cold an air —
Our sun rose out of yonder mound of mist —
Where is he now? So I trust none of them!
Lur. Truly?
Hus. I doubt and fear. There stands a wall
‘Twixt our expansive and explosive race
And those absorbing, concentrating men!
They use thee!
Lur. And I feel it, Husain; yes,
And care not — yes, an alien force like mine
Is only called to play its part outside
Their different nature; where its sole use seems
To fight with and keep off an adverse force
As alien, — which repelled, mine too withdraws;
Inside, they know not what to do with me;
So I have told them laughingly and oft,
But long since I prepared to learn the worst.
Hus. What is the worst?
Lur. I will forestall them, Husain
And speak my destiny, they dare not speak —
Banish myself before they find the heart!
I will be first to say, “the work rewards!
“I know, for all your praise, my use is over,
“So may it be! — meanwhile ‘tis best I go,
“And carry safe my memories of you all
“To other scenes of action, newer lands,” —
Thus leaving them confirmed in their belief
They would not easily have tired of me!
You think this hard to say?
Hus. Say it or not,
So thou but go, so they but let thee go!
This hating people, that hate each the other,
And in one blandness to us Moors unite —
Locked each to each like slippery snakes, I say,
Which still in all their tangles, hissing tongue
And threatening tail, ne’er do each other harm;
While any creature of a better blood,
They seem to fight for, while they circle safe
And never touch it, — pines without a wound,
Withers away before their eyes and breath.
See thou, if Puccio come not safely o
ut
Of Braccio’s grasp, this Braccio sworn his foe,
As Braccio safely from Domizia’s toils
Who hates him most! — But thou, the friend of all,
. . . . Come out of them!
Lur. The Pisan trumpet now!
Hus. Breathe free — it is an enemy, no friend!
[Goes.
Lur. He keeps his instincts, no new culture mars
Their perfect use in him; just so the brutes
Rest not, are anxious without visible cause,
When change is in the elements at work,
Which man’s trained senses fail to apprehend.
But here, — he takes the distant chariot-wheels
For thunder, festal fire for lightning’s flash,
The finer traits of cultivated life
For treachery and malevolence: I see!
Enter TIBURZIO.
Lur. Quick, sir, your message. I but wait your message
To sound the charge. You bring not overtures
For truce? — I would not, for your General’s sake,
You spoke of truce — a time to fight is come,
And whatsoe’er the fight’s event, he keeps
His honest soldier’s name to beat me with,
Or leaves me all himself to beat, I trust!
Tib. I am Tiburzio.
Lur. You? ‘Tis — yes. . . . Tiburzio!
You were the last to keep the ford i’ the valley
From Puccio, when I threw in succours there!
Why, I was on the heights — thro’ the defile
Ten minutes after, when the prey was lost;
You wore an open scull-cap with a twist
Of water-reeds — the plume being hewn away;
While I drove down my battle from the heights,
— I saw with my own eyes!
Tib. And you are Luria
Who sent my cohort, that laid down its arms
In error of the battle-signal’s sense,
Back safely to me at the critical time —
One of a hundred deeds — I know you! Therefore
To none but you could I. . . .
Lur. No truce, Tiburzio!
Tib. Luria, you know the peril’s imminent
On Pisa, — that you have us in the toils,
Us her last safeguard, all that intercepts
The rage of her implacablest of foes
From Pisa, — if we fall to-day, she falls.
Tho’ Lucca will arrive, yet, ‘tis too late.
You have so plainly here the best of it,
That you must feel, brave soldier as you are,
How dangerous we grow in this extreme,
How truly formidable by despair.
Still, probabilities should have their weight —
The extremest chance is ours, but, that chance failing.
You win this battle. Wherefore say I this?
To be well apprehended when I add,
This danger absolutely comes from you.
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 288