Chapter 9

Give your first groan--compunction's at work And soft! from a Jew you mount to a Turk. Lo, Micah,--the selfsame beard on chin He was four times already converted in! 40 Here's a knife, clip quick--it's a sign of grace-- Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face.

VIII

Whom now is the bishop a-leering at? I know a point where his text falls pat. I'll tell him to-morrow, a word just now Went to my heart and made me vow I meddle no more with the worst of trades-- Let somebody else pay his serenades.

IX

Groan all together now, whee-hee-hee! It's a-work, it's a-work, ah, woe is me! 50 It began, when a herd of us, picked and placed, Were spurred through the Corso, stripped to the waist; Jew brutes, with sweat and blood well spent To usher in worthily Christian Lent.

X

It grew, when the hangman entered our bounds, Yelled, pricked us out to his church like hounds: It got to a pitch, when the hand indeed Which gutted my purse would throttle my creed: And it overflows when, to even the odd, Men I helped to their sins help me to their God. 60

XI

But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock, And the rest sit silent and count the clock, Since forced to muse the appointed time On these precious facts and truths sublime, Let us fitly employ it, under our breath, In saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death.

XII

For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died, Called sons and sons' sons to his side, And spoke, "This world has been harsh and strange; Something is wrong: there needeth change. 70 But what, or where? at the last or first? In one point only we sinned, at worst.

XIII

"The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet, And again in his border see Israel set. When Judah beholds Jerusalem, The stranger-seed shall be joined to them: To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles cleave. So the Prophet saith and his sons believe.

XIV

"Ay, the children of the chosen race Shall carry and bring them to their place: 80 In the land of the Lord shall lead the same Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame, When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'er The oppressor triumph for evermore?

XV

"God spoke, and gave us the word to keep, Bade never fold the hands nor sleep 'Mid a faithless world, at watch and ward, Till Christ at the end relieve our guard. By His servant Moses the watch was set: Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet. 90

XVI

"Thou! if thou wast He, who at mid-watch came, By the starlight, naming a dubious name! And if, too heavy with sleep--too rash With fear--O Thou, if that martyr-gash Fell on Thee coming to take thine own, And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne--

XVII

"Thou art the Judge. We are bruised thus. But, the Judgment over, join sides with us! Thine too is the cause! and not more thine Than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine, 100 Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed! Who maintain Thee in word, and defy Thee in deed!

XVIII

"We withstood Christ then? Be mindful how At least we withstand Barabbas now! Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared, To have called these--Christians, had we dared! Let defiance to them pay mistrust of Thee, And Rome make amends for Calvary!

XIX

"By the torture, prolonged from age to age, By the infamy, Israel's heritage, 110 By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace, By the badge of shame, by the felon's place, By the branding-tool, the bloody whip, And the summons to Christian fellowship,--

XX

"We boast our proof that at least the Jew Would wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew. Thy face took never so deep a shade But we fought them in it, God our aid! A trophy to bear, as we march, thy band, South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!" 120

[Pope Gregory XVI abolished this bad business of the Sermon. --R. B.]

NOTES: "Holy-Cross Day" reflects the attitude of the corrupt mediaeval Christians and Jews toward each other. The prose preceding the poem gives the point of view of an imaginary Bishop's Secretary, who congratulates himself upon the good work the Church is doing in forcing its doctrine on the Jews in the Holy-Cross Day sermon, and effecting many conversions. The poem shows that the Jews regard this solicitude on the part of the Christians with hatred and scorn, and that their conversions are in derision of their would-be converters. The sarcasm of the speaker reaches a pinnacle of bitterness when he accuses the Christian bishops of being men he had helped to their sins and who now help him to their God. From scorn toward such followers of Christ, he passes, in the contemplation of Rabbi Ben Ezra's death song, to a defence of Christ against these followers who profess but do not act his precepts, and a hope that if the Jews were mistaken in not accepting Christ, the tortures they now suffer will be received as expiation for their sin.

Holy-Cross Day is September 14. The discovery of the true cross by Saint Helen inaugurated the festival, celebrated both by Latins and Greeks as early as the fifth or sixth century, under the title of the Exaltation of the Cross and later in commemoration of the alleged miraculous appearance of the Cross to Constantine in the sky at midday. Though the particular incidents of the poem are not historical, it is a fact (see Milman's "History of the Jews'') that, by a Papal Bull issued by Gregory XIII in 1584, all Jews above the age of twelve years were compelled to listen every week to a sermon from a Christian priest.

52. Corso: a street in Rome

67. Rabbi Ben Ezra: or Ibn Ezra, a mediaeval Jewish writer and thinker, born in Toledo, near the end of the eleventh century.

III. Ghetto: the Jew's quarter. Pope Paul IV first shut the Jews up in the Ghetto, and prohibited them from leaving it after sunset.

PROTUS

Among these latter busts we count by scores, Half-emperors and quarter-emperors, Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest, Loric and low-browed Gorgon on the breast, One loves a baby face, with violets there, Violets instead of laurel in the hair, As those were all the little locks could bear.

Now, read here. "Protus ends a period Of empery beginning with a god; Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, 10 Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant: And if he quickened breath there, 'twould like fire Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. A fame that he was missing spread afar: The world from its four corners, rose in war, Till he was borne out on a balcony To pacify the world when it should see. The captains ranged before him, one, his hand Made baby points at, gained the chief command. And day by day more beautiful he grew 20 In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, While young Greek sculptors, gazing on the child, Became with old Greek sculpture reconciled. Already sages laboured to condense In easy tomes a life's experience: And artists took grave counsel to impart In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art, To make his graces prompt as blossoming Of plentifully-watered palms in spring: Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, 30 For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, And mortals love the letters of his name."

--Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same. New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say How that same year, on such a month and day, "John the Pannonian, groundedly believed A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved The Empire from its fate the year before, Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore The same for six years (during which the Huns 40 Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons Put something in his liquor"--and so forth. Then a new reign. Stay--"Take at its just worth" (Subjoins an annotator) "what I give As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live And slip away. 'Tis said, he reached man's age At some blind northern court; made, first a page, Then tutor to the children; last, of use About the hunting-stables. I deduce He wrote the little tract 'On worming dogs,' 50 Whereof the name in sundry catalogues Is extant yet. A Protus of the race Is rumoured to have died a monk in Thrace, And if the same, he reached senility."

Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye, Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can To give you the crown-grasper. What a man!

NOTES: "Protus" sets in contrast the representations by artist and annalist of the two busts and the two lives of Protus, the baby emperor of Byzantium, born in the purple, gently nurtured and cherished, yet fated to obscurity, and of John, the blacksmith's bastard, predestined to usurp his throne and save the empire with his harder hand.

THE STATUE AND THE BUST

There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well, And a statue watches it from the square, And this story of both do our townsmen tell.

Ages ago, a lady there, At the farthest window facing the East Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?"

The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased; She leaned forth, one on either hand; They saw how the blush of the bride increased--

They felt by its beats her heart expand-- 10 As one at each ear and both in a breath Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand."

That self-same instant, underneath, The Duke rode past in his idle way, Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay, Till he threw his head back--"Who is she?" "A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day."

Hair in heaps lay heavily Over a pale brow spirit-pure-- 20 Carved like the heart of a coal-black tree,

Crisped like a war-steed's encolure-- And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes Of the blackest black our eyes endure.

And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise Filled the fine empty sheath of a man-- The Duke grew straightway brave and wise.

He looked at her, as a lover can; She looked at him, as one who awakes: The past was a sleep, and her life began. 30

Now, love so ordered for both their sakes, A feast was held that selfsame night In the pile which the mighty shadow makes.

(For Via Larga is three-parts light, But the palace overshadows one, Because of a crime which may God requite!

To Florence and God the wrong was done, Through the first republic's murder there By Cosimo and his cursed son.)

The Duke (with the statue's face in the square) 40 Turned in the midst of his multitude At the bright approach of the bridal pair.

Face to face the lovers stood A single minute and no more, While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued--

Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor-- For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, As the courtly custom was of yore.

In a minute can lovers exchange a word? If a word did pass, which I do not think, 50 Only one out of the thousand heard.

That was the bridegroom. At day's brink He and his bride were alone at last In a bedchamber by a taper's blink.

Calmly he said that her lot was cast, That the door she had passed was shut on her Till the final catafalk repassed.

The world meanwhile, its noise and stir, Through a certain window facing the East, She could watch like a convent's chronicler. 60

Since passing the door might lead to a feast And a feast might lead to so much beside, He, of many evils, chose the least.

"Freely I choose too," said the bride-- "Your window and its world suffice," Replied the tongue, while the heart replied--

"If I spend the night with that devil twice, May his window serve as my loop of hell Whence a damned soul looks on paradise!

"I fly to the Duke who loves me well, 70 Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow! Ere I count another ave-bell,

"'Tis only the coat of a page to borrow, And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim, And I save my soul--but not to-morrow"--

(She checked herself and her eye grew dim) "My father tarries to bless my state: I must keep it one day more for him.

"Is one day more so long to wait? Moreover the Duke rides past, I know; 80 We shall see each other, sure as fate."

She turned on her side and slept. Just so! So we resolve on a thing and sleep: So did the lady, ages ago.

That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove To body or soul, I will drain it deep."

And on the morrow, bold with love, He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call, As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) 90

And smiled, "'Twas a very funeral, Your lady will think, this feast of ours, A shame to efface, whate'er befall!

"What if we break from the Arno bowers, And try if Petraja, cool and green, Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?"

The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen On his steady brow and quiet mouth, Said, "Too much favour for me so mean!

"But, alas! my lady leaves the South; 100 Each wind that comes from the Apennine Is a menace to her tender youth:

"Nor a way exists, the wise opine, If she quits her palace twice this year, To avert the flower of life's decline."

Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear. Moreover Petraja is cold this spring: Be our feast to-night as usual here!"

And then to himself--"Which night shall bring Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool-- 110 Or I am the fool, and thou art the king!

"Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool-- For to-night the Envoy arrives from France Whose heart I unlock with thyself my tool.

"I need thee still and might miss perchance. To-day is not wholly lost, beside, With its hope of my lady's countenance:

"For I ride--what should I do but ride? And passing her palace, if I list, May glance at its window-well betide!" 120

So said, so done: nor the lady missed One ray that broke from the ardent brow, Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed.

Be sure that each renewed the vow, No morrow's sun should arise and set And leave them then as it left them now.

But next day passed, and next day yet, With still fresh cause to wait one day more Ere each leaped over the parapet.

And still, as love's brief morning wore, 130 With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh, They found love not as it seemed before.

They thought it would work infallibly, But not in despite of heaven and earth: The rose would blow when the storm passed by.

Meantime they could profit in winter's dearth By store of fruits that supplant the rose: The world and its ways have a certain worth:

And to press a point while these oppose Were simple policy; better wait: 140 We lose no friends and we gain no foes.

Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate Who daily may ride and pass and look Where his lady watches behind the grate!

And she--she watched the square like a book Holding one picture and only one, Which daily to find she undertook:

When the picture was reached the book was done, And she turned from the picture at night to scheme Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 150

So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam The glory dropped from their youth and love, And both perceived they had dreamed a dream;

Which hovered as dreams do, still above: But who can take a dream for a truth? Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove!

One day as the lady saw her youth Depart, and the silver thread that streaked Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth,

The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked, 160 And wondered who the woman was, Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,

Fronting her silent in the glass-- "Summon here," she suddenly said, "Before the rest of my old self pass,

"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, Who fashions the clay no love will change And fixes a beauty never to fade.

"Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange Arrest the remains of young and fair, 170 And rivet them while the seasons range.

"Make me a face on the window there, Waiting as ever, mute the while, My love to pass below in the square!

"And let me think that it may beguile Dreary days which the dead must spend Down in their darkness under the aisle,

"To say, 'What matters it at the end? 'I did no more while my heart was warm Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.' 180

"Where is the use of the lip's red charm, The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, And the blood that blues the inside arm--

"Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, The earthly gift to an end divine? A lady of clay is as good, I trow."

But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine, With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, Was set where now is the empty shrine--

(And, leaning out of a bright blue space, 190 As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky, The passionate pale lady's face--

Eyeing ever, with earnest eye And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch, Some one who ever is passing by)

The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch In Florence, "Youth--my dream escapes! Will its record stay?" And he bade them fetch

Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes-- "Can the soul, the will, die out of a man 200 Ere his body find the grave that gapes?

"John of Douay shall effect my plan, Set me on horseback here aloft, Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,

"In the very square I have crossed so oft: That men may admire, when future suns Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,

"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze-- Admire and say, 'When he was alive How he would take his pleasure once!' 210

"And it shall go hard but I contrive To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb At idleness which aspires to strive."

So! While these wait the trump of doom, How do their spirits pass, I wonder, Nights and days in the narrow room?

Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder What a gift life was, ages ago, Six steps out of the chapel yonder.

Only they see not God, I know, 220 Nor all that chivalry of his, The soldier-saints who, row on row,

Burn upward each to his point of bliss-- Since, the end of life being manifest, He had burned his way thro' the world to this.

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test,

As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself 230 And prove its worth at a moment's view!

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf Where a button goes, 'twere an epigram To offer the stamp of the very Guelph.

The true has no value beyond the sham: As well the counter as coin, I submit, When your table's a hat, and your prize a dram.

Stake your counter as boldly every whit, Venture as warily, use the same skill, Do your best, whether winning or losing it, 240

If you choose to play!--is my principle. Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will!

The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin: And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost

Is--the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say. You of the virtue (we issue join) How strive you? De te, fabula! 250

NOTES: "The Statue and the Bust" creates the characters and the situation, and dramatically represents a story which is based on a Florentine tradition that Duke Ferdinand I placed his equestrian statue in the Piazza dell' Annunziata so that he might gaze forever towards the old Riccardi Palace, where a lady he loved was imprisoned by her jealous husband. The bride and her ducal lover are seen exchanging their first looks, through which they perceive the genuineness of their love; and the temporizing of each is presented, through which, for the sake of petty conveniences, they submit to be thwarted by the wary husband, and to have the end they count supreme delayed until love and youth have gone, and the best left them is the artificial gaze interchanged by a bronze statue in the square and a clay face at the window. The closing stanzas point the moral against the palsy of the will, whose strenuous exercise is life's main gift.

I. There's a palace in Florence: refers to the old Riccardi Palace, now the Palazzo Antinori, in the square of the Annunziata, where the statue still stands.

22. encolure: neck and shoulder of a horse

33. The pile which the mighty shadow makes: refers to another palace in the Via Larga where the duke (not the lady) lived, and which is to-day known as the Riccardi Palace. Cooke's "Browning Guide Book" and Berdoe's "Browning Cyclopaedia" both confuse the two, attributing error to Browning in spite of his letter about it. This confusion was cleared up by Harriet Ford (Poet-lore, Dec. 1891, vol. iii. p. 648, "Browning right about the Riccardi Palace'').

36. Because of a crime, etc.: refers to the destroying of the liberties of the Florentine republic by Cosimo dei Medici and his grandson, Lorenzo, who lived in the then Medici (now Riccardi) Palace, whose darkening of the street with its bulk symbolizes the crime which took the light from Florence.

57. catafalk: the stage or scaffolding for a coffin whilst in the church

94. Arno bowers: the palace by the Arno, the river flowing through Florence.

95. Petraja: a Florentine suburb.

169. Robbia's craft: the Robbia family were skilled in shaping the bisque known as Della Robbia ware which was long one of the Florentine manufactures, and traces of which, when Browning wrote, still adorned the outer cornice of the palace.

202. John of Douay [Giovanni of Bologna], sculptor (1524-1608). The statue is one of his finest works.

250. De te, fabula! Concerning thee, this fable!

PORPHYRIA'S LOVER