Chapter 15

Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it? Back to my room shall you take your sweet self. Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft, _sufficit_! See the snug niche I have made on my shelf! A's book shall prop you up, B's shall cover you, Here's C to be grave with, or D to be gay, And with E on each side, and F right over you, Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day!

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A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE

1855

Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow: Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row! That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture! Air the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome it; No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit. Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's; He's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous calm and dead, Borne on our shoulders.

"Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather! He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! Cramped and diminished," Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! My dance is finished?" No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? Show me their shaping," Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,-- "Give!"--So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page: Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, Accents uncertain: "Time to taste life," another would have said, "Up with the curtain!"

This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? Patience a moment! Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, Still there's the comment. Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy." Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give! Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts-- Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick!

(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he'd learn how to live-- No end to learning: Earn the means first--God surely will contrive Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes: Live now or never!" He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever." Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: _Calculus_ racked him: Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: _Tussis_ attacked him. "Now, master, take a little rest!"--not he! (Caution redoubled, Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon. Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain! Was it not great? did not he throw on God, (He loves the burthen)-- God's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? He would not discount life, as fools do here, Paid by instalment He ventured neck or nothing--heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes: Hence with life's pale lure!" That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here--should he need the next, Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him. So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled _Hoti's_ business--let it be!-- Properly based _Oun_-- Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_, Dead from the waist down. Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews! Here's the top-peak; the multitude below Live, for they can, there: This man decided not to Live but Know-- Bury this man there? Here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying.

In the amusing poem, _Up at a Villa--Down in the City_, Browning compares the beauty of city and country life from an unusual point of view. It is generally assumed that the country is more poetical than the city; but it would be difficult to prove this, if we were put to the test. Natural scenery is now much admired, and mountains are in the height of fashion; every one is forced to express raptures, whether one feels them or not. But this has not always been the case. When Addison travelled to Italy, he regarded the Alps as disgusting; they were a disagreeable and dangerous barrier, that must be crossed before he could reach the object of his journey. He wrote home from Italy that he was delighted at the sight of a plain--a remark that would damn a modern pilgrim. The first man in English literature to bring out the real beauty of mountains was Thomas Gray.

Very few people have a sincere and genuine love of the country--as is proved by the way they flock to the cities. We love the country for a change, for a rest, for its novelty: how many of us would be willing to live there the year around? We know that Wordsworth loved the country, for he chose to live among the lonely lakes when he could have lived in London. But most intelligent persons live in towns, and take to the country for change and recreation.

The speaker in Browning's poem is an absolutely honest Philistine, who does not know that every word he says spells artistic damnation. He is disgusted with the situation of his house:

.... stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull.

In other words the site is so magnificent that to-day expensive hotels are built there, and people come from all over the world to enjoy the view. In fact it is just this situation which Browning admires in the poem _De Gustibus_.

What I love best in all the world Is a castle, precipice-encurled, In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.

But our man does not know what he _ought_ to say; he says simply what he really thinks. The views of a sincere Philistine on natural scenery, works of art, pieces of music, are interesting because they are sincere. The conventional admiration may or may not be genuine.

This man says the city is much cooler in summer than the country: that spring visits the city earlier: that what we call the monotonous row of houses in a city street is far more beautiful than the irregularity of the country. It appeals to his sense of beauty.

Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry.

But his real rapture over the city is because city life is interesting. There is something going on every moment of the blessed day. It is a perpetual theatre, admission free. This is undoubtedly the real reason why the poor prefer crowded, squalid city tenements to the space, fresh air and hygienic advantages of the country. Many well-meaning folk wonder why men with their families remain in city slums, when they could easily secure work on farms, where there would be abundance of fresh air, wholesome food, and cool nights for sleep. Our Italian gives the correct answer. People can not stand dullness and loneliness: they crave excitement, and this is supplied day and night by the city street. Indeed in some cases, where by the Fresh Air Fund, children are taken for a vacation to the country, they become homesick for the slums.

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UP AT A VILLA--DOWN IN THE CITY

(AS DISTINGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY)

1855

I

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

II

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

III

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! --I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.

IV

But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why? They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

V

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grey olive-trees.

VI

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

VII

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.

VIII

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicida is shrill, And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons,--I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

IX

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By-and-by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero, "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached," Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! _Bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.

X

But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: _Bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

No poem of Browning's has given more trouble to his whole-souled admirers than _The Statue and the Bust_: and yet, if this is taken as a paradox, its meaning is abundantly clear.

The square spoken of in the poem is the Piazza Annunziata in Florence: in the midst of the square stands the equestrian statue of the Duke: and if one follows the direction of the bronze eyes of the man, it will appear that they rest steadfastly on the right hand window in the upper storey of the palace. This is the farthest window facing the East. There is no bust there; but it is in this window that the lady sat and regarded the daily passage of the Duke.

The reason why this poem has troubled the minds of many good people is because it seems (on a very superficial view) to sympathise with unlawful love; even in certain circumstances to recommend the pursuit of it to fruition. Let us see what the facts are. Before the Duke saw the bride, he was, as Browning says, empty and fine like a swordless sheath. This is a good description of many young men. They are like an empty sheath. The sheath may be beautiful, it may be exquisitely and appropriately enchased; but a sheath is no good without a sword. So, many young men are attractive and accomplished, their minds are cultivated by books and travel, but they have no driving purpose in life, no energy directed to one aim, no end; and therefore all their attractiveness is without positive value. They are empty like a handsome sheath minus the sword.

The moment the Duke saw the lady a great purpose filled his life: he became temporarily a resolute, ambitious man, with capacity for usefulness. No moral scruple kept the lovers apart; and they determined to fly. This purpose was frustrated by procrastination, trivial hindrances, irresolution, till it was forever too late. Now the statue and the bust gaze at each other in eternal ironical mockery, for these lovers in life might as well have been made of bronze and stone; they never really lived.

Contrary to his usual custom--it is only very seldom as in this poem and in _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, and in both cases because he knew he would otherwise be misunderstood--Browning added a personal postscript. Where are these lovers now? How do they spend their time in the spiritual world? I do not know where they are, says Browning, but I know very well where they are _not_: they are not with God. No, replies the reader, because they wanted to commit adultery. Ah, says Browning, they are not exiled from God because they wanted to commit adultery: they are exiled because they did not actually do it. This is the paradox.

Browning takes a crime to test character; for a crime can test character as well as a virtue. We must draw a clear distinction here between society and the individual. It is a good thing for society that people are restrained from crime by what are really bad motives--fear, presence of police, irresolution, love of ease, selfishness: furthermore, society and the law do not consider men's motives, but only their actual deeds. A white-souled girl and a blackhearted villain with no criminal record are exactly equal in the eyes of the law, both perfectly innocent.

But from the point of view of the individual, or as a Christian would say, in the sight of God, it is the heart that makes all the difference between virtue and depravity. In the case of our lovers delay was best for society, but bad for them: the purposed crime was a test of their characters, and they added the sin of cowardice to the sin of adultery, which they had already committed in their hearts. Suppose four men agree to hold up a train. When the light of the locomotive appears, three lose their courage: the fourth stops the train, and single-handed takes the money from the express-car and from the passengers, killing the conductor and the express-messenger. After the train has been sent on its way, the three timid ones divide up with the man who actually committed the crimes. Who is the most virtuous among the four? Which has the best chance to be with God? Manifestly the brave one, although he is a robber and a murderer. From the point of view of the people who owned the money, from the point of view of the families of the dead men, it would have been better if all four of the would-be robbers had been cowards: but for that criminal's individual soul, he was better than his mates, because the crime tested his character and found him sound: he did not add the sin of cowardice to the sins of robbery and murder.

Browning changes the figure. If you choose to play a game--no one is obliged to play, but if you do choose to play--then play with all your energy, whether the stakes are money or worthless counters. Now our lovers chose to play. The stake they played for was not the true coin of marriage, but the false counter of adultery. Still, the game was a real test of their characters, and it proved them lacking in every true quality that makes men and women noble and useful.

Even now Browning knew that some readers would not understand him: so he added the last two lines, which ought to make his lesson clear. You virtuous people (I see by your expression you disapprove and are ready to quarrel with me) how strive you? _De te, fabula_! My whole story concerns you. You say that the lovers should have remained virtuous: you say that virtue should be the great aim of life. Very well, do _you_ act as if you believed what you say? Is virtue the greatest thing in _your_ life? Do you strive to the uttermost toward that goal? Do you really prefer virtue to your own ease, comfort and happiness?

I find Browning's poem both clear and morally stimulating. My one objection would be that he puts rather too much value on mere energy. I do not believe that the greatest thing in life is striving, struggle, and force: there are deep, quiet souls who accomplish much in this world without being especially strenuous. But in the sphere of virtue Browning was essentially a fighting man.

THE STATUE AND THE BUST

1855

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-- As one at each ear and both in a breath Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand."

The selfsame 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-- Carved like the heart of the 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.

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) 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, Only one out of a thousand heard.

That was the bridegroom. At day's brink He and his bride were alone at last In a bed chamber 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.

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, 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; 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.