Classic and Contemporary Poetry
RED COTTON NIGHT-CAP COUNTRY; OR, TURF AND TOWERS: PART 3, by ROBERT BROWNING Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: And so slipt pleasantly away five years Last Line: Look at it for a moment while I breathe. Subject(s): Normandy, France; Death; Sex; Obsessions; Guilt; Religion; Suicide; Dead, The; Theology | ||||||||
And so slipt pleasantly away five years Of Paradisiac dream; till, as there flit Premonitory symptoms, pricks of pain, Because the dreamer has to start awake And find disease dwelt active all the while In head or stomach through his night-long sleep, -- So happened here disturbance to content. Monsieur Leonce Miranda's last of cares, Ere he composed himself, had been to make Provision that, while sleeping safe he lay, Somebody else should, dragon-like, let fall Never a lid, coiled round the apple-stem, But watch the precious fruitage. Somebody Kept shop, in short, played Paris substitute. Himself, shrewd, well-trained, early-exercised, Could take in, at an eye-glance, luck or loss -- Know commerce throve, though lazily uplift On elbow merely: leave his bed forsooth? Such active service was the substitute's. But one October morning, at first drop Of appled gold, first summons to be grave Because rough Autumn's play turns earnest now, Monsieur Leonce Miranda was required In Paris to take counsel, face to face, With Madame-mother: and be rated, too, Roundly at certain items of expense Whereat the government provisional, The Paris substitute and shopkeeper, Shook head, and talked of funds inadequate: Oh, in the long run, -- not if remedy Occurred betimes! Else, -- tap the generous bole Too near the quick, -- it withers to the root -- Leafy, prolific, golden apple-tree, "Miranda," sturdy in the Place Vendome! "What is this reckless life you lead?" began Her greeting she whom most he feared and loved, Madame Miranda. "Luxury, extravagance Sardanapalus' self might emulate, -- Did your good father's money go for this? Where are the fruits of education, where The morals which at first distinguished you, The faith which promised to adorn your age? And why such wastefulness outbreaking now, When heretofore you loved economy? Explain this pulling-down and building-up Poor Clairvaux, which your father bought because Clairvaux he found it, and so left to you, Not a gilt-gingerbread big baby-house! True, we could somehow shake head and shut eye To what was past prevention on our part -- This reprehensible illicit bond: We, in a manner, winking, watched consort Our modest well-conducted pious son With Delilah: we thought the smoking flax Would smoulder soon away and end in snuff! Is spark to strengthen, prove consuming fire? No lawful family calls Clairvaux 'home' -- Why play that fool of Scripture whom the voice admonished 'Whose to-night shall be those things Provided for thy morning jollity?' To take one specimen of pure caprice Out of the heap conspicuous in the plan, -- Puzzle of change, I call it, -- titled big 'Clairvaux Restored:' what means this Belvedere? This Tower, stuck like a fool's-cap on the roof -- Do you intend to soar to heaven from thence? Tower, truly! Better had you planted turf -- More fitly would you dig yourself a hole Beneath it for the final journey's help! O we poor parents -- could we prophesy!" Leonce was found affectionate enough To man, to woman, child, bird, beast, alike; But all affection, all one fire of heart Flaming toward Madame-mother. Had she posed The question plainly at the outset "Choose! Cut clean in half your all-the-world of love, The mother and the mistress: then resolve, Take me or take her, throw away the one!" -- He might have made the choice and marred my tale. But, much I apprehend, the problem put Was, "Keep both halves, yet do no detriment To either! Prize each opposite in turn!" Hence, while he prized at worth the Clairvaux-life With all its tolerated naughtiness, He, visiting in fancy Quai Rousseau, Saw, cornered in the cosiest nook of all, That range of rooms through number Thirty-three, The lady-mother bent o'er her Bezique While Monsieur Cure This, and Sister That, -- Superior of no matter what good House -- Did duty for Duke Hertford and Dumas, Nay -- at his mother's age -- for Clara's self. At Quai Rousseau, things comfortable thus, Why should poor Clairvaux prove so troublesome? She played at cards, he built a Belvedere. But here's the difference: she had reached the Towers And there took pastime: he was still on Turf -- Though fully minded that, when once he marched, No sportive fancy should distract him more. In brief, the man was angry with himself, With her, with all the world and much beside: And so the unseemly words were interchanged Which crystallize what else evaporates, And make mere misty petulance grow hard And sharp inside each softness, heart and soul. Monsieur Leonce Miranda flung at last Out of doors, fever-flushed: and there the Seine Rolled at his feet, obsequious remedy For fever, in a cold autumnal flow. "Go and he rid of memory in a bath!" Craftily whispered Who besets the ear On such occasions. Done as soon as dreamed. Back shivers poor Leonce to bed -- where else? And there he lies a month 'twixt life and death, Raving. "Remorse of conscience!" friends opine. "Sirs, it may partly prove so," represents Beaumont -- (the family physician, he Whom last year's Commune murdered, do you mind?) Beaumont reports, "There is some active cause, More than mere pungency of quarrel past, -- Cause that keeps adding other food to fire. I hear the words and know the signs, I say! Dear Madame, you have read the Book of Saints, How Antony was tempted? As for me, Poor heathen, 't is by pictures I am taught. I say then, I see standing here, -- between Me and my patient, and that crucifix You very properly would interpose -- A certain woman-shape, one white appeal, 'Will you leave me, then, me, me, me for her?' Since cold Seine could not quench this flame, since flare Of fever does not redden it away, -- Be rational, indulgent, mute -- should chance Come to the rescue -- Providence, I mean -- The while I blister and phlebotomize!" Well, somehow rescued by whatever power, At month's end, back again conveyed himself Monsieur Leonce Miranda, worn to rags, Nay, tinder: stuff irreparably spoiled, Though kindly hand should stitch and patch its best. Clairvaux in Autumn is restorative. A friend stitched on, patched ever. All the same, Clairvaux looked grayer than a month ago. Unglossed was shrubbery, unglorified Each copse, so wealthy once; the garden-plots, The orchard-walks, showed dearth and dreariness. The sea lay out at distance crammed by cloud Into a leaden wedge; and sorrowful Sulked field and pasture with persistent rain. Nobody came so far from Paris now: Friends did their duty by an invalid Whose convalescence claimed entire repose. Only a single ministrant was stanch At quiet reparation of the stuff -- Monsieur Leonce Miranda, worn to rags: But she was Clara and the world beside. Another month, the year packed up his plagues And sullenly departed, peddler-like, As apprehensive old-world ware might show To disadvantage when the newcomer, Merchant of novelties, young 'Sixty-eight, With brand-new bargains, whistled o'er the lea. Things brightened somewhat o'er the Christmas hearth, As Clara plied assiduously her task. "Words are but words and wind. Why let the wind Sing in your ear, bite, sounding, to your brain? Old folk and young folk, still at odds, of course! Age quarrels because Spring puts forth a leaf While Winter has a mind that boughs stay bare; Or rather -- worse than quarrel -- age descries Propriety in preaching life to death. 'Enjoy nor youth, nor Clairvaux, nor poor me?' Dear Madame, you enjoy your age, 't is thought! Your number Thirty-three on Quai Rousseau Cost fifty times the price of Clairvaux, tipped Even with our prodigious Belvedere; You entertain the Cure, -- we, Dumas: We play charades, while you prefer Bezique: Do lead your own life and let ours alone! Cross Old Year shall have done his worst, my friend! Here comes gay New Year with a gift, no doubt! Look up and let in light that longs to shine -- One flash of light, and where will darkness hide? Your cold makes me too cold, love! Keep me warm!" Whereat Leonce Miranda raised his head From his two white thin hands, and forced a smile, And spoke: "I do look up, and see your light Above me! Let New Year contribute warmth -- I shall refuse no fuel that may blaze." Nor did he. Three days after, just a spark From Paris, answered by a snap at Caen Or whither reached the telegraphic wire: "Quickly to Paris! On arrival, learn Why you are wanted!" Curt and critical! Off starts Leonce, one fear from head to foot; Caen, Rouen, Paris, as the railway helps; Then come the Quai and Number Thirty-three. "What is the matter, concierge?" -- a grimace! He mounts the staircase, makes for the main seat Of dreadful mystery which draws him there -- Bursts in upon a bedroom known too well -- There lies all left now of the mother once. Tapers define the stretch of rigid white, Nor want there ghastly velvets of the grave. A blackness sits on either side at watch, Sisters, good souls but frightful all the same, Silent: a priest is spokesman for his corpse. "Dead, through Leonce Miranda! stricken down Without a minute's warning, yesterday! What did she say to you, and you to her, Two months ago? This is the consequence! The doctors have their name for the disease; I, you, and God say -- heart-break, nothing more!" Monsieur Leonce Miranda, like a stone Fell at the bedfoot and found respite so, While the priest went to tell the company. What follows you are free to disbelieve. It may be true or false that this good priest Had taken his instructions, -- who shall blame? -- From quite another quarter than, perchance, Monsieur Leonce Miranda might suppose Would offer solace in such pressing need. All he remembered of his kith and kin Was, they were worthily his substitutes In commerce, did their work and drew their pay. But they remembered, in addition, this -- They fairly might expect inheritance, As nearest kin, called Family by law And gospel both. Now, since Miranda's life Showed nothing like abatement of distaste For conjugality, but preference Continued and confirmed of that smooth chain Which slips and leaves no knot behind, no heir -- Presumption was, the man, become mature, Would at a calculable day discard His old and outworn ... what we blush to name, And make society the just amends; Scarce by a new attachment -- Heaven for-bid! Still less by lawful marriage: that's reserved For those who make a proper choice at first -- Not try both courses and would grasp in age The very treasure, youth preferred to spurn! No! putting decently such thought aside, The penitent must rather give his powers To such a reparation of the past As, edifying kindred, makes them rich. Now, how would it enrich prospectively The Cousins, if he lavished such expense On Clairvaux? -- pretty as a toy, but then As toy, so much productive and no more! If all the outcome of the goldsmith's shop Went to gild Clairvaux, where remain the funds For Cousinry to spread out lap and take? This must be thought of and provided for. I give it you a mere conjecture, mind! To help explain the wholesome unannounced Intelligence, the shock that startled guilt, The scenic show, much yellow, black and white By taper-shine, the nuns -- portentous pair, And, more than all, the priest's admonishment -- "No flattery of self! You murdered her! The gray lips, silent now, reprove by mine. You wasted all your living, rioted In harlotry -- she warned and I repeat! No warning had she, for she needed none: If this should be the last yourself receive?" Done for the best, no doubt, though clumsily, -- Such, and so startling, the reception here. You hardly wonder if down fell at once The tawdry tent, pictorial, musical, Poetical, besprent with hearts and darts; Its cobweb-work, betinselled stitchery, Lay dust about our sleeper on the turf, And showed the outer towers distinct and dread. Senseless he fell, and long he lay, and much Seemed salutary in his punishment To planners and performers of the piece. When pain ends, pardon prompt may operate. There was a good attendance close at hand, Waiting the issue in the great saloon, Cousins with consolation and advice. All things thus happily performed to point, No wonder at success commensurate. Once swooning stopped, once anguish subsequent Raved out, -- a sudden resolution chilled His blood and changed his swimming eyes to stone, As the poor fellow raised himself upright, Collected strength, looked, once for all, his look, Then, turning, put officious help aside And passed from out the chamber. "For affairs!" So he announced himself to the saloon: "We owe a duty to the living too!" -- Monsieur Leonce Miranda tried to smile. How did the hearts of Cousinry rejoice At their stray sheep returning thus to fold, As, with a dignity, precision, sense, All unsuspected in the man before, Monsieur Leonce Miranda made minute Detail of his intended scheme of life Thenceforward and forever. "Vanity Was ended: its redemption must begin -- And, certain, would continue; but since life Was awfully uncertain -- witness here! -- Behooved him lose no moment but discharge Immediate burden of the world's affairs On backs that kindly volunteered to crouch. Cousins, with easier conscience, blamelessly Might carry on the goldsmith's trade, in brief, Uninterfered with by its lord who late Was used to supervise and take due tithe. A stipend now sufficed his natural need: Themselves should fix what sum allows man live. But half a dozen words concisely plain Might, first of all, make sure that, on demise, Monsieur Leonce Miranda's property Passed by bequeathment, every particle, To the right heirs, the cousins of his heart. As for that woman -- they would understand! This was a step must take her by surprise! It were too cruel did he snatch away Decent subsistence. She was young, and fair, And ... and attractive! Means must be supplied To save her from herself, and from the world, And ... from anxieties might haunt him else When he were fain have other thoughts in mind." It was a sight to melt a stone, that thaw Of rigid disapproval into dew Of sympathy, as each extended palm Of cousin hasted to enclose those five Cold fingers, tendered so mistrustfully, Despairingly of condonation now! You would have thought, -- at every fervent shake, In reassurance of those timid tips, -- The penitent had squeezed, considerate, By way of fee into physician's hand For physicking his soul, some diamond knob. And now let pass a week. Once more behold The same assemblage in the same saloon, Waiting the entry of protagonist Monsieur Leonce Miranda. "Just a week Since the death-day, -- was ever man transformed Like this man?" questioned cousin of his mate. Last seal to the repentance had been set Three days before, at Sceaux in neighborhood Of Paris where they laid with funeral pomp Mother by father. Let me spare the rest: How the poor fellow, in his misery, Buried hot face and bosom, where heaped snow Offered assistance, at the grave's black edge, And there lay, till uprooted by main force From where he prayed to grow and ne'er again Walk earth unworthily as heretofore. It is not with impunity priests teach The doctrine he was dosed with from his youth -- "Pain to the body -- profit to the soul; Corporeal pleasure -- so much woe to pay When disembodied spirit gives account." However, woe had done its worst, this time. Three days allow subsidence of much grief. Already, regular and equable, Forward went purpose to effect. At once The testament was written, signed and sealed. Disposer of the commerce -- that took time, And would not suffer by a week's delay; But the immediate, the imperious need, The call demanding of the Cousinry Co-operation, what convened them thus, Was -- how and when should deputation march To Coliseum Street, the old abode Of wickedness, and there acquaint -- oh, shame! Her, its old inmate, who had followed up And lay in wait in the old haunt for prey -- That they had rescued, they possessed Leonce, Whose loathing at recapture equalled theirs -- Upbraid that sinner with her sinfulness, Impart the fellow-sinner's firm resolve Never to set eyes on her face again: Then, after stipulations strict but just, Hand her the first instalment -- moderate Enough, no question -- of her salary: Admonish for the future, and so end. -- All which good purposes, decided on Sufficiently, were waiting full effect When presently the culprit should appear. Somehow appearance was delayed too long; Chatting and chirping sunk inconsciously To silence, nay, uneasiness, at length Alarm, till -- anything for certitude! -- A peeper was commissioned to explore, At keyhole, what the laggard's task might be -- What caused so palpable a disrespect! Back came the tiptoe cousin from his quest. "Monsieur Leonce was busy," he believed, "Contemplating -- those love-letters, perhaps, He always carried, as if precious stones, About with him. He read, one after one, Some sort of letters. But his back was turned. The empty coffer open at his side, He leant on elbow by the mantelpiece Before the hearth-fire; big and blazing too." "Better he shovelled them all in at once, And burned the rubbish!" was a cousin's quip, Warming his own hands at the fire the while, I told you, snow had fallen outside, I think. When suddenly a cry, a host of cries, Screams, hubbub and confusion thrilled the room. All by a common impulse rushed thence, reached The late death-chamber, tricked with trappings still, Skulls, crossbones, and such moral broidery. Madame Muhlhausen might have played the witch, Dropped down the chimney and appalled Leonce By some proposal, "Parting touch of hand!" If she but touched his foolish hand, you know! Something had happened quite contrariwise. Monsieur Leonce Miranda, one by one, Had read the letters and the love they held, And, that task finished, had required his soul To answer frankly what the prospect seemed Of his own love's departure -- pledged to part! Then, answer being unmistakable, He had replaced the letters quietly, Shut coffer, and so, grasping either side By its convenient handle, plunged the whole -- Letters and coffer and both hands to boot -- Into the burning grate and held them there. "Burn, burn, and purify my past!" said he, Calmly, as if he felt no pain at all. In vain they pulled him from the torture-place: The strong man, with the soul of tenfold strength, Broke from their clutch: and there again smiled he, The miserable hands re-bathed in fire -- Constant to that ejaculation, "Burn, Burn, purify!" And when, combining force, They fairly dragged the victim out of reach Of further harm, he had no hands to hurt -- Two horrible remains of right and left, "Whereof the bones, phalanges formerly, Carbonized, were still crackling with the flame," Said Beaumont. And he fought them all the while: "Why am I hindered when I would be pure? Why leave the sacrifice still incomplete? She holds me, I must have more hands to burn!" They were the stronger, though, and bound him fast. Beaumont was in attendance presently. "What did I tell you? Preachment to the deaf! I wish he had been deafer when they preached, Those priests! But wait till next Republic comes!" As for Leonce, a single sentiment Possessed his soul and occupied his tongue -- Absolute satisfaction at the deed. Never he varied, 't is observable, Nor in the stage of agonies (which proved Absent without leave, -- science seemed to think), Nor yet in those three months' febricity Which followed, -- never did he vary tale -- Remaining happy beyond utterance. "Ineffable beatitude" -- I quote The words, I cannot give the smile -- "such bliss Abolished pain! Pain might or might not be: He felt in heaven, where flesh desists to fret. Purified now and henceforth, all the past Reduced to ashes with the flesh defiled! Why all those anxious faces round his bed? What was to pity in their patient, pray, When doctor came and went, and Cousins watched? -- Kindness, but in pure waste!" he said and smiled. And if a trouble would at times disturb The ambrosial mood, it came from other source Than the corporeal transitory pang. "If sacrifice be incomplete!" cried he -- "If ashes have not sunk reduced to dust, To nullity! If atoms coalesce Till something grow, grow, get to be a shape I hate, I hoped to burn away from me! She is my body, she and I are one, Yet, all the same, there, there at bedfoot stands The woman wound about my flesh and blood, There, the arms open, the more wonderful, The whiter for the burning ... Vanish thou! Avaunt, fiend's self found in the form I wore!" "Whereat," said Beaumont, "since his hands were gone, The patient in a frenzy kicked and kicked To keep off some imagined visitant. So will it prove as long as priests may preach Spiritual terrors!" groaned the evidence Of Beaumont that his patient was stark mad -- Produced in time and place: of which anon. "Mad, or why thus insensible to pain? Body and soul are one thing, with two names For more or less elaborated stuff." Such is the new Religio Medici. Though antiquated faith held otherwise, Explained that body is not soul, but just Soul's servant: that, if soul be satisfied, Possess already joy or pain enough, It uses to ignore, as master may, What increase, joy or pain, its servant brings -- Superfluous contribution: soul, once served, Has naught to do with body's service more. Each, speculated on exclusively, As if its office were the only one, Body or soul, either shows service paid In joy and pain, that's blind and objectless -- A servant's toiling for no master's good -- Or else shows good received and put to use, As if within soul's self grew joy and pain, Nor needed body for a ministrant. I note these old unscientific ways: Poor Beaumont cannot: for the Commune ruled Next year, and ere they shot his priests, shot him. Monsieur Leonce Miranda raved himself To rest; lay three long months in bliss or bale, Inactive, anyhow: more need that heirs, His natural protectors, should assume The management, bestir their cousinship, And carry out that purpose of reform Such tragic work now made imperative. A deputation, with austerity, Nay, sternness, bore her sentence to the fiend Aforesaid, -- she at watch for turn of wheel And fortune's favor, Street -- you know the name. A certain roughness seemed appropriate: "You -- Steiner, Muhlhausen, whatsoe'er your name, Cause whole and sole of this catastrophe!" -- And so forth, introduced the embassage. "Monsieur Leonce Miranda was divorced Once and forever from his -- ugly word. Himself had gone for good to Portugal; They came empowered to act and stipulate. Hold! no discussion! Terms were settled now: So much of present and prospective pay, But also -- good engagement in plain terms She never seek renewal of the past!" This little harmless tale produced effect. Madame Muhlhausen owned her sentence just, Its execution gentle. "Stern their phrase, These kinsfolk with a right she recognized -- But kind its import probably, which now Her agitation, her bewilderment, Rendered too hard to understand, perhaps. Let them accord the natural delay, And she would ponder and decide. Meantime, So far was she from wish to follow friend Who fled her, that she would not budge from place -- Now that her friend was fled to Portugal, -- Never! She leave this Coliseum Street? No, not a footstep!" she assured them. So -- They saw they might have left that tale untold When, after some weeks more were gone to waste, Recovery seemed incontestable, And the poor mutilated figure, once The gay and glancing fortunate young spark, Miranda, humble and obedient took The doctor's counsel, issued sad and slow From precincts of the sick-room, tottered down, And out, and into carriage for fresh air, And so drove straight to Coliseum Street, And tottered upstairs, knocked, and in a trice Was clasped in the embrace of whom you know -- With much asseveration, I omit, Of constancy henceforth till life should end. When all this happened, -- "What reward," cried she, "For judging her Miranda by herself! For never having entertained a thought Of breaking promise, leaving home forsooth, To follow who as fled to Portugal! As if she thought they spoke a word of truth! She knew what love was, knew that he loved her; The Cousinry knew nothing of the kind." I will not scandalize you and recount How matters made the morning pass away. Not one reproach, not one acknowledgment, One explanation: all was understood! Matters at end, the home-uneasiness Cousins were feeling at this jaunt prolonged Was ended also by the entry of -- Not simply him whose exit had been made By mild command of doctor "Out with you! I warrant we receive another man!" But -- would that I could say, the married pair! And, quite another man assuredly, Monsieur Leonce Miranda took on him Forthwith to bid the trio, priest and nuns, Constant in their attendance all this while, Take his thanks and their own departure too; Politely but emphatically. Next, The Cousins were dismissed: "No protest, pray! Whatever I engaged to do is done, Or shall be -- I but follow your advice: Love I abjure: the lady, you behold, Is changed as I myself; her sex is changed: This is my Brother -- He will tend me now, Be all my world henceforth as brother should. Gentlemen, of a kinship I revere, Your interest in trade is laudable; I purpose to indulge it: manage mine, My goldsmith-business in the Place Vendome, Wholly -- through purchase at the price adjudged By experts I shall have assistance from. If, in conformity with sage advice, I leave a busy world of interests I own myself unfit for -- yours the care That any world of other aims, wherein I hope to dwell, be easy of access Through ministration of the moneys due, As we determine, with all proper speed, Since I leave Paris to repair my health. Say farewell to our Cousins, Brother mine!" And, all submissiveness, as brother might, The lady curtsied gracefully, and dropt More than mere curtsey, a concluding phrase So silver-soft, yet penetrative too, That none of it escaped the favored ears: "Had I but credited one syllable, I should to-day be lying stretched on straw, The produce of your miserable rente! Whereas, I hold him -- do you comprehend?" Cousin regarded cousin, turned up eye, And took departure, as our Tuscans laugh, Each with his added palm-breadth of long nose, -- Curtailed but imperceptibly, next week, When transfer was accomplished, and the trade In Paris did indeed become their own, But bought by them and sold by him on terms 'Twixt man and man, -- might serve 'twixt wolf and wolf, Substitute "bit and clawed" for "signed and sealed" -- Our ordinary business-terms, in short. Another week, and Clairvaux broke in bloom At end of April, to receive again Monsieur Leonce Miranda, gentleman, Ex-jeweller and goldsmith: never more -- According to the purpose he professed -- To quit this paradise, his property, This Clara, his companion: so it proved. The Cousins, each with elongated nose, Discussed their bargain, reconciled them soon To hard necessity, disbursed the cash, And hastened to subjoin, wherever type Proclaimed "Miranda" to the public, "Called Now Firm-Miranda." There, a colony, They flourish underneath the name that still Maintains the old repute, I understand. They built their Clairvaux, dream-Chateau, in Spain, Perhaps -- but Place Vendome is waking worth: Oh, they lost little! -- only, man and man Hardly conclude transactions of the kind As cousin should with cousin, -- cousins think. For the rest, all was honorably done, So, ere buds break to blossom, let us breathe! Never suppose there was one particle Of recrudescence -- wound, half-healed before, Set freshly running -- sin, repressed as such, New loosened as necessity of life! In all this revocation and resolve, Far be sin's self-indulgence from your thought! The man had simply made discovery, By process I respect if not admire, That what was, was: -- that turf, his feet had touched, Felt solid just as much as yonder towers He saw with eyes, but did not stand upon, And could not, if he would, reach in a leap. People had told him flowery turf was false To footstep, tired the traveller soon, beside: That was untrue. They told him "One fair stride Plants on safe platform, and secures man rest." That was untrue. Some varied the advice: "Neither was solid, towers no more than turf:" Double assertion, therefore twice as false. "I like these amateurs" -- our friend had laughed, Could he turn what he felt to what he thought, And, that again, to what he put in words: "I like their pretty trial, proof of paste Or precious stone, by delicate approach Of eye askance, fine feel of finger-tip, Or touch of tongue inquisitive for cold. I tried my jewels in a crucible: Fierce fire has felt them, licked them, left them sound. Don't tell me that my earthly love is sham, My heavenly fear a clever counterfeit! Each may oppose each, yet be true alike!" To build up, independent of the towers, A durable pavilion o'er the turf, Had issued in disaster. "What remained Except, by tunnel, or else gallery, To keep communication 'twixt the two, Unite the opposites, both near and far, And never try complete abandonment Of one or other?" so he thought, not said. And to such engineering feat, I say, Monsieur Leonce Miranda saw the means Precisely in this revocation prompt Of just those benefits of worldly wealth Conferred upon his Cousinry -- all but! This Clairvaux -- you would know, were you at top Of yonder crowning grace, its Belvedere -- Is situate in one angle-niche of three, At equidistance from Saint-Rambert -- there Behind you, and The Ravissante, beside -- There: steeple, steeple, and this Clairvaux-top (A sort of steeple) constitute a trine, With not a tenement to break each side, Two miles or so in length, if eye can judge. Now this is native land of miracle. Oh, why, why, why, from all recorded time, Was miracle not wrought once, only once, To help whoever wanted help indeed? If on the day when Spring's green girlishness Grew nubile, and she trembled into May, And our Miranda climbed to clasp the Spring A-tiptoe o'er the sea, those wafts of warmth, Those cloudlets scudding under the bare blue, And all that new sun, that fresh hope about His airy place of observation, -- friend, Feel with me that if just then, just for once, Some angel, -- such as the authentic pen Yonder records a daily visitant Of ploughman Claude, rheumatic in the joints, And spinster Jeanne, with megrim troubled sore, -- If such an angel, with naught else to do, Had taken station on the pinnacle And simply said, "Leonce, look straight before! Neither to right hand nor to left: for why? Being a stupid soul, you want a guide To turn the goodness in you to account And make stupidity submit itself. Go to Saint-Rambert! Straightway get such guide! There stands a man of men. You, jeweller, Must needs have heard how once the biggest block Of diamond now in Europe lay exposed 'Mid specimens of stone and earth and ore, On huckster's stall, -- Navona names the Square, And Rome the city for the incident, -- Labelled 'quartz-crystal, price one halfpenny.' Haste and secure that ha'p'worth, on your life! That man will read you rightly head to foot, Mark the brown face of you, the bushy beard, The breadth 'twixt shoulderblades, and through each black Castilian orbit, see into your soul. Talk to him for five minutes -- nonsense, sense, No matter what -- describe your horse, your hound, -- Give your opinion of the policy Of Monsieur Rouher, -- will he succor Rome? Your estimate of what may outcome be From OEcumenical Assemblage there! After which samples of intelligence, Rapidly run through those events you call Your past life, tell what once you tried to do, What you intend on doing this next May! There he stands, reads an English newspaper, Stock-still, and now, again upon the move, Paces the beach to taste the Spring, like you, Since both are human beings in God's eye. He will have understood you, I engage. Endeavor, for your part, to understand He knows more, and loves better, than the world That never heard his name, and never may. He will have recognized, ere breath be spent And speech at end, how much that's good in man, And generous, and self-devoting, makes Monsieur Leonce Miranda worth his help; While sounding to the bottom ignorance Historical and philosophical And moral and religious, all one couch Of crassitude, a portent of its kind. Then, just as he would pityingly teach Your body to repair maltreatment, give Advice that you should make those stumps to stir With artificial hands of caoutchouc, So would he soon supply your crippled soul With crutches, from his own intelligence, Able to help you onward in the path Of rectitude whereto your face is set, And counsel justice -- to yourself, the first, To your associate, very like a wife Or something better, -- to the world at large, Friends, strangers, horses, hounds, and Cousinry -- All which amount of justice will include Justice to God. Go and consult his voice!" Since angel would not say this simple truth, What hinders that my heart relieve itself, Milsand, who makest warm my wintry world, And wise my heaven, if there we consort too? Monsieur Leonce Miranda turned, alas, Or was turned, by no angel, t' other way, And got him guidance of The Ravissante. Now, into the originals of faith, Yours, mine, Miranda's, no inquiry here! Of faith, as apprehended by mankind, The causes, were they caught and catalogued, Would too distract, too desperately foil Inquirer. How may analyst reduce Quantities to exact their opposites, Value to zero, then bring zero back To value of supreme preponderance? How substitute thing meant for thing expressed? Detect the wire-thread through that fluffy silk Men call their rope, their real compulsive power? Suppose effected such anatomy, And demonstration made of what belief Has moved believer -- were the consequence Reward at all? would each man straight deduce, From proved reality of cause, effect Conformable -- believe and unbelieve According to your True thus disengaged From all his heap of False called reason first? No: hand once used to hold a soft thick twist, Cannot now grope its way by wire alone: Childhood may catch the knack, scarce Youth, not Age! That's the reply rewards you. Just as well Remonstrate to yon peasant in the blouse That, had he justified the true intent Of Nature who composed him thus and thus, Weakly or strongly, here he would not stand Struggling with uncongenial earth and sky, But elsewhere tread the surface of the globe, Since one meridian suits the faulty lungs, Another bids the sluggish liver work. "Here I was born, for better or for worse: I did not choose a climate for myself; Admit, my life were healthy, led elsewhere," (He answers,) "how am I to migrate, pray?" Therefore the course to take is -- spare your pains, And trouble uselessly with discontent Nor soul nor body, by parading proof That neither haply had known ailment, placed Precisely where the circumstance forbade Their lot should fall to either of the pair. But try and, what you find wrong, remedy, Accepting the conditions: never ask "How came you to be born here with those lungs, That liver?" But bid asthma smoke a pipe, Stramonium, just as if no Tropics were, And ply with calomel the sluggish duct, Nor taunt "The born Norwegian breeds no bile!" And as with body, so proceed with soul: Nor less discerningly, where faith you found, However foolish and fantastic, grudge To play the doctor and amend mistake, Because a wisdom were conceivable Whence faith had sprung robust above disease, Far beyond human help, that source of things! Since, in the first stage, so to speak, -- first stare Of apprehension at the invisible, -- Begins divergency of mind from mind, Superior from inferior: leave this first! Little you change there! What comes afterward -- From apprehended thing, each inference With practicality concerning life, This you may test and try, confirm the right Or contravene the wrong which reasons there. The offspring of the sickly faith must prove Sickly act also: stop a monster-birth! When water's in the cup, and not the cloud, Then is the proper time for chemic test: Belief permits your skill to operate When, drop by drop condensed from misty heaven, 'T is wrung out, lies a bowl-full in the fleece. How dew by spoonfuls came, let Gideon say: What purpose water serves, your word or two May teach him, should he fancy it lights fire. Concerning, then, our vaporous Ravissante -- How fable first precipitated faith -- Silence you get upon such point from me. But when I see come posting to the pair At Clairvaux, for the cure of soul-disease, This Father of the Mission, Parish-priest, This Mother of the Convent, Nun I know -- They practise in that second stage of things; They boast no fresh distillery of faith; 'T is dogma in the bottle, bright and old, They bring; and I pretend to pharmacy. They undertake the cure with all my heart! He trusts them, and they surely trust themselves. I ask no better. Never mind the cause, Fons et origo of the malady: Apply the drug with courage! Here's our case. Monsieur Leonce Miranda asks of God, -- May a man, living in illicit tie, Continue, by connivance of the Church, No matter what amends he please to make Short of forthwith relinquishing the sin? Physicians, what do you propose for cure? Father and Mother of The Ravissante, Read your own records, and you find prescribed As follows, when a couple out of sorts Rather than gravely suffering, sought your skill And thereby got their health again. Perpend! Two and a half good centuries ago, Luc de la Maison Rouge, a nobleman Of Claise, (the river gives this country name,) And, just as noblewoman, Maude his wife, Having been married many happy years Spent in God's honor and man's service too, Conceived, while yet in flower of youth and hope, The project of departing each from each Forever, and dissolving marriage-bonds That both might enter a religious life. Needing, before they came to such resolve, Divine illumination, -- course was clear, -- They visited your church in pilgrimage, On Christmas morn: communicating straight, They heard three Masses proper for the day, "It is incredible with what effect" -- Quoth the Cistercian monk I copy from -- And, next day, came, again communicants, Again heard Masses manifold, but now With added thanks to Christ for special grace And consolation granted: in the night, Had been divorce from marriage, manifest By signs and tokens. So, they made great gifts, Left money for more Masses, and returned Homeward rejoicing -- he, to take the rules, As Brother Dionysius, Capucin! She, to become first postulant, then nun According to the rules of Benedict, Sister Scolastica: so ended they, And so do I -- not end nor yet commence One note or comment. What was done was done. Now, Father of the Mission, here's your case! And, Mother of the Convent, here's its cure! If separation was permissible, And that decree of Christ "What God hath joined Let no man put asunder" nullified Because a couple, blameless in the world, Had the conceit that, still more blamelessly, Out of the world, by breach of marriage-vow, Their life was like to pass, -- you oracles Of God, -- since holy Paul says such you are, -- Hesitate, not one moment, to pronounce When questioned by the pair now needing help, "Each from the other go, you guilty ones, Preliminary to your least approach Nearer the Power that thus could strain a point In favor of a pair of innocents Who thought their wedded hands not clean enough To touch and leave unsullied their souls' snow Are not your hands found filthy by the world, Mere human law and custom? Not a step Nearer till hands be washed and purified!" What they did say is immaterial, since Certainly it was nothing of the kind. There was no washing hands of him (alack, You take me? -- in the figurative sense!) But, somehow, gloves were drawn o'er dirt and all, And practice with the Church procured thereby. Seeing that, -- all remonstrance proved in vain, Persuasives tried and terrors put to use, I nowise question, -- still the guilty pair Only embraced the closelier, obstinate, -- Father and Mother went from Clairvaux back Their weary way, with heaviness of heart, I grant you, but each palm well crossed with coin, And nothing like a smutch perceptible. Monsieur Leonce Miranda might compound For sin? -- no, surely! but by gifts -- prepare His soul the better for contrition, say! Gift followed upon gift, at all events. Good counsel was rejected, on one part: Hard money, on the other -- may we hope Was unreflectingly consigned to purse? Two years did this experiment engage Monsieur Leonce Miranda: how, by gifts To God and to God's poor, a man might stay In sin and yet stave off sin's punishment. No salve could be conceived more nicely mixed For this man's nature: generosity, -- Susceptibility to human ills, Corporeal, mental, -- self-devotedness Made up Miranda -- whether strong or weak Elsewhere, may be inquired another time. In mercy he was strong, at all events. Enough! he could not see a beast in pain, Much less a man, without the will to aid; And where the will was, oft the means were too, Since that good bargain with the Cousinry. The news flew fast about the countryside That, with the kind man, it was ask and have; And ask and have they did. To instance you: -- A mob of beggars at The Ravissante Clung to his skirts one day, and cried "We thirst!" Forthwith he bade a cask of wine be broached To satisfy all comers, till, dead-drunk So satisfied, they strewed the holy place. For this was grown religious and a rite: Such slips of judgment, gifts irregular, Showed but as spillings of the golden grist On either side the hopper, through blind zeal; Steadily the main stream went pouring on From mill to mouth of sack -- held wide and close By Father of the Mission, Parish-priest, And Mother of the Convent, Nun I know, With such effect that, in the sequel, proof Was tendered to the Court at Vire, last month, That in these same two years, expenditure At quiet Clairvaux rose to the amount Of Forty Thousand English Pounds: whereof A trifle went, no inappropriate close Of bounty, to supply the Virgin's crown With that stupendous jewel from New York, Now blazing as befits the Star of Sea. Such signs of grace, outward and visible, I rather give you, for your sake and mine, Than put in evidence the inward strife, Spiritual effort to compound for fault By payment of devotion -- thank the phrase! That payment was as punctual, do not doubt, As its far easier fellow. Yesterday I trudged the distance from The Ravissante To Clairvaux, with my two feet: but our friend, The more to edify the country-folk, Was wont to make that journey on both knees. "Maliciously perverted incident!" Snarled the retort, when this was told at Vire: "The man paid mere devotion as he passed, Knelt decently at just each wayside shrine!" Alas, my lawyer, I trudged yesterday -- On my two feet, and with both eyes wide ope, -- The distance, and could find no shrine at all! According to his lights, I praise the man. Enough! incessant was devotion, say -- With her, you know of, praying at his side. Still, there be relaxations of the tense: Or life indemnifies itself for strain, Or finds its very strain grow feebleness. Monsieur Leonce Miranda's days were passed Much as of old, in simple work and play. His first endeavor, on recovery From that sad ineffectual sacrifice, Had been to set about repairing loss: Never admitting, loss was to repair. No word at any time escaped his lips -- Betrayed a lurking presence, in his heart, Of sorrow; no regret for mischief done -- Punishment suffered, he would rather say. Good-tempered schoolboy-fashion, he preferred To laugh away his flogging, fair price paid For pleasure out of bounds: if needs must be, Get pleasure and get flogged a second time! A sullen subject would have nursed the scars And made excuse, for throwing grammar by, That bench was grown uneasy to the seat. No: this poor fellow cheerfully got hands Fit for his stumps, and what hands failed to do, The other members did in their degree -- Unwonted service. With his mouth alone He wrote, nay, painted pictures -- think of that! He played on a piano pedal-keyed, Kicked out -- if it was Bach's -- good music thence. He rode, that's readily conceivable, But then he shot and never missed his bird, With other feats as dexterous: I infer He was not ignorant what hands are worth, When he resolved on ruining his own. So the two years passed somehow -- who shall say Foolishly, -- as one estimates mankind, The work they do, the play they leave undone? -- Two whole years spent in that experiment I told you of, at Clairvaux all the time, From April on to April: why that month More than another, notable in life? Does the awakening of the year arouse Man to new projects, nerve him for fresh feats Of what proves, for the most part of mankind Playing or working, novel folly too? At any rate, I see no slightest sign Of folly (let me tell you in advance), Nothing but wisdom meets me manifest In the procedure of the Twentieth Day Of April, 'Seventy, -- folly's year in France. It was delightful Spring, and out of doors Temptation to adventure. Walk or ride? There was a wild young horse to exercise, And teach the way to go, and pace to keep: Monsieur Leonce Miranda chose to ride. So, while they clapped soft saddle straight on back, And bitted jaw to satisfaction, -- since The partner of his days must stay at home, Teased by some trifling legacy of March To throat or shoulder, -- visit duly paid And "farewell" given and received again, -- As chamber-door considerately closed Behind him, still five minutes were to spend. How better, than by clearing, two and two, The staircase-steps and coming out aloft Upon the platform yonder (raise your eyes!) And tasting, just as those two years before, Spring's bright advance upon the tower a-top, The feature of the front, the Belvedere? Look at it for a moment while I breathe. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MYSTIC BOUNCE by TERRANCE HAYES MATHEMATICS CONSIDERED AS A VICE by ANTHONY HECHT UNHOLY SONNET 11 by MARK JARMAN SHINE, PERISHING REPUBLIC by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE COMING OF THE PLAGUE by WELDON KEES A LITHUANIAN ELEGY by ROBERT KELLY CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME' by ROBERT BROWNING |
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