«Англия Браунинга: Исследование английских влияний в творчестве Роберта Браунинга»

Картина Браунинга, изображающая Баньяна, показывает мгновенный эффект его личности на Таб.

"There sat the man, the father. He looked up: what one feels

When heart that leapt to mouth drops down again to heels!

He raised his hand.... Hast seen, when drinking out the night,

And in the day, earth grow another something quite

Under the sun's first stare? I stood a very stone."

И снова

"Then all at once rose he:

His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see:

Up went his hands."

Это похоже на ловкий сценический прием — заставить Неда и Таб использовать шнурки для обуви, чтобы связать руки своих жертв, и таким образом привести к встрече между Таб и Баньяном. Конечно, роль слепой дочери воображаема, но все же она кажется очень ярко представляющей нам этого горячо любимого ребенка. Еще один штрих, вполне соответствующий времени, — это решение судьи о том, что замечательная перемена в сердцах Неда и Таб произошла благодаря благочестию короля Карла. Как и все остальные, однако, он был впечатлен тем, что слышал о Лудильщике, и склонен был посмотреть, что он может сделать, чтобы дать ему свободу. Похоже, что жизнь Баньяна в тюрьме была значительно облегчена благосклонностью, которую он всегда внушал. История гласит, что с самого начала он был в фаворе у тюремщика, который чуть не потерял свое место за то, что однажды позволил ему доехать до Лондона. После этого он был заключен более строго, но в конце концов ему часто разрешали навещать свою семью и оставаться с ними всю ночь. Однажды ночью, однако, когда ему была предоставлена эта свобода, Баньян почувствовал непреодолимое побуждение вернуться в тюрьму. Он прибыл после того, как тюремщик заперся на ночь, к большому удивлению чиновника. Но его нетерпение от того, что его побеспокоили не вовремя, сменилось благодарностью, когда немного погодя пришел посланник от соседнего духовного магистрата, чтобы убедиться, что заключенный в безопасности. «Теперь вы можете идти, когда захотите, — сказал тюремщик, — ибо вы знаете лучше, чем я могу вам сказать, когда вернуться».

Джон Баньян

Статуя работы Дж. Э. Бёма

Хотя Баньян не является главным предметом этой поэмы, это признательная дань его гению и силе его характера, с которой может сравниться только сочувственная критика Даудена в его «Пуританских и англиканских исследованиях». То, что Браунинг заставляет Неда и Таб увидеть через внезапно пробудившееся чувство — а именно, что это не книга, а

"plays,

Songs, ballads and the like: here's no such strawy blaze,

But sky wide ope, sun, moon, and seven stars out full-flare,"

Дауден излагает более холодным языком критики.

«Путь паломника» — это галерея портретов, удивительно дифференцированных и столь же убедительных в своей самоверификации, как портреты Гольбейна. Его персонажи живут для нас так, как живут немногие фигуры вне драмы Шекспира... Все его силы гармонично сотрудничали в создании этой книги — его религиозный пыл, его человеческая нежность, его чувство красоты, вскормленное Писанием, его сильный здравый смысл, даже его дар юмора. Сквозь его глубокую серьезность играют более легкие способности. Весь человек втиснут в этот небольшой том».

«Халберт и Хоб» относится сюда лишь из-за своего дикого сеттинга на севере Англии. Мы можем представить, если захотим, что этот дикий отец и сын жили в прекрасном графстве Нортумберленд, на севере Англии, но описания пейзажа ничего не могли бы добавить к атмосфере поэмы, ибо Нортумберленд необычайно прекрасен. Несомненно, человеческие существа такого типа существовали во всех частях земного шара. Во всяком случае, эти конкретные человеческие существа были перенесены Браунингом из «Этики» Аристотеля на север Англии. Инцидент рассказан Аристотелем в иллюстрацию утверждения, что гнев и суровость более естественны, чем чрезмерные и ненужные желания. «Так, один, которого обвиняли в том, что он ударил своего отца, сказал в оправдание этого, что его собственный отец, и даже дед, били своего; «и он также (указывая на своего ребенка) ударит меня, когда станет мужчиной; ибо это передается в нашей семье». Некий человек, также, будучи волочим своим сыном, велел ему остановиться у двери, ибо он сам волочил своего отца до тех пор». Сухость «щек Аристотеля» как обычно оживлена Браунингом настолько, что судьба Халберта и Хоба становится патетической и близкой нашим симпатиям.

ХАЛБЕРТ И ХОБ

Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den,

In a wild part of North England, there lived once two wild men

277 Inhabiting one homestead, neither a hovel nor hut,

Time out of mind their birthright: father and son, these—but—

Such a son, such a father! Most wildness by degrees

Softens away: yet, last of their line, the wildest and worst were these.

Criminals, then? Why, no: they did not murder and rob;

But, give them a word, they returned a blow—old Halbert as young Hob:

Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed,

Hated or feared the more—who knows?—the genuine wild-beast breed.

Thus were they found by the few sparse folk of the countryside;

But how fared each with other? E'en beasts couch, hide by hide,

In a growling, grudged agreement: so, father and son aye curled

The closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the world.

Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow,

Came father and son to words—such words! more cruel because the blow

To crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curse

Completed with oath in wager, like pastime in hell,—nay, worse:

For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at last

The son at the throat of the father, seized him and held him fast.

278 "Out of this house you go!"—(there followed a hideous oath)—

"This oven where now we bake, too hot to hold us both!

If there's snow outside, there's coolness: out with you, bide a spell

In the drift and save the sexton the charge of a parish shell!"

Now, the old trunk was tough, was solid as stump of oak

Untouched at the core by a thousand years: much less had its seventy broke

One whipcord nerve in the muscly mass from neck to shoulder-blade

Of the mountainous man, whereon his child's rash hand like a feather weighed.

Nevertheless at once did the mammoth shut his eyes,

Drop chin to breast, drop hands to sides, stand stiffened—arms and thighs

All of a piece—struck mute, much as a sentry stands,

Patient to take the enemy's fire: his captain so commands.

Whereat the son's wrath flew to fury at such sheer scorn

Of his puny strength by the giant eld thus acting the babe new-born:

And "Neither will this turn serve!" yelled he. "Out with you! Trundle, log!

If you cannot tramp and trudge like a man, try all-fours like a dog!"

Still the old man stood mute. So, logwise,—down to floor

Pulled from his fireside place, dragged on from hearth to door,—

Was he pushed, a very log, staircase along, until

A certain turn in the steps was reached, a yard from the house-door-sill.

279 Then the father opened eyes—each spark of their rage extinct,—

Temples, late black, dead-blanched,—right-hand with left-hand linked,—

He faced his son submissive; when slow the accents came,

They were strangely mild though his son's rash hand on his neck lay all the same.

"Hob, on just such a night of a Christmas long ago,

For such a cause, with such a gesture, did I drag—so—

My father down thus far: but, softening here, I heard

A voice in my heart, and stopped: you wait for an outer word.

"For your own sake, not mine, soften you too! Untrod

Leave this last step we reach, nor brave the finger of God!

I dared not pass its lifting: I did well. I nor blame

Nor praise you. I stopped here: and, Hob, do you the same!"

Straightway the son relaxed his hold of the father's throat.

They mounted, side by side, to the room again: no note

Took either of each, no sign made each to either: last

As first, in absolute silence, their Christmas-night they passed.

At dawn, the father sate on, dead, in the self-same place,

With an outburst blackening still the old bad fighting-face:

But the son crouched all a-tremble like any lamb new-yeaned.

When he went to the burial, someone's staff he borrowed—tottered and leaned.

But his lips were loose, not locked,—kept muttering, mumbling. "There!

At his cursing and swearing!" the youngsters cried: but the elders thought "In prayer."

280 A boy threw stones: he picked them up and stored them in his vest.

So tottered, muttered, mumbled he, till he died, perhaps found rest.

"Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?" O Lear,

That a reason out of nature must turn them soft, seems clear!

В «Альбоме гостиницы» вырожденный тип англичанина девятнадцатого века препарируется острым ножом хирурга, которым Браунинг так хорошо умеет владеть. Злодей этой поэмы был реальной личностью, лорд де Рос, друг герцога Веллингтона. История принадлежит к анналам преступлений и неизбежно неприятна, но чтобы увидеть, как Браунинг проработал этот эпизод, интересно узнать голые факты, как их приводит Фёрнивалл в «Notes and Queries» от 25 марта 1876 года. Он говорит, «что азартный лорд показал портрет дамы, которую он соблазнил и бросил, и предложил своему дураку знакомство с ней в качестве взятки, чтобы побудить его подождать оплаты денег, которые он выиграл; что молодой игрок с готовностью принял предложение; и что дама покончила с собой, услышав о сделке между ними». Доктор Фёрнивалл услышал эту историю от кого-то, кто хорошо помнил сенсацию, которую она произвела в Лондоне много лет назад. В своем управлении историей Браунинг усилил злодейство лорда, в то же время показав возможную черту добра в нем. Молодой человек, с другой стороны, сделан им из очень хорошего материала, несмотря на его год обучения у старшего человека. Он делает одно радикальное изменение в истории, а также несколько второстепенных. В поэме молодой человек был влюблен в девушку, с которой старший человек бесчестно обошелся, и никогда не переставал любить ее. Конечно, двое мужчин не знают об этом. По совету старшего человека младший решил остепениться и жениться на своей кузине, очаровательной молодой девушке, которая также введена в сцену. Другая девушка представлена как вышедшая замуж за старого сельского священника, который искал жену просто как помощницу в своей работе. Таким образом, усложняя ситуации, было дано место для тонкого психического развития. Действие сосредоточено в одно утро в гостиной старой гостиницы, что сильно напоминает метод Ибсена в его пьесах группировать свое действие вокруг окончательной катастрофы. В гостинице сначала знакомят с двумя игроками в разговоре, молодой человек выиграл свои десять тысяч фунтов у старшего человека, который намеревался обобрать его. Альбом гостиницы играет важную роль в действии, какой бы невинной ни казалась его первая роль на сцене. Описание этого и гостиной гостиницы открывает поэму.

АЛЬБОМ ГОСТИННИЦЫ

I

"That oblong book's the Album; hand it here!

Exactly! page on page of gratitude

For breakfast, dinner, supper, and the view!

I praise these poets: they leave margin-space;

Each stanza seems to gather skirts around,

And primly, trimly, keep the foot's confine,

Modest and maidlike; lubber prose o'er-sprawls

And straddling stops the path from left to right.

Since I want space to do my cipher-work,

Which poem spares a corner? What comes first?

'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'

(Open the window, we burn daylight, boy!)

Or see—succincter beauty, brief and bold—

'If a fellow can dine On rumpsteaks and port wine,

He needs not despair Of dining well here—'

'Here!' I myself could find a better rhyme!

That bard's a Browning; he neglects the form:

But ah, the sense, ye gods, the weighty sense!

Still, I prefer this classic. Ay, throw wide!

I'll quench the bits of candle yet unburnt.

A minute's fresh air, then to cipher-work!

Three little columns hold the whole account:

Ecarté, after which Blind Hookey, then

283 Cutting-the-Pack, five hundred pounds the cut.

'Tis easy reckoning: I have lost, I think."

Two personages occupy this room

Shabby-genteel, that's parlor to the inn

Perched on a view-commanding eminence;

—Inn which may be a veritable house

Where somebody once lived and pleased good taste

Till tourists found his coign of vantage out,

And fingered blunt the individual mark

And vulgarized things comfortably smooth.

On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there brays

Complaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag;

His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds;

They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World.

Grim o'er the mirror on the mantlepiece,

Varnished and coffined, Salmo ferox glares

—Possibly at the List of Wines which, framed

And glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg.

So much describes the stuffy little room—

Vulgar flat smooth respectability:

Not so the burst of landscape surging in,

Sunrise and all, as he who of the pair

Is, plain enough, the younger personage

Draws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloft

The sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wall

Shutter and shutter, shows you England's best.

He leans into a living glory-bath

Of air and light where seems to float and move

The wooded watered country, hill and dale

And steel-bright thread of stream, a-smoke with mist,

A-sparkle with May morning, diamond drift

O' the sun-touched dew. Except the red-roofed pa284tch

Of half a dozen dwellings that, crept close

For hill-side shelter, make the village-clump

This inn is perched above to dominate—

Except such sign of human neighborhood,

(And this surmised rather than sensible)

There's nothing to disturb absolute peace,

The reign of English nature—which mean art

And civilized existence. Wildness' self

Is just the cultured triumph. Presently

Deep solitude, be sure, reveals a Place

That knows the right way to defend itself:

Silence hems round a burning spot of life.

Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood,

And where a village broods, an inn should boast—

Close and convenient: here you have them both.

This inn, the Something-arms—the family's—

(Don't trouble Guillim; heralds leave our half!)

Is dear to lovers of the picturesque,

And epics have been planned here; but who plan

Take holy orders and find work to do.

Painters are more productive, stop a week,

Declare the prospect quite a Corot,—ay,

For tender sentiment,—themselves incline

Rather to handsweep large and liberal;

Then go, but not without success achieved

—Haply some pencil-drawing, oak or beech,

Ferns at the base and ivies up the bole,

On this a slug, on that a butterfly.

Nay, he who hooked the salmo pendent here,

Also exhibited, this same May-month,

'Foxgloves: a study'—so inspires the scene,

The air, which now the younger personage

Inflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fain

Sigh forth a satisfaction might bestir

285 Even those tufts of tree-tops to the South

I' the distance where the green dies off to grey,

Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place;

He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek.

His fellow, the much older—either say

A youngish-old man or man oldish-young—

Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deep

In wax, to detriment of plated ware;

Above—piled, strewn—is store of playing-cards,

Counters and all that's proper for a game.

Как бы ни было обстоятельно описание этой гостиной и положение гостиницы, невозможно сказать, какую из многих английских гостиниц имел в виду Браунинг. Гостиницы восходят к дням римлян, у которых были пивные вдоль дорог, самой интересной особенностью которых была гирлянда из плюща или венок из виноградных листьев в честь Вакха, обвитый вокруг обруча на конце длинного шеста, чтобы указать путь, где можно было получить хорошее питье. Любопытным пережитком этого в ранние английские времена был «эль-стейк», таверна, так называемая потому, что у нее был длинный шест, выступающий из фасада дома, обвитый, как старые римские шесты, утесником, гирляндой из цветов или венком из плюща. Это украшение называлось «куст», и со временем лондонские трактирщики так соперничали друг с другом в попытке привлечь внимание очень длинными шестами и очень заметными кустами, что в 1375 году был принят закон, согласно которому все трактирщики в городе Лондоне, владеющие эль-стейками, выступающими или простирающимися над королевской дорогой более чем на семь футов в длину, самое большее, должны были быть оштрафованы на сорок пенсов и принуждены убрать вывеску. Вот происхождение также пословицы: «хорошее вино не нуждается в кусте». В более позднем развитии гостиницы вывески потеряли свой вакхический характер и стали очень сложными, часто будучи нарисованными художниками.

Поэт говорит, что эта гостиница была «Что-то-герб», и, возможно, когда-то была домом. Многие гостиницы были «Что-то (?) герб», и, конечно, многие гостиницы были домами. Одна из них — гостиница Паундс-Бридж на уединенной дороге между Спелдхерстом и Пенсхерстом в Кенте. Она была построена ректором Пенсхерста, Уильямом Даркеноллом, который прожил в ней всего три года, после чего она стала гостиницей. Гостиница из поэмы могла быть комбинацией в памяти Браунинга этого и «Белой лошади» в Вулстоне, которая описана как странно хорошенькая маленькая гостиница с фасадом, отдаленно напоминающим бюро-книжный шкаф Чиппендейла. «Она спрятана под могучими склонами холма Белой лошади, Беркшир, и дополнительно нависает над деревьями и окружена кустарниками и подлеском, и, наконец, расположена на узкой дороге, которая вскоре ведет, как кажется, к концу известного мира». Так пишет восторженный любитель гостиниц Чарльз Харпер. Или, возможно, поскольку из гостиницы в поэме видна река, «Лебедь» в Сэндлфорд-Уотер, где пешеходный мостик и водный всплеск на реке Энборн отмечают границы Хэмпшира и Беркшира. Здесь «У вас есть место полностью для себя, или вы делите его только с белками и птицами нависающих деревьев». Иллюстрация гостиницы «Черный медведь» в Тьюксбери является вполне типичным примером архитектуры гостиниц и, возможно, помогла картине в сознании Браунинга, хотя ее расположение не такое сельское, как описанное в поэме.

Гостиницы с незапамятных времен были сценами романов, трагедий и преступлений. Были гостиницы, такие как «Замок», где любила собираться «знать». В «альбоме гостиницы» этого заведения было вписано почти каждое имя восемнадцатого века, имеющее какое-либо значение. Были гостиницы, которые были известны как место сбора остроумцев того времени. Бен Джонсон любил «отдыхать в своей гостинице», а доктор Джонсон заявлял, что место в кресле таверны — это вершина человеческого счастья. «Он думал, — как было метко сказано, — не только об удобной гостиной с песчаным полом, ревущем огне и обилии хорошего угощения и хорошей компании, но также о круге смиренно признательных слушателей, которые собирались вокруг признанного остроумца, ловили его слова, предлагали себя в качестве мишеней для его ироничного или сатирического юмора и — угощали». Или была гостиница зловещего вида, где могли собираться разбойники, или гостиницы с хозяевами, которые спускали своих гостей через люки посреди ночи, чтобы грабить и убивать их — или это только смутное воспоминание о причудливой гостинице Диккенса? Затем была гостиница паломников в дни, когда чосеровские люди любили ходить в паломничества, а в прошлом веке — гостиница велосипедистов, а сегодня — гостиница автомобилиста. Конкретная гостиница в поэме принадлежит к классу сельских гостиниц, и, несмотря на свои картины известных мастеров, она была «душной» по своей атмосфере.

Английская гостиница

«Альбом гостиницы» или книга посетителей — это особенность гостиниц. В этой стране мы просто подписываем свои имена в книге посетителей, но «альбомная» особенность книги посетителей английской гостиницы — это ее слава и слишком часто ее позор, ибо, как говорит мистер Харпер, «Батос, неуместность и строки, которые отказываются сканироваться, — это стигматы стихов из книг посетителей. Нет худшей поэзии на земле, чем та, которая скрывается между этими обложками или на страницах альбомов молодых леди». Он заявляет, что «Интересные страницы книг посетителей — это, как мог бы сказать ирландец, обычно те, которых там нет; ибо мир очень густо населен теми признательными людьми, которые, будь то из любви к литературе или с инстинктом собирания автографов, которые могут иметь реализуемую ценность, удаляют подписи выдающихся людей, а вместе с ними и все оригинальное, что они могли написать».

Браунинг подшучивает над поэзией своего альбома гостиницы, но в то же время использует его как важную часть механизма в действии. Его английский «Яго» пишет в нем окончательное проклятие своего собственного характера — угрозу, с помощью которой он надеется погубить своих жертв, но которая, вместо этого, заставляет леди принять яд, а молодого человека — убить «Яго».

Присутствие двух мужчин в этой конкретной гостинице объясняется в следующем отрывке разговора между ними.

"You wrong your poor disciple. Oh, no airs!

Because you happen to be twice my age

And twenty times my master, must perforce

No blink of daylight struggle through the web

290 There's no unwinding? You entoil my legs,

And welcome, for I like it: blind me,—no!

A very pretty piece of shuttle-work

Was that—your mere chance question at the club—

'Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide?

I'm off for Paris, there's the Opera—there's

The Salon, there's a china-sale,—beside

Chantilly; and, for good companionship,

There's Such-and-such and So-and-so. Suppose

We start together?' 'No such holiday!'

I told you: 'Paris and the rest be hanged!

Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights?

I'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours?

On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowse

The week away down with the Aunt and Niece?

No help: it's leisure, loneliness and love.

Wish I could take you; but fame travels fast,—

A man of much newspaper-paragraph,

You scare domestic circles; and beside

Would not you like your lot, that second taste

Of nature and approval of the grounds!

You might walk early or lie late, so shirk

Week-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er,

And morning church is obligatory:

No mundane garb permissible, or dread

The butler's privileged monition! No!

Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!'

Whereon how artlessly the happy flash

Followed, by inspiration! 'Tell you what—

Let's turn their flank, try things on t'other side!

Inns for my money! Liberty's the life!

We'll lie in hiding: there's the crow-nest nook,

The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about,

Inn that's out—out of sight and out of mind291

And out of mischief to all four of us—

Aunt and niece, you and me. At night arrive;

At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-view

Of my friend's Land of Promise; then depart.

And while I'm whizzing onward by first train,

Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulks

And says I shun him like the plague) yourself—

Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gay

Despite the sleepless journey,—love lends wings,—

Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, wait

The faithful advent! Eh?' 'With all my heart,'

Said I to you; said I to mine own self:

'Does he believe I fail to comprehend

He wants just one more final friendly snack

At friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth,

Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?'

And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,—nay, grave?

Your pupil does you better credit! No!

I parleyed with my pass-book,—rubbed my pair

At the big balance in my banker's hands,—

Folded a cheque cigar-case-shape,—just wants

Filling and signing,—and took train, resolved

To execute myself with decency

And let you win—if not Ten thousand quite,

Something by way of wind-up-farewell burst

Of firework-nosegay! Where's your fortune fled?

Or is not fortune constant after all?

You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost half

Or half that, I should bite my lips, I think.

You man of marble! Strut and stretch my best

On tiptoe, I shall never reach your height.

How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!"

The more refined man smiles a frown away.

292

По дороге на станцию, где старший человек должен сесть на поезд, у них происходит еще один разговор, в котором каждый рассказывает другому о своем опыте, но они еще не узнают, что оба любили одну и ту же женщину.

"Stop, my boy!

Don't think I'm stingy of experience! Life

—It's like this wood we leave. Should you and I

Go wandering about there, though the gaps

We went in and came out by were opposed

As the two poles, still, somehow, all the same,

By nightfall we should probably have chanced

On much the same main points of interest—

Both of us measured girth of mossy trunk,

Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped hands

At squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow,

And so forth,—never mind what time betwixt.

So in our lives; allow I entered mine

Another way than you: 't is possible

I ended just by knocking head against

That plaguy low-hung branch yourself began

By getting bump from; as at last you too

May stumble o'er that stump which first of all

Bade me walk circumspectly. Head and feet

Are vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure,

Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise.

I, early old, played young man four years since

And failed confoundedly: so, hate alike

Failure and who caused failure,—curse her cant!"

"Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime,

Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah293—

But how should chits distinguish? She admired

Your marvel of a mind, I'll undertake!

But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is,

When years have told on face and figure...."

"Thanks,

Mister Sufficiently-Instructed! Such

No doubt was bound to be the consequence

To suit your self-complacency: she liked

My head enough, but loved some heart beneath

Some head with plenty of brown hair a-top

After my young friend's fashion! What becomes

Of that fine speech you made a minute since

About the man of middle age you found

A formidable peer at twenty-one?

So much for your mock-modesty! and yet

I back your first against this second sprout

Of observation, insight, what you please.

My middle age, Sir, had too much success!

It's odd: my case occurred four years ago—

I finished just while you commenced that turn

I' the wood of life that takes us to the wealth

Of honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach.

Now, I don't boast: it's bad style, and beside,

The feat proves easier than it looks: I plucked

Full many a flower unnamed in that bouquet

(Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!)

Good nature sticks into my button-hole.

Therefore it was with nose in want of snuff

Rather than Ess or Psidium, that I chanced

On what—so far from 'rosebud beauty'.... Well—

She's dead: at least you never heard her name;

She was no courtly creature, had nor birth

Nor breeding—mere fine-lady-breeding; but

294 Oh, such a wonder of a woman! Grand

As a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that,

Style that a Duchess or a Queen,—you know,

Artists would make an outcry: all the more,

That she had just a statue's sleepy grace

Which broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault

(Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for suppose

Only the little flaw, and I had peeped

Inside it, learned what soul inside was like.

At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneath

A Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife—

I wish,—now,—I had played that brute, brought blood

To surface from the depths I fancied chalk!

As it was, her mere face surprised so much

That I stopped short there, struck on heap, as stares

The cockney stranger at a certain bust

With drooped eyes,—she's the thing I have in mind,—

Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize—

Such outside! Now,—confound me for a prig!—

Who cares? I'll make a clean breast once for all!

Beside, you've heard the gossip. My life long

I've been a woman-liker,—liking means

Loving and so on. There's a lengthy list

By this time I shall have to answer for—

So say the good folk: and they don't guess half—

For the worst is, let once collecting-itch

Possess you, and, with perspicacity,

Keeps growing such a greediness that theft

Follows at no long distance,—there's the fact!

I knew that on my Leporello-list

Might figure this, that, and the other name

Of feminine desirability,

But if I happened to desire inscribe,

Along with these, the only Beautiful295—

Here was the unique specimen to snatch

Or now or never. 'Beautiful' I said—

'Beautiful' say in cold blood,—boiling then

To tune of 'Haste, secure whate'er the cost

This rarity, die in the act, be damned,

So you complete collection, crown your list!'

It seemed as though the whole world, once aroused

By the first notice of such wonder's birth,

Would break bounds to contest my prize with me

The first discoverer, should she but emerge

From that safe den of darkness where she dozed

Till I stole in, that country-parsonage

Where, country-parson's daughter, motherless,

Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen years

She had been vegetating lily-like.

Her father was my brother's tutor, got

The living that way: him I chanced to see—

Her I saw—her the world would grow one eye

To see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!

'Secure her!' cried the devil: 'afterward

Arrange for the disposal of the prize!'

The devil's doing! yet I seem to think—

Now, when all's done,—think with 'a head reposed'

In French phrase—hope I think I meant to do

All requisite for such a rarity

When I should be at leisure, have due time

To learn requirement. But in evil day—

Bless me, at week's end, long as any year,

The father must begin 'Young Somebody,

Much recommended—for I break a rule—

Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.' 'Young!'

That did it. Had the epithet been 'rich,'

'Noble,' 'a genius,' even 'handsome,'—but

—'Young!'"

296 "I say—just a word! I want to know—

You are not married?"

"I?"

"Nor ever were?"

"Never! Why?"

"Oh, then—never mind! Go on!

I had a reason for the question."

"Come,—

You could not be the young man?"

"No, indeed!

Certainly—if you never married her!"

"That I did not: and there's the curse, you'll see!

Nay, all of it's one curse, my life's mistake

Which, nourished with manure that's warranted

To make the plant bear wisdom, blew out full

In folly beyond field-flower-foolishness!

The lies I used to tell my womankind,

Knowing they disbelieved me all the time

Though they required my lies, their decent due,

This woman—not so much believed, I'll say,

As just anticipated from my mouth:

Since being true, devoted, constant—she

Found constancy, devotion, truth, the plain

And easy commonplace of character.

No mock-heroics but seemed natural

To her who underneath the face, I knew

Was fairness' self, possessed a heart, I judged

Must correspond in folly just as far

Beyond the common,—and a mind to match,—

Not made to puzzle conjurers like me

Who, therein, proved the fool who fronts you, Sir,

297 And begs leave to cut short the ugly rest!

'Trust me!' I said: she trusted. 'Marry me!'

Or rather, 'We are married: when, the rite?'

That brought on the collector's next-day qualm

At counting acquisition's cost. There lay

My marvel, there my purse more light by much

Because of its late lie-expenditure:

Ill-judged such moment to make fresh demand—

To cage as well as catch my rarity!

So, I began explaining. At first word

Outbroke the horror. 'Then, my truths were lies!'

I tell you, such an outbreak, such new strange

All-unsuspected revelation—soul

As supernaturally grand as face

Was fair beyond example—that at once

Either I lost—or, if it please you, found

My senses,—stammered somehow—'Jest! and now,

Earnest! Forget all else but—heart has loved,

Does love, shall love you ever! take the hand!'

Not she! no marriage for superb disdain,

Contempt incarnate!"

"Yes, it's different,—

It's only like in being four years since.

I see now!"

"Well, what did disdain do next,

Think you?"

"That's past me: did not marry you!—

That's the main thing I care for, I suppose.

Turned nun, or what?"

"Why, married in a month

298 Some parson, some smug crop-haired smooth-chinned sort

Of curate-creature, I suspect,—dived down,

Down, deeper still, and came up somewhere else—

I don't know where—I've not tried much to know,—

In short, she's happy: what the clodpoles call

'Countrified' with a vengeance! leads the life

Respectable and all that drives you mad:

Still—where, I don't know, and that's best for both."

"Well, that she did not like you, I conceive.

But why should you hate her, I want to know?"

"My good young friend,—because or her or else

Malicious Providence I have to hate.

For, what I tell you proved the turning-point

Of my whole life and fortune toward success

Or failure. If I drown, I lay the fault

Much on myself who caught at reed not rope,

But more on reed which, with a packthread's pith,

Had buoyed me till the minute's cramp could thaw

And I strike out afresh and so be saved.

It's easy saying—I had sunk before,

Disqualified myself by idle days

And busy nights, long since, from holding hard

On cable, even, had fate cast me such!

You boys don't know how many times men fail

Perforce o' the little to succeed i' the large,

Husband their strength, let slip the petty prey,

Collect the whole power for the final pounce.

My fault was the mistaking man's main prize

For intermediate boy's diversion; clap

Of boyish hands here frightened game away

Which, once gone, goes forever. Oh, at first

I took the anger easily, nor much

299 Minded the anguish—having learned that storms

Subside, and teapot-tempests are akin.

Time would arrange things, mend whate'er might be

Somewhat amiss; precipitation, eh?

Reason and rhyme prompt—reparation! Tiffs

End properly in marriage and a dance!

I said 'We'll marry, make the past a blank'—

And never was such damnable mistake!

That interview, that laying bare my soul,

As it was first, so was it last chance—one

And only. Did I write? Back letter came

Unopened as it went. Inexorable

She fled, I don't know where, consoled herself

With the smug curate-creature: chop and change!

Sure am I, when she told her shaveling all

His Magdalen's adventure, tears were shed,

Forgiveness evangelically shown,

'Loose hair and lifted eye,'—as some one says.

And now, he's worshipped for his pains, the sneak!"

"Well, but your turning-point of life,—what's here

To hinder you contesting Finsbury

With Orton, next election? I don't see...."

"Not you! But I see. Slowly, surely, creeps

Day by day o'er me the conviction—here

Was life's prize grasped at, gained, and then let go!

—That with her—may be, for her—I had felt

Ice in me melt, grow steam, drive to effect

Any or all the fancies sluggish here

I' the head that needs the hand she would not take

And I shall never lift now. Lo, your wood—

Its turnings which I likened life to! Well,—

There she stands, ending every avenue,

300 Her visionary presence on each goal

I might have gained had we kept side by side!

Still string nerve and strike foot? Her frown forbids:

The steam congeals once more: I'm old again!

Therefore I hate myself—but how much worse

Do not I hate who would not understand,

Let me repair things—no, but sent a-slide

My folly falteringly, stumblingly

Down, down and deeper down until I drop

Upon—the need of your ten thousand pounds

And consequently loss of mine! I lose

Character, cash, nay, common-sense itself

Recounting such a lengthy cock-and-bull

Adventure—lose my temper in the act...."

"And lose beside,—if I may supplement

The list of losses,—train and ten-o'clock!

Hark, pant and puff, there travels the swart sign!

So much the better! You're my captive now!

I'm glad you trust a fellow: friends grow thick

This way—that's twice said; we were thickish, though,

Even last night, and, ere night comes again,

I prophesy good luck to both of us!

For see now!—back to 'balmy eminence'

Or 'calm acclivity,' or what's the word!

Bestow you there an hour, concoct at ease

A sonnet for the Album, while I put

Bold face on, best foot forward, make for house,

March in to aunt and niece, and tell the truth—

(Even white-lying goes against my taste

After your little story). Oh, the niece

Is rationality itself! The aunt—

If she's amenable to reason too—

Why, you stooped short to pay her due respect,

301 And let the Duke wait (I'll work well the Duke).

If she grows gracious, I return for you;

If thunder's in the air, why—bear your doom,

Dine on rump-steaks and port, and shake the dust

Of aunty from your shoes as off you go

By evening-train, nor give the thing a thought

How you shall pay me—that's as sure as fate,

Old fellow! Off with you, face left about!

Yonder's the path I have to pad. You see,

I'm in good spirits, God knows why! Perhaps

Because the woman did not marry you

—Who look so hard at me,—and have the right,

One must be fair and own."

The two stand still

Under an oak.

"Look here!" resumes the youth.

"I never quite knew how I came to like

You—so much—whom I ought not court at all;

Nor how you had a leaning just to me

Who am assuredly not worth your pains.

For there must needs be plenty such as you

Somewhere about,—although I can't say where,—

Able and willing to teach all you know;

While—how can you have missed a score like me

With money and no wit, precisely each

A pupil for your purpose, were it—ease

Fool's poke of tutor's honorarium-fee?

And yet, howe'er it came about, I felt

At once my master: you as prompt descried

Your man, I warrant, so was bargain struck.

Now, these same lines of liking, loving, run

Sometimes so close together they converge302—

Life's great adventures—you know what I mean—

In people. Do you know, as you advanced,

It got to be uncommonly like fact

We two had fallen in with—liked and loved

Just the same woman in our different ways?

I began life—poor groundling as I prove—

Winged and ambitious to fly high: why not?

There's something in 'Don Quixote' to the point,

My shrewd old father used to quote and praise—

'Am I born man?' asks Sancho: 'being man,

By possibility I may be Pope!'

So, Pope I meant to make myself, by step

And step, whereof the first should be to find

A perfect woman; and I tell you this—

If what I fixed on, in the order due

Of undertakings, as next step, had first

Of all disposed itself to suit my tread,

And I had been, the day I came of age,

Returned at head of poll for Westminster

—Nay, and moreover summoned by the Queen

At week's end, when my maiden-speech bore fruit,

To form and head a Tory ministry—

It would not have seemed stranger, no, nor been

More strange to me, as now I estimate,

Than what did happen—sober truth, no dream.

I saw my wonder of a woman,—laugh,

I'm past that!—in Commemoration-week.

A plenty have I seen since, fair and foul,—

With eyes, too, helped by your sagacious wink;

But one to match that marvel—no least trace,

Least touch of kinship and community!

The end was—I did somehow state the fact,

Did, with no matter what imperfect words,

One way or other give to understand

303 That woman, soul and body were her slave

Would she but take, but try them—any test

Of will, and some poor test of power beside:

So did the strings within my brain grow tense

And capable of ... hang similitudes!

She answered kindly but beyond appeal.

'No sort of hope for me, who came too late.

She was another's. Love went—mine to her,

Hers just as loyally to some one else.'

Of course! I might expect it! Nature's law—

Given the peerless woman, certainly

Somewhere shall be the peerless man to match!

I acquiesced at once, submitted me

In something of a stupor, went my way.

I fancy there had been some talk before

Of somebody—her father or the like—

To coach me in the holidays,—that's how

I came to get the sight and speech of her,—

But I had sense enough to break off sharp,

Save both of us the pain."

"Quite right there!"

"Eh?

Quite wrong, it happens! Now comes worst of all!

Yes, I did sulk aloof and let alone

The lovers—I disturb the angel-mates?"

"Seraph paired off with cherub!"

"Thank you! While

I never plucked up courage to inquire

Who he was, even,—certain-sure of this,

That nobody I knew of had blue wings

And wore a star-crown as he needs must do,304—

Some little lady,—plainish, pock-marked girl,—

Finds out my secret in my woful face,

Comes up to me at the Apollo Ball,

And pityingly pours her wine and oil

This way into the wound: 'Dear f-f-friend,

Why waste affection thus on—must I say,

A somewhat worthless object? Who's her choice—

Irrevocable as deliberate—

Out of the wide world? I shall name no names—

But there's a person in society,

Who, blessed with rank and talent, has grown gray

In idleness and sin of every sort

Except hypocrisy: he's thrice her age,

A by-word for "successes with the sex"

As the French say—and, as we ought to say,

Consummately a liar and a rogue,

Since—show me where's the woman won without

The help of this one lie which she believes—

That—never mind how things have come to pass,

And let who loves have loved a thousand times—

All the same he now loves her only, loves

Her ever! if by "won" you just mean "sold,"

That's quite another compact. Well, this scamp,

Continuing descent from bad to worse,

Must leave his fine and fashionable prey

(Who—fathered, brothered, husbanded,—are hedged

About with thorny danger) and apply

His arts to this poor country ignorance

Who sees forthwith in the first rag of man

Her model hero! Why continue waste

On such a woman treasures of a heart

Would yet find solace,—yes, my f-f-friend—

In some congenial—fiddle-diddle-dee?'"

305 "Pray, is the pleasant gentleman described

Exact the portrait which my 'f-f-friends'

Recognize as so like? 'T is evident

You half surmised the sweet original

Could be no other than myself, just now!

Your stop and start were flattering!"

"Of course

Caricature's allowed for in a sketch!

The longish nose becomes a foot in length,

The swarthy cheek gets copper-colored,—still,

Prominent beak and dark-hued skin are facts:

And 'parson's daughter'—'young man coachable'—

'Elderly party'—'four years since'—were facts

To fasten on, a moment! Marriage, though—

That made the difference, I hope."

"All right!

I never married; wish I had—and then

Unwish it: people kill their wives, sometimes!

I hate my mistress, but I'm murder-free.

In your case, where's the grievance? You came last,

The earlier bird picked up the worm. Suppose

You, in the glory of your twenty-one,

Had happened to precede myself! 't is odds

But this gigantic juvenility,

This offering of a big arm's bony hand—

I'd rather shake than feel shake me, I know—

Had moved my dainty mistress to admire

An altogether new Ideal—deem

Idolatry less due to life's decline

Productive of experience, powers mature

By dint of usage, the made man—no boy

That's all to make! I was the earlier bird306—

And what I found, I let fall: what you missed

Who is the fool that blames you for?"

Они становятся настолько глубоко заинтересованы в этом разговоре, что поезд уходит, и тем временем леди, которая теперь живет в окрестностях как жена трудолюбивого сельского священника, встречает молодую девушку в гостинице. Они большие подруги и пришли туда по приглашению девушки, чтобы обсудить ее будущего мужа. Она желает, чтобы ее подруга пришла к ней домой и встретилась с ее женихом, но леди, которая постоянно боится встретить «Яго», никуда не ходит и предлагает встречу с ним в гостинице. Пока она ждет, «Яго» входит к ней. Между ними происходит ужасная сцена взаимных обвинений, мужчина снова осмеливается предпочесть свою любовь. Леди презирает его. Ужас добавляется к ужасу, когда молодой человек появляется в дверях и узнает женщину, которую он действительно любит. Его вера в нее и его любовь поколеблены на мгновение, но немедленно возвращаются, и он остается ее верным другом и возлюбленным. Полная низость натуры «Яго» наконец раскрывается в строках, которые он пишет в альбоме и дает леди прочитать. Поэма слишком длинна, чтобы цитировать ее полностью. Заключительная сцена, однако, даст читателю хорошее представление о том, как поэт обращается с этой трагедией девятнадцатого века.

Истинное благородство души младшего человека связывает его с Мертоном среди героев Браунинга и представляет англичанина или человека любой страны, если уж на то пошло, на его высшем уровне. Сомнительно, было ли возможно искупление для старшего человека, если бы леди поверила ему в гостиной гостиницы. Такие натуры похожи на «Пер Гюнта» Ибсена. Их нужно поместить в форму для пуговиц и отлить заново.

"Here's the lady back!

So, Madam, you have conned the Album-page

And come to thank its last contributor?

How kind and condescending! I retire

A moment, lest I spoil the interview,

And mar my own endeavor to make friends—

You with him, him with you, and both with me!

If I succeed—permit me to inquire

Five minutes hence! Friends bid good-by, you know."

And out he goes.

VII

She, face, form, bearing, one

Superb composure—

"He has told you all?

Yes, he has told you all, your silence says—

What gives him, as he thinks the mastery

Over my body and my soul!—has told

308 That instance, even, of their servitude

He now exacts of me? A silent blush!

That's well, though better would white ignorance

Beseem your brow, undesecrate before—

Ay, when I left you! I too learn at last

—Hideously learned as I seemed so late—

What sin may swell to. Yes,—I needed learn

That, when my prophet's rod became the snake

I fled from, it would, one day, swallow up

—Incorporate whatever serpentine

Falsehood and treason and unmanliness

Beslime earth's pavement: such the power of Hell,

And so beginning, ends no otherwise

The Adversary! I was ignorant,

Blameworthy—if you will; but blame I take

Nowise upon me as I ask myself

—You—how can you, whose soul I seemed to read

The limpid eyes through, have declined so deep

Even with him for consort? I revolve

Much memory, pry into the looks and words

Of that day's walk beneath the College wall,

And nowhere can distinguish, in what gleams

Only pure marble through my dusky past,

A dubious cranny where such poison-seed

Might harbor, nourish what should yield to-day

This dread ingredient for the cup I drink.

Do not I recognize and honor truth

In seeming?—take your truth and for return,

Give you my truth, a no less precious gift?

You loved me: I believed you. I replied

—How could I other? 'I was not my own,'

—No longer had the eyes to see, the ears

To hear, the mind to judge, since heart and soul

Now were another's. My own right in me,

309 For well or ill, consigned away—my face

Fronted the honest path, deflection whence

Had shamed me in the furtive backward look

At the late bargain—fit such chapman's phrase!—

As though—less hasty and more provident—

Waiting had brought advantage. Not for me

The chapman's chance! Yet while thus much was true,

I spared you—as I knew you then—one more

Concluding word which, truth no less, seemed best

Buried away forever. Take it now

Its power to pain is past! Four years—that day—

Those lines that make the College avenue!

I would that—friend and foe—by miracle,

I had, that moment, seen into the heart

Of either, as I now am taught to see!

I do believe I should have straight assumed

My proper function, and sustained a soul,

Nor aimed at being just sustained myself

By some man's soul—the weaker woman's-want!

So had I missed the momentary thrill

Of finding me in presence of a god,

But gained the god's own feeling when he gives

Such thrill to what turns life from death before.

'Gods many and Lords many,' says the Book:

You would have yielded up your soul to me

—Not to the false god who has burned its clay

In his own image. I had shed my love

Like Spring dew on the clod all flowery thence,

Not sent up a wild vapor to the sun

that drinks and then disperses. Both of us

Blameworthy,—I first meet my punishment—

And not so hard to bear. I breathe again!

Forth from those arms' enwinding leprosy

At last I struggle—uncontaminate:

310 Why must I leave you pressing to the breast

That's all one plague-spot? Did you love me once?

Then take love's last and best return! I think,

Womanliness means only motherhood;

All love begins and ends there,—roams enough,

But, having run the circle, rests at home.

Why is your expiation yet to make?

Pull shame with your own hands from your own head

Now,—never wait the slow envelopment

Submitted to by unelastic age!

One fierce throe frees the sapling: flake on flake

Lull till they leave the oak snow-stupefied.

Your heart retains its vital warmth—or why

That blushing reassurance? Blush, young blood!

Break from beneath this icy premature

Captivity of wickedness—I warn

Back, in God's name! No fresh encroachment here!

This May breaks all to bud—No Winter now!

Friend, we are both forgiven! Sin no more!

I am past sin now, so shall you become!

Meanwhile I testify that, lying once,

My foe lied ever, most lied last of all.

He, waking, whispered to your sense asleep

The wicked counsel,—and assent might seem;

But, roused, your healthy indignation breaks

The idle dream-pact. You would die—not dare

Confirm your dream-resolve,—nay, find the word

That fits the deed to bear the light of day!

Say I have justly judged you! then farewell

To blushing—nay, it ends in smiles, not tears!

Why tears now? I have justly judged, thank God!"

He does blush boy-like, but the man speaks out,

—Makes the due effort to surmount himself.

311 "I don't know what he wrote—how should I? Nor

How he could read my purpose which, it seems,

He chose to somehow write—mistakenly

Or else for mischief's sake. I scarce believe

My purpose put before you fair and plain

Would need annoy so much; but there's my luck—

From first to last I blunder. Still, one more

Turn at the target, try to speak my thought!

Since he could guess my purpose, won't you read

Right what he set down wrong? He said—let's think!

Ay, so!—he did begin by telling heaps

Of tales about you. Now, you see—suppose

Any one told me—my own mother died

Before I knew her—told me—to his cost!—

Such tales about my own dead mother: why,

You would not wonder surely if I knew,

By nothing but my own heart's help, he lied,

Would you? No reason's wanted in the case.

So with you! In they burnt on me, his tales,

Much as when madhouse-inmates crowd around,

Make captive any visitor and scream

All sorts of stories of their keeper—he's

Both dwarf and giant, vulture, wolf, dog, cat,

Serpent and scorpion, yet man all the same;

Sane people soon see through the gibberish!

I just made out, you somehow lived somewhere

A life of shame—I can't distinguish more—

Married or single—how, don't matter much:

Shame which himself had caused—that point was clear,

That fact confessed—that thing to hold and keep.

Oh, and he added some absurdity

—That you were here to make me—ha, ha, ha!—

Still love you, still of mind to die for you,

Ha, ha—as if that needed mighty pains!

312 Now, foolish as ... but never mind myself

—What I am, what I am not, in the eye

Of the world, is what I never cared for much.

Fool then or no fool, not one single word

In the whole string of lies did I believe,

But this—this only—if I choke, who cares?—

I believe somehow in your purity

Perfect as ever! Else what use is God?

He is God, and work miracles He can!

Then, what shall I do? Quite as clear, my course!

They've got a thing they call their Labyrinth

I' the garden yonder: and my cousin played

A pretty trick once, led and lost me deep

Inside the briery maze of hedge round hedge;

And there might I be staying now, stock-still,

But that I laughing bade eyes follow nose

And so straight pushed my path through let and stop

And soon was out in the open, face all scratched,

But well behind my back the prison-bars

In sorry plight enough, I promise you!

So here: I won my way to truth through lies—

Said, as I saw light,—if her shame be shame

I'll rescue and redeem her,—shame's no shame?

Then, I'll avenge, protect—redeem myself

The stupidest of sinners! Here I stand!

Dear,—let me once dare call you so,—you said

Thus ought you to have done, four years ago,

Such things and such! Ay, dear, and what ought I?

You were revealed to me: where's gratitude,

Where's memory even, where the gain of you

Discernible in my low after-life

Of fancied consolation? why, no horse

Once fed on corn, will, missing corn, go munch

Mere thistles like a donkey! I missed you,

313 And in your place found—him, made him my love,

Ay, did I,—by this token, that he taught

So much beast-nature that I meant ... God knows

Whether I bow me to the dust enough!...

To marry—yes, my cousin here! I hope

That was a master-stroke! Take heart of hers,

And give her hand of mine with no more heart

Than now you see upon this brow I strike!

What atom of a heart do I retain

Not all yours? Dear, you know it! Easily

May she accord me pardon when I place

My brow beneath her foot, if foot so deign,

Since uttermost indignity is spared—

Mere marriage and no love! And all this time

Not one word to the purpose! Are you free?

Only wait! only let me serve—deserve

Where you appoint and how you see the good!

I have the will—perhaps the power—at least

Means that have power against the world. For time—

Take my whole life for your experiment!

If you are bound—in marriage, say—why, still,

Still, sure, there's something for a friend to do,

Outside? A mere well-wisher, understand!

I'll sit, my life long, at your gate, you know,

Swing it wide open to let you and him

Pass freely,—and you need not look, much less

Fling me a 'Thank you—are you there, old friend?'

Don't say that even: I should drop like shot!

So I feel now at least: some day, who knows?

After no end of weeks and months and years

You might smile 'I believe you did your best!'

And that shall make my heart leap—leap such leap

As lands the feet in Heaven to wait you there!

Ah, there's just one thing more! How pale you look!

314 Why? Are you angry? If there's, after all,

Worst come to worst—if still there somehow be

The shame—I said was no shame,—none! I swear!—

In that case, if my hand and what it holds,—

My name,—might be your safeguard now—at once—

Why, here's the hand—you have the heart! Of course—

No cheat, no binding you, because I'm bound,

To let me off probation by one day,

Week, month, year, lifetime! Prove as you propose!

Here's the hand with the name to take or leave!

That's all—and no great piece of news, I hope!"

"Give me the hand, then!" she cries hastily.

"Quick, now! I hear his footstep!"

Hand in hand

The couple face him as he enters, stops

Short, stands surprised a moment, laughs away

Surprise, resumes the much-experienced man.

"So, you accept him?"

"Till us death do part!"

"No longer? Come, that's right and rational!

I fancied there was power in common sense,

But did not know it worked thus promptly. Well—

At last each understands the other, then?

Each drops disguise, then? So, at supper-time

These masquerading people doff their gear,

Grand Turk his pompous turban, Quakeress

Her stiff-starched bib and tucker,—make-believe

That only bothers when, ball-business done,

Nature demands champagne and mayonnaise.

Just so has each of us sage three abjured

His and her moral pet particular

315 Pretension to superiority,

And, cheek by jowl, we henceforth munch and joke!

Go, happy pair, paternally dismissed

To live and die together—for a month,

Discretion can award no more! Depart

From whatsoe'er the calm sweet solitude

Selected—Paris not improbably—

At month's end, when the honeycomb's left wax,

—You, daughter, with a pocketful of gold

Enough to find your village boys and girls

In duffel cloaks and hobnailed shoes from May

To—what's the phrase?—Christmas-come-never-mas!

You, son and heir of mine, shall re-appear

Ere Spring-time, that's the ring-time, lose one leaf,

And—not without regretful smack of lip

The while you wipe it free of honey-smear—

Marry the cousin, play the magistrate,

Stand for the country, prove perfection's pink—

Master of hounds, gay-coated dine—nor die

Sooner than needs of gout, obesity,

And sons at Christ Church! As for me,—ah me,

I abdicate—retire on my success,

Four years well occupied in teaching youth

—My son and daughter the exemplary!

Time for me to retire now, having placed

Proud on their pedestal the pair: in turn,

Let them do homage to their master! You,—

Well, your flushed cheek and flashing eye proclaim

Sufficiently your gratitude: you paid

The honorarium, the ten thousand pounds

To purpose, did you not? I told you so!

And you, but, bless me, why so pale—so faint

At influx of good fortune? Certainly,

No matter how or why or whose the fault,

316 I save your life—save it, nor less nor more!

You blindly were resolved to welcome death

In that black boor-and-bumpkin-haunted hole

Of his, the prig with all the preachments! You

Installed as nurse and matron to the crones

And wenches, while there lay a world outside