The Poetical Works of Robert Browning | ||
A SOUL'S TRAGEDY.
ACT FIRST, BEING WHAT WAS CALLED THE POETRY OF CHIAPPINO'S LIFE: AND ACT SECOND, ITS PROSE.
- Luitolfo and Eulalia, betrothed lovers.
- Chiappino, their friend.
- Ogniben, the Pope's Legate.
- Citizens of Faenza.
PERSONS.
ACT I.
Scene.—Inside Luitolfo's house. Chiappino, Eulalia.Eulalia.
What is it keeps Luitolfo? Night's fast falling,
And 't was scarce sunset . . . had the ave-bell
Sounded before he sought the Provost's house?
I think not: all he had to say would take
Few minutes, such a very few, to say!
How do you think, Chiappino? If our lord
The Provost were less friendly to your friend
Than everybody here professes him,
I should begin to tremble—should not you?
Why are you silent when so many times
I turn and speak to you?
Chiappino.
That's good!
Eulalia.
You laugh!
Yes. I had fancied nothing that bears price
In the whole world was left to call my own;
And, may be, felt a little pride thereat.
Up to a single man's or woman's love,
Down to the right in my own flesh and blood,
There's nothing mine, I fancied,—till you spoke:
—Counting, you see, as “nothing” the permission
To study this peculiar lot of mine
In silence: well, go silence with the rest
Of the world's good! What can I say, shall serve?
Eulalia.
This,—lest you, even more than needs, embitter
Our parting: say your wrongs have cast, for once,
A cloud across your spirit!
Chiappino.
How a cloud?
Eulalia.
No man nor woman loves you, did you say?
Chiappino.
My God, were 't not for thee!
Eulalia.
Ay, God remains,
Even did men forsake you.
Chiappino.
Oh, not so!
Were 't not for God, I mean, what hope of truth—
Speaking truth, hearing truth, would stay with man?
I, now—the homeless friendless penniless
Proscribed and exiled wretch who speak to you,—
Ought to speak truth, yet could not, for my death,
(The thing that tempts me most) help speaking lies
And all our townsfolk's equanimity—
Through sheer incompetence to rid myself
Of the old miserable lying trick
Caught from the liars I have lived with,—God,
Did I not turn to thee! It is thy prompting
I dare to be ashamed of, and thy counsel
Would die along my coward lip, I know.
But I do turn to thee. This craven tongue,
These features which refuse the soul its way,
Reclaim thou! Give me truth—truth, power to speak—
And after be sole present to approve
The spoken truth! Or, stay, that spoken truth,
Who knows but you, too, may approve?
Eulalia.
Ah, well—
Keep silence then, Chiappino!
Chiappino.
You would hear,
You shall now,—why the thing we please to style
My gratitude to you and all your friends
For service done me, is just gratitude
So much as yours was service: no whit more.
I was born here, so was Luitolfo; both
At one time, much with the same circumstance
Of rank and wealth; and both, up to this night
Of parting company, have side by side
Still fared, he in the sunshine—I, the shadow.
To its complacent self, “these playfellows,
“Who took at church the holy-water drop
“Each from the other's finger, and so forth,—
“Were of two moods: Luitolfo was the proper
“Friend-making, everywhere friend-finding soul,
“Fit for the sunshine, so, it followed him.
“A happy-tempered bringer of the best
“Out of the worst; who bears with what's past cure,
“And puts so good a face on 't—wisely passive
“Where action's fruitless, while he remedies
“In silence what the foolish rail against;
“A man to smooth such natures as parade
“Of opposition must exasperate;
“No general gauntlet-gatherer for the weak
“Against the strong, yet over-scrupulous
“At lucky junctures; one who won't forego
“The after-battle work of binding wounds,
“Because, forsooth he 'd have to bring himself
“To side with wound-inflictors for their leave!”
—Why do you gaze, nor help me to repeat
What comes so glibly from the common mouth,
About Luitolfo and his so-styled friend?
Eulalia.
Because that friend's sense is obscured . . .
Chiappino.
I thought
You would be readier with the other half
For all the world does say it. Say your worst!
True, I thank God, I ever said “you sin,”
When a man did sin: if I could not say it,
I glared it at him; if I could not glare it,
I prayed against him; then my part seemed over.
God's may begin yet: so it will, I trust.
Eulalia.
If the world outraged you, did we?
Chiappino.
What's “me”
That you use well or ill? It's man, in me,
All your successes are an outrage to,
You all, whom sunshine follows, as you say!
Here's our Faenza birthplace; they send here
A provost from Ravenna: how he rules,
You can at times be eloquent about.
“Then, end his rule!”—“Ah yes, one stroke does that!
“But patience under wrong works slow and sure.
“Must violence still bring peace forth? He, beside,
“Returns so blandly one's obeisance! ah—
“Some latent virtue may be lingering yet,
“Some human sympathy which, once excite,
“And all the lump were leavened quietly:
“So, no more talk of striking, for this time!”
But I, as one of those he rules, won't bear
These pretty takings-up and layings-down
Our cause, just as you think occasion suits.
Diversify your tactics, give submission,
Obsequiousness and flattery a turn,
While we die in our misery patient deaths?
We all are outraged then, and I the first:
I, for mankind, resent each shrug and smirk,
Each beck and bend, each . . . all you do and are,
I hate!
Eulalia.
We share a common censure, then.
T is well you have not poor Luitolfo's part
Nor mine to point out in the wide offence.
Chiappino.
Oh, shall I let you so escape me, lady?
Come, on your own ground, lady,—from yourself,
(Leaving the people's wrong, which most is mine)
What have I got to be so grateful for?
These three last fines, no doubt, one on the other
Paid by Luitolfo?
Eulalia.
Shame, Chiappino!
Chiappino.
Shame
Fall presently on who deserves it most!
—Which is to see. He paid my fines—my friend,
Your prosperous smooth lover presently,
Then, scarce your wooer,—soon, your husband: well—
I loved you.
Eulalia.
Hold!
Chiappino.
You knew it, years ago.
Because you gave me your silk mask to hold—
My voice that greatens when there's need to curse
The people's Provost to their heart's content,
—My eye, the Provost, who bears all men's eyes,
Banishes now because he cannot bear,—
You knew . . . but you do your parts—my part, I:
So be it! You flourish, I decay: all's well.
Eulalia.
I hear this for the first time.
Chiappino.
The fault's there?
Then my days spoke not, and my nights of fire
Were voiceless? Then the very heart may burst,
Yet all prove nought, because no mincing speech
Tells leisurely that thus it is and thus?
Eulalia, truce with toying for this once!
A banished fool, who troubles you to-night
For the last time—why, what's to fear from me?
You knew I loved you!
Eulalia.
Not so, on my faith!
You were my now-affianced lover's friend—
Came in, went out with him, could speak as he
All praise your ready parts and pregnant wit;
See how your words come from you in a crowd!
Luitolfo's first to place you o'er himself
In all that challenges respect and love:
Yet you were silent then, who blame me now.
I, all but wed to one I love, yet listen!
It must be, you are wronged, and that the wrongs
Luitolfo pities . . .
Chiappino.
—You too pity? Do!
But hear first what my wrongs are; so began
This talk and so shall end this talk. I say,
Was 't not enough that I must strive (I saw)
To grow so far familiar with your charms
As next contrive some way to win them—which
To do, an age seemed far too brief—for, see!
We all aspire to heaven; and there lies heaven
Above us: go there! Dare we go? no, surely!
How dare we go without a reverent pause,
A growing less unfit for heaven? Just so,
I dared not speak: the greater fool, it seems!
Was 't not enough to struggle with such folly,
But I must have, beside, the very man
Whose slight free loose and incapacious soul
Gave his tongue scope to say whate'er he would
—Must have him load me with his benefits
—For fortune's fiercest stroke?
Eulalia.
Justice to him
That's now entreating, at his risk perhaps,
Justice for you! Did he once call those acts
Of simple friendship—bounties, benefits?
No: the straight course had been to call them thus.
Then, I had flung them back, and kept myself
Unhampered, free as he to win the prize
We both sought. But “the gold was dross,” he said:
“He loved me, and I loved him not: why spurn
“A trifle out of superfluity?
“He had forgotten he had done as much.”
So had not I! Henceforth, try as I could
To take him at his word, there stood by you
My benefactor; who might speak and laugh
And urge his nothings, even banter me
Before you—but my tongue was tied. A dream!
Let's wake: your husband . . . how you shake at that!
Good—my revenge!
Eulalia.
Why should I shake? What forced
Or forces me to be Luitolfo's bride?
Chiappino.
There's my revenge, that nothing forces you.
No gratitude, no liking of the eye
Nor longing of the heart, but the poor bond
Of habit—here so many times he came,
So much he spoke,—all these compose the tie
That pulls you from me. Well, he paid my fines,
Nor missed a cloak from wardrobe, dish from table;
He spoke a good word to the Provost here,
—It had not looked so well to let me drop—
Men take pains to preserve a tree-stump, even,
Whose boughs they played beneath—much more a friend.
But one grows tired of seeing, after the first,
Pains spent upon impracticable stuff
Like me. I could not change: you know the rest.
I've spoke my mind too fully out, by chance,
This morning to our Provost; so, ere night
I leave the city on pain of death. And now
On my account there's gallant intercession
Goes forward—that's so graceful!—and anon
He'll noisily come back: “the intercession
“Was made and fails; all's over for us both;
“'T is vain contending; I would better go.”
And I do go—and straight to you he turns
Light of a load; and ease of that permits
His visage to repair the natural bland
Œconomy, sore broken late to suit
My discontent. Thus, all are pleased—you, with him,
He with himself, and all of you with me
—“Who,” say the citizens, “had done far better
“In letting people sleep upon their woes,
“If not possessed with talent to relieve them
“When once awake;—but then I had,” they'll say,
“Doubtless some unknown compensating pride
“With ruining myself, why, so should they be.”
And so they are, and so be with his prize
The devil, when he gets them speedily!
Why does not your Luitolfo come? I long
To don this cloak and take the Lugo path.
It seems you never loved me, then?
Eulalia.
Chiappino!
Chiappino.
Never?
Eulalia.
Never.
Chiappino.
That's sad. Say what I might,
There was no help from being sure this while
You loved me. Love like mine must have return,
I thought: no river starts but to some sea.
And had you loved me, I could soon devise
Some specious reason why you stifled love,
Some fancied self-denial on your part,
Which made you choose Luitolfo; so, excepting
From the wide condemnation of all here,
One woman. Well, the other dream may break!
If I knew any heart, as mine loved you,
Loved me, though in the vilest breast 't were lodged,
I should, I think, be forced to love again:
Else there's no right nor reason in the world.
Eulalia.
“If you knew,” say you,—but I did not know.
Which if I may remove, I'll not repent
The listening to. You cannot, will not, see
How, place you but in every circumstance
Of us, you are just now indignant at,
You'd be as we.
Chiappino.
I should be? . . . that; again!
I, to my friend, my country and my love,
Be as Luitolfo and these Faentines?
Eulalia.
As we.
Chiappino.
I trust in nature for the stable laws
Of beauty and utility.—Spring shall plant,
And Autumn garner to the end of time:
I trust in God—the right shall be the right
And other than the wrong, while he endures:
I trust in my own soul, that can perceive
The outward and the inward, nature's good
And God's: so, seeing these men and myself,
Having a right to speak, thus do I speak.
I'll not curse—God bears with them, well may I—
But I—protest against their claiming me.
I simply say, if that's allowable.
I would not (broadly) do as they have done.
—God curse this townful of born slaves, bred slaves,
Branded into the blood and bone, slaves! Curse
House, land or life! and . . .
Luitolfo!
Eulalia.
How he knocks!
Chiappino.
The peril, lady!
“Chiappino, I have run a risk—a risk!
“For when I prayed the Provost (he's my friend)
“To grant you a week's respite of the sentence
“That confiscates your goods, exiles yourself,
“He shrugged his shoulder—I say, shrugged it! Yes,
“And fright of that drove all else from my head.
“Here's a good purse of scudi: off with you,
“Lest of that shrug come what God only knows!
“The scudi—friend, they're trash—no thanks, I beg!
“Take the north gate,—for San Vitale's suburb,
“Whose double taxes you appealed against,
“In discomposure at your ill-success
“Is apt to stone you: there, there—only go!
“Beside, Eulalia here looks sleepily.
“Shake . . . oh, you hurt me, so you squeeze my wrist!”
—Is it not thus you'll speak, adventurous friend?
[As he opens the door, Luitolfo rushes in, his garments disordered.
Eulalia.
Luitolfo! Blood?
Luitolfo.
There's more—and more of it!
You take it and the blood from me—you dare!
Eulalia.
Oh, who has hurt you? where's the wound?
Chiappino.
“Who,” say you?
The man with many a touch of virtue yet!
The Provost's friend has proved too frank of speech,
And this comes of it. Miserable hound!
This comes of temporizing, as I said!
Here's fruit of your smooth speeches and soft looks!
Now see my way! As God lives, I go straight
To the palace and do justice, once for all!
Luitolfo.
What says he?
Chiappino.
I'll do justice on him.
Luitolfo.
Him?
Chiappino.
The Provost.
Luitolfo.
I've just killed him.
Eulalia.
Oh, my God!
Luitolfo.
My friend, they're on my trace; they'll have me—now!
They're round him, busy with him: soon they'll find
He's past their help, and then they'll be on me!
Chiappino, save Eulalia! I forget . . .
Were you not bound for . . .
Chiappino.
Lugo?
Luitolfo.
Ah—yes—yes!
That was the point I prayed of him to change.
They're on me!
Chiappino.
'T is through me they reach you, then!
Friend, seem the man you are! Lock arms—that's right!
Now tell me what you've done; explain how you
That still professed forbearance, still preached peace,
Could bring yourself . . .
Luitolfo.
What was peace for, Chiappino?
I tried peace: did that promise, when peace failed,
Strife should not follow? All my peaceful days
Were just the prelude to a day like this.
I cried “You call me ‘friend’: save my true friend!
“Save him, or lose me!”
Chiappino.
But you never said
You meant to tell the Provost thus and thus.
Luitolfo.
Why should I say it? What else did I mean?
Chiappino.
Well? He persisted?
Luitolfo.
—“Would so order it
“You should not trouble him too soon again.”
I saw a meaning in his eye and lip;
I poured my heart's store of indignant words
Out on him: then—I know not! He retorted,
And I . . . some staff lay there to hand—I think
He bade his servants thrust me out—I struck . . .
Ah, they come! Fly you, save yourselves, you two!
The glowing trip-hook, thumbscrews and the gadge!
Eulalia.
They do come! Torches in the Place! Farewell,
Chiappino! You can work no good to us—
Much to yourself; believe not, all the world
Must needs be cursed henceforth!
Chiappino.
And you?
Eulalia.
I stay.
Chiappino.
Ha, ha! Now, listen! I am master here!
This was my coarse disguise; this paper shows
My path of flight and place of refuge—see—
Lugo, Argenta, past San Nicolo,
Ferrara, then to Venice and all's safe!
Put on the cloak! His people have to fetch
A compass round about. There's time enough
Ere they can reach us, so you straightway make
For Lugo . . . nay, he hears not! On with it—
The cloak, Luitolfo, do you hear me? See—
He obeys he knows not how. Then, if I must—
Answer me! Do you know the Lugo gate?
Eulalia.
The north-west gate, over the bridge?
Luitolfo.
I know.
Chiappino.
Well, there—you are not frightened? all my route
Is traced in that: at Venice you escape
[Shouts from without. He pushes out Luitolfo, who complies mechanically.
In time! Nay, help me with him—so! He's gone.
Eulalia.
What have you done? On you, perchance, all know
The Provost's hater, will men's vengeance fall
As our accomplice.
Chiappino.
Mere accomplice? See!
[Putting on Luitolfo's vest.
Now, lady, am I true to my profession,
Or one of these?
Eulalia.
You take Luitolfo's place?
Chiappino.
Die for him.
Eulalia.
Well done!
[Shouts increase.
Chiappino.
How the people tarry!
I can't be silent; I must speak: or sing—
How natural to sing now!
Eulalia.
Hush and pray!
We are to die; but even I perceive
'T is not a very hard thing so to die.
My cousin of the pale-blue tearful eyes,
Poor Cesca, suffers more from one day's life
With the stern husband; Tisbe's heart goes forth
Each evening after that wild son of hers,
To track his thoughtless footstep through the streets:
I am not sure that I could live as they.
Chiappino.
Here they come, crowds! They pass the gate? Yes!—No!—
One torch is in the courtyard. Here flock all.
Eulalia.
At least Luitolfo has escaped. What cries!
Chiappino.
If they would drag one to the market-place,
One might speak there!
Eulalia.
List, list!
Chiappino.
They mount the steps.
Enter the Populace.
Chiappino.
I killed the Provost!
The Populace
[speaking together].
'T was Chiappino, friends!
Our saviour! The best man at last as first!
He who first made us feel what chains we wore,
He also strikes the blow that shatters them,
He at last saves us—our best citizen!
—Oh, have you only courage to speak now?
My eldest son was christened a year since
“Cino” to keep Chiappino's name in mind—
Cino, for shortness merely, you observe!
The city's in our hands. The guards are fled.
Do you, the cause of all, come down—come up—
Come out to counsel us, our chief, our king,
The peril over, its reward begins!
Come and harangue us in the market-place!
Eulalia.
Chiappino?
Chiappino.
Yes—I understand your eyes!
You think I should have promptlier disowned
This deed with its strange unforeseen success,
In favour of Luitolfo. But the peril,
So far from ended, hardly seems begun.
To-morrow, rather, when a calm succeeds,
We easily shall make him full amends:
And meantime—if we save them as they pray,
And justify the deed by its effects?
Eulalia.
You would, for worlds, you had denied at once.
Chiappino.
I know my own intention, be assured!
All's well. Precede us, fellow-citizens!
ACT II.
Scene.—The Market-place. Luitolfo in disguise mingling with the Populace assembled opposite the Provost's Palace.1st Bystander
[to Luitolfo].
You, a friend of Luitolfo's? Then, your friend is vanished,—in all probability killed on the night that his patron the tyrannical Provost was loyally suppressed here, exactly a month ago, by our illustrious fellow-citizen, thrice-noble saviour, and new Provost that is like to be, this very morning,—Chiappino!
Luitolfo.
He the new Provost?
2nd Bystander.
Up those steps will he go, and beneath yonder pillar stand, while Ogniben, the Pope's Legate from Ravenna, reads the new dignitary's title to the people, according to established custom: for which reason, there is the assemblage you inquire about.
Luitolfo.
Chiappino—the late Provost's successor? Impossible! But tell me of that presently. What I would know first of all is, wherefore Luitolfo must so necessarily have been killed on that memorable night?
3rd Bystander.
You were Luitolfo's friend? So was I.
Luitolfo.
Or why not simply have lain perdue in some quiet corner,—such as San Cassiano, where his estate was,—receiving daily intelligence from some sure friend, meanwhile, as to the turn matters were taking here—how, for instance, the Provost was not dead, after all, only wounded—or, as to-day's news would seem to prove, how Chiappino was not Brutus the Elder, after all, only the new Provost—and thus Luitolfo be enabled to watch a favourable opportunity for returning? Might it not have been so?
3rd Bystander.
Why, he may have taken that care of himself, certainly, for he came of a cautious stock. I'll tell you how his uncle, just such another gingerly treader on tiptoes with finger on lip,—how he met his death in the
Luitolfo
[aside].
(If I had not lent that man the money he wanted last spring, I should fear this bitterness was attributable to me.) Luitolfo is dead then, one may conclude?
3rd Bystander.
Why, he had a house here, and a woman to whom he was affianced; and as they both pass naturally to the new Provost, his friend and heir . . .
Luitolfo.
Ah, I suspected you of imposing on me with your pleasantry! I know Chiappino better.
1st Bystander.
(Our friend has the bile! After all, I do not dislike finding somebody vary a little this general gape of admiration at Chiappino's glorious qualities.)
Luitolfo.
It is most to the purpose, that I know Chiappino to have been by profession a hater of that very office of Provost, you now charge him with proposing to accept.
1st Bystander.
Sir, I'll tell you. That night was indeed memorable. Up we rose, a mass of us, men, women, children; out fled the guards with the body of the tyrant; we were to defy the world: but, next grey morning, “What will Rome say?” began everybody. You know we are governed by Ravenna, which is governed by Rome. And quietly into the town, by the Ravenna road, comes on muleback a portly personage, Ogniben by with name, the quality of Pontifical Legate; trots briskly through the streets humming a “Cur fremuere gentes,” and makes directly for the Provost's Palace—there it faces you. “One Messer Chiappino is your leader? I have known three-and-twenty leaders of revolts!” (laughing gently to himself)—“Give me the help of your arm from my mule to yonder steps under the pillar—So! And now, my revolters and good friends, what do you want? The guards burst into Ravenna last night bearing your wounded Provost; and, having had a little talk with him, I take on myself to come and try appease the disorderliness, before Rome, hearing of it, resort to another method: 't is I come, and not another, from a certain
Luitolfo.
Do you see? I recognize him there!
Ay but, mark you, at the end of Chiappino's longest period in praise of a pure republic,—“And by whom do I desire such a government should be administered, perhaps, but by one like yourself?”—returns the Legate: thereupon speaking for a quarter of an hour together, on the natural and only legitimate government by the best and wisest. And it should seem there was soon discovered to be no such vast discrepancy at bottom between this and Chiappino's theory, place but each in its proper light. “Oh, are you there?” quoth Chiappino: “Ay, in that, I agree,” returns Chiappino: and so on.
Luitolfo.
But did Chiappino cede at once to this?
1st Bystander.
Why, not altogether at once. For instance, he said that the difference between him and all his fellows was, that they seemed all wishing to be kings in one or another way,—“whereas what right,” asked he, “has any man to wish to be superior to another?”— whereat, “Ah, sir,” answers the Legate, “this is the death of me, so often as I expect something is really going to be revealed to us by you clearer-seers, deeper-thinkers— this—that your right-hand (to speak by a figure) should be found taking up the weapon it displayed so ostentatiously, not to destroy any dragon in our path, as was prophesied, but simply to cut off its own fellow lefthand: yourself set about attacking yourself. For see
Luitolfo.
And the result is . . .
1st Bystander.
Why that, a month having gone by, the indomitable Chiappino, marrying as he will Luitolfo's love—at all events succeeding to Luitolfo's wealth— becomes the first inhabitant of Faenza, and a proper aspirant to the Provostship; which we assemble here to see conferred on him this morning. The Legate's Guard to clear the way! He will follow presently.
Luitolfo
[withdrawing a little].
I understand the drift of Eulalia's communications less than ever. Yet she surely said, in so many words, that Chiappino was in urgent danger: wherefore, disregarding her injunction to continue in my retreat and await the result of—what she called, some experiment yet in process—I hastened here without her leave or knowledge: how could I else? But if this they say be true—if it were for such a purpose, she and Chiappino kept me away . . . Oh, no, no! I must confront him and her before I believe this of them. And at the word, see!
Enter Chiappino and Eulalia.
Eulalia.
We part here, then? The change in your principles would seem to be complete.
Chiappino.
Now, why refuse to see that in my present
Eulalia.
And there being discoverable some hope yet in the hitherto much-abused old system of absolute government by a Provost here, you mean to take your time about endeavouring to realize those visions of a perfect State, we once heard of?
Chiappino.
Say, I would fain realize my conception of a palace, for instance, and that there is, abstractedly, but a single way of erecting one perfectly. Here, in the market-place is my allotted building-ground; here I stand without a stone to lay, or a labourer to help me,— stand, too, during a short day of life, close on which the night comes. On the other hand, circumstances suddenly
Eulalia.
So, the love breaks away too!
Chiappino.
No, rather my soul's capacity for love widens —needs more than one object to content it,—and, being better instructed, will not persist in seeing all the component parts of love in what is only a single part, —nor in finding that so many and so various loves are all united in the love of a woman,—manifold uses in one instrument, as the savage has his sword, staff, sceptre and idol, all in one club-stick. Love is a very compound thing. The intellectual part of my love I shall give to men, the mighty dead or the illustrious living; and determine to call a mere sensual instinct by as few fine names as possible. What do I lose?
Nay, I only think, what do I lose? and, one more word—which shall complete my instruction— does friendship go too? What of Luitolfo, the author of your present prosperity?
Chiappino.
How the author?
Eulalia.
That blow now called yours . . .
Chiappino.
Struck without principle or purpose, as by a blind natural operation: yet to which all my thought and life directly and advisedly tended. I would have struck it, and could not: he would have done his utmost to avoid striking it, yet did so. I dispute his right to that deed of mine—a final action with him, from the first effect of which he fled away,—a mere first step with me, on which I base a whole mighty superstructure of good to follow. Could he get good from it?
Eulalia.
So we profess, so we perform!
Enter Ogniben. Eulalia stands apart.
Ogniben.
I have seen three-and-twenty leaders of revolts. By your leave, sir! Perform? What does the lady say of performing?
Chiappino.
Only the trite saying, that we must not trust profession, only performance.
Ogniben.
She'll not say that, sir, when she knows you longer; you'll instruct her better. Ever judge of men
Chiappino.
But have there not been found, too, performing natures, not merely promising?
Ogniben.
Plenty. Little Bindo of our town, for instance, promised his friend, great ugly Masaccio, once, “I will repay you!”—for a favour done him. So, when his father came to die, and Bindo succeeded to the inheritance, he sends straightway for Masaccio and shares all with him—gives him half the land, half the money, half the kegs of wine in the cellar. “Good,” say you: and it is good. But had little Bindo found himself possessor of all this wealth some five years before—on the happy night when Masaccio procured him that interview in the garden with his pretty cousin Lisa—instead of being the beggar he then was,—I am bound to believe that in the warm moment of promise he would have given away all the wine-kegs and all the money and all the land, and only reserved to himself
Chiappino.
I must have a woman that can sympathize with, and appreciate me, I told you.
Ogniben.
Oh, I remember! you, the greater nature, needs must have a lesser one (—avowedly lesser—contest with you on that score would never do)—such a nature must comprehend you, as the phrase is, accompany and testify of your greatness from point to point onward. Why, that were being not merely as great as yourself, but greater considerably! Meantime, might not the more bounded nature as reasonably count on your appreciation of it, rather?—on your keeping close by it, so far as you both go together, and then going on by yourself as far as you please? Thus God serves us.
Chiappino.
And yet a woman that could understand the whole of me, to whom I could reveal alike the strength and the weakness—
Ogniben.
Ah, my friend, wish for nothing so foolish! Worship your love, give her the best of you to see; be to her like the western lands (they bring us such strange news of) to the Spanish Court; send her only
Chiappino.
But these are my private affairs; what I desire you to occupy yourself about, is my public appearance presently: for when the people hear that I am appointed Provost, though you and I may thoroughly discern—and easily, too—the right principle at bottom of such a movement, and how my republicanism remains thoroughly unaltered, only takes a form of expression hitherto commonly judged (and heretofore by myself) incompatible with its existence,—when thus I reconcile myself to an old form of government instead of proposing a new one . . .
Ogniben.
Why, you must deal with people broadly. Begin at a distance from this matter and say,—New
Chiappino.
Still, the world at large may call it inconsistency, and what shall I urge in reply?
Ogniben.
Why, look you, when they tax you with tergiversation or duplicity, you may answer—you begin to perceive that, when all's done and said, both great parties in the State, the advocators of change in the present system of things, and the opponents of it, patriot and anti-patriot, are found working together for the common good; and that in the midst of their efforts for and against its progress, the world somehow or other still advances: to which result they contribute in equal proportions, those who spend their life in pushing it onward, as those who give theirs to the business of pulling it back. Now, if you found the world stand still between the opposite forces, and were glad, I should conceive you: but it steadily advances, you rejoice to see! By the side of such a rejoicer, the man who only winks as he keeps cunning and quiet, and says, “Let yonder hot-headed fellow fight out my battle! I, for one, shall win in the end by the blows he gives, and which I ought to be giving”—even he seems graceful in his
Chiappino.
And naturally time must wear off such asperities: the bitterest adversaries get to discover certain points of similarity between each other, common sympathies—do they not?
Ogniben.
Ay, had the young David but sat first to dine on his cheeses with the Philistine, he had soon discovered an abundance of such common sympathies. He of Gath, it is recorded, was born of a father and mother, had brothers and sisters like another man,—they, no more than the sons of Jesse, were used to eat each other. But, for the sake of one broad antipathy that had existed from the beginning, David slung the stone, cut off the giant's head, made a spoil of it, and after ate his cheeses alone, with the better appetite, for all I can learn. My friend, as you, with a quickened eye-sight, go on discovering much good on the worse side, remember that the same process should proportionably magnify and demonstrate to you the much more good on the better side! And when I profess no sympathy for the Goliaths of our time, and you object that a large nature should sympathize with every form of intelligence, and see the good in it, however
Chiappino.
But you very well know that the two parties do, on occasion, assume each other's characteristics. What more disgusting, for instance, than to see how promptly the newly emancipated slave will adopt, in his own favour, the very measures of precaution, which pressed soreliest on himself as institutions of the tyranny he has just escaped from? Do the classes, hitherto without opinion, get leave to express it? there follows a confederacy immediately, from which—exercise your individual right and dissent, and woe be to you!
Ogniben.
And a journey over the sea to you! That is the generous way. Cry—“Emancipated slaves, the first
Chiappino.
Why, men of genius are usually charged,
Ogniben.
Not I (always on your own ground and showing, be it noted!) Who doubts that, with a weapon to brandish, a man is the more formidable? Titles and badges are exercised as such a weapon, to which you and I look up wistfully. We could pin lions with it moreover, while in its present owner's hands it hardly prods rats. Nay, better than a mere weapon of easy mastery and obvious use, it is a mysterious divining rod that may serve us in undreamed-of ways. Beauty, strength, intellect —men often have none of these, and yet conceive pretty accurately what kind of advantages they would bestow on the possessor. We know at least what it is we make up our mind to forego, and so can apply the fittest substitute in our power. Wanting beauty, we cultivate good humour; missing wit, we get riches: but the mystic unimaginable operation of that gold collar and string of Latin names which suddenly turned poor stupid little peevish Cecco of our town into natural lord of the best of us—a Duke, he is now—there indeed is a virtue to be reverenced!
Ay, by the vulgar: not by Messere Stiatta the poet, who pays more assiduous court to him than anybody.
Ogniben.
What else should Stiatta pay court to? He has talent, not honour and riches: men naturally covet what they have not.
Chiappino.
No, or Cecco would covet talent, which he has not, whereas he covets more riches, of which he has plenty, already.
Ogniben.
Because a purse added to a purse makes the holder twice as rich: but just such another talent as Stiatta's, added to what he now possesses, what would that profit him? Give the talent a purse indeed, to do something with! But lo, how we keep the good people waiting! I only desired to do justice to the noble sentiments which animate you, and which you are too modest to duly enforce. Come, to our main business: shall we ascend the steps? I am going to propose you for Provost to the people; they know your antecedents, and will accept you with a joyful unanimity: whereon I confirm their choice. Rouse up! Are you nerving yourself to an effort? Beware the disaster of Messere Stiatta we were talking of! who, determining to keep an equal mind and constant face on whatever might be the fortune of his last new poem with our townsmen, heard too plainly “hiss, hiss, hiss,” increase every moment. Till
Chiappino.
Do you begin to throw off the mask?—to jest with me, having got me effectually into your trap?
Ogniben.
Where is the trap, my friend? You hear what I engage to do, for my part: you, for yours, have only to fulfil your promise made just now within doors, of professing unlimited obedience to Rome's authority in my person. And I shall authorize no more than the simple re-establishment of the Provostship and the conferment of its privileges upon yourself: the only novel stipulation being a birth of the peculiar circumstances of the time.
Chiappino.
And that stipulation?
Ogniben.
Just the obvious one—that in the event of the discovery of the actual assailant of the late Provost . . .
Chiappino.
Ha!
Ogniben.
Why, he shall suffer the proper penalty, of course; what did you expect?
Chiappino.
Who heard of this?
Ogniben.
Rather, who needed to hear of this?
Chiappino.
Can it be, the popular rumour never reached you . . .
Ogniben.
Many more such rumours reach me, friend,
Luitolfo
[coming forward].
I!
All.
Luitolfo!
Luitolfo.
I avow the deed, justify and approve it, and stand forth now, to relieve my friend of an unearned responsibility. Having taken thought, I am grown stronger: I shall shrink from nothing that awaits me. Nay, Chiappino—we are friends still: I dare say there is some proof of your superior nature in this starting aside, strange as it seemed at first. So, they tell me, my horse is of the right stock, because a shadow in the path frightens him into a frenzy, makes him dash my brains out. I understand only the dull mule's way of standing stockishly, plodding soberly, suffering on occasion a blow or two with due patience.
Eulalia.
I was determined to justify my choice,
Ogniben.
Now, in these last ten minutes of silence, what have I been doing, deem you? Putting the finishing stroke to a homily of mine, I have long taken thought to perfect, on the text, “Let whoso thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall.” To your house, Luitolfo! Still silent, my patriotic friend? Well, that is a good sign however. And you will go aside for a time? That is better still. I understand: it would be easy for you to die of remorse here on the spot and shock us all, but you mean to live and grow worthy of coming back to us one day. There, I will tell everybody; and you only do right to believe you must get better as you get older. All men do so: they are worst in childhood, improve in manhood, and get ready in old age for another world. Youth, with its beauty and grace, would seem bestowed on us for some such reason as to make us partly endurable till we have time for really becoming so of ourselves, without their aid; when they leave us. The sweetest child we all smile on for his pleasant want of the whole world to break up, or suck in his mouth, seeing no other good in it—would be rudely handled by that world's inhabitants, if he retained those angelic infantine desires when he had grown six feet high, black and bearded. But, little by little, he sees fit to forego claim after claim on the world,
The Poetical Works of Robert Browning | ||