free-verse418 lines

A Forgiveness

by Robert Browning

I am indeed the personage you know.

As for my wife, what happened long ago

You have a right to question me, as I

Am bound to answer.

('Son, a fit reply!'

The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth,

At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)

Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place

I had as still I have. I ran life's race,

With the whole world to see, as only strains

His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains

Of good appall him: happy to excess,

Work freely done should balance happiness

Fully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roof

Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof

I went forth every day, and all day long

Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song

Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe

Of laboring flesh and blood, 'She loves me so!'

One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve

That work grew play and vanished. 'I deserve

Haply my heaven an hour before the time!'

I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime

Surprised me passing through the postern-gate

Not the main entry where the menials wait

And wonder why the world's affairs allow

The master sudden leisure. That was how

I took the private garden-way for once.

Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce

Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man.

My fancies in the natural order ran:

'A spy, perhaps a foe in ambuscade,

A thief, more like, a sweetheart of some maid

Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps.'

'Stand there!' I bid.

Whereat my man but wraps

His face the closelier with uplifted arm

Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm

This and that pedestal as, stretch and stoop,

Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group

Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged

Each side the pathway, till the gate's exchanged

For safety: one step thence, the street, you know!

Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow,

Near on admiringly, I breathed again,

And back to that last fancy of the train

'A danger risked for hope of just a word

With which of all my nest may be the bird

This poacher covets for her plumage, pray?

Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay

For such adventure, while Juana's grave

Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave!

He had the eye, could single from my brood

His proper fledgeling!'

As I turned, there stood

In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white.

Whether one bound had brought her, at first sight

Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be

Next moment, of the venturous man and me,

Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey:

Whether impelled because her death no day

Could come so absolutely opportune

As now at joy's height, like a year in June

Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose;

Or whether hungry for my hate, who knows?

Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste

Our tingling true relation, hate embraced

By hate one naked moment: anyhow

There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now

The woman who made heaven within my house.

Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse

As well as love, you are to recollect!

'Stay!' she said. 'Keep at least one soul unspecked

With crime, that's spotless hitherto, your own!

Kill me who court the blessing, who alone

Was, am, and shall be guilty, first to last!

The man lay helpless in the toils I cast

About him, helpless as the statue there

Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tear

Away and tread to dust the parasite,

But do the passive marble no despite!

I love him as I hate you. Kill me! Strike

At one blow both infinitudes alike

Out of existence, hate and love! Whence love?

That's safe inside my heart, nor will remove

For any searching of your steel, I think.

Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink

Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape,

At every form wherein your love took shape;

At each new provocation of your kiss.

Kill me!'

We went in.

Next day after this,

I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke,

Easily, after all.

'The lifted cloak

Was screen sufficient: I concern myself

Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf,

Whate'er the ignoble kind, may prowl and brave

Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave

Detected by my household's vigilance.

Enough of such! As for my love-romance,

I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes

And wake and wonder how the film could rise

Which changed for me a barbers' basin straight

Into, Mambrino's helm? I hesitate

Nowise to say, God's sacramental cup!

Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up,

Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold?

To me, a warning I was overbold

In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked

Only to die, if I remember, staked

His life upon the basin's worth, and lost:

While I confess torpidity at most

In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt,

Still should I work on, still repair my fault

Ere I took rest in death, no fear at all!

Now, work no word before the curtain fall!'

The 'curtain'? That of death on life, I meant:

My 'word,' permissible in death's event,

Would be, truth, soul to soul; for, other-wise,

Day by day, three years long, there had to rise

And, night by night, to fall upon our stage,

Ours, doomed to public play by heritage,

Another curtain, when the world, perforce

Our critical assembly, in due course

Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame

To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game

If, suffered to set foot behind our scene,

The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen,

Gallant and lady, but a minute since

Enarming each the other, would evince

No sign of recognition as they took

His way and her way to whatever nook

Waited them in the darkness either side

Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride

Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit

Of sympathetic rapture, every whit

Earned as the curtain fell on her and me,

Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see

But calm and concord: where a speech was due

There came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too,

Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine,

Where foreign and domestic cares combine,

There's audience every day and all day long;

But finally the last of the whole throng

Who linger lets one see his back. For her,

Why, liberty and liking: I aver,

Liking and liberty! For me, I breathed,

Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed

Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task

Of personation till next day bade mask,

And quietly betook me from that world

To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled

In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power.

Three years I worked, each minute of each hour

Not claimed by acting: work I may dispense

With talk about, since work in evidence,

Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?

After three years, this way, all unawares,

Our acting ended. She and I, at close

Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows

Of bending male and female loyalty,

Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high

At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare

Herald his passage from our palace, where

Such visiting left glory evermore.

Again the ascent in public, till at door

As we two stood by the saloon, now blank

And disencumbered of its guests, there sank

A whisper in my ear, so low and yet

So unmistakable!

'I half forget

The chamber you repair to, and I want

Occasion for one short word, if you grant

That grace, within a certain room yon: called

Our 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawled

Some paper full of faces for my sport.

That room I can remember. Just one short

Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake!'

'Follow me thither I' I replied.

We break

The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp

I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp

Blind disused serpentining ways afar

From where the habitable chambers are,

Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,

Always in silence, till I reach the lone

Chamber sepulchred for my very own

Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy,

Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy,

Proof-positive of ownership; in youth

I garnered up my gleanings here uncouth

But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears;

Finally, this became in after-years

My closet of entrenchment to withstand

Invasion of the foe on every hand,

The multifarious herd in bower and hall,

State-room, rooms whatsoe'er the style, which call

On masters to be mindful that, before

Men, they must look like men and something more.

Here, when our lord the king's bestowment ceased

To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced,

I touched ambition's height, 'twas here, released

From glory (always symbolled by a chain!)

No sooner was I privileged to gain

My secret domicile than glad I flung

That last toy on the table gazed where hung

On hook my father's gift, the arquebus

And asked myself, 'Shall I envisage thus

The new prize and the old prize, when I reach

Another year's experience? own that each

Equalled advantage, sportsman's, states-man's tool?

That brought me down an eagle, this, a fool!'

Into which room on entry, I set down

The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown

Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace.

Each of us looked the other in the face.

She spoke. 'Since I could die now' . . .

(To explain

Why that first struck me, know, not once again

Since the adventure at the porphyry's edge

Three years before, which sundered like a wedge

Her soul from mine, though daily, smile to smile,

We stood before the public, all the while

Not once bad I distinguished, in that face

I paid observance to, the faintest trace

Of feature more than requisite for eyes

To do their duty by and recognize:

So did I force mine to obey my will

And pry no further. There exists such skill,

Those know who need it. What physician shrinks

From needful contact with a corpse? He drinks

No plague so long as thirst for knowledge not

An idler impulse prompts inquiry. What,

And will you disbelieve in power to bid

Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid

A child from scrutiny that's just and right

In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight,

Reported daily she it was not how

Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)

'Since I could die now of the truth concealed,

Yet dare not, must not die, so seems revealed

The Virgin's mind to me, for death means peace

Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease

Of life and punishment the truth avowed

May haply lengthen, let me push the shroud

Away, that steals to muffle ere is just

My penance-fire in snow! I dare I must

Live, by avowal of the truth, this truth,

I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth

That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite

Than all preceding torture, proves me right!

I loved you yet I lost you! May I go

Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know?'

I think there never was such, how express?

Horror coquetting with voluptuousness,

As in those arms of Eastern workmanship,

Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip,

Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways,

Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays

Love still at work with the artificer

Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer,

Except for love's sake, that a blade should writhe

And bicker like a flame? now play the scythe

As if some broad neck tempted, now contract

And needle off into a fineness lacked

For just that puncture which the heart demands?

Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands

Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold

Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold!

Fancy my favorite, which I seem to grasp

While I describe the luxury. No asp

Is diapered more delicate round throat

Than this below the handle! These denote

These mazy lines meandering, to end

Only in flesh they open, what intend

They else but water-purlings, pale contrast

With the life-crimson where they blend at last?

And mark the handle's dim pellucid green,

Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean,

Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecks

A grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specks

Pure from the mine: seen this way, glassy blank,

But turn them, lo, the inmost fire, that shrank

From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim!

Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game

Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men

War-wearied get amusement from that pen

And paper we grow sick of, statesfolk tired

Of merely (when such measures are required)

Dealing out doom to people by three words,

A signature and seal: we play with swords

Suggestive of quick process. That is how

I came to like the toys described you now,

Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed

The table, even, while my wife pursued

Her purpose to its ending. 'Now you know

This shame, my three years' torture, let me go,

Burn to the very ashes! You, I lost,

Yet you, I loved!'

The thing I pity most

In men is, action prompted by surprise

Of anger: men? nay, bulls, whose onset lies

At instance of the firework and the goad!

Once the foe prostrate, trampling once bestowed,

Prompt follows placability, regret,

Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet

Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse

Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse

My veins at this occasion for resolve.

Had that devolved which did not then devolve

Upon me, I had done, what now to do

Was quietly apparent.

'Tell me who

The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!'

'No, never! All was folly in his case,

All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied.'

'And yet you loved me?'

'Loved you. Double-dyed

In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave

Your heart and soul away from me to slave

At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost,

I stung myself to teach you, to your cost,

What you rejected could be prized beyond

Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond

Look on, a fatal word to.'

'And you still

Love me? Do I conjecture well or ill?'

'Conjecture, well or ill! I had three years

To spend in learning you.'

'We both are peers

In knowledge, therefore: since three years are spent

Ere thus much of yourself I learn, who went

Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind

To bear upon your action, uncombined

Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived

Of every purer particle, survived

At last in native simple hideousness,

Utter contemptibility, nor less

Nor more. Contemptibility, exempt

How could I, from its proper due, contempt?

I have too much despised you to divert

My life from its set course by help or hurt

Of your all-despicable life, perturb

The calm I work in, by men's mouths to curb,

Which at such news were clamorous enough

Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff

With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall

Blank where a scutcheon hung, by, worse than all,

Each day's procession, my paraded life

Robbed and impoverished through the wanting wife

Now that my life (which means my work) was grown

Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone

Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby

Of good and praise would how rewardingly!

Fall at your feet, a crown I hoped to cast

Before your love, my love should crown at last.

No love remaining to cast crown before,

My love stopped work now: but contempt the more

Impelled me task as ever head and hand,

Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand

Rather than taste pure hell in idleness.

Therefore I kept my memory down by stress

Of daily work I had no mind to stay

For the world's wonder at the wife away.

Oh, it was easy all of it, believe,

For I despised you! But your words retrieve

Importantly the past. No hate assumed

The mask of love at any time! There gloomed

A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged

By causes you declare; but love's self purged

Away a fancied wrong I did both loves

Yours and my own: by no hate's help, it proves,

Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise

High by how many a grade! I did despise

I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment

Replace contempt's! First step to which ascent

Write down your own words I re-utter you!

'I loved my husband and I hated who

He was, I took up as my first chance, mere

Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with!'

Here

Lies paper!'

'Would my blood for ink suffice!'

'It may: this minion from a land of spice.

Silk, feather-every bird of jewelled breast

This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prat

Above your heart there' . . .

'Thus?'

'It flows, I see.

Dip there the point and write!'

'Dictate to me!

Nay, I remember.'

And she wrote the words.

I read them. Then 'Since love, in you, affords

License for hate, in me, to quench (I say)

Contempt why, hate itself has passed away

In vengeance foreign to contempt. Depart

Peacefully to that death which Eastern art

Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true!

Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you

Dead in our chamber!'

True as truth the tale.

She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale

Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise,

And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes,

Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst

Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours!

Immersed

In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?

For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps

Still plain I seem to see! about his head

The idle cloak, about his heart (instead

Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude

My vengeance in the cloister's solitude?

Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow

The cloak then, Father as your grate helps now!