Читать книгу The Inn Album - Robert Browning - Страница 3

Table of Contents

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 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 patch 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 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. He sets down, rubs out figures in the book, ⁠100 Adds and subtracts, puts back here, carries there. Until the summed-up satisfaction stands Apparent, and he pauses o'er the work: Soothes what of brain was busy under brow. By passage of the hard palm, curing so Wrinkle and crowfoot for a second's space; Then lays down book and laughs out. No mistake. Such the sum-total—ask Colenso else! Roused by which laugh, the other turns, laughs too— The youth, the good strong fellow, rough perhaps. "Well, what's the damage—three, or four, or five? How many figures in a row! Hand here! Come now, there's one expense all yours not mine— Scribbling the people's Album over, leaf The first and foremost too! You think, perhaps, They'll only charge you for a brand-new book Nor estimate the literary loss? Wait till the small account comes! 'To one night's Lodging'—for 'beds,' they can't say,— 'pound or so; Dinner, Apollinaris,—what they please, Attendance not included;' last looms large 'Defacement of our Album, late enriched With' —let's see what! Here, at the window, though! Ay, breathe the morning and forgive your luck! Fine enough country for a fool like me To own, as next month I suppose I shall! Eh? True fool's-fortune! so console yourself. Let's see, however—hand the book, I say! Well, you've improved the classic by romance. Queer reading! Verse with parenthetic prose 'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!' (Three-two fives ) 'life how profitably spent' (Five-naught, five-nine fives) 'yonder humble cot' (More and more naughts and fives) 'in mild content; And did my feelings find the natural vent In friendship and in love, how blest my lot!' Then follow the dread figures—five! 'Content!' That's apposite! Are you content as he— Simpkin the sonneteer? Ten thousand pounds Give point to his effusion—by so much Leave me the richer and the poorer you After our night's play; who's content the most, I, you, or Simpkin?" So the polished snob, The elder man, refinement every inch From brow to boot-end, quietly replies: "Simpkin's no name I know. I had my whim." "Ay, had you! And such things make friendship thick. Intimates I may boast we were; henceforth, Friends—shall it not be?—who discard reserve, Use plain words, put each dot upon each i, Till death us twain do part? The bargain's struck! Old fellow, if you fancy—(to begin—) I felled to penetrate your scheme last week, 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 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 mind 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,— ⁠200 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. "The lesson shall be—only boys like you Put such a question at the present stage. I had a ball lodge in my shoulder once. And, full five minutes, never guessed the fact; Next day, I felt decidedly: and still. At twelve years' distance, when I lift my arm A twinge reminds me of the surgeon's probe. Ask me, this day month, how I feel my luck! And meantime please to stop impertinence. For—don't I know its object? All this chaff Covers the corn, this preface leads to speech. This boy stands forth a hero. 'There, my lord! Our play was true play, fun not earnest! I Empty your purse, inside out, while my poke Bulges to bursting? Tou can badly spare A doit, confess now, Duke though brother be! While I'm gold-daubed so thickly, spangles drop 'And show my father's warehouse-apron: pshaw! Enough! We've had a palpitating night! Good morning! Breakfast and forget our dreams! My mouth's shut, mind! I tell nor man nor mouse.' There, see! He don't deny it! Thanks, my boy! Hero and welcome—only, not on me Make trial of your 'prentice-hand! Enough! We've played, I've lost and owe ten thousand pounds, Whereof I muster, at the moment,—well, What's for the bill here and the back to town. Still, I've my little character to keep: You may expect your money at month's end." The young man at the window turns round quick— A clumsy giant handsome creature; grasps In his large red the little lean white hand Of the other, looks him in the sallow face. "I say now—is it right to so mistake A fellow, force him in mere self-defence To spout like Mister Mild Acclivity In album-language? You know well enough Whether I like you—like 's no album-word Anyhow: point me to one soul beside In the wide world I care one straw about! I first set eyes on you a year ago; Since when you've done me good—I'll stick to it— More than I got in the whole twenty-five That make my life up, Oxford years and all— Throw in the three I fooled away abroad. Seeing myself and nobody more sage Until I met you, and you made me man Such as the sort is and the fates allow. I do think, since we two kept company, I've learnt to know a little—all through you! It's nature if I like you. Taunt away! As if I need you teaching me my place— The snob I am, the Duke your brother is. When just the good you did was—teaching me My own trade, how a snob and millionaire May lead his life and let the Duke's alone, Clap wings, free jackdaw, on his steeple-perch, Burnish his black to gold in sun and air, Nor pick up stray plumes, strive to match in strut Regular peacocks who can't fly an inch Over the courtyard-paling. Head and heart (That's album-style) are older than you know. For all your knowledge: boy, perhaps—ay, boy Had his adventure, just as he were man— His ball-experience in the shoulder-blade, His bit of life-long ache to recognize, Although he bears it cheerily about. Because you came and clapped him on the back. Advised him 'Walk and wear the aching off!' Why, I was minded to sit down for life Just in Dalmatia, build a sea-side tower High on a rock, and so expend my days Pursuing chemistry or botany Or, very like, astronomy because I noticed stars shone when I passed the place: Letting my cash accumulate the while ⁠300 In England—to lay out in lump at last As Ruskin should direct me! All or some Of which should I have done or tried to do, And preciously repented, one fine day, Had you discovered Timon, climbed his rock And scaled his tower, some ten years thence, suppose, And coaxed his story from him! Don't I see The pair conversing! It's a novel writ Already, I'll be bound,—our dialogue! 'What?' cried the elder and yet youthful man— So did the eye flash 'neath the lordly front, And the imposing presence swell with scorn, As the haught high-bred bearing and dispose Contrasted with his interlocutor The flabby low-born who, of bulk before, Had steadily increased, one stone per week, Since his abstention from horse-exercise:— 'What? you, as rich as Rothschild, left, you say, London the very year you came of age, Because your father manufactured goods— Commission-agent hight of Manchester— Partly, and partly through a baby case Of disappointment I've pumped out at last— And here you spend life's prime in gaining flesh And giving science one more asteroid?' Brief, my dear fellow, you instructed me. At Alfred's and not Istria! proved a snob May turn a million to account although His brother be no Duke, and see good days Without the girl he lost and some one gained. The end is, after one year's tutelage. Having, by your help, touched society. Polo, Tent-pegging, Hurlingham, the Rink— I leave all these delights, by your advice, And marry my young pretty cousin here Whose place, whose oaks ancestral you behold. (Her father was in partnership with mine— Does not his purchase look a pedigree?) My million will be tails and tassels smart To this plump-bodied kite, this house and land Which, set a-soaring, pulls me, soft as sleep, Along life's pleasant meadow,—arm left free To lock a friend's in,—whose but yours, old boy? Arm in arm glide we over rough and smooth, While hand, to pocket held, saves cash from cards. Now, if you don't esteem ten thousand pounds (—Which I shall probably discover snug Hid somewhere in the column-corner capped With 'Credit,' based on 'Balance,' —which, I swear, By this time next month I shall quite forget Whether I lost or won—ten thousand pounds, Which at this instant I would give . . . let's see. For Galopin—nay, for that Gainsborough Sir Richard won't sell, and, if bought by me, Would get my glance and praise some twice a year,— Well, if you don't esteem that price dirt-cheap For teaching me Dalmatia was mistake— Why then, my last illusion-bubble breaks, My one discovered phœnix proves a goose, My cleverest of all companions—oh, Was worth nor ten pence nor ten thousand pounds! Come! Be yourself again! So endeth here The morning's lesson! Never while life lasts Do I touch card again. To breakfast now! To bed—I can't say, since you needs must start For station early—oh, the down-train still, First plan and best plan—townward trip be hanged! You're due at your big brother's—pay that debt. Then owe me not a farthing! Order eggs— And who knows but there's trout obtainable?" The fine man looks well-nigh malignant: then— "Sir, please subdue your manner! Debts are debts: I pay mine—debts of this sort—certainly. What do I care how you regard your gains. Want them or want them not? The thing I want Is—not to have a story circulate From club to club—how, bent on clearing out Young So-and-so, young So-and-so cleaned me, Then set the empty kennel flush again. Ignored advantage and forgave his friend— For why? There was no wringing blood from stone! Oh, don't be savage! You would hold your tongue, Bite it in two, as man may; but those small Hours in the smoking-room, when instance apt Rises to tongue's root, tingles on to tip, And the thinned company consists of six Capital well-known fellows one may trust! Next week, it's in the 'World.' No, thank you much. I owe ten thousand pounds: I'll pay them!" "Now,— This becomes funny. You've made friends with me? I can't help knowing of the ways and means! Or stay! they say your brother closets up Correggio's long-lost Leda: if he means To give you that, and if you give it me . . ." "I polished snob off to aristocrat? You compliment me! father's apron still Sticks out from son's court-vesture: still silk purse Roughs finger with some bristle sow-ear-born! Well, neither I nor you mean harm at heart! I owe you and shall pay you: which premised, ⁠400 Why should what follows sound like flattery? The fact is—you do compliment too much Your humble master, as I own I am; You owe me no such thanks as you protest. The polisher needs precious stone no less Than precious stone needs polisher: believe I struck no tint from out you but I found Snug lying first 'neath surface hair-breadth-deep! Beside, I liked the exercise: with skill Goes love to show skill for skill's sake. You see, I'm old and understand things: too absurd It were you pitched and tossed away your life. As diamond were Scotch-pebble! all the more, That I myself misused a stone of price. Born and bred clever—people used to say Clever as most men, if not something more— Yet here I stand a failure, cut awry Or left opaque,—no brilliant named and known, Whatever my inner stuff, my outside's blank: I'm nobody—or rather, look that same— I'm—who I am—and know it; but I hold What in my hand out for the world to see? What ministry, what mission, or what book I'll say, book even? Not a sign of these! I began—laughing— 'All these when I like!' I end with—well, you've hit it!— 'This boy's cheque For just as many thousands as he he'll spare!' The first—I could, and would not; your spare cash I would, and could not: have no scruple, pray, But, as I hoped to pocket yours, pouch mine —When you are able!" "Which is—when to be? I've heard, great characters require a fall Of fortune to show greatness by uprise: They touch the ground to jollily rebound, Add to the Album! Let a fellow share Your secret of superiority! I know, my banker makes the money breed Money; I eat and sleep, he simply takes The dividends and cuts the coupons off, Sells out, buys in, keeps doubling, tripling cash, While I do nothing but receive and spend. But you, spontaneous generator, hatch A wind-egg; cluck, and forth struts Capital As Interest to me from egg of gold. I am grown curious: pay me by all means! How will you make the money?" "Mind your own— Not my affair. Enough: or money, or Money's worth, as the case may be, expect Ere month's end,—keep but patient for a month! Who's for a stroll to station? Ten's the time; Your man, with my things, follow in the trap; At stoppage of the down-train, play the arrived On platform, and you'll show the due fatigue Of the night-journey,—not much sleep,—perhaps, Your thoughts were on before you—yes, indeed. You join them, being happily awake With thought's sole object as she smiling sits At breakfast-table. I shall dodge meantime In and out station-precinct, wile away The hour till up my engine pants and smokes. No doubt, she goes to fetch you. Never fear! She gets no glance at me, who shame such saints!"