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STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
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stories from Browning 
 
 BY 
 
 HARVEY CARSON GRUMBINE, Ph.D. 
 
 Professor of English in The University of Wooster , 
 
 
 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 

 COPYRIGHT, I914, BY HARVEY CARSON GRUMBINE 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 CAMBRIDGE , MASSACHUSETTS 
 
 m -2 19/4 
 
 ©CIA374283 
 
S TO ESTELLE 
 
PREFACE 
 
 These studies are in no sense meant to be a 
 substitute for the poems they sketch. They are 
 intended for a stimulus and a help; and if, to any 
 degree, they succeed in introducing the reader to 
 Browning himself and in clearing away the cryptic 
 and esoteric atmosphere which too much surrounds 
 the conception of his genius in the popular mind, 
 they have not been written in vain. 
 
 H. C. Grumbine. 
 
 WoosTER, Ohio, 
 February, 1914. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 THE POWER OF MENTAL SUGGESTION 
 PippA Passes 3 
 
 CONCERNING LOVE 
 
 Love of Honor. A Blot in the 'Scutdieon . 23 
 
 Love of Country. Strafford .... 50 
 
 Love and Fidelity. In a Balcony . . . 164 
 
 The Transcending Power of Love. James 
 Lee's Wife 195 
 
 Love and Indolence. The Statue and the Bust 204 
 
 Love and the Conventions. The Flight of the 
 Duchess 208 
 
 Love Idealized. Cristina 219 
 
 ,Love Perverted by Pride. My Last Duchess. 222 
 
 Love Perverted by the Conventions of Re- 
 ligion. Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister . 226 
 
 CONCERNING ART 
 
 Perfection in the Technique of Art. Andrea 
 del Sarto 233 
 
 Realism and Idealism in Art. Fra Lippo Lippi 238 
 
X CONTENTS 
 
 CONCERNING FAITH 
 
 Faith in an Ideal. A Grammarian's Funeral . 251 
 
 Faith without Christ. Cleon . . . .254 
 
 Faith and Doubt. Bishop Blougram's Apology 259 
 
 Imposture and Faith. Mr. Sludge, "the 
 Medium" 272 
 
 Faith and Science. An Epistle Containing the 
 Strange Medical Experience of Karshish, the 
 Arab Physician 287 
 
 Faith and Theology. Caliban upon Setebos; 
 or. Natural Theology in the Island . . . 294 
 
 Faith and Heresy. A Death in the Desert . 303 
 
 The Transcending Power op a Vision. Saul 311 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 321 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The business of the reader of poetry is not very 
 different from that of the reader of prose. It is 
 different only in the extent to which prose differs 
 from poetry; and the chief difference between 
 prose and poetry lies in emotional reaction and 
 appeal to the imagination. But, broadly speaking, 
 the same mental faculties are exercised in the read- 
 ing of poetry and the reading of prose. Thus con- 
 sidered, the matter sifts itself down to a question 
 of psychology. While the same mental faculties 
 are exercised in the reading of poetry and the read- 
 ing of prose, they are exercised in different degrees, 
 the difference being commensurate with the differ- 
 ence in the two forms of expression. That differ- 
 ence is one of emphasis and not of kind. Roughly 
 speaking, the conspicuous element of prose is its 
 intellectual content; while, on the other hand, the 
 predominant element of poetry is its emotional 
 content. 
 
 Another way of saying the same thing, and per- 
 haps a simpler way, is this : Every form of literary 
 expression, whether poetry or prose, has a meaning. 
 That is its one indispensable feature. That is its 
 carrying quality or reason for existence. The mean- 
 ing of prose, at least of its severer forms, is intel- 
 lectual; the meaning of poetry is largely emotional. 
 Just as the function of exposition is to make plain 
 
xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 and of argumentation to convince, so the purpose 
 of the lyric is to convey a mood; and this is true 
 no less, and only in degree, of the epic, the tragedy, 
 the comedy. The mood of the lyric is brief, but in- 
 tense; the mood of epic, tragedy, and comedy is ex* 
 tended and, withal, varied and sustained. It may 
 then be said that the meaning of prose is first of all 
 intellectual, and that the meaning of poetry is 
 first of all emotional. 
 
 We are concerned here with poetry, and with 
 poetry of various kinds. We want to know how to 
 read poetry. If the foregoing considerations are 
 just, we are in a position to approach poetry in an 
 attitude of mind that will greatly simplify matters. 
 In deriving its meaning we need to make our 
 mood receptive; we need to subdue our feeling to 
 the feeling of the poem; we must divest ourselves of 
 prejudice, of alien predisposition. In short, we must 
 make ourselves, for the time being at least, a well- 
 tuned instrument for the poet to play upon. 
 
 This receptive attitude is a condition of mental 
 alertness and sympathy. It puts to sleep the emo- 
 tional faculty until the understanding has been 
 illuminated. But the emotions, once awakened by 
 a clear call of the true message of the poem, will 
 contain themselves in thorough poise and discipline 
 until the message has been judicially weighed and 
 appraised. 
 
 A striking proof of the emotional complexion of 
 poetry is seen in that feature which, with the aver- 
 age reader, serves to distinguish it from prose. 
 With the world, what is rhyme and metre is by that 
 very token also poetry. The reasoning is not, in the 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 long run, erroneous; for if poetry be poetry, then 
 rhyme and metre are its essential characteristics, 
 and are so for the reason that they are the language 
 of emotion. Emotion, pure and simple, whenever 
 it expresses itself without words, is rhythmical. 
 Witness sobbing, laughter, and the cries of birds and 
 animals. According as speech is least reasoned and 
 most emotional, to that extent will it be rhythmical; 
 to that extent, it may be added, will there be a 
 recurrence of similar sounds, or rhymes. Does not 
 laughter rhyme? Does not sobbing rhyme? Rhyme 
 and metre are not ornamental adjuncts or acces- 
 sories. They are an outgrowth — a natural expres- 
 sion, in the literal root-meaning of the term. The 
 verse of poetry proves its emotional content; and 
 not only that, but that its emotional feature is its 
 dominating feature. 
 
 From these considerations it is to be gathered 
 that, while the meaning of poetry is largely emo- 
 tional, that meaning always has an intellectual 
 basis. This is usually indicated in the title; and, 
 of course, it charges every line. At places in the 
 course of the poem, usually at the beginning and the 
 end, or at the beginning and the end of stanzas and 
 sections, it appears in the form of phrases and sen- 
 tences of condensed and summarized meaning. 
 These, when brought together, form the argument; 
 and this, when still further condensed, constitutes 
 the central idea. The orderly arrangement of the 
 steps in the argument indicates the thought-pro- 
 gression. This is the philosophy of the poem, or 
 its teaching. This is the trunk of the tree upon 
 which and from which grows its foliage, its flower 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION 
 
 and fruitage of emotional appeal. To vary the 
 figure, one may say that a poem should not be like 
 a Christmas tree; that is to say, a dead branch 
 whose tinsel and glitter is a thing superadded. The 
 first thing to do in reading a poem is to see where 
 the trunk is rooted; how stout and fine the trunk 
 and branches are; how symmetrically they are 
 formed. The next thing to do is to climb the trunk 
 and branches for their flowers and fruit. 
 
 "Pippa Passes," one of Browning's most pleas- 
 ing poems, may serve as a specific case. The intel- 
 lectual element of this "drama" is to be extracted 
 by applying to it such questions as the following: 
 What is the significance of the title "Pippa Passes "? 
 In what respects is this poem a "drama"? What is 
 its story? What is its central idea? By what tech- 
 nical means is the central idea developed? The emo- 
 tional values of the poem are to be appreciated by 
 appraising the central idea for its justice and pro- 
 priety; by appraising the portraiture of character 
 for its life-likeness, or verisimilitude; by analyzing 
 the technique of plotting, the apportionment and 
 emphasis of the material, the creation and satis- 
 faction of the feeling of suspense; by weighing the 
 verbal and metrical adroitness, by noting the nov- 
 elty of execution, and the muscular temper of the 
 author's personality. These questions will not be 
 answered seriatim, but in block, or somewhat in the 
 order in which they present themselves to the 
 discerning reader. 
 
The Power of Mental Suggestion 
 
 
PIPPA PASSES 
 
 The Power of Mental Suggestion 
 
 The "Introduction" to this drama is a song by 
 Pippa "a girl from the silk-mills" of Asolo. It is 
 New Year's Day, and, as she sings, she springs out 
 of bed. The sun is rising. It is her one and only 
 holiday of the year. What shall she do with it? 
 How shall she use it? She resolves to make it an 
 inspiration for the whole year round. Her plan is 
 to impersonate the happiest persons in Asolo. 
 Ottima and Sebald shall have her morning; Jules 
 and Phene shall have the noonday; Luigi and his 
 mother, the evening-time; and Monsignor, the night. 
 Ottima and Sebald are happy lovers; Jules and 
 Phene are bride and groom, and this is their wed- 
 ding-day; Luigi and his mother are a pattern of 
 true contentment; and Monsignor is a holy man 
 of God — an ensample of divine peace. The sun 
 has risen and casts a bright reflection on the ceiling 
 of her bedroom from the water in her ewer. How 
 the sunbeam breaks and dances as she pours the 
 water and laves face and hands ! How brightly it 
 lightens her turban-flowers in the window, caus- 
 ing each blossom to laugh through the pane and 
 solicit the bee ! Her thoughts revert to the Jiappiest 
 in Asolo. She will be no less loved this day than 
 happy Ottima in the great stone house, all glass 
 in front, on the hillside yonder, where Sebald is 
 
4 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 wont to steal for clandestine assignations while old 
 Luca, her husband, yet reposes; and, like Ottima, 
 she, too, will "face the spitefullest of talkers" in 
 the town. But this is a foolish love, and "only 
 day's first ojffer." It is better to be the chaste bride 
 Phene to the bridegroom Jules, coming out of 
 Passagno church at noon and faring toward their 
 house that "looks over Orcana valley" — Phene, 
 with "pale snow-pure cheek and black bright 
 tresses, blacker than all except the black eyelash," 
 "flower-like" Phene! 
 
 Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness. 
 Keep that foot its lady primness. 
 Let those ankles never swerve 
 From their exquisite reserve! 
 
 But 
 
 Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives. 
 And only parents' love can last our lives. 
 
 She will enjoy the mother-love for Luigi, watching 
 mother and son repair at eve to a 
 
 ruined turret, where they talk, 
 Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends. 
 
 But best of all is God's love. Why should not God's 
 love befall? That will be reserved for the night, 
 when that "holy and beloved priest," Monsignor, 
 comes to "the Palace by the Dome" to "bless the 
 home of his dead brother." This is her resolve; and 
 she hallows it with the thought that 
 
 All service ranks the same with God. 
 
 Oh yes ! God will bless her on this holiday. So she 
 sallies forth, singing, and possessed of the sweet 
 
PIPPA PASSES 5 
 
 assurance that she, no doubt, will be as "useful to 
 men and dear to God as they," the happiest lovers 
 and the most beloved in Asolo. 
 
 The scene shifts to the interior of old Luca's 
 shrub house, where are Luca's wife, Ottima, and 
 her paramour, the German Sebald. Sebald sings 
 a drinking song. All is dark inside save f or a " blood- 
 red beam through the shutter's chink." They grope 
 their way to the window, half hid by tall geraniums. 
 They push back the lattice to let in the day, and 
 look at the familiar prospect of hills and a brook 
 in the foreground, of Saint Mark's, Padua, and 
 Vicenza in the far distance. Presently Sebald 
 espies the plant he "bruised in getting through the 
 lattice yestereve"; and his "elbow's mark i' the 
 dust o' the sill"; and his guilt seizes him. 
 
 Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol, 
 I am his cut-throat, you are . . . 
 
 Ottima offers him wine, white and black. But he 
 spurns the black for the horror of its color. It re- 
 minds him of the clotted blood of his victim. 
 Presently there appears outside Benet theCapuchin, 
 "with his brown hood and bare feet," trudging on 
 his business from the Duomo. — No, not the bloody 
 wine, but the white! They fall to a rehearsal of 
 the ways in which they used to trick the doting old 
 husband, Luca Gaddi. Remorse again overtakes 
 Sebald, and this time loathing for her who spurred 
 him on to the murder. She proposes that they go 
 in and lift the body from the place where it fell. 
 She dresses her hair in the dusty pane for a looking- 
 glass and, displaying her naked beauty, tries to 
 
e STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 rouse him from the depths of his remorse. He would 
 give her neck, each splendid shoulder, both those 
 breasts of hers, if this murder were undone and 
 Luca alive again. As a poor, starved music teacher 
 he had first come to the house — had been fed there 
 and clothed. And then this guilt. He would com- 
 mit ten crimes greater, so this crime were wiped 
 out. But, urges Ottima, were not our joys worth 
 it — our wild ecstasies one glad July night? She 
 presses against him. Her hair falls. He does it 
 up, is crowning her with it his "spirit's arbitress," 
 when — Pippa passes without, singing, — 
 
 God 's in his heaven — 
 All's right with the world. 
 
 Another wave of remorse, revealing Ottima in 
 all her wicked horror, sweeps over him. He will 
 pay the price of his crime. God 's in his heaven ! 
 She pleads that he kill her first. But he expires 
 amid her prayers. 
 
 The morning is passing into noon, and Pippa is 
 passing from the scene of the suicide to Orcana. 
 Foreign students of painting and sculpture, from 
 Venice, are assembled opposite the house of Jules, 
 a young French statuary, at Passagno. It is the 
 wedding-day of Jules and Phene. It is ten o'clock, 
 and the marriage is now taking place in the church 
 near by. Among the students are .Gottlieb and 
 Schramm. They have hidden themselves, one be- 
 neath a window, three or four others behind a 
 pomegranate clump, and another in the balcony. 
 They are talking excitedly about a trap they have 
 set for Jules. Accessory to the plot is a rhyming 
 
PIPPA PASSES 7 
 
 rake, an Englishman, Bluphocks by name, who now, 
 however, is absent. Another rhymester, Lutwyche, 
 a painter, is among the company. Their purpose 
 here is to witness the cHmax of a heartless practical 
 joke they have concocted, of which Jules is the butt 
 and Phene the helpless accomplice. Phene is a 
 Greek model and purports to be the daughter of 
 Natalia, procuress of models and vice. But Jules 
 has been kept in ignorance of the girl's shame; 
 and she, having no soul, is unmindful of it. The 
 students are envious of their fellow, Jules, whom 
 they take to be an ineffectual prig, but who has 
 incurred their dislike as much by shunning their 
 "debasing habits" as by his romantic aspirations in 
 art. By forged letters, which appear to have come 
 from Phene and which paint the supposed writer 
 as a devotee of art and devoted admirer of Jules's 
 statues, they have tricked the young sculptor into 
 an agreement to marry his imagined admirer. He 
 is to "wed her on trust," and only to speak to her 
 after marriage. In her young beauty — she is but 
 fourteen — he sees the realization of his artistic 
 ideals; and she, being of extreme simplicity of mind, 
 proves a pliant tool in the hands of Natalia and the 
 students. The marriage over, they return to Jules's 
 studio, hand in hand. He shows her his books and 
 statues and his great love for his work. Frightened 
 by her blank unresponsive mien, he bids her speak to 
 him, and is astounded to find her outward beauty 
 unmatched by a soul. She speaks as prompted 
 by the students, repeating a cynical rhyme by 
 Lutwyche, which reveals the detestable fraud. 
 Jules is about to dismiss her with gold — to the 
 
8 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 end, he declares, that thereby she keep herself 
 "out of Natalia's clutches." He will go to Venice 
 to root out the "gang" who have tricked him. 
 Now he must leave her, perhaps forever, yet per- 
 haps — if he survive — to meet her again, "since the 
 world is wide." Just then, Pippa passes, singing a 
 song of pure ennobling love; and, in a flash, his 
 purpose changes. He will be the uplifting influence 
 which the song celebrates; he will evoke from Phene 
 a soul. She shall be his Psyche, not of marble, but 
 of flesh and spirit. He will begin Art afresh and be 
 a sculptor of the soul. 
 
 Pippa now passes from Orcana to the Turret. 
 Two or three of the Austrian Police are seen loiter- 
 ing with Bluphocks, an English vagabond, just in 
 view of the Turret. It has grown evening. The 
 Police are there on the lookout for Luigi, suspected 
 of being in league with the Carbonari. Bluphocks 
 is there in their service, and also on a mission of 
 his own, given him, he avers, by the Bishop's In- 
 tendant of the Duomo. He has seen Pippa pass; 
 and it is for her that he has been watching with 
 a "pocket-full of zwanzigers." He is a cynical dog; 
 atheist, too; and rhymester of irreverent quips. 
 His business is to seduce Pippa, pretty little silk- 
 weaver of Asolo, to the Intendant's guilty ends. 
 The Police withdraw to examine Luigi's passport, 
 to which is added in cipher a warrant for his arrest. 
 Bluphocks, also their spy, makes a signal; and 
 Luigi, with his mother, is seen entering the Turret 
 on the hill. 
 
 All is hushed. The echoes deal weirdly with their 
 voices. Dusk shadows assume to Luigi's sick im- 
 
PIPPA PASSES 9 
 
 agination the forms of the Carbonari conspirators. 
 There, too, shines the face of old Franz, the Aus- 
 trian king. "Come down and meet your fate," 
 cries Luigi. The mother protests, trying to dis- 
 suade him from his purpose of assassination. No, he 
 repHes; "lam rich, young, healthy." I have been 
 feasted and fortunate. The more reason I should 
 go and do it. . . . " Too much have I enjoyed these 
 fifteen years of mine, to leave myself excuse for 
 longer life." He will trust to his youth, his fine dress. 
 Unaccompanied, he will pass unsuspected to the 
 royal presence in Vienna and avenge for his parti- 
 sans the Austrian tyranny. Chiara will come in 
 June, pleads the mother; she will come as she 
 promised. And the boy is about to yield to this 
 soft persuasion; but at that moment is heard from 
 without the voice of Pippa singing of a king great 
 and just, who ruled in a far-past golden age, sup- 
 pressing wrong and basking in the love of all good 
 men. Luigi is resolved. Tyranny, as he sees it, 
 must be wiped out; and he goes to do the deed. 
 
 The dusk darkens into night. Pippa is passing 
 "from the Turret to the Bishop's Brother's house, 
 close to the Duomo S. Maria," where some poor 
 girls are sitting on the steps. The girls are ex- 
 changing wishes. One would have wings like a 
 swallow and fly away. Another relates how she has 
 been feasted by a graybeard older than her grand- 
 father and how he laughed to see her write bad 
 names on the table with a finger dipped in wine; 
 she would have the experience repeated. Another 
 has her turn; she would be back at the old cottage 
 home in the country, with new milk to drink, apples 
 
10 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 to eat, and plenty of sleep. They have been sta- 
 tioned there at the Intendant's orders to lure 
 Pippa into conversation, until Bluphocks shall come 
 to carry out his work of seduction. 
 
 Monsignor, the Bishop, has fallen heir to the 
 Palace by the Duomo and has come to visit it. For 
 his reception Maffeo the Intendant has prepared a 
 feast. There are many gentlemen in waiting, but 
 these are soon dismissed in order that certain sus- 
 picious accounts of the estate may be sifted. Mon- 
 signor is the youngest of three brothers and the 
 last of a line of vicious and unprincipled noblemen; 
 but from his boyhood he lived apart from his fam- 
 ily, in the service of the church. The accounts 
 show a suspiciously large sum paid the Intendant 
 on a certain third of December by the late incum- 
 bent in the estate, Monsignor's elder brother. Mon- 
 signor would have that point cleared up. More- 
 over, there was a child, born fourteen years before 
 to Monsignor's eldest brother, barring the late 
 incumbent from the succession. What has become 
 of that child .f^ How has Maffeo come into posses- 
 sion of the wealth which to all appearances is his 
 — a certain villa, a certain podere — in addition 
 to the moneys which the accounts disclose .^^ He is 
 cautioned to confess and to confess quietly, as he 
 must sooner or later, since the Pontiff, Monsignor's 
 superior, enjoins not only Maffeo's arrest and pun- 
 ishment but, "as guardian of the infant's heritage 
 for the Church," the recovery of that heritage par- 
 cel by parcel, by every searching means. Was the 
 child murdered.? And by whom? And why.? Was 
 she murdered in infancy by Maffeo at the instiga- 
 
PIPPA PASSES 11 
 
 tion of Monsignor's late brother? The next room is 
 filled with men awaiting a signal from Monsignor, 
 and Maffeo may as well confess quietly. "Did you 
 throttle or stab my brother's infant? Come now!" 
 By one desperate ruse the Intendant tries to es- 
 cape. Monsignor is not the simple dolt his late 
 brother was. Maffeo knows that — has known it 
 all along; and, instead of playing to Monsignor 's 
 advantage as well as to the advantage of Monsig- 
 nor's late brother, by murdering the infant, Maffeo 
 has had her brought up in secret, and her name is 
 Felippa, "a little black-eyed pretty singing Fe- 
 lippa, gay silk- winding girl." Monsignor certainly 
 cannot succeed to the estate — not now. But — 
 in consideration of undisturbed possession of his 
 "present havings and holdings," for which he has 
 the late incumbent's "hand and seal," and in con- 
 sideration also of his unhindered escape across the 
 Alps, Maffeo engages to make way with the girl 
 — not in the ordinary manner, but in a way quite 
 as efficacious: "At Rome the courtesans perish off 
 every three years, and I can entice her thither — 
 have indeed begun operations already." The ab- 
 ductor has been engaged in the person of Bluphocks, 
 who poses as an English nobleman; and his ac- 
 complices — certain loose women — have been ar- 
 ranged for. "Is it a bargain?" ... At this junc- 
 ture Pippa passes, singing of her childhood and her 
 trust in God. The horror of the proposal over- 
 whelms whatever disappointment Monsignor may 
 have felt at Pippa's survival. Springing up quickly, 
 he summons his guards from their station in the 
 next room to bind the villain hand and foot: and 
 
12 STORIES FROM BROT\nS[ING 
 
 Monsignor, whom Pippa thinks "holy," is delivered 
 from a great temptation. 
 
 Pippa's holiday is over. She reenters her room, 
 musing on her New Year experiences. The girls' 
 coarse chatter by the Duomo steps about Blu- 
 phocks's alleged preference for her and his presents, 
 should she have him, rings in her ears; then the 
 to-do of the Intendant's arrest recurs to her mind. 
 How foolish, she thinks, her effort to imagine the 
 lives of those others whom she took to be the hap- 
 piest. But she must be content and go to rest. Even 
 her flowers are asleep. And amid confused visions 
 of the day's happenings and a fading consciousness 
 of the day's failure as compared with her bright 
 aspirations, she prays — 
 
 God bless me! ... 
 
 All service ranks the same with God. 
 
 This bald narrative brings to the surface a num- 
 ber of things. It easily answers the question con- 
 cerning the significance of the title, "Pippa Passes." 
 She passes out of her plain little room early on the 
 morning of New Year's Day to do her best for her 
 own happiness in the sight of God. She will make 
 that best a service to God. For a moment she passes 
 into the guilty life of Ottima and Sebald, and 
 serves God by quickening their consciences. This 
 happens in the early morning. At noon, passing 
 into the life of Jules, she fires him with sudden 
 resolve to evoke a soul and fashion love. At eve- 
 ning, passing into the life of Luigi, the Carbonari 
 conspirator, she electrifies into quick action his 
 plot against the Austrian government. At night. 
 
PIPPA PASSES IS 
 
 passing the window where the Bishop's Intendant 
 is carefully planning her shame and ruin, she 
 sings the song of her own innocence, and strength- 
 ens Monsignor the Bishop in the moment of his 
 temptation. 
 
 The central idea and purpose of the poem may 
 be gathered up in these sentences: God overrules 
 all things for the best. "God's in his heaven — 
 all's right with the world. . . . All service ranks 
 the same with God." A life of innocence and pur- 
 ity is a powerful, though an unconscious influence 
 in the lives of others. 
 
 The poem is a drama, as the sub-title states; 
 but a drama in a peculiar sense. In the intro- 
 duction and conclusion it is a lyrical soliloquy, 
 and not, like so many of Browning's other poems, — 
 "Saul," for instance, — a dramatic lyric or mono- 
 logue. But the dramatic element is featured by the 
 impassioned dialogue of the ensuing four acts; it is 
 featured still further by the play of varied and 
 contrasted feeling on the part of the dramatis 
 personce, that feeling ranging from the illicit lust 
 of Ottima and Sebald to its eventuation in murder 
 and suicide; from the horse-play of the foreign 
 students with Jules and Phene, to Jules's heroic 
 resolve; from the aiffectionate concern of Luigi's 
 mother for his safety, to his fanatical self-sacrifice 
 for the Carbonari; from the vicious sacrilege of 
 Bluphocks the pander, to the loose talk of the girls 
 at the Duomo; from the rascality of Maffeo the 
 Intendant, to Monsignor's deliverance from a great 
 temptation. Most dramatic of all, productive as it 
 is of amazed wonder at the ways of unsophisticated 
 
14 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 innocence on the one hand and the sad, bad ways 
 of the world on the other, is the contrast between 
 Pippa's unspoilt idealization of the "happiest in 
 Asolo " and their real sinful or unhappy character. 
 To this we assent as a truth of life. To offset this^ 
 and to hearten us, is the teaching of the uncon- 
 scious power of innocence. We assent to this teach- 
 ing with a feeling of deep satisfaction. We are en- 
 listed on the side of the abiding and triumphant 
 moral forces of the world. In a word, the poem 
 stirs us deeply and leaves us edified and fortified 
 in our views of life. To say that we have been thus 
 stirred is to point out the emotional dynamic of the 
 poem. 
 
 The aesthetic elements of a poem (and we might 
 say broadly, of anything) are closely bound up with 
 their intellectual elements on the one hand and 
 their emotional elements on the other. Is it not true 
 that what strikes the mind as just, proper, and 
 felicitous in form and structure — in the arrange- 
 ment of parts, in the creation of suspense, in char- 
 acter-portrayal, in motivation of incident and 
 situation — solicits our admiration.^ And is it not 
 true that admiration is a pleasant feeling? What, 
 then, are the aesthetic values of complete efficiency .^^ 
 Efficiency is a thing perceived and amenable to 
 exposition; and the clearer the perception, the 
 greater the delight attending it; and the greater 
 the efficiency, the keener the aesthetic rapture re- 
 acting upon the perception of it. 
 
 In "Pippa Passes" there is not, it is true, the 
 same chain of causation in the flow of incident that 
 we find in one of Shakespeare's great tragedies 
 
PIPPA PASSES 15 
 
 or comedies — "Othello" or "As You Like It"; 
 which is to say that the sequence of incidents is 
 not inevitable. It is not a matter of necessity that 
 Pippa's singing should cause Sebald's suicide, 
 Jules's self-effacement, Luigi's patriotic resolve, 
 Monsignor's withstanding of temptation. But 
 these things are highly probable; and it is satisfy- 
 ing to see that they are so. 
 
 The same is true of the characterization. The 
 remark of Edmund Clarence Stedman ^ that 
 "Pippa reasons like a Paracelsus in pantalets," is 
 a just remark; but, since the influence of inno- 
 cence as pictured is highly probable, her precocious 
 moralizing is not disconcerting even to the strictest 
 realist. 
 
 Not on the side of lack in verisimilitude, then, 
 is the poem deficient. Whatever deficiency may 
 appear in individual characterization is abundantly 
 made up — is far overbalanced — by the life-like 
 portrayal of a group of characters; as well as by the 
 portrayal of a tense psychological moment with 
 the individual. 
 
 Take the latter case first. In each of the four 
 stories — first, that of Ottima and Sebald; second, 
 that of Jules and Phene; third, that of Luigi and his 
 mother; fourth, that of Monsignor and the Intend- 
 ant — it is the climax that is presented; and it is 
 not a train of physical incidents that is portrayed, 
 but a psychological situation. And the portrayal 
 is human and thoroughly life-like. 
 
 What constitutes life-likeness in the depiction 
 of a group of characters .^^ Do men when thrown to- 
 
 * Victorian Poets, p. 318. 
 
16 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 gether act and speak as if with a preconceived pur- 
 pose and looking forward to a foregone conclusion? 
 So they seem to do in "Hamlet," "Lear," and 
 "Othello." In Shakespeare at his best there are 
 few loose ends of dialogue and incident. And that 
 is well, since the plot is the principal thing in the 
 plays. In "Pippa Passes," on the other hand, 
 there are some touches that appear to be wholly 
 episodical. And they are acceptable on the grounds 
 hinted at : the poem is not the unraveling of an in- 
 tricate plot; it is rather the elaboration of a state 
 of mind. Life is not a plot, but a mingled web of 
 many irrelevancies. So is thought. So is feeling. 
 What but to suggest something of this can be the 
 purpose of Bluphocks's agile rhyming, and of the 
 idle chatter of the girls on the steps of the Duomo? 
 It is precisely touches like these which accomplish 
 verisimilitude by suggesting a transcript of hetero- 
 geneous life. Consequently, the poem reads like 
 conversation overheard. And the reader feels him- 
 self to be what in life he nearly always is, not a 
 creator of the destinies of others, but a looker-on, 
 an eavesdropper, a receiver of stolen gossip. 
 
 The careful reader of "Pippa Passes" observes 
 readily that he is not dealing with a plot in the or- 
 dinary sense of the word. The fate of Ottima, of 
 Phene, of Luigi, of Monsignor — the "Happiest 
 Four" in Asolo — do concern him immensely; but 
 it is the fate of Pippa that concerns him most of all. 
 And his interest broadens and deepens as the day 
 wears on, and the impact of her life upon those 
 others is sensibly felt. How shocking, and yet edi- 
 fying, is the contrast of her trust in their superior 
 
PIPPA PASSES 17 
 
 happiness with the reahty in each case. What a 
 rehef to find her safe in her room and still unsus- 
 pecting and unharmed by the sinister machinations 
 of Maffeo and Bluphocks at the close of the day. 
 Our relief is the evidence of our concern, our sus- 
 pense. 
 
 But this is not all. In her case there is a chain of 
 the day's doings; and we follow it climactically to 
 the end. In each of the four other stories we know 
 nothing of the incidents antecedent to the climax. 
 Yet we derive a knowledge of them as we overhear 
 the dialogue — on the fly, so to speak. This de- 
 riving is a process of inference; of piecing together 
 this detail with that detail let drop in the conversa- 
 tion. At the end of the chapter the whole situation 
 lies clear in our minds; and we congratulate our- 
 selves upon our ingenuity. That is Browning's 
 way of creating and feeding suspense. And, after 
 all, that, with his vigorous, muscular phraseology 
 and his hopeful philosophy, is his chief source of 
 pleasure to his readers. 
 
 The quality of a writer's style not unusually 
 manifests itself in the imagery he employs; and this, 
 in turn, appears in two ways : either as an organic 
 part of the thought-progression; or as efflorescent 
 ornamentation. One needs but to cite an epic 
 poem for illustration. Here the narrative unfolds 
 itself in a panorama of pictures. These, conse- 
 quently, are organic. Furthermore, there is the 
 elaborated comparison — often so elaborated as to 
 form a detached picture. The episodical similes of 
 Homer, Spenser, Milton, are too familiar to require 
 citation. The series of pictured situations that make 
 
18 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 up the narrative of "Pippa Passes" have already 
 been presented at some length. Of distinctly epi- 
 sodical, or Homeric, similes or pictures, there are 
 none in this poem. But of dynamic descriptive 
 touches, both in figure of speech and in direct 
 speech, there is no lack. And all is organic. There 
 is little of the adventitious. 
 
 Note how characteristically the poet feels as well 
 as sees the daybreak as it bursts into Pippa's 
 room : — 
 
 Day! 
 
 Faster and more fast. 
 O'er night's brim, day boils at last: 
 Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim 
 Where spurting and suppressed it lay. 
 
 But forth one wavelet, then another, curled. 
 Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed. 
 Rose, reddened, and its seething breast 
 FHckered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed 
 the world. 
 
 The sun is no motiveless mechanism, but a symbol 
 if not an instrument of passion. Later it serves to 
 light up the interior of the room, and, doing so, 
 to paint the salient features of it — the ewer and 
 basin, the martagon, the bee outside — with the 
 same unity of feeling, the same relish and glow of 
 desire. The rhetoricians will at once recognize this 
 as a high form of pathetic fallacy. But then, we 
 might ask, what human view of things is not a form 
 of that figure.^ And we might add that anthropo- 
 morphism in all its phases is but an all-embracing 
 effort of the soul to project itself everywhere and 
 seize upon everything as its own. 
 
PIPPA PASSES 19 
 
 When the sun breaks through a chink in the shut- 
 ter upon Ottima's guilty gaze, it is "blood-red." 
 The shutter is opened. Ottima asks that it be 
 closed. 
 
 Sebald. Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here. 
 Foul as the morn may be. 
 
 "His blood," repeats Sebald in an agony of re- 
 morse. Ottima offers wine. Will he have white or 
 black? He spurns the bloody. 
 
 This is a fine instance of that operation of the 
 imagination whereby the emotions color what they 
 seize upon. 
 
 Exquisite pictures, which are thus not diffuse 
 transcripts from life but polarized points of sug- 
 gestive power, occur again and again to make the 
 narrative real and live. 
 
 Country girls 
 Were noisy, washing garments in the brook, 
 B^nds drove the slow white oxen up the hills. 
 
 There trudges on his business from the Duomo 
 Benet the Capuchin, with his brown hood 
 And bare feet. 
 
 The guilty tryst of Sebald and Ottima in a wood 
 during a thunder-storm — their embrace, as they 
 lay, rising and falling with impassioned breath, 
 assumes an almost morbid interest in these electric 
 lines : — 
 
 Swift ran the searching tempest overhead; 
 
 And ever and anon some bright white shaft 
 
 Burned through the pine-tree roof, here burned and there. 
 
 As if God's messenger through the close wood screen 
 
 Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture, 
 
 Feehng for guilty thee and me. 
 
go STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 The net result of this examination is, then, as 
 follows: In the criticism of a poem its intellectual 
 basis is the terminus a quo. Its emotional appeal 
 is the terminus ad quem. Midway between these 
 two points, and closely bound up with them, lie 
 considerations of structure and style. The keener 
 our intellectual perceptions in discerning these, 
 the greater the yield of aesthetic pleasure. Esthetic 
 values are, to a degree, emotional values, in that 
 the emotions respond with approval and acclaim 
 to what is rightly, justly, and properly done. In a 
 sense, aesthetic values are also moral values; on the 
 assumption, that is, that the highest art makes 
 for good instead of evil; and on the further assump- 
 tion that, on the whole, the good will prevail. The 
 teaching of a work of art, as summarized in its 
 central idea, is inevitably subject to consideration; 
 and if art have no teaching, it loses value. This is 
 not saying that the more direct the teaching, the 
 more valuable the art. If anything is to be said on 
 that score, the proposition is the commonplace 
 that the less direct the teaching, the more effective 
 it is, on the obvious psychological ground that men 
 resent being hectored into goodness, but love to 
 be persuaded. The teaching of "Pippa Passes,*' 
 one of Browning's most moral poems, inculcates 
 the principle of the quickening force of innocence; 
 and the obvious way by which it achieves that end 
 is by portraying the power of mental suggestion. 
 
Concerning Love 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 
 
 Love oj Honor 
 
 Mildred Tresham is a frail girl of fourteen; and 
 Henry, Earl of Mertoun, is nearly as young as she. 
 Their love, glorified by ignorance of the world 
 and its ways, was their own precious secret until 
 loss of innocence disturbed their dream. Now their 
 sin, staring them in the face, calls out wildly for 
 retribution. It is a time when crossbows, hawks, 
 and greyhounds temper with the pleasures of the 
 chase the routine idleness of milord and milady. 
 Guendolen Tresham, a cousin betrothed to Mil- 
 dred's brother Austin, and Thorold Earl Tresham, 
 elder brother, and lord of the ancestral acres, love 
 her only as the fair bud of innocence just burst into 
 flower is loved and cherished. Family honor, the 
 unblotted escutcheon of the Treshams since be- 
 fore the days of Arthur and his knights, is to them 
 as dear as the current of life itself. More especially 
 is it the pride and stay of Earl Thorold, the present 
 head of the long line of Treshams. Heraldry at- 
 tests their unsullied honor, and history emblazons 
 the page with unsmutched story. Their heritage is 
 blotless ; it is a trust they hold sacred. 
 
 But now a cloud settles over the ancestral hall, 
 its sweeping parks and lofty yews, showing no sign 
 of its gathering except in the troubled reserve of 
 
U STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 old Gerard, an old family huntsman and warrener. 
 Save for him, all is bright and fair as sunshine — 
 tense expectancy and joyous hope. For Thorold 
 Earl Tresham is about to return to the ancestral 
 mansion with a suitor for Mildred's hand; and the 
 lodge at the edge of the park is crowded with re- 
 tainers in gala mood. Pursuivants and pages herald 
 the train, and the waiting retainers all crowd to the 
 lodge window to catch a glimpse, — all but old 
 Gerard, who holds aloof, — squeezing themselves 
 as if "into a mousehole" lest they "miss one con- 
 gee of the least page" in the train, resplendent in 
 "silk and silver." It is a brave spectacle, not least 
 the three pairs of coursers drawing Earl Mertoun's 
 coach, and pawing the ground with impatience as 
 they slowly come. The crowd strains forward with 
 sharpened curiosity; so much so that Richard, the 
 master of Lord Tresham's retainers, is forced to 
 advance with his white staff and motion back the 
 people as the two Earls walk from the carriage to 
 the Hall. Thereupon, there is a noisy shuffle from 
 the window-bench in the lodge, lusty fists seize 
 jugs and flagons, and hearty voices cry, — • 
 
 Good health, long life, 
 Great joy to our Lord Tresham and his House! 
 
 Then comes another scramble, all vying one with 
 another to reach the great servants' hall and hear 
 the news inside. 
 
 The two Earls enter the saloon. Austin and 
 Guendolen step forward to welcome them; and 
 Tresham in formal accents expresses his welcome 
 to Mertoun : — 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 25 
 
 I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more. 
 To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name 
 — Noble among the noblest in itself. 
 Yet taking in your person, fame avers. 
 New price and lustre, — (as that gem you wear. 
 Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts, 
 Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord. 
 Seems to rekindle at the core) — your name 
 Would win you welcome! 
 
 The suitor murmurs his thanks, and an intro- 
 duction to Austin and Guendolen follows. In im- 
 passioned speech and broken, the youthful Earl 
 stammers out the purpose of his visit — to ask, 
 says he, — 
 
 A gift, which, if as calmly 't is denied. 
 
 He must withdraw, content upon his cheek, 
 
 Despair within his soul. That I dare ask 
 
 Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence 
 
 That gift, I have to thank you. Yes, Lord Tresham, 
 
 I love your sister — as you 'd have one love 
 
 That lady. ... oh more, more I love her ! Wealth, 
 
 Rank, all the world thinks me, they 're yours, you know. 
 
 To hold or part with, at your choice — but grant 
 
 My true self, me without a rood of land, 
 
 A piece of gold, a name of yesterday, 
 
 Grant me that lady, and you. . . . Death or life? 
 
 "Why, this is loving," comments Guendolen 
 archly to Austin aside. "Ours must begin again." 
 
 Meanwhile, Tresham has invited the diffident 
 visitor to a seat, assuring him that "ever with best 
 desert goes diffidence"; and adding that "Mildred's 
 hand is hers to give or to refuse." Has Lord Mer- 
 toun "seen Lady Mildred, by the way?" 
 
 Their demesnes adjoin, is the faltering reply; he 
 met her once — came upon "the lady's wondrous 
 
26 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 beauty unaware " while following a wounded heron 
 through thicks and glades, or some eyass that 
 lured him on from tree to tree — he "marked not 
 whither." 
 
 Guendolen whispers a sly rebuke to her own 
 lover for being so little schooled in the language of 
 love. Let him be "lessoned in the future." 
 
 Then Tresham, gravely, — 
 
 What's to say 
 May be said briefly. She has never known 
 A mother's care; I stand for father too. 
 Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems — 
 You cannot know the good and tender heart. 
 Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy, 
 How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind. 
 How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free 
 As light where friends are — how imbued with lore 
 The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet 
 The . . . one might know I talked of Mildred — thus 
 We brothers talk! 
 
 In a word, Tresham prefers the suit as if it were 
 his own. Mertoun, unwilling to waste time in dis- 
 cussing anything less precious, begs to take his 
 leave. One request he makes: prays Tresham 
 forthwith to apprise him if the lady will appoint 
 a day for him to wait on her. Tresham promises 
 that a messenger shall bear her wishes as soon as 
 they are learned ; and Mertoun, making his humble 
 salutations, takes his leave. 
 
 Now Thorold, turning to Guendolen and Austin, 
 who have been bantering each other upon the mer- 
 its of self-confidence in such a suit, demands their 
 praises of the suitor, whom he, for his part, para- 
 gons with all patterns of excellence. They must aid 
 
A BLOT m THE 'SCUTCHEON 27 
 
 him. Mildred is in the library, no doubt; and 
 thither they must go at once to find her. She must 
 be prevailed upon to receive her lover soon — to- 
 morrow, or the next day at the farthest. "Get 
 her to say * To-morrow,'" importunes Tresham of 
 Guendolen — 
 
 and I'll give you . . . 
 I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled 
 With petting and snail-paces. Will you? Come! 
 
 Guendolen, on her side, can see little reason for 
 so much haste and admiration. Unquestionably 
 the youth lacks sadly in wit — except only as he 
 knows how to flatter Thorold's abounding devo- 
 tion to family pride and the niceties of its ritual. — 
 But she loves Mildred and Mildred's good. 
 
 The trio repair to the library, but, finding no 
 Mildred, become involved in much talk about the 
 family honor and the long line of the Treshams 
 — a subject of Thorold's devoted study and in- 
 vestigation — as compared with the lineage of the 
 Mertouns. The afternoon wears away in this dis- 
 cussion, Guendolen taking such opportunities as 
 offer to satirize the obsession. At length she es- 
 capes, leaving the brothers deep in the subject in 
 the library, and goes to seek Mildred in her room 
 at the top of a long flight of stairs. The room 
 faces the park and an avenue of tall yew trees. A 
 "painted window" looks out upon the park; and 
 the branches of a giant yew tree brush against it. 
 Its varied panes color the moonlight that penetrates 
 the dark chamber. A small lamp is suspended be- 
 fore the Virgin's image in the window, and Guen- 
 dolen finds Mildred seated before it. 
 
28 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 A look of preoccupation on the girl's face prompts 
 Guendolen to give loose rein to the light volubility 
 of her tongue. After climbing so far and leaving 
 behind such futile talk as "Lord Mertoun's pedigree 
 before the flood," and the color of his eyes, — 
 whether gray or blue, — surely she does not deserve 
 this rude dismissal. Mildred protests that she 
 means no harm, and Guendolen goes on with merry 
 banter, half tender and half teasing. Would she 
 know? — it is settled that "the Earl has soft blue 
 eyes!" Mildred has no ears for banter, but would 
 know, seriously, how her brother Thorold received 
 Lord Mertoun. Did he receive him well? 
 
 **If I said only *weir I said not much," is Guen- 
 dolen's teasing rejoinder. But — "Thorold is 
 too proud by half." True, he is gentle and loved by 
 his retainers — so loved that the least of them would 
 die for him. In the world, too, Thorold's name 
 stands for "the perfect spirit of honor." Yet he is 
 not content, but ever brooding over 
 
 The light of his interminable line. 
 An ancestry with men all paladins, 
 And women all . . . 
 
 But Mildred, more impatient at every word, 
 urges the lateness of the hour. She is weary and 
 would rest. The merry teaser bids good-night. Yet 
 one more sally — She said, did she not, "how grace- 
 fully his mantle lay beneath the rings of his light 
 hair"? 
 
 "Brown hair," corrects Mildred decisively. 
 
 Guendolen is puzzled. How did Mildred know 
 that? And Mildred, in utter confusion, pleads 
 again to be left alone. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 29 
 
 At length, Guendolen, asking forgiveness, goes. 
 But, suddenly turning in the doorway, she sends 
 this parting shot : A flaw in Mertoun's lineage dis- 
 covered at last! 
 
 Thorold finds 
 — That the Earl's greatest of all grandmothers 
 Was grander daughter still — to that fair dame 
 Whose garter slipped down at the famous dance ! 
 
 The gay laughter finds no response in Mildred's 
 unconcern. "Is she — can she be really gone at 
 last?" How her heart flutters! With an effort she 
 hastens to the window and lifts the small lamp 
 suspended before the Virgin's image and places it 
 by the purple pane. With a sigh of relief she re- 
 turns to the seat in front. Misgiving of the happy 
 issue of Mertoun's visit to Thorold that morning 
 numbs her young heart. There is a rustle of the 
 yew-boughs without. The window opens softly, 
 and a low voice sings : — 
 
 There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the 
 purest; 
 
 And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's 
 the surest: 
 
 And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of 
 lustre 
 
 Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild- 
 grape cluster, 
 
 Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted 
 marble : 
 
 Then her voice's music . . . call it the well's bubbling, the 
 bird's warble! 
 
 And this woman says, "My days were sunless and my nights 
 
 were moonless. 
 Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's 
 
 outbreak tuneless. 
 
30 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 If you loved me not!'* And I who — (ah, for words of flame!) 
 
 adore her, 
 Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her — 
 
 A figure, wrapped in a mantle, enters singing, and 
 approaching her seat, bends over her. 
 
 I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me. 
 And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she 
 makes me! 
 
 The slouched hat and long cloak are cast aside, 
 and the Earl stands before her. As he has been 
 singing, so his very heart sings: the dreadful meet- 
 ing withThorold is over; happiness, a long happi- 
 ness, to "exceed the whole world's best of blisses," 
 has begun. At last, he urges, he has gained her 
 brother. 
 
 "Sin has surprised us, so will punishment," fal- 
 ters Mildred, protesting. But come what will, they 
 have been happy. So much, at least, is true. 
 
 The crisis will soon be over, says Mertoun. 
 
 Over? Shall she receive in presence of them all 
 the partner of her guilty love, with base dissimula- 
 tion, with cheek that looks a virgin's but is not.^^ 
 No, "some fierce leprous spot will mar the brow's 
 dissimulating! " The smooth speeches got by heart 
 will be forgotten in frenzy ahd shame, and the 
 "woeful story" will press to her lips for utterance, 
 confounding all. Shall she draw this vengeance 
 down and have it over that way? She will not 
 "affect a grace that's gone from" her beyond 
 recovery. 
 
 Mertoun offers to renounce his pact with Thorold. 
 Time will find some easier way. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 31 
 
 No, says Mildred, shamed; she will meet them, 
 but not to-morrow, only not to-morrow. Together 
 they pace the chamber, as with fervid words he 
 pleads their ignorance of their "own desires," and 
 her purity even in the requital of his love. Surely 
 it were to "lie to God" to say that knowingly they 
 erred. No, they will love on. For a little his flower 
 lies crushed. But he will nurse it back to bloom 
 and wear it as a fight-mark in his crest. 
 
 Mildred is comforted; and so, with her lover's 
 warm words soothing her spirit, she would say 
 good-night — she will sleep well. He must go now. 
 
 But he would know about to-morrow. This, 
 surely, is not their last meeting? 
 
 "One night more." 
 
 And then? 
 
 Then? Why, then no more "sweet courtship- 
 days," — 
 
 No dawning conscioiLsness of love for us. 
 
 No strange and palpitating births of sense 
 
 From words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes. 
 
 Reserves and confidences : morning's over! 
 
 But Mertoun: 
 
 How else should love's perfected noon -tide follow? 
 All the dawn promised shall the day perform. 
 
 Yet Mildred is only half reassured. Returning 
 his farewell, she bids him be cautious in descend- 
 ing. — To-morrow they will meet again. — Did 
 no one observe him as he scaled the walls? 
 
 His foot is on the yew-tree bough : the turf 
 Receives him: now the moonlight as he runs 
 Embraces him . . . 
 
32 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 She must not stop him. And now he is gone. — No, 
 he turns to throw her kisses. — He is gone. 
 
 Leaving the window, she tries to fortify herself 
 with the thought of pardon. She was "so young," 
 she "loved him so," she "had no mother, God 
 forgot" her, and she "fell." 
 
 There may be pardon yet: all 's doubt beyond. 
 Surely the bitterness of death is past! 
 
 II 
 
 The morrow has come, a cheerful day. Gerard, 
 the old warrener, who for sixty years has served, 
 as his father and grandfather did before him, in 
 the Tresham family, meets Thorold on the grounds 
 as if by accident, but really by design. For last 
 night, and many times before, he has been on the 
 watch and has observed the strange entry into Mil- 
 dred's chamber from the giant yew that brushes 
 the window with its massy arms outside; — a fig- 
 ure in slouched hat and cloak, which always waits 
 for a given signal and stays an hour, sometimes 
 two, before emerging and descending the same way 
 it cam«. 
 
 Tresham, stunned by the disclosure, invites the 
 man into the privacy of the library for a further 
 explanation. Is it truth he speaks, or blackmail .^^ 
 
 He will speak truth, protests Gerard. For sixty 
 years, of all the servants he has been the trusted 
 one. Night after night, each midnight for a month, 
 some one has crept into Lady Mildred's chamber 
 at a signal in the window. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 33 
 
 He runs 
 Along Ihe woodside, crosses to the south, 
 Takes the left tree that ends the avenue, 
 
 climbs on the great boughs as on a platform, and 
 waits. There hangs a lamp beneath a red pane in 
 the middle of the painted window; and, at the hour 
 of midnight, the light is moved higher up to a 
 small dark blue pane. This is the signal; and, see- 
 ing this, he climbs the boughs to the very top and 
 throws a line that reaches to the lady's casement, 
 enters, and . . . yes, stays, sometimes an hour, 
 sometimes two. Gerard has seen it twenty times, 
 if once. Surely an old retainer has no cause to do 
 the lady wrong. Rather than that, he would suffer 
 much. He has suffered the tortures of a fiery net 
 about him — the tortures of indecision, of not 
 knowing whither to turn. He could not remain 
 disloyal to his master; he could not harm the little 
 lady he has known and served so long. 
 
 The lady could not have been seven years old 
 
 When I was trusted to conduct her safe 
 
 Through the deer-herd to stroke the snow-white fawn 
 
 I brought to eat bread from her tiny hand 
 
 Within a month. She ever had a smile 
 
 To greet me with — she . . . 
 
 The old man's voice breaks with sorrow. 
 
 ... I could not speak and bring her hurt 
 For Heaven's compelling. But when I was fixed 
 To hold my peace, each morsel of your food 
 Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too. 
 Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in doubts 
 WTiat it behoved me do. This morn it seemed 
 Either I must confess to you, or die: 
 Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm 
 That crawls, to have betrayed my lady! 
 
34 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 "No — no, Gerard," says Tresham. — But this 
 man, what is he like? 
 
 No vulgar hind, assures Gerard; he is armed and 
 wears a sword beneath his cloak. 
 
 Here the audience ends; and Tresham, trusting 
 the old man to say no word of this, dismisses 
 him. 
 
 The Earl paces the room, trying to think. He 
 cannot apprehend the "monstrous fact." He 
 cannot reconcile the seeming peace of the world 
 outside with the turmoil in his bosom. The story 
 cannot be true. Mildred's pure cheek belies it. 
 Thus beset with doubts and fears, he falls to a seat 
 by the table, and sinks his head despairingly on his 
 arms. 
 
 A voice at the door rouses him. It is Guendolen's. 
 She knocks and calls her cousin's name. Dissim- 
 ulating his sorrow, he pulls down the first book 
 above him and opens it. She has come to ap- 
 prise him of her visit to Mildred last night; but, 
 detecting his perturbation, she checks her voluble 
 tongue to question him. Is he ill.? 
 
 He forces a laugh to reassure her. 
 
 She resumes her accustomed tone of banter: Has 
 some blot on the young Earl's escutcheon come to 
 light after all.^^ Does the "huge tome" show it? 
 And was it "no longer back than Arthur's time"? 
 
 The shaft falls, blunted by Tresham's inatten- 
 tion. He would know about Mildred. — Let her 
 be sent for. But seeing fire in cousin Guendolen's 
 eyes, he apologizes for his heat. He is ill — has 
 forgotten himself. Let Mildred be informed mildly 
 that he would see her at her leisure, here in the 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 35 
 
 library; that he has discovered at last the lost 
 passage they hunted for so long in that old Italian 
 book. But Guendolen, suspecting subterfuge, 
 flings back, as she goes, — and more in earnest 
 this time than in banter, — 
 
 I'll die 
 
 Piecemeal, record that, if there have not gloomed 
 
 Some blot i' the 'scutcheon! 
 
 For answer, Thorold bids her stand in readiness 
 in the adjoining gallery, with Austin, if she chooses, 
 after Mildred comes. 
 
 Guendolen goes, and Tresham nerves himself 
 to approach the matter with tact and policy. He 
 must have the truth from Mildred; and he will 
 have it, if he can muster cleverness enough. And 
 yet, should he prove her unchaste ? . , . The 
 thought confounds him in its horror. 
 
 Mildred, entering, cannot understand what book 
 she has been brought about. Not this one. This is 
 Latin, not Italian, she observes, caressing her brother 
 as she leans over his shoulder to see the better. 
 
 He shudders as her warm body touches his own, 
 and bids her not to lean on him so heavily; then, 
 seizing a pretense, he points to a passage, reading, 
 **Love conquers all things." Whose love, of all 
 persons', is best? he asks gravely. Whose is the 
 purest, exceeding "all the world's love in its un- 
 worldliness "? Surely it is a brother's love for a sole 
 sister. It has no alloy of earthliness: it claims no 
 gratitude; claims no right over her save pure love's 
 claim. 
 
 Mildred's surprise betrays itself in the tremor of 
 her voice. "What is this for .?" she asks. 
 
se STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Is there aught, he rejoins, that she would con- 
 ceal from him? He bids her deny it, whatever it 
 be, and he will believe her against all the world. 
 But silence strikes h^r dumb through all his fer- 
 vent pleading. He cannot bring himself to disturb 
 his faith in her, yet — there are suspicions. Is there 
 a gallant that, night by night, has admittance to 
 her chamber? If so, his name! 
 
 She makes neither denial nor confession, but only 
 prays that he devise fit expiation for her guilt. Her 
 spirit yearns to purge her stains. No, she will not 
 assume another guilt. She cannot tell her lover's 
 name. It would be bliss to die now by Thorold's 
 sword. It would be a fitting punishment, but she 
 cannot ask it; for what, then, would become of 
 Thorold — her brother? 
 
 What will become of him, he replies tensely, is 
 seen in the shame of their fathers' accusations, 
 which now rise up from the grave to smite him. 
 She may wed her paramour, if she must; but 
 the disgrace shall be hidden. And even he, her 
 brother, will help. That is the only way now left 
 to honor. One question more : What of the Earl, 
 who to-morrow hastens hither for his answer? He 
 has sent the Earl a letter that he present himself 
 then. Let her now dictate a countermand, and it 
 shall be returned at once. No, she objects; she will 
 receive him, as she promised. 
 
 Horrified at the unimagined depths to which he 
 believes Mildred to have fallen, Tresham starts up 
 in a fury of anger and calls for Guendolen and Aus- 
 tin, who enter from their station in the corridor. He 
 enjoins them to curse, as he curses, a wanton who 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 37 
 
 fresh from last night's pledge renewed 
 Of love with the successful gallant there, 
 . . . calmly bids me help her to entice. 
 Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth 
 Who thinks her all that's chaste and good and pure. 
 
 Her shame he could help to expiate; but to cover 
 shame's dark deed with honor's self — who could 
 bear this? "Thieves, stabbers, the earth's dis- 
 grace," were not so sunken; 
 
 ... for this, 
 I curse her to her face before you all. 
 Shame hunt her from the earth! 
 
 Mildred falls, fainting, and Tresham rushes out in 
 anger and despair. 
 
 But Guendolen divines an answer and remains 
 behind to gain assurance, if she can. Austin, too, 
 stays, restrained by her persuasion. Her place in 
 this crisis is by Mildred's side; and where else can 
 a brother's place be? Severely she rebukes his dull 
 sense of honor in wishing to go; and at her compell- 
 ing insistence he is induced, not unwillingly, to for- 
 give — not believing, he protests, one half what he 
 has heard. Together they soothe the stricken 
 spirit with caresses; and Mildred, — 
 
 I — I was so young ! 
 Beside, I loved him . . . and I had 
 No mother; God forgot me: so, I fell. 
 
 Bitterly she avows the truth of all that has been. 
 Her hope, now but a vanished dream, has been to 
 palliate what is done. Let punishment come, and 
 come quickly! Guendolen persists with gentle 
 ministrations of hope and encouragement. Matters 
 will soon right themselves. At Guendolen's bidding. 
 
38 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Austin goes to wait in the corridor; and Guendolen, 
 seeing the opportunity to render a great service, 
 implores her cousin for the lover's name. Perfect 
 frankness will set all things right. She believes in 
 Mildred thoroughly and cannot conceive that one 
 so good and true can knowingly have done a great 
 wrong. As for the family honor — she has heard 
 enough of that. With these thoughts she sets about 
 persuading her cousin to disclose the secret. 
 
 But Mildred, plunged into the depths by the 
 overwhelming sense of her guilt, cannot bring her- 
 self to share the shame with her lover. Her only 
 answer is, "There is a cloud around me." 
 
 " No cloud to me ! "cries Guendolen triumphantly. 
 "Lord Mertoun and your lover are the same!" — 
 and she calls for Austin. Mildred must calm her 
 fears; Guendolen will guard the secret. The ab- 
 surdity of thinking that any such heap of irre- 
 deemable sins should be of Mildred's committing! 
 And what if Earl Mertoun returns to-night? 
 
 Mildred's despair at the thought has its unequiv- 
 ocal message. It resolves Guendolen, who, calling 
 again for Austin, commands him, on entering, to 
 make haste and find Thorold, lest in anger he do 
 an irreparable injury. 
 
 Austin reports that Thorold is gone, having dis- 
 appeared across the meadow-land into the skirts 
 of the beech wood. 
 
 That is not so well. Danger lies that way. But 
 there may be time to avert it. Meanwhile, Mildred 
 must be taken to her room. Was not Austin right? 
 He said "there was a clue to all." That is a com- 
 fort, too. 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 39 
 
 III 
 
 Thorold, however, is not to be found. To escape 
 the pursuing horror of Mildred's guilt, to lose the 
 stinging consciousness of it in the heat of physical 
 exertion, he has wandered far from the ancestral 
 turret through the glades and dells of the Tresham 
 acres, which as a boy had bewildered his adventur- 
 ous step. In the blackest shades of the woodland 
 the accusing presence is with him still. Only the 
 bordering river turns his hastening feet, which, 
 quite unconscious of their way, bring him back, 
 at length, to the Hall. Night has long since fallen; 
 and the avenue of yews in the park beneath Mil- 
 dred's window lies before his troubled eyes. He 
 curses the detested spot and its eloquent shame, 
 which he has resisted in vain. At last, in settled 
 despair, he yields to its call for vengeance. There 
 stand the yews, those "old confederates," against 
 the sky, "children of older and yet older sires" — 
 a symbol of his long ancestral line — and drop their 
 "living coral berries" on his coat as he passes be- 
 neath them. Their admonition extends to woods, 
 river, and plains; and, as the tower bell strikes the 
 hour of midnight, the sudden appearance of a 
 cloaked figure behind the tree trunks fixes his re- 
 solution. Tresham as quickly hides behind the 
 nearest yew, awaiting the next movement of the 
 intruder. 
 
 Mertoun has come for his last meeting with 
 Mildred. Pushing cautiously through the ferns, he 
 feels his heart bound at sight of the accustomed 
 light through the red pane in Mildred's window 
 
40 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 at the end of the yew-tree avenue, and then sink 
 into momentary dejection at the thought that to- 
 night's meeting will be the last. No more shall 
 he see his "lone star " rise. But he puts the thought 
 away. There will be ample happiness in the future 
 — the joy of nursing Mildred's desponding spirit 
 back to a sense of safety and hope. 
 
 Each day must see 
 Some fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed: 
 Then there will be surprises, unforeseen 
 Delights in store. I'll not regret the past. 
 
 He passes on to the last tree of the avenue, watch- 
 ing the red light in the window; and, seeing the lamp 
 rise to the purple pane, he prepares to ascend. But, 
 as he clasps the trunk, an iron hand seizes him by 
 the throat. He takes it for the keeper's. 
 
 Unhand me — peasant, by your grasp! Here's gold. 
 'T was a mad freak of mine. I said I 'd pluck 
 A branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneath 
 The casement there. Take this, and hold your peace. 
 
 Tresham. Into the moonhght yonder, come with me! 
 Out of the shadow. 
 
 Mertoun. I am armed, fool! 
 
 Tresham. Yes, 
 
 Or no? You'll come into the light, or no? 
 My hand is on your throat — refuse! — 
 
 The familiar voice, striking at the heart of the 
 younger man's fears, unnerves him completely. 
 "Tresham!" he exclaims under his breath — and 
 despair for Mildred strikes him dumb. He yields, 
 and the pair advance into the moonlight, Mertoun 
 hiding his face in the folds of his mantle. The 
 words "felon," "thief," and a fierce demand for 
 his "name" assail his ears; but, even so, he cannot 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 41 
 
 speak, except to sue for forbearance. He dare not 
 tell his name — for Tresham's sake. Is that white 
 face inexorable still .'^ Well, then, let Tresham know. 
 And Mertoun throws back his cloak. 
 
 Tresham, after a moment of dumb surprise, 
 draws his sword, directing the supplicant to defend 
 himself. He rejects all proffered explanations. He 
 will not listen to the least word of dissimulating 
 sin! Again — will Mertoun draw? 
 
 Mertoun cannot — for Lord Tresham's sake and 
 — hers. 
 
 The angry voice breaks out in wild and furious 
 laughter. How must a "miscreant" be roused? 
 Will a blow do it? Or — must one set the "foot 
 upon his mouth" or "spit into his face"? 
 
 The terrible words have beaten down every 
 defense; and, committing the issue to Heaven, 
 the anguished lover draws his sword at last. A few 
 aimless passes, and he falls. 
 
 Bitter remorse soon succeeds Tresham's violent 
 anger, and he inquires anxiously after Mertoun's 
 hurt; and Mertoun, heedless of everything but his 
 own forgiveness and Mildred's welfare, sues for 
 a dying man's right to defend his course — a plea 
 which, before the encounter, Tresham had so ruth- 
 lessly rejected. 
 
 Tresham would go for help, but is importuned 
 to stay and hear. 
 
 Mertoun was "less than a boy" when he did the 
 wrong, a grievous wrong as now he knows; but at 
 the time he "knew it not" — upon his honor, he 
 knew not what he did. Yet, the wrong once known, 
 he had resolved to right it, had all but succeeded 
 
42 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 when Tresham interposed. Will Tresham forgive 
 him, ere he dies? 
 
 Solemnly Thorold declares that he forgives, and 
 in his grief begs forgiveness in return. 
 
 The boy recounts his passionate and reverent 
 admiration for one so "all accomplished," so 
 "courted everywhere," so much "the scholar and 
 the gentleman" as Tresham; and the meeting yes- 
 terday — "glorious" with "praise and gentlest 
 words and kindest looks!" Even now the way of 
 reparation, begun yesterday, would have had its 
 happy issue. Will Tresham not tell him so.^ May 
 he look up for assurance into Tresham's face.^^ He 
 tries to raise himself to see, but finds a vague dim- 
 ness covering his eyes. Yet does he not see a Hght 
 above .^ Ah, it is Mildred's. What, now, will 
 Mildred do? — Mildred, whose "life is bound up 
 in the life that's bleeding fast away"! Mildred, 
 who "sits there waiting" for him! Will Tresham 
 carry one last message? Mertoun, dying, loves her. 
 
 . . . Die along with me. 
 Dear Mildred! 't is so easy, and you'll 'scape 
 So much unkindness! Can I lie at rest. 
 With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deeds 
 Done to you? — heartless men shall have my heart. 
 And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm. 
 Aware, perhaps, of every blow — oh God! — 
 Upon those lips — yet of no power to tear 
 The felon stripe by stripe! Die, Mildred! Leave 
 Their honorable world to them! For God 
 We're good enough, though the world casts us out. 
 
 A whistle is heard calling in the distance. It is 
 Gerard, the warrener, whom Austin and Guendolen 
 have pressed into service in their search for Thorold 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 43 
 
 since the morning. In response to Tresham's call, 
 the searchers now hasten to the scene with lights. 
 They aid Tresham in raising Mertoun and, in do- 
 ing so, turn his face from the lighted window. A 
 passionate protest that they turn him not away 
 from Mildred — and he is dead ! 
 
 Guendolen is the first to break the silence with 
 directions to Gerard to summon help, and a request 
 of Austin to remain behind with Thorold until the 
 help come. She will go at once to Mildred. 
 
 But the Earl cannot suffer it so. He has a mes- 
 sage from the dead boy seared upon his brain, and 
 he must carry it to Mildred. He, and he only, 
 must see her. 
 
 "She will die," objects Guendolen. 
 
 "Oh no, she will not die! I dare not hope she'll 
 die," is the stern rejoinder, with the silent thought 
 of his own speedy death uppermost in his mind. 
 It is without a tremor that he describes Mertoun 's 
 unresisting attitude in the fight — which was no 
 fight at all. With equal coolness he directs Austin 
 and the warrener to bear away the body. And, 
 asked whither, he answers with strange meaning 
 that his chamber will do very well. For when Mer- 
 toun and he "meet there next," they will be 
 "friends." 
 
 For a little while he detains his cousin, asking her 
 to look around upon the turf and the meadow and 
 the waste, and think if ever she and Austin will 
 wander to the haunted place, if they can help — 
 ever so forget the dead man's breast as "carelessly 
 to cross this bloody turf under the black yew 
 avenue"? 
 
44 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 With a shudder Guendolen averts her head. 
 And Tresham, turning to the "dear and ancient 
 trees " his ** fathers planted " and he "loved so well," 
 — dear trees, whose music in the winds he shall 
 never hear again, — bids them, with the same 
 strange meaning in his words, a last lingering fare- 
 well. 
 
 IV 
 
 Mildred is waiting in her chamber, but not for 
 Thorold. The signal-light still shines before the 
 purple pane in the window, though the trysting- 
 hour has long since passed. She sits, as has been 
 her wont in waiting for her lover, in the seat before 
 the Virgin's image. The Spirit of Sorrow settles 
 about her with the crowding minutes, assuming 
 to her tense brooding a palpable presence. Again, 
 her woe takes on many forms and shapes; she sees 
 them in their fury strike at and rend one another, 
 leaving her a mere observer, all but dead to bear the 
 supreme sorrow of her lover's absence. Were he 
 seated here, as so often was his wont, they would 
 now renounce their love forever, and the "thousand 
 happy ways " they so often contrived of hiding their 
 love "from the loveless." Her thoughts wander to 
 her confession before Thorold in the library that 
 fatal morning. Had she only defended herself 
 then; had she urged but "some little point" in her 
 defense, it might have been better, for Thorold 
 was so eager for the least hint that would exonerate 
 or excuse. No Henry! Has she crept out of herself 
 that she can sit and look at herself — that Mildred 
 who has lost her lover — and her heart not break? 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 45 
 
 The world has forsaken her, — her lover, too ! . . . 
 At last the stupor that has seized her is shaken by 
 a call from her door. It is Tresham's voice saying, 
 "Mildred!" 
 
 She thanks Heaven for the merciful visitation, 
 and, rising in expectation that another is waiting 
 as well, welcomes her brother in. Her disappoint- 
 ment starts to her lips; and, thinking again of the 
 interview in the library, she begs for peace and 
 "no more cursing!" 
 
 Tresham, with a deadly pallor on his face, touches 
 her tenderly and conducts her to a seat. 
 
 Her heart sinks at the message written in his 
 look; and, in a voice weakened almost to a whisper, 
 she asks for his meaning — for all his thought, 
 even his denunciation. 
 
 An unexpected gentleness softens his words, 
 which play sadly about the years gone by. His 
 thought? — how, together, they used to search for 
 water lilies in the pond, and, wading too far for the 
 prize, she dared neither go on nor turn back; and 
 so, "laughing and crying," stood still and waited 
 for Gerard to come; then, rescued, was loudest of 
 them all to reach the prize again. Strange, he says, 
 "how idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's " ! 
 
 Mildred notes the kindness in her brother's tones. 
 What does it mean? 
 
 He is so grieved, he says, for taking a part that 
 morning which was not rightly his own. He might 
 have reproved her, wrung as his heart was; but it 
 was not for him to do more. Will Mildred forgive 
 him? 
 
 Thorold's utter contrition starts a new fear in 
 
46 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Mildred's breast. What new mockery is this? And 
 yet his eyes are kind. Why forgive? Her heart 
 cannot contain itself, silencing all speech; and a 
 mbment of tense quiet follows. 
 
 And the signal-light still shines through the 
 purple pane in the window. 
 
 Where is Henry Mertoun to-night? Why does 
 he not come? Starting up, she faces Thorold with 
 the question and, seeing him mute, dashes his 
 mantle aside and reads the grim answer in the scab- 
 bard, which hangs empty. 
 
 Ah, this speaks for you ! 
 YouVe murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed! 
 What is it I must pardon? This and all? 
 Well, I do pardon you — I think I do. 
 Thorold, how very wretched you must be! 
 
 Her pity persuades him to speak. Henry Mertoun 
 has sent a message. . . . 
 
 But Mildred, guessing all, forbids its utterance. 
 Not that ! She knows that Henry loved her and that 
 his love lay on his dying lips. Must she listen and 
 say "Indeed" to that? It is enough! She pardons. 
 
 A consciousness of his approaching end speaks 
 in her brother's quiet reply. He accepts her pardon 
 for his harsh words; but for his deed "Another" 
 is judge, whose doom he awaits "in doubt, despond- 
 ency, and fear." 
 
 Mildred rejoices in being freed from all cares at 
 once. Death makes her sure of her lover forever. 
 He himself shall tell her his last words; and she, 
 going to him, will return her own heart's answer. 
 
 A smile attests the gratification in the Earl's 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 47 
 
 reply. Will Mildred die too? So Guendolen said, 
 and truly. He dared not hope as much. 
 
 She whispers a message of love to Guendolen 
 and Austin, and that prompts Thorold to ask if he, 
 too, may now be loved? 
 
 The broken heart is moved to speak with keen 
 reproach of the rash deed that slew her wooer while 
 pleading in "his poor confused boy's-speech " their 
 "love and ignorance," the "brief madness and the 
 long despair," and then, "at the end, as he looked 
 up for life, ... — struck him down!" 
 
 No, Tresham admits his avenging hand knew no 
 pity in its blind fury; but as the boy lay mortally 
 hurt, the moonlight revealed on his flushed cheek 
 — he saw it — a "depth of purity immovable." 
 His own punishment's at hand. Will Mildred 
 speak? She curses him? 
 
 With a love that blots out all the past and em- 
 braces both brother and lover in its ample sweep, 
 Mildred advances to Thorold, saying: — 
 
 As I dare approach that Heaven 
 Which has not bade a Hving thing despair. 
 Which needs no code to keep its grace from stain. 
 But bids the vilest worm that turns on it 
 Desist and be forgiven, — I — forgive not. 
 But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls ! 
 
 She locks her arms about his neck. 
 
 There! Do not think too much upon the past! 
 The cloud that's broke was all the same a cloud 
 While it stood up between my friend and you; 
 You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is that 
 So past retrieve? I have his heart, you know; 
 I may dispose of it: I give it you! 
 It loves you as mine loves ! Confirm me, Henry f 
 
48 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 With these words she dies; and the brother, ca- 
 ressing the golden-tinted tresses, wishes the fleet- 
 ing spirit joy in its flight, being glad in her full 
 gladness. 
 
 The silence that follows is broken by troubled 
 calls from Guendolen outside. The door swings 
 open, and she enters with Austin, exclaiming that 
 she could "desist no longer," having known from 
 the first that Mildred needed her. Seeing the limp 
 form in Tresham's arms, she thinks Mildred has 
 only swooned; but an exclamation from Thorold 
 conveys the fact she feared, and she hastens to 
 unlock the arms now lifeless in their last embrace. 
 But she is checked by a pallor, whiter even than 
 the dead girl's, on the Earl's face, "a froth oozing 
 through his clenched teeth," and blood-marks on 
 his bitten lips. 
 
 Austin runs to support him, and bids him speak; 
 and the dying voice complains that something more 
 than Mildred's weight weighs down his neck. 
 
 I said, just as I drank the poison oflF, 
 The earth would be no longer earth to me. 
 The life out of all life was gone from me. 
 There are blind ways provided, the foredone 
 Heart-weary player in this pageant-world 
 Drops out by, letting the main masque defile 
 By the conspicuous portal: I am through — 
 Just through! 
 
 Austin and Guendolen, soon to be Lord and Lady 
 of Tresham Hall, custodians of its escutcheon and 
 guardians of its honor, are enjoined, with hands 
 clasped in Thorold's, to hold the escutcheon up 
 free of blot or stain. They have seen "how blood 
 
A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON 49 
 
 must wash one blot away," how the "first blot 
 came," and then the "first blood came" to cleanse 
 it. There is no blot on the escutcheon now. 
 Austin solemnly promises, "No blot shall come ! " 
 
 Tresham. I said that: yet it did come. Should it come. 
 Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remember me! 
 
 [Dies, 
 
 Guendolen. [Letting fall the pulseless arm.] Ah, Thorold, 
 we can but — remember you! 
 
STRAFFORD 
 
 Love of Country 
 I 
 
 It is the year 1640. In a house near Whitehall 
 are assembled a company of malcontents whose 
 grievances are directed against Charles and his 
 Lord Deputy in Ireland, the Viscount Wentworth. 
 The meeting-place is a small and obscure room, 
 chosen for its nearness to the Court; and the meet- 
 ing is secret — a stealthy gathering of men who 
 style themselves great-hearted and patriotic. 
 
 For ten years Parliament has been kept disbanded, 
 the same Parliament that wrested the Bill of Rights 
 from the reluctant King; and the company now as- 
 sembled plume themselves on taking up England's 
 cause where the Parliament left it. There are many 
 among them of the Presbyterian Party, of whom 
 John Hampden, Denzil Hollis, the younger Vane, 
 Benjamin Rudyard, and Nathaniel Fiennes are 
 leaders. From Scotland have come Commissioners, 
 and the Earl of Loudon is the leader of these. For 
 the moment the company have been diverted from 
 their set purpose of drawing up a list of grievances 
 by the sudden arrival at Court of the Viscount 
 Wentworth from his post in Ireland. 
 
 During these ten years there has been much un- 
 rest and infinite intrigue; but the King's part in the 
 drama has served only to provoke the bitter fears 
 
STRAFFORD 51 
 
 of his enemies. Wentworth, formerly a trusted 
 leader of the Presbyterians and, as such, one of the 
 framers of the popular Bill of Rights, is reputed to 
 have deserted his associates for the King and now, 
 at the time of his return to Court, is suspected by 
 some of them of returning solely for the purpose 
 of enacting in England the same role of tyranny 
 which, they declare, he has been playing so success- 
 fully in Ireland. His desertion has earned him the 
 opprobrious epithets of "renegade," "Haman," 
 "Ahithophel" from his detractors in the assembly. 
 Yet there are those in the room who refuse to be- 
 lieve in his apostasy and hope soon to see him back 
 among them as of old, ascribing his present con- 
 duct to a mistaken sense of duty to his country and 
 King. Others, believing the worst, see in his de- 
 sertion only the basest motives of a traitor, his own 
 personal aggrandizement. To lend color to this 
 view, is recalled his prompt promotion to the Presi- 
 dency of the North after having framed the "choic- 
 est clause in the Petition of Right," — a promotion 
 which most manifestly was meant to purchase his 
 support; and his recent advancement to the Lord 
 Deputyship of Ireland is to be regarded as only 
 another step in the same direction. 
 
 So think his enemies in the assembly, and of 
 these the younger Vane is the most bitter and out- 
 spoken. The news of Wentworth's return is so as- 
 tounding that the business of receiving the report 
 of the Parliament in Edinburgh through the Earl of 
 Loudon as head of the Scots' Commissioners, and 
 of reading the list of grievances, is set aside and 
 forgotten in heated accusation on the one side, met 
 
52 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 by cautious retort on the other. John Pym, the 
 head and front of the party, has been sent from 
 their presence to verify the news; and his re- 
 appearance is eagerly awaited. Meanwhile, Vane 
 gives way to an impassioned arraignment of the 
 "renegade" in spite of the earnest protestations of 
 Denzil Hollis, brother by marriage to the Viscount 
 Went worth, the astute objections of John Hamp- 
 den, and the occasional, though positive, opposition 
 of Nathaniel Fiennes and the Earl of Loudon. Ben- 
 jamin Rudyard, on the other hand, makes a feeble 
 echo to the fiery eloquence of Vane. 
 
 To Vane's first angry outcry, Hollis cautions 
 silence, at least till Pym rejoin them. England's 
 fate is in the balance — that outweighs everything 
 else; and he calls upon Hampden to support him in 
 this contention. Let nothing be done in rashness; 
 let them be still and await the event. Immediately 
 he receives full in face the imputation of family 
 relationship as the motive of his feelings and is 
 stung into silence; but his part is at once assumed 
 by Hampden, who, although he replies curtly to 
 Vane, replies effectively. 
 
 Vane with indignant irony assents to the com- 
 mand of silence, but only for the moment. 
 
 It is indeed too bitter that one man. 
 
 Any one man's mere presence, should suspend 
 
 England's combined endeavor. 
 
 Whom he means is clear enough. Coolness is no 
 merit, and silence no virtue, now that Wentworth 
 is here and closeted with the King, he continues; 
 and with rising voice and measured eloquence he 
 formulates a scathing indictment of Wentworth 's 
 
STRAFFORD 53 
 
 treason to England's best good, as shown in the ef- 
 ficacy of his single opposition to her progress; in his 
 heartening influence upon the fickle King, perfect- 
 ing that King in tyranny's "dismal trade" — the 
 use of scourge and screw and gag, with lessons 
 taught in Ireland — new ways of "wringing treas- 
 ure out of tears and blood." And to what end? 
 That England may ultimately be brought to bear 
 what Ireland bears now; and the King's growing ap- 
 petite for power, ever more power, power even at the 
 price of blood, be made insatiate. Nothing shall stay 
 the flood of Vane's invective. A deprecating gesture 
 from Hampden only serves to kindle more fire. 
 Hampden interjects a pointed warning of the trea- 
 sonable character of the words, since they arraign 
 the royal person no less than the royal instru- 
 ment. But oblivious to the warning. Vane launches 
 into a comparison of the brave times before Went- 
 worth's desertion and the pitiful changes that have 
 taken place since. Then a Parliament of the 
 People 
 
 could wrest 
 The Bill of Rights from the reluctant King; 
 And now, he'll find in an obscure small room 
 A stealthy gathering of great-hearted men 
 That take up England's cause. 
 
 The cause of England is here in this room, and not 
 at WTiitehall. England herself is here. It is they, 
 her friends, who have been betrayed. What treason, 
 then, can lie in speech.^ 
 
 At all events, suggests Hampden, there is little 
 call for so much agitation. Does any one despair 
 of England? Who? 
 
54 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Rudyard springs to Vane's aid with the emphatic 
 declaration that he, for one, despairs of England 
 "if Wentworth comes to rule her" — Wentworth, 
 compared to whom her former detested masters, — 
 James, Marquis of Hamilton; the "muckworm" 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer, Francis Lord Cotting- 
 ton; and the "maniac" Bishop of papist inclina- 
 tions, William Laud, — may yet be preferred and 
 "longed-for back again." 
 
 Moved to deep emotion by the support of Rud- 
 yard, Vane lowers his voice and, solemnly, as if 
 saying a prayer, lays open the element of weakness 
 in the character of Charles, who shrinks either in 
 fear or craftiness at each fresh act of tyranny; and 
 Wentworth, perceiving this, heartens the monarch 
 and, simulating the part of guardian and friend, 
 easily compasses the ruin of England, pointing out 
 where best she may be wounded. But England's 
 "life is hard to take." Vane pauses, his voice 
 breaking with feeling. But, applauded and urged 
 on, he calls to mind Runnymead, the scene of the 
 enactment of the first Bill of Rights, the great 
 Magna Charta, and again paints the picture of 
 Wentworth's desertion, his smiling support of the 
 beckoning King, the country crouching to spring 
 with them, her real friends in the League, — to 
 spring upon the traitor and crush him. Calls of 
 "renegade," "Haman," "Ahithophel" from here 
 and there in the room prompt Hampden to turn to 
 the Scots' Commissioners with the pointed re- 
 minder of the unanimity of all Scots in pronounc- 
 ing "the League and Covenant," the presence of 
 Vane at that meeting of the League as well as this 
 
STRAFFORD 55 
 
 one, and his utter silence then, "the whole night 
 through." Stung with the reproach. Vane cries 
 out in anger and is stayed from an act of violence 
 only by the prompt reproaches of Fiennes and Lou- 
 don; then, turning upon Loudon, Vane passionately 
 shows with how poor a grace the counsel for pa- 
 tience comes from him, since Scotland still has a 
 Parliament, and Loudon is its chief Commissioner. 
 Scotland still is free ; England, enslaved. True, una- 
 nimity should prevail; but all must realize the 
 purport of Wentworth's coming, which is to crush 
 the League, now the last and only hope and stay 
 of England. Can they not fathom the man's true 
 character and the depths of "what he dares"? 
 
 Loudon interjects the calm assurance that they 
 certainly do know, all know, what he dares; where- 
 upon Vane, goaded to further extravagance by 
 this tantalizing appearance of composure, calls 
 violently for Wentworth's life, and, to strengthen 
 the demand, repeats the vow John Pym made years 
 before: — 
 
 You leave us, Wentworth! while your head is on, 
 I'll not leave you. 
 
 It was spoken when the two friends separated, and 
 Wentworth withdrew from the League. Before 
 dropping their cause, Wentworth had craved au- 
 dience with Pym, and with Pym only, though there 
 were others in this company who were "strong on 
 the people's side " — John Eliot, for example, who 
 was afterward thrust into the tower for resisting 
 unauthorized levies and religious innovations, and 
 died there; and Hampden and Rudyard as well; 
 
56 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 yet "for these Wentworth cared Rot." The ap- 
 pointed meeting between these two, who had 
 sworn to live and die friends, had taken place at 
 Greenwich. Long was the argument, specious and 
 persuasive enough. They two combined might put 
 down England, Wentworth had urged. Pym had 
 listened patiently to the end; and then, with one 
 characteristic flash of the eyes, he delivered his 
 laconic ultimatum. And Pym will be true to his 
 word, says Vane; Pym will not leave Wentworth 
 while Wentworth lives, but will hunt him to the 
 bitter end. 
 
 Hampden curbs this extravagance with the cool 
 and pointed question, — 
 
 Has he left Wentworth, then? 
 Has England lost him? Will you let him speak. 
 Or put your crude surmises in his mouth? 
 Away with this! 
 
 Then turning to the assembly, he puts to them 
 the question, "Will you have Pym or Vane.?" and 
 winning their decision for Pym, calls for the re- 
 sumption of the League's business in the reading 
 of the report from the Parliament in Edinburgh. 
 Loudon as spokesman of the Scots' Commissioners 
 is called upon to make the report; but, before he can 
 begin, Vane tries to excuse his own recent heat be- 
 cause of the depth and strength of his feeling in 
 the matter. He can be silent but "not indifferent," 
 he exclaims. At length, however, he yields to 
 Hampden's solicitation that "each keep silence, 
 praying God to spare His anger," and not cast 
 "England quite away in this her visitation." The 
 
STRAFFORD 57 
 
 deep silence that accordingly ensues is accentuated 
 by the solemn utterance of a Puritan from the 
 rear of the room, who, perceiving the approach 
 of Pym before any one else catches sight of him, 
 heralds his coming in these sepulchral tones : — 
 
 Seven years long 
 The Midianite drove Israel into dens 
 And caves. Till God sent forth a mighty man. 
 Even Gideon! 
 
 Pym enters, forthwith proclaiming Wentworth's 
 actual return in spite of illness and alleged cor- 
 ruption, and the storm that threatened his passage 
 from Ireland. But the Court has not as yet received 
 him, though a Council has been hastily summoned 
 at Whitehall to give him work to do. Meanwhile 
 the Scots' Parliament has been dissolved. This as- 
 tounding announcement is received with dismay and 
 imprecations by Loudon and the Commissioners. 
 Charles an oath-breaker! All the more reason, then, 
 that the League should stand together and not 
 falter. The Scottish Parliament needs the help of 
 the English people against their common foe, the 
 tyrant on the throne. So thinks Loudon; but Pym 
 seeks to calm the assembly with his opinion that 
 the trouble does not lie so deep as that — not in 
 the King's perfidy but in his lightness of heart 
 and hopeful disposition. And Hampden, hitherto 
 most impatient of the violent heat of Vane and 
 Rudyard, now himself appeals to them laconically 
 to "speak," as they "had much to say." Hollis, 
 still holding out with hope, begins, "The rumor 's 
 false, then ..." to be interrupted with cruel irony 
 by Pym's 
 
58 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Ay, the Court gives out 
 His own concerns have brought him back: I know 
 'T is the King calls him. 
 
 — Calls him to be the arch-instrument of oppres- 
 sion in the place of James Hamilton and Francis 
 Cottington, whose services have ended. Time has 
 come, the King thinks, for a long-indulgent lord 
 to bring peace at the point of the sword, teaching 
 a rebellious nation that "all kind expedients" have 
 heen "tried." Another page of history must be 
 written, the "last gentle entry" being Archbishop 
 Laud's religious persecution of the Scots; and the 
 new entry shall chronicle the success of Wentworth 
 in thrusting Laud's religion down their throats by 
 force of arms. 
 
 The angry snarl of a Puritan in the audience call- 
 ing for one mighty blow at the tyrant shows the 
 tense feeling of the eager listeners. 
 
 Pym recognizes the interruption with the con- 
 cession that it is "a goodly thing" to correct the 
 wrongs against England. Who has not had that 
 ambition in her dark hours, and who does not have 
 it now in this her darkest.^ Let all be brave beneath 
 the threatening thunder. All of the League "have 
 done their best" — 
 
 From lion Eliot, that grand Englishman, 
 To the least . . . 
 
 and let all continue to do their best for their 
 country's redemption, which, although it dawns 
 dimly, is dawning surely; and who the least among 
 them would barter away the proud hope of fellow- 
 ship with the heroes who will have brought it 
 about? 
 
STRAFFORD 59 
 
 Here Hampden, perhaps moved by the stout elo- 
 quence of the man, perhaps purposing only by an 
 adroit play to make Pym show his hand, hints 
 plainly that Pym is the " matchless man " who shall 
 live to future generations as having "saved Eng- 
 land"; but Pym, seeing the ruse, quickly substi- 
 tutes Went worth's name for his oWn in the course 
 of Hampden's words, thus robbing them of their 
 intent. But Rudyard and other hotheads cry out 
 against the proposal, clamoring for Wentworth's 
 death as Vane had cried for it before. Vane, how- 
 ever, warns them that there must be no foul play, 
 "no villainous striking down"; and Rudyard read- 
 ily assents that a "calm vengeance" would be more 
 efficacious, an uprisal over the whole land! No 
 assassination in the base manner of John Felton! 
 Pym, scornfully rejecting thought of such blood- 
 shed, and turning to Hampden for support, again 
 affirms his belief that, "spite of the past," Went- 
 worth will rejoin them. But the supposition is met 
 with shouts of "Apostate!" "Judas!" "Double- 
 dyed a traitor!" from Vane and his followers, and 
 half-expressed indignation that Pym could so far 
 forget himself. But Pym replies to indignation 
 with soft persuasion, recounting his once great 
 love for the misguided man, their intimate com- 
 panionship in days gone by, their common studies 
 in history and politics, their common sympathy for 
 the people and opposition to the King, their com- 
 mon veneration of Eliot, the people's champion. 
 Surely Vane never knew Wentworth as Pym knew 
 him, never loved him, never sat beside him in Par- 
 liament . . . 
 
60 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 From which, interrupts Vane bitterly, that same 
 Wentworth, after having framed "the choicest 
 clause in the Petition of Right," allowed himself to 
 be bought over to the King with the office of the 
 "Northern Presidency" — an office which "that 
 Bill denounced." 
 
 Pym sorrowfully admits the defection and the 
 sad cessation of their friendship, his loneliness since; 
 yet insists that of all his friends, of whom he has had 
 many, of whom he has many in the assembly now, 
 none was dearer than Wentworth; and Wentworth 
 was a real friend, he could have been no other. 
 Vane and Rudyard, it is to be admitted, have little 
 cause to place trust in him, yet is there none to hope 
 with Pym? Then, turning again to Hampden, his 
 friend and advocate, with the query, "Will Went- 
 worth dare shed English blood like water?" Pym 
 receives only equivocal support in the reply that 
 "Ireland is," indeed, "Aceldama," verily a field 
 of blood. Yet he continues bravely: Will Went- 
 worth "turn Scotland to a hunting-ground to 
 please the King, now that he knows the King " ? 
 Could Wentworth desert the people for the King, 
 and that king the perfidious Charles? 
 
 Hampden is saying, with confidence in Pym, but 
 distrust of his faith in Wentworth, — 
 
 Pym, all here know you : you '11 not set your heart 
 On any baseless dream. But say one deed 
 Of Wentworth's, since he left us — 
 
 when the noise of shouting is borne in from with- 
 out. "There!" says Vane impatiently, "he comes, 
 and they shout for him!" Next he will be in the 
 
STRAFFORD 61 
 
 embraces of the King, matching courtesy with 
 courtesy, and, not to be outdone in courtliness, him- 
 self assuming the entire risk of the war with Scot- 
 land — now, while the League is being told how 
 changed he is. 
 
 Yet Pym disregards Vane's turbulent sarcasm 
 to reply with gentle pathos to Hampden's charge. 
 How pitiful if, as Hampden holds, it be but a dream 
 that Wentworth, having espoused the people's 
 cause at the first and consistently held to it through 
 all changes, has undertaken the service of the King 
 only to bring himself to love the cause at last as 
 if there had been no Laud to hinder before, as if 
 there were no Queen to interfere now; only a dream 
 that he has brought the cause calmly to a success- 
 ful issue, though with violence, which, however, 
 can rob the event of none of its luster, can take 
 "no grace from its serene regard." 
 
 Hampden deems it best to remain silent on this, 
 which he has called a chimerical view, and to recall 
 the League to the business in hand — that of ac- 
 complishing "certain good by obvious means": the 
 good in keeping up the tradition of free assemblages 
 and English freedom. Their counsel has not been 
 in vain, since in this poor chamber friend has heart- 
 ened friend, the dearest wants of England have 
 been learned and communicated to the delegates 
 of Scotland; and the next step to take is, with God's 
 help and in spite of the devil's hindrance, to put 
 resolution into execution; to trust that good will 
 come from evil; to continue the tactics which, sup- 
 posing the worst of Wentworth, shall draw out their 
 "formidablest foe" instead of inviting defeat in 
 
62 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 ** bickering and disunion"; to regard Wentworth's 
 presence the proof of their victory; and to perse- 
 vere in the strife in the old approved way. Let the 
 order of business prevail, let the list of grievances be 
 read, let the work of England proceed. As the ques- 
 tion of ship-money is introduced with the announce- 
 ment by Fiennes that its levy has been either re- 
 sisted or paid under fierce protest in every county 
 except the northern ones "where Wentworth's 
 influence" as President of the North still prevails, 
 the shouting from without is repeated; and Vane 
 again is roused to make loud protest against a 
 policy of further debate, against a continuance of 
 that "peaceful strife" which Hampden tamely 
 advocates. Now that the last shadow of a Parlia- 
 ment has been dispelled from Scotland, argument 
 must be renounced for sterner measures; the more 
 so since the tyrants have struck the first blow in 
 substituting for law brute force. Many voices ap- 
 plaud the speaker, and again he calls for venge- 
 ance on Wentworth. This being seconded with 
 general cries of "Vane for England!" — Pym faces 
 them with the quiet but resolute reminder that he, 
 Pym, "should be something for England" ; and he 
 announces before they adjourn that he counts them 
 his friends still and for their sake, as well as 
 England's, goes forth to "seek Wentworth." 
 
 II 
 
 Wentworth has hurried back from Ireland in 
 almost complete physical exhaustion, his frame 
 wracked, his face yellow with disease, and his 
 
STRAFFORD 63 
 
 mind prostrated with anxiety. Lucy Percy, Coun- 
 tess of Carlisle, his devoted friend and confidante, 
 meets him in an anteroom at Whitehall with tender 
 concern and solicitations for his health, which to 
 any one but Wentworth, engrossed as he is in the 
 fascinating personality of Charles and the weighty 
 affairs of statecraft, must wear a deeper color than 
 that of friendship alone. Without, the crowd is 
 surging and shouting ; within, the Privy Council 
 is in session, deliberating on the advisability of a 
 war with Scotland and attending to the earnest 
 plea of Bishop Laud against that madness. The 
 Earl of Holland is there with Lord Savile, and Sir 
 Henry Vane — and the King; wherefore the King's 
 tardiness in welcoming Wentworth's return. Cer- 
 tainly the Council has the King's ear, if not his 
 confidence ; and as certainly it has not only the 
 Queen's ear but her confidence and active coopera- 
 tion. The Queen's hostility to Wentworth goes far 
 to explain his feverish agitation, as he now con- 
 fers with Lady Carlisle in expectation of the royal 
 presence. 
 
 "This horrible fatigue will kill you," she urges. 
 If he will rest, she will tell him all. He protests he 
 cannot rest till his doubts are resolved. She as- 
 sures him of the King's confidence and trust; but 
 her reply is waived aside with sceptical queries, 
 and then lost in the noise of shouting without. 
 
 Do they shout for him, the knaves .f* 
 
 Who knows? rejoins Lady Carlisle, for he has 
 come so strangely soon. Yet, she adds, measures 
 were taken to "keep off the crowd." 
 
 Why, then, he sneers, should they not shout for 
 
64 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 him? Would the King take measures to keep the 
 crowd from himself? Assured that few dare carp at 
 him, Wentworth pettishly corrects Lady Carlisle 
 with the rejoinder that the King must share with 
 him immunity from blame, since Charles is the real 
 author of "these late deeds" of blood in Ireland, 
 and Wentworth but the instrument — an instru- 
 ment, a tool, a servant who has his master's implicit 
 trust! Unceremoniously, almost brutally, he re- 
 jects Lady Carlisle's proffer of comfort in the infor- 
 mation she would give, were she not prevented by 
 his brusqueness, that the King will prove his trust 
 with the grant of an Earldom, and prove it in the 
 "face of all the Court." The mention of that com- 
 pany, so detested in his eyes — "Savile and Hol- 
 land, Hamilton and Vane" — prompts him to 
 demand hotly if the royal grant then means that 
 these shall be banished "for once" and the royal 
 ear inclined to him for counsel? Besought to be 
 calm, he passionately declares he is ; — but is 
 startled next moment, believing he hears the King's 
 step drawing near. A pause, and then his thoughts 
 revert suddenly to the overwhelming suspicion of 
 the King's distrust; and with a sudden appeal to 
 Lady Carlisle's loyalty and affection, he demands 
 if it is the Queen who is undermining him. 
 
 "No, not the Queen," he is told with sly per- 
 version, but the "party that poisons the Queen's 
 ear, Savile and Holland." 
 
 Ah, he thought so; and "old Vane" makes a 
 third? — Sir Harry Vane the elder, who now is 
 Secretary to the King? Well, what of them! They 
 have his scorn ! The charge, after all, is the im- 
 
STRAFFORD 65 
 
 portant thing; what is the charge? what are their 
 grievances? 
 
 Oh, there 's no charge, no precise charge; 
 Only they sneer, make Hght of — one may say. 
 Nibble at what you do. 
 
 But are there no precise charges? and will his 
 "gentle friend" not spare an hour, as before his 
 arrival he guessed she might, to help her — shall 
 he say friend or lover? But the right word stick- 
 ing in his throat, he turns to the woman to name 
 his true position in her affections, which she re- 
 veals to him prettily enough with the arch ques- 
 tion, "You thought of me, dear Wentworth?" 
 Satisfied on that point and too impatient to pause 
 for endearments, he urgently presses her to go on 
 with the charges, and she presents them without 
 further reservation: first, his administration in Ire- 
 land has achieved no extraordinary results; and, 
 second, his share in the customs is unduly large; 
 and, third, the taxes. . . . 
 
 She is interrupted with an angry command for 
 silence; such quibbling is too base to hear. Abruptly 
 changing the subject, he inquires about Pym — 
 "Pym and the People," as he calls them; Pym and 
 the "Faction," as Lady Carlisle will have it; or Pym 
 and the "League," as the members of that body 
 themselves would say. Told that they are "ex- 
 tinct" and "of no account," since their efforts to 
 perpetuate the Parliament are doomed to failure, 
 he receives the statement incredulously — reverts 
 to the early days when he was — he might have 
 said "one of them," but he chooses to say "much 
 that he is not now." On the grounds of his old- 
 
66 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 time relations with them, has he not far better rea- 
 son to claim the King's confidence about Pym and 
 Pym's associates than that nest of intriguers, the 
 Saviles, Vanes, and Hollands have ? As between 
 them and Pym — certainly he will "not be their 
 tool," — he who "might be Pym's friend yet." 
 Again, with nervous expectancy he anticipates 
 the King's step; and being told that Charles has 
 just been apprised of his arrival, he beats down 
 what he takes to be Lady Carlisle's shuffling de- 
 fense of the King, but what in reality is her tactful 
 regard for his own ill health, with the demand 
 why the King is not here now to meet him, since, 
 as he was informed, Charles not only sent but longed 
 for him. With much reluctance and hesitation the 
 answer comes that the royal Council is sitting in de- 
 liberation over the affairs with Scotland. Stunned 
 with the idea that the Council can take definite 
 measures on those matters without him, the Presi- 
 dent of the North, and suspecting that they may 
 have gone so far as to declare war behind his back, 
 though he has come hotly from Ireland to "show 
 how rash it is" and "how easy to dispense with," 
 he is carried in his rage to the mad point of doubt- 
 ing the loyalty even of Lady Carlisle; then craves 
 her pardon — his cares are too heavy : they * ' weigh " 
 him to his "grave." 
 
 Unable to endure the pity of the scene any longer. 
 Lady Carlisle takes her leave with the earnest dec- 
 laration, "For life or death I am your own, dear 
 friend!" 
 
 But the assurance fails to hearten him, as again 
 he yields to the overwhelming suspicion of the heart- 
 
STRAFFORD 67 
 
 lessness of all, and of Lady Carlisle no less. If the 
 King be false, what else matters? If the King can 
 forsake the people, certainly Went worth will not; 
 nor has Went worth ever done so, as "they shall 
 know" so soon as the "King will trust" him. But 
 when will the King trust him.^^ — the King who 
 lavishes trust on every one else; and only not on 
 Wentworth, because Went worth has "but saved 
 the throne," has not "picked up the Queen's 
 glove prettily," so is not trusted. Yet there may 
 be one way left to the King's heart, now that Wes- 
 ton the treasurer is dead — the magic way that 
 leads to the King's purse; besides, the Queen is 
 losing her foreign tastes and sympathies, and one 
 lucky word may find her heart as well. A step ap- 
 proaches; this time he recognizes it as the King's, 
 What shall he say ? How shall he begin ? 
 
 And the flesh fails, now, and the time is come. 
 And one false step no way to be repaired; 
 
 and realizing his abject prostration of mind and 
 body, he wanders in thought to Pym and Pym's 
 triumphant look could Pym behold his confusion 
 and despair. 
 
 Perhaps it is a momentary relief to the shattered 
 man that it is not the King who enters after all, 
 but the most unexpected of persons, Pym himself. 
 
 Wentworth, almost mute with surprise, receives 
 him with the soft utterance, "I little thought of 
 you just then," and is met with the cordial assur- 
 ance, "I think always of you, Wentworth" — an 
 assurance to which neither may be giving the sinis- 
 ter meaning of Pym's declaration at their parting 
 
68 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 at Greenwich; for it may be with a touch of old- 
 time affection that Wentworth exclaims, "The old 
 voice!" In a moment, however, pulling himself 
 together, he says formally, "I wait the King, sir." 
 Pym rejoins that he might have read as much in 
 Wentworth's paleness; adds that the Privy Council 
 is in session, and when that adjourns the King may 
 be seen. Wentworth replies with a cold "Sir, I 
 thank you"; and Pym meets coldness with light 
 banter in pointing out that Bishop Laud is the one 
 to be thanked, since he it is who is holding the ses- 
 sion in a desperate effort to prove that the 
 
 English all are mad to have a hand 
 In butchering the Scots for serving God 
 After their fathers' fashion. 
 
 But the case, being only that, is not so serious after 
 all; the wait will not be long. 
 
 Wentworth, troubled by Pym's manner and led 
 by it to suspect his alliance with the Court Faction, 
 maintains an air of distant haughtiness; requests 
 that Pym reserve his jocular moods for "those 
 who relish them"; it is indeed a kindness in him to 
 say "what the Council does." 
 Then Pym, — 
 
 You grudge 
 That I should know it had resolved on war 
 Before you came? no need: you shall have all 
 The credit, trust me! 
 
 After a moment of intense agitation, Wentworth 
 draws himself up to the full height of his reserve 
 with the declaration, "I know you not. Farewell, 
 sir: times are changed." But Pym, who has just 
 come from the meeting of the League with the 
 
STRAFFORD 69 
 
 avowed purpose of sounding him, is not so easily 
 to be put off. After a bitter reference to their 
 memorable meeting at Greenwich, and to the 
 strange changes that have indeed taken place since 
 then, strange "exploits in Ireland," — changes all 
 too strange to their friend Eliot, could he see them 
 "from out his grave," — Pym, basing his plea on 
 the memory of their old friendship, makes a last 
 persuasive effort at reconciliation. A haughty 
 gesture from Wentworth is calculated to chill the 
 advance, but fails. Pym avows his sincerity, his 
 unwillingness to play for advantage — has he not 
 lacked credit since their quarrel for having cham- 
 pioned Wentworth as superior even to Eliot in the 
 cause of the League and Covenant.^ And then he 
 asks forgiveness for his plain-speaking — a trick 
 he says he keeps; a trick most unlike the deceptive 
 finesse of Holland, Savile, and old Vane; a trick, 
 in short, he is not ashamed of. But at mention 
 of the Court Faction, Went worth's mistrust rises 
 again. Pym, he suspects, enjoys their confidence 
 and is perhaps here as their agent. Cool haughti- 
 ness gives way to heightened scorn as Wentworth 
 rejects the proffered reconciliation : — 
 
 Keep your thoughts ! believe the King 
 Mistrusts me for their prattle, all these Vanes 
 And Saviles ! make your mind up, o' God's love. 
 That I am discontented with the King ! 
 
 Pym, nettled at the rebuff, returns scorn for 
 scorn with the thrust that he, too, should be thor- 
 oughly discontented with the King, were he less 
 like Eliot and Hampden, who cared not for titles, 
 and more like Savile of the Court Faction, who is 
 
70 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 a lord, and Wentworth, who has sold his soul for 
 an earldom. It is hard to think, therefore, that 
 Charles "did well" in laughing the bribe-taker 
 "to such utter scorn" and refusing him who twice 
 prayed so humbly, "the thirty silver pieces" — 
 rather the earldom he expected, still expects, and 
 may continue to expect. Pity that Wentworth's 
 letters were so moving! But there is consolation in 
 sympathy : Pym, too, has brought the King prayers 
 — "words moving in their way" — "from Scotland 
 not to be oppressed by Laud," and it is a foregone 
 conclusion that they will receive as much of the 
 royal attention as Wentworth's will. 
 
 The shot goes home. Wentworth almost loses 
 himself in incoherence, in denouncing the falsehood; 
 then, assuming the truth of it, in praising the King 
 for his part in the incident; then, in alleging his 
 pleasure at having been so honored; then, for old 
 friendship's sake, in appealing to John Pym to 
 forbear on that point. And Pym, thinking to have 
 touched a responsive chord at last, appeals to the 
 tenderness of that friendship, to its stanch brother- 
 hood, and the pity that "all should come to this." 
 Bidden be gone, he nevertheless persists in his 
 proffer of reconciliation and, approaching with ex- 
 tended hand, contrasts the ancient joy of the 
 League in Wentworth's leadership with their pres- 
 ent sorrow at his absence; bids him with God's 
 help shake off the delusion, the "obscene dream," 
 which keeps him in the royal chamber of abomi- 
 nations, return to the League as of old and, as their 
 captain, guide the destinies of England aright. The 
 proffered hand clasps Wentworth's with warm ex- 
 
STRAFFORD 71 
 
 pressions of joy and with renewed supplications that 
 Wentworth forbear even to see the King now, but 
 return to the rough old assembly room of the 
 League, to Hampden and Fiennes, so long missed, 
 and Harry Vane the younger whom he will delight 
 to know. 
 
 They are standing thus, hand gripped in hand, 
 when suddenly the King enters; and Wentworth, 
 startled, lets fall Pym's hand and kneels before the 
 royal presence. 
 
 Charles, approaching Wentworth with conven- 
 tional courtesy, knowingly refers to Pym as Went- 
 worth's "old friend," and then, turning to Pym 
 himself, remarks pointedly that the "Scots shall 
 be informed what" will be determined "for their 
 happiness." Thus dismissed, Pym takes his leave. 
 
 Wentworth hastens to present the reason for his 
 coming, but is interrupted with a satirical com- 
 pleting of his words: Come — "to see an old famil- 
 iar" friend.? says Charles; and adds suavely that 
 the friend's experience will be of service in sup- 
 pressing the Scots' League and Covenant, which 
 "spreads too far," and in suppressing the English 
 adjunct to it as well, of which Wentworth 's friend, 
 just gone, "is the head and front." Suppressed 
 they must be, as there are indisputable proofs of 
 their intrigue with France. The friend no doubt 
 has boasted of his leadership and power. 
 
 Seeing himself thus suspected, W^entworth be- 
 seeches earnestly to be trusted and, Charles affect- 
 ing not to understand, falls on his knees before him, 
 imploring confidence not for his own sake but for 
 the King's, since for that very mistrust the King 
 
72 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 causes himself to suffer. Does he not believe that 
 Went worth would die to serve him? 
 
 Wentworth is gently bidden to rise, but his agi- 
 tation persists. What proof shall be convincing ? 
 What can be the evidence which such as Savile give 
 of their fidelity.^ — Alas, that one can't tear out 
 one's heart to show "how sincere a thing it is"! 
 
 Assured that he has been trusted, Wentworth 
 rejects the assurance with the explanation that in 
 his absence he was misrepresented and maligned 
 by those who poisoned the King's ear against the 
 King's will; but he expresses the comforting hope 
 — yes, the confidence — that the King will trust 
 him and by his trust make everything different. 
 
 The King warmly professes that he does trust 
 him and with sly banter adds that he does so for 
 the double reason that the Countess Carlisle has 
 just interposed in his behalf. But Wentworth, sol- 
 emnly protesting that he should need no more special 
 pleading with the King than should the King's 
 own right hand or his children, is bidden, with a 
 warmth that seems thoroughly genuine, to rise 
 and be assured that the King loves him. Thus 
 encouraged, he can speak quite frankly : He alone 
 can save the King, and he will do so in the face of 
 any necessity and any danger. And Charles replies 
 that, loath as he is to spill his subjects' blood, it has 
 been decided to project the war against Scotland 
 at the urgent instance of Bishop Laud, who is con- 
 vinced that the Scots have intrigued with France. 
 The King is inclined to ratify the project. Quickly 
 inquiring if Laud has "suggested any way to meet 
 the war's expense," Wentworth receives dubious 
 
STRAFFORD 73 
 
 comfort from the information that the Bishop 
 would "not decide so far" until the Viscount's 
 arrival. Can Laud be certain of the Scottish intrigue 
 with France? If so, there is reason for the People's 
 support. The King interjects a pertinent reference 
 to Wentworth's recent conference with Pym in 
 venturing the remark that "Pym should know" 
 about the People's support. But to gain this, the 
 People's support, Wentworth urges under stress of 
 a great inspiration, Let a Parliament be summoned, 
 in Ireland first, then in England; it is a thought 
 worthy of the trust which the King has just avowed. 
 "In truth.?" questions the King quizzically; but 
 Wentworth, swept on by full faith in the expedient, 
 sets forth as his reason that thus Pym's Faction, 
 the League which "tutors Scotland" and which 
 supposes "no Parliament," will be taken by sur- 
 prise, the war will be put off, the League will be 
 given time to have their grievances righted, and 
 Pym to present his views. The plan, in short, is 
 this: — 
 
 Produce the proofs 
 
 Of Scotland's treason; then bid England help: 
 
 Even Pym will not refuse. 
 
 "You would begin with Ireland?" muses the 
 King; and Wentworth replies, "Take no care for 
 that: that's sure to prosper." Then the King does 
 what doubtless he had decided from the first to do 
 in any event: he appears to confirm the plan, ad- 
 vises that Wentworth "return at once" to Ireland, 
 and offers with intimate endearments the glitter- 
 ing jewel of a George and the title of Earl as indis- 
 putable evidence of his trust and friendship. 
 
74 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 The Earl of Strafford ! — Rapt with this sudden 
 joy, and gazing far off as in a dream, Wentworth 
 scarcely realizes the import of the King's soft words 
 in the music of the voice which abjures the "vain 
 rumors" of his un worthiness and exalts him as the 
 very apple of the royal eye. Roused from moment- 
 ary oblivion to the world and the business in hand, 
 Strafford dreamily begs for leave to withdraw, but, 
 recalled by the protest of the King, again reverts 
 with fervor to the expedient of a Parliament as the 
 only means of salvation. Then, in a transport of 
 joy and gratitude, he vows loyally to serve the King 
 in any way. Parliament or no Parliament. But 
 Charles implores him to desist and spare himself 
 all further exertion in his illness. He is not ill, 
 says the Earl; it is only his soul's exaltation now, 
 not his body's weakness, that agitates him. Every- 
 thing shall be cared for; the Parliament shall be 
 summoned because, after all, they will not be needed 
 much; and if, as the King fears, "they prove 
 restive," Strafford will be at the King's side even 
 "ere they assemble." 
 
 I will come, or else 
 
 Deposit this infirm humanity 
 
 I' the dust. My whole heart stays with you, my King! 
 
 The Queen enters the chamber, as the Earl 
 leaves it. "That man must love me," says Charles, 
 pointing to the retreating figure. But it is with 
 undisguised dislike that the Queen follows Straf- 
 ford with her eyes, and remarks contemptuously 
 on the manifest signs of illness in the extremely 
 yellow cast of his complexion; then, referring to 
 the earldom just bestowed, she sneers out affected 
 
STRAFFORD 75 
 
 consolation that, now that he is paid, they shall 
 not, at least, "hear eternally of service — services." 
 
 Yet he is "not done with," smiles the King; 
 "he engages to surpass all yet performed in Ire- 
 land." This is met with another sneer that "no- 
 thing beyond " Ireland, she had thought, "was ever 
 to be done." Then, driving straight to the point 
 of the Council's declaration of war with the abrupt 
 question whether the paid hireling will "raise sup- 
 plies enough," she sees the monarch hesitate be- 
 tween truth and equivocation as he nervously con- 
 fesses to an "expedient" hit upon, the calling of a 
 Parliament "decided on" — a confession which he 
 weakly strives to disguise with the qualification 
 that the Parliament is meant only for Ireland. But 
 penetrating the sham, she denounces it with ut- 
 ter disgust and little regard for Charles's pettish 
 protest that he "should know best," and "once a 
 precedent established," all will go well. Precedent? 
 she continues; yes, precedent is the word, for it is 
 precisely the precedent of an English Parliament 
 and an endless succession of Parliaments which 
 will secure the hireling in a "long term of 
 favor," hoping, as well he may, to "see the next, 
 and the next after that" and "no end to Parlia- 
 ments! " 
 
 "Well, it is done," says Charles, relenting; and 
 the plan as he presented it looked good enough, he 
 adds. The Queen's petulance bears down all op- 
 position, all suave protest and mild persuasion. 
 She wishes herself "in France again to see a 
 King!"; she applauds the Scots for wishing to cast 
 ofiP the rule of so weak a sovereign; she laments her 
 
76 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 shame in being supplanted in the King's, her hus- 
 band's, confidence. 
 
 The appeal proves irresistible. He does confide 
 in her, his Henriette, his love. The Parliament 
 shall never trouble them. There are other "schemes, 
 such schemes": the leaders shall be bought off; 
 Wentworth's counsel of calling the Parliament is 
 accepted only for the opportunity of "breaking" 
 that Parliament forever, with Wentworth the butt 
 of all the blame. That is the point of the situation. 
 Does she not see it.^ Thus, seeming triumphant 
 yet abjectly servile to his passion of uxorious- 
 ness, the ductile monarch leads away his shrewish 
 consort with profuse expressions of affection and 
 devotion. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The League "that tutors Scotland" has reas- 
 sembled in its dingy and narrow room in the shadow 
 of Whitehall. In Whitehall itself have recently met 
 the English Parliament, called at suggestion of the 
 Viscount Wentworth to consider the Privy Council's 
 proposed war with Scotland. Wentworth, having 
 been created Earl of Strafford, not as a proof of 
 the royal trust and favor, as he was taught to be- 
 lieve, but rather, as Queen Henriette is assured, 
 to secure his continuance in the royal service to 
 such ends as the King himself shall determine, had 
 meanwhile gone back to Ireland to resume his work 
 as Lord Deputy there, and has just returned to 
 the Court. Thus the Parliament has met during his 
 absence; and whatever has been done in pursuance 
 of his plan that the Parliament consider the griev- 
 
STRAFFORD 77 
 
 ances of the League, one thing is certain: the Par- 
 liament is in danger of passing an act for the levy 
 of "twelve subsidies." So much is clear to the 
 League; whether the war against Scotland^is to be 
 pressed, is not so clear, though some are quite sure 
 that that will be the next development. Certainly 
 an army has been created and put into the field. 
 It may be that the royal hand is but tightening 
 its clutch upon the throat of the People. Certainly, 
 too, new acts of tyranny have been perpetrated in 
 Ireland, and indications point to their repetition 
 in England. The privilege of a Parliament, so long 
 withheld and so long clamored for, seems to have 
 been granted for the sole purpose of enacting the 
 very oppression which it was believed the existence 
 of that body would have prevented. Certain of 
 the League profess to see in the call of the Par- 
 liament a trick devised expressly for the defeat 
 and humiliation of the League: the League is to be 
 viewed throughout the nation as responsible for 
 the Parliament's existence and therefore as sanc- 
 tioning its abuses. This is the sorry jest of the 
 situation, all the sorrier for the preposterous de- 
 mand for "twelve subsidies." Why, exclaims 
 Fiennes, "all England cannot furnish twelve sub- 
 sidies!" 
 
 The exact position and responsibility of Straf- 
 ford in this crisis is the one point of amazement to 
 Rudyard, Vane, Fiennes, and one or two stragglers 
 of their party, as they press into their old secluded 
 meeting place. While others cry out bitterly. Vane, 
 save for a word or two of protest, is lashed into si- 
 lence under the whip of chagrin. This is no time for 
 
7S STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 merriment; let all wretched laughter cease. Rud- 
 yard retorts with stinging pointedness, "True, 
 Strafford called the Parliament — 't is he should 
 laugh." The retort meets with a growl of approval 
 from an obscure "Puritan" in the room, and 
 Fiennes adds that the "Scots' war" will be flying 
 fast in the wake of the Parliament; then, turning to 
 Vane whose appearance of dejection is unmistak- 
 able, he offers doubtful consolation in the fellow- 
 ship which misery seeks: Vane certainly was no 
 more a dupe than Fiennes himself, or Rudyard, or 
 any of the League on the day when Pym returned 
 to the chamber with "the good news" that Went- 
 worth had consented to rejoin them. 
 
 At this point Hampden enters, alone and buried 
 in thought. It was Hampden who at the League's 
 last meeting had succeeded in reducing Vane's 
 fiery heat and swaying the feelings of the assembly 
 toward caution and moderation in the treatment of 
 Wentworth's desertion. It is with especial point, 
 then, that Vane attacks Hampden with a mocking 
 plea for absolution from guilt in the present di- 
 lemma. Vane's course has been not only consistent, 
 but, as events have shown, extremely right; yet he 
 suffers under an unjust imputation, the imputation 
 of inconsistency and weakness. He would be cleared 
 of that; he "would have leave to sleep again"; he 
 would "look the People in the face again," exon- 
 erated from the blame of having ever hoped or 
 "dreamed better of Strafford." But diamond cuts 
 diamond in Hampden's, 
 
 You may grow one day 
 A steadfast light to England, Henry Vane! 
 
STRAFFORD 79 
 
 Rudyard, always ready to abet Vane, presses home 
 the point that certainly Strafford has the credit 
 of having revived the Parliaments, of making the 
 war a certainty, of bringing an army into existence, 
 of giving "poor Ireland" her death-blow. Oh, the 
 travesty of a Parliament, so long clamored for in the 
 universal protest against loans and levies, ship- 
 money, and Star Chamber sessions, meeting at 
 length and straightway yielding to the King's 
 imperious demand for "twelve subsidies"! This is 
 indeed a choice specimen of the royal irony. 
 
 Hollis, ever eager to join hands with Hampden, 
 at length finds opportunity to inquire how any 
 talk about Strafford, who has just returned from 
 Ireland, can be pertinent to the "twelve subsidies"? 
 " What has he to do with that.^^ How could he speak 
 his mind.f^ He left before the Parliament assembled." 
 Pym knew Strafford; let Pym interpret Strafford's 
 motives. 
 
 Whatever Pym may know, Rudyard is sure of 
 nothing, fails to discriminate between good and 
 bad, cannot distinguish friend from foe. So Hollis 
 counts Parliaments a gain. With the King's 
 "creatures" in the majority .f^ questions Rudyard. 
 A gain, when there's going on among the League 
 "a quiet, slow, but most effectual course of buying 
 over, sapping, leavening the lump till all is leaven," 
 till all have submitted to the sway of Pym, and Straf- 
 ford, and Charles.^ Glanville, too, has left them. 
 Why, the Commons were even on the point of grant- 
 ing the King's personal subsidies in exchange for 
 the cessation of ship-money, if six subsidies instead 
 of twelve had been acceptable. Yes, shouts Rud- 
 
80 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 yard, let Hampden hear and be congratulated — 
 let all be congratulated — the King has gained "his 
 point at last" with the League's "assent to that 
 detested tax"! 
 
 Pym enters at this juncture, and is assailed, as 
 Hampden was, by Vane's angry charge that Straf- 
 ford is responsible, according to Pym's own ad- 
 mission, for the new Parliament; and that being 
 so, the League must see to it that the English Par- 
 liaments must not be "like those in Ireland," 
 whose liberties are abridged by a law limiting their 
 meetings to but one a year and their business to 
 the program set before them by the Privy Coun- 
 cil. 
 
 To Rudyard's mind, the man whom Pym has 
 shielded should be presented in his true character 
 and stripped of the defense that "hides far too 
 many sins" — a defense which, stretched to the 
 bursting point, can hold no more and is now drop- 
 ping in shreds and tatters. The demand is seconded 
 by many other voices. There could be no fitter time, 
 they cry. The man must "stand forth" in his true 
 colors. They have waited thus long, and patiently, 
 for Pym's avowal. 
 
 Yes, they have waited long, "perhaps, too long," 
 thinks Rudyard. Only "the madness of the Court, 
 in thus unmasking its designs at once, has saved " 
 them "from betraying England." And since "this 
 Parliament is Strafford's," let the League answer 
 him with a vote of their grievances — grievances 
 which "are too black by far to suffer talk of sub- 
 sidies." Let it be proclaimed that the question 
 of ship-money has been "disposed of long ago by 
 
STRAFFORD 81 
 
 England." Let this sweeping ultimatum be the 
 League's reply; 
 
 And then let Strafford, for the love of it. 
 Support his Parliament! 
 
 And to that let the League add, "No war to be 
 with Scotland!" interjects Vane with rising voice; 
 and, turning threateningly to Pym, he repeats the 
 cry with doubled emphasis. The crowd seconds him 
 to the echo. Some take up Rudyard's plea, shout- 
 ing, "Stop the new levies!" Others denounce the 
 bruited war as Laud's and will have none of it. 
 Others call loudly for a vote on these questions "at 
 once"; others would defer action until the next 
 meeting. 
 
 Patience is written on the face of the one assailed, 
 as he lifts his voice in the first lull of the noise. 
 Faith born of serenity lights Pym's features as he 
 turns his gaze full into the eyes of the assembly, 
 calling them his friends and inquiring with accus- 
 tomed persuasiveness who among them, since 
 "first the course of Strafford was in doubt," has 
 condemned Pym most; whereupon Vane, with 
 flashing eye and trembling voice, admits that he 
 was but even now pondering words of severest 
 denunciation that should brand Pym a traitor 
 "at league with England's enemy." At that, Pym 
 steps forward to grasp his accuser warmly by the 
 hand, greet him as a "good and gallant spirit,'* 
 and beg forgiveness for the pain of all suspense 
 till now. They shall forgive; for Strafford is theirs, 
 wholly theirs. Yes, Pym is sure; for Charles is dis- 
 solving the Parliament at this moment, distrust- 
 ing Strafford, and casting him off forever. There 
 
82 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 will be no Parliament. Strafford, too, renounces 
 the friendship. Let all join in going to Whitehall, 
 find Strafford, welcome him back into their number, 
 and "bid the King farewell" with good luck to his 
 expedition against Scotland. 
 
 Vane is all forgiveness; the assembly acclaim the 
 reconciliation; and, with one accord, follow Pym's 
 enthusiastic guidance to the Court to witness the 
 brightening of a new day for England. 
 
 IV 
 
 Strafford, just returned from Ireland, is closeted 
 with Charles in the presence chamber at Whitehall. 
 The war is to go forward without delay, an army has 
 been raised, and the Earl is in readiness to command 
 it. He has laid careful plans for the expedition, only 
 at the last moment to find them frustrated, or so 
 completely changed as in his eyes to be frustrated. 
 It is with words of indignant protest that he has 
 addressed the King on the liberties taken with the 
 plans, and is reprimanded for his heat. He continues 
 that the plans, which at first had had the King's 
 unqualified and affectionate approval and which, 
 unaltered, had made the future look bright, have 
 been so changed at their most vital point as to be 
 ruined, wholly ruined. Yet, strangely, the King 
 can sanction the ruinous alteration with as much 
 grace as at first he approved the original papers. 
 "How's this? What may this mean? Sir, who 
 has done this?" questions Strafford fiercely. 
 
 The King alone, he is softly assured. The King, 
 not the Council. All other advisers have been put 
 away. Strafford alone is the King's adviser. 
 
STRAFFORD 83 
 
 It is with a scornful curl of the lip that the Earl 
 receives the assurance. It is plain enough where to 
 look for the source of an unworthy scheme like this, 
 more especially when that scheme singles out Straf- 
 ford to perpetrate the mischief. It is all of a piece 
 with Laud's trick of hatching the war, then falling 
 to his prayers and letting the brunt of it descend 
 upon Strafford; and he — he is alone, without 
 confidence, without support. 
 
 At least, reproves Charles, he knew as much when 
 he undertook the war. 
 
 Strafford corrects his liege. This was not the way. 
 The way first proposed was, since Laud would "lap 
 a little blood," to "hurry over the loathsome busi- 
 ness" with one sure blow and then have peace; to 
 secure this end by assigning Strafford to the com- 
 mand of an Irish army for the West and by mar- 
 shalling an English army for the South; and all 
 had had the King's warm sanction fifty times over. 
 But now, when the army is raised, Strafford ready 
 to join it, and all things prepared beyond recall, for 
 some trivial thing the "whole design is set aside," 
 and Strafford is to "lead the English army" be- 
 cause, indeed, Northumberland, whom Strafford 
 had appointed, "is frightened" and "chooses to be 
 sick." This were all very well, were it not for the 
 Irish Parliament. Who will answer for that, or for 
 the Irish army for that matter .f^ Is this his plan.f^ 
 
 The Earl's decision of voice and gesture, and 
 above all the clear truth of his words, evoke from 
 the King a shuffling "So disrespectful, sir.?" Straf- 
 ford warmly denies any disrespect; and, now that 
 matters have gone too far to revoke the changes in 
 
84 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 the original plans, he as warmly affirms his loyalty, 
 his loyalty to the death. The world, it is true, will 
 look upon the act as his, while at the Court he will 
 reap the fruit of every malicious whisper poured 
 into the King's ear ! If only he could have and keep 
 the King's undivided confidence, could have it for 
 once, and have it now — now, at a time when he is 
 "soon to rush alone upon a giant in the dark!" 
 
 His bitter remonstrance is calmed by the King's 
 smooth voice, and he falls mechanically to ex- 
 amining his papers awhile. Yes, all he said is true. 
 His "plan was sure to prosper," and in that event, 
 as he had foreseen, there were "no cause to ask the 
 Parliament for help"; whereas, under the changed 
 proposal, the Parliament will be needed "fright- 
 fully." 
 
 "Need the Parliament?" asks Charles. It is the 
 King's look of deep dejection that prompts Straf- 
 ford to make a vehement plea for the Parliament's 
 help as the last possible resource. With agitated 
 concern he interprets the King's hurt expression 
 as a rejection of the appeal, though, in reality, 
 it is pity for Strafford in grasping at a straw out 
 of reach: the Parliament has been adjourned, but 
 Strafford does not know it. Indeed, he believes the 
 Parliament to be sitting at the moment; and then 
 he guesses mistakenly that Charles's worried look 
 is due to fear that they will refuse to grant the de- 
 mand for subsidies. So Strafford's effort at consola- 
 tion is met with a similar one on the part of the King. 
 Perhaps it is a ray of amused wonderment on. the 
 royal face that awakens Strafford to the truth: 
 the King has dissolved the Parliament, with noth- 
 
STRAFFORD 85 
 
 ing done except the war declared, not a single 
 subsidy granted. The King, after some silence, 
 admits the fact, then attributes the adjournment 
 to "old Vane's ill-judged vehemence" in telling 
 them, just as they were about "to vote the half," 
 that "nothing short" of twelve subsidies would be 
 acceptable. 
 
 It is with gasping amazement that Strafford 
 hears these words. The perfidy of Vane in promising 
 one thing and doing another ! The despair of losing 
 one's "last hope" of reaching the King's heart one 
 day, by finding it possessed, wholly possessed, by 
 Vane! The despair of youth gone, hope gone, 
 sunshine gone and lost, lost, to Vane! Suddenly 
 he takes up a paper and with forced calmness 
 studies its provisions: "Northumberland is sick." 
 Very well, then, Strafford will "take the army." 
 Wilmot at the head of the cavalry must, with Con- 
 way, "secure the passes of the Tyne." Ormond 
 goes to Ireland in Strafford's stead. As for sup- 
 plies, he comments, there is no choice but to "try 
 the City." London must yield a loan; and, if they 
 refuse, let the bullion be seized and the coin de- 
 based. It is the only recourse. The pity of it that 
 things should come to this pass with himself in 
 the King's presence and powerless to prevent it! 
 The fearful danger that, himself once gone, the 
 King will be wholly at the mercy of "hosts like 
 Vane," who will "close around " and at the prompt- 
 ing of the "least pique" and "pettiest mistrust" 
 are sure to ruin this Strafford, and the King along 
 with him! Does the King note that danger.? — 
 The ruin will ultimately descend upon him as well. 
 
86 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Wentworth's voice, tense with emotion and 
 weakened by disease, grows hoarse with the plea 
 that the King turn to Vane and Vane's circle of 
 intriguers a deaf ear. Let the Queen's whispered 
 charges, too, be turned aside. Whatever they say, 
 whatever she says, let the King's answer ever be 
 of Strafford, "At any time when he returns, his 
 head is mine." Yes, let the King hear him calmly. 
 His head shall be the King's at his demand. 
 
 A gesture of remonstrance from Charles that he, 
 in turn, should be so little trusted, accompanies 
 his exclamation that these words are "too shame- 
 ful," especially in view of Strafford's advocacy of 
 the war. 
 
 Advocacy of the war.? Strafford an advocate of 
 that, when he had "never been spoken with till 
 it was entered on," who "loathes the war," who 
 says it "is the maddest, wickedest" scheme im- 
 aginable? Indeed, Strafford is constrained within 
 his heart to think that the King, through weakness 
 and the fear of meeting responsibility in case of a 
 reverse with the Scots, will assign the war to his 
 advice and so avert from himself, and direct upon 
 Strafford, the rage of a furious people. Yes, let 
 the King heed him, and remember that Strafford 
 has said it: He knew it; he knew it from the first. 
 "Never was there so cold a heart" as the King's, 
 and never for a moment was the King believed 
 either in this matter or in any other of his blan- 
 dishments. The King's love.? The King's perfidy, 
 rather, who thought himself securely screened by 
 Strafford's exclusion from the whispering circle of 
 the Vanes and Saviles. Nevertheless, Strafford had 
 
STRAFFORD 87 
 
 the "heart to see" that the "face was masked," 
 that the "face was flesh" but the heart was stone 
 — "smooth cold frightful stone! " Is this treason? 
 Let the guards be called for the arrest! Shall Straf- 
 ford himself call them, if the King will not? Whom 
 shall Strafford call? The Scots who are "goaded to 
 madness " ? Or the English — shall Pym, the King's 
 subject and leader of the English, be summoned? 
 Or does the King trust that Strafford will "leave 
 them in the dark about it all"; that no one shall 
 know — Hampden and Pym shall not know — the 
 King for what he really is? 
 
 At this juncture Hampden and Pym enter, ac- 
 companied by Vane and others of their party. But 
 the impassioned champion of Charles, Charles the 
 monarch and Charles the magnetic personality, 
 suppresses every emotion save that of loyalty and, 
 dropping on his knee, sues his sovereign with forced 
 calmness and every outward mark of obedience 
 and devotion, to believe that "a rebel League" 
 can avail nothing against the King's servant 
 who is pledged "utterly and ever" his. Then, 
 turning to the rebels themselves, he assails them 
 with the caustic reproof that they so pester the 
 King as to leave him not even the "privilege" of 
 bidding farewell to that " servant " who hastens " to 
 save the People" — the People whom the League 
 style peculiarly theirs — "from the mercies of 
 the Scots" and their ally, France. With aiffected 
 concern he begs of Charles audience for the rebels, 
 and assumes the privilege of inquiring what their 
 pleasure may be. 
 
 Hampden pretends that it is "not Lord Straf- 
 
88 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 ford" they seek, but the King, since it is the King 
 who has "dissolved" them; but Strafford replies 
 quickly that he too is "guilty," as he counseled the 
 measure. The King makes a movement as if to deny 
 the untruth, not relishing the ironical position of 
 being so openly shielded; but Strafford bears down 
 all opposition with hasty protest. As for counseling 
 the dissolution, that was "a heinous matter, truly " ! 
 The Earl's tone of mockery is unmistakable. The 
 King, he whispers, will yet be grateful for a course 
 which now he blames; will the King not tell 
 them so.f^ Let them choose "some fitter time" to 
 make their charge. Strafford, they must under- 
 stand, will soon be with the Scots, yes, fighting 
 the Scots; it will then be quite appropriate for the 
 Scots' League to "y^lp at" him. Turning to the 
 King, the Earl acknowledges his obligations, his 
 fealty, for his Majesty's trust; and then, in such 
 a manner as to hide his agitation from the rest, he 
 conducts Charles to the door under pretense of an 
 earnest farewell. 
 
 The King disappears ; and, as he does so, the rebels 
 turn as by one impulse to Pym, who, stricken 
 mute from the first, stands rooted to the spot. It 
 is not he, then, but Hampden who speaks, be- 
 seeching his comrades to leave to his fate "this arro- 
 gant strong wicked man," Strafford, whose true 
 spirit and conduct have at last been clearly defined 
 by his own mouth. Vane and others swell the chorus 
 of denunciation and call out to Pym, who still 
 stands stiff with surprise, to leave "this unworthy 
 place" and repair to their "old room again." They 
 stop, however, in their hasty exit, at the quick turn 
 
STRAFFORD 89 
 
 of the Earl, who, instead of following the King, 
 looks back under the hypnotic command of Pym's 
 grim stare. "Keep tryst!" is Pym's solemn warn- 
 ing; "the old appointment's made anew: forget 
 not we shall meet again." Strafford, understanding 
 well the reference to their old meeting at Green- 
 wich and Pym's oath of persecution to the death 
 in the event of permanent defection, accepts the 
 renewed challenge with, " So be it ! " and the ironical 
 thrust, "And if an army follows me.?" Vane is 
 ready with the retort, "His friends will entertain 
 your army!" 
 
 With a solemnity born of long patience and 
 deepened with devoted attachment, Pym leaves 
 the just appraisal of Strafford's decision to time. 
 It is now idle to interpose, to hope against hope. 
 Not Pym himself, no one indeed, has a personal 
 share in the matter. Yet it were idle to avert one's 
 eyes from the vengeance of Fate. God's ruinous 
 thunder is overhead, and Strafford "is doomed." 
 Let no one " touch him." 
 
 As the rebels leave the room, Strafford hurls 
 after them a defiant, "Pym, we shall meet again!" 
 
 It is with momentary surprise and yet unbounded 
 relief that, on the entrance of Lady Carlisle, who 
 says she knows all and has come in the hope of pre- 
 venting his departure for his command, he turns to 
 welcome her with, "You here, child.?" She strives 
 to calm his agitation; but he continues feverishly 
 in woe-begone mockery of his lot, that he will 
 "make a sorry soldier" indeed, as he begins the 
 knightly enterprise under the worst of auspices. 
 These should be the best of auspices, to be sure. 
 
90 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 since the lady is there with her tender offices; but 
 the adventurer is a poor old man, weary, with little 
 military experience, and "far from sure" that he 
 is not beset by false friends at every turn. Yet why 
 grumble at one's fate? Forward, is the word ! For- 
 ward against Scotland. Forward for glory and 
 love, for "we shall die gloriously," as the story 
 books say. "To Scotland.? " she interposes; he must 
 not go to Scotland. Why not? he queries causti- 
 cally. Is he sick like her "good brother, brave 
 Northumberland," whose command he takes? 
 Why should he not leave a Court whose walls seem 
 to be "falling" on him? 
 
 Is there no danger elsewhere? rejoins the woman 
 who would keep him back from that perilous un- 
 dertaking in the North, so bodeful of his ultimate 
 undoing. 
 
 The wind that saps these walls can undermine 
 
 Your camp in Scotland, too. Whence creeps the wind? 
 
 Have you no eyes except for Pym? 
 
 Rather, the danger is set in motion by old Vane, 
 who, however valiantly Strafford may "rush on 
 the Scots," shall spoil the success with some slight- 
 est sneer, "adjust the praise, suggest the faint re- 
 sult." There is no escaping Vane's sneer; it will 
 reach him even in Scotland. 
 
 His look of dreamy abstraction brings the Coun- 
 tess's plea to a sudden close with an impatient, 
 "You do not listen!" 
 
 One cannot escape one's fate. An air of resigna- 
 tion, almost of hopelessness, supersedes the look of 
 wan introspection in Strafford's eyes. The Court is 
 beyond him ; he gives them all " quite up." It is " so 
 
STRAFFORD 91 
 
 idle to withstand" them that he cares not what 
 "Vane does or Holland does." And he goes on 
 in spite of the silent rebuke in the Countess's 
 eyes. He wants "a little strife" besides; some "real 
 strife"; "this petty palace-warf are " does him 
 harm; he "shall feel better, fairly out of it." A 
 smile of confidence on his lips provokes her further 
 concern. But he proceeds. He had gotten "to fear 
 them." At first he "could have torn his throat" 
 — old Vane's, as "he leered ... on his stealthy 
 way to the Queen's closet." How "one loses heart " ; 
 else certainly he should have said, "Do not traduce 
 me to her!" 
 
 Lady Carlisle is about to explain the true atti- 
 tude of the King, but Wentworth interrupts her 
 with a vivid recital of the King's recent assurances. 
 "Be my friend of friends," was the royal whisper. 
 His King! He would have sworn him true and 
 died for him; he "can die for him" now. 
 
 "Charles never loved you," is her wild protest. 
 He must not go; he "must renounce this project 
 on the Scots." 
 
 Strafford calmly admits one of her assertions: 
 true, the King does not love him, and, what is 
 more, he never will. 
 
 He's not of those who care the more for men 
 That they're unfortunate. 
 
 After so much admitted, it is with pointed eager- 
 ness that the Countess inquires, "Then wherefore 
 die for such a master .f^" 
 
 But the point of the inquiry is lost on Strafford 
 just as the cause of his infatuation for Charles has 
 
92 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 been lost upon her; and she winces with the knowl- 
 edge he now reveals in all its nakedness that she 
 it was. Lady Carlisle, who first told him "how 
 good" the King was, how true a friend; how his 
 mere return from Ireland would supplant "Vane, 
 Savile, and the rest " in the King's heart. Realizing 
 Wentworth's unalterable infatuation for his sover- 
 eign and his consequent determination to serve 
 him at any cost, she exclaims hopelessly, — 
 
 Then, friend, 
 I shall not see you any more. 
 
 Yes, he will return. There is "one man here" he 
 has to meet. 
 
 She guesses that man to be the King. Then, 
 ruing the day she first taught Strafford to love the 
 King, she resolves to cure his infatuation with a 
 glimpse of her own bared soul. She would speak 
 to him; but he must avert his gaze, else she can- 
 not do so. She would save him. She will, she must, 
 confess it: she loves him. But she will say so only 
 as it were from afar off. She has borne for so long 
 now one only image in her mind, an image which 
 has eclipsed all other light there. Yes, it is "a weak- 
 ness, like a flaw in the diamond" which, because 
 it can suggest the vision of "some sweet face," is 
 
 treasured there, 
 Lest nature lose her gracious thought forever! 
 
 Her eyes, stealing a furtive glance at him whose 
 heart she would touch, are arrested by a look of 
 deep abstraction on his face. He is not listening. 
 What is that he is saying.? "When could it be.?" 
 When could what be? "The day," he explains. 
 
STRATFORD 93 
 
 they "waited in the anteroom, till Holland should 
 leave the presence-chamber" — the day he de- 
 scribed to her his "love for Charles." What an en- 
 grossing passion! With steadfast gaze she muses 
 to herself: 
 
 One must not lure him from a love like that! 
 Oh, let him love the King and die! 
 
 Yet, surely, she " shall not serve him worse for that 
 one brief and passionate hope" of hers, "silent for- 
 ever now." She hides her concern by resuming her 
 natural vivacity. Is he "really bound for Scotland 
 then"? She wishes him well. He must be "very 
 sure of the King's faith; for Pym and all his crew 
 will not be idle," not to mention Vane. 
 
 Wentworth beseeches her to write of Pym in the 
 event of Pym's activity. 
 
 She cannot forego the indulgence of her jealousy. 
 "What need," she asks, since there is his "King to 
 take his part"? 
 
 Awakening to a tardy consciousness of her self- 
 revelation, he places his hand on her head with 
 the caressing words, 
 
 Child, your hair 
 Is glossier than the Queen's! 
 
 "Is that to ask a curl of me?" An arch smile 
 accompanies the naive question. She severs a 
 strand and extends it winningly. He sighs, reluc- 
 tant to take up his command in Scotland. She 
 accepts his reluctance as pain at leaving her be- 
 hind, and, stepping forward, offers to fasten her 
 gift on his bosom; but catching a glimpse of the 
 ribbon of the George placed there by the hand of 
 
94 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Charles, and mistaking it for "a rival's " token, 
 she starts back in a flutter of consternation. To 
 dispel the absurd suspicion, he displays the glitter- 
 ing badge to the full, explains that the King placed i 
 it there, and invites her to hallow the gift by twining 
 her token around it. She escapes from his embrace 
 with a word of rebuke at her own folly. She trifles 
 so! she must be gone. "There's a masque on foot. 
 Farewell. The Court is dull." He must enliven it 
 with news of great things done in Scotland. It is 
 expected of him. 
 
 "I shall not fail in Scotland," says Strafford 
 hopefully. 
 
 May he prosper — if he will think of her some- 
 times. 
 
 How can he think of the King and not of her, of 
 her who is "the lingering streak (a golden one)" in 
 his "good fortune's eve"? 
 
 She is about to yield to the pathos of his deep , 
 
 despair by nestling in his outstretched arms, but I 
 
 checking the impulse, says simply, — 
 
 Well, when the eve has its last streak, ' 
 
 The night has its first star 
 
 — and she is gone. ( 
 
 What a sweet soft voice she has! So soft "you'd } 
 
 think she had a heart sometimes" — soft as the j 
 
 King's, perhaps as false. The tense silence gives ' 
 
 Strafford's thoughts the insistence of speech. He 
 breathes a prayer for the deluded King, whom 
 only God can save now. May God guard his bed 
 and guard his path. But England's path? "Where 
 is England's path? And Strafford's?" How they 
 
STRAFFORD 95 
 
 diverge — his country's good and his own neces- 
 sity. See the long "forlorn way among the tombs" 
 which his own "foot must follow" till he can tread 
 safely again in the way of his country's good and 
 his own peace. Peace? Why that face, "huge in 
 the dusk"? It is Pym. He has "Pym to face" . . . 
 a foe to close with and a fight to fight at last worthy 
 his soul. And whoso beards the King, either in the 
 market-place or in "the whited sepulchre of White- 
 hall," has Strafford, the King's defender, to reckon 
 with. Not in the market-place, surely; for there he 
 is trusted — there the rough artisans are "proud 
 to catch a glimpse of Wentworth," confident that, 
 though hungry at close of the weary day, the end 
 must be some time, for is not Wentworth watching 
 for their sake? — No, the danger is not there, but 
 in that cursed plague-spot, the Court! — Let him 
 curse nothing. But one name is cursed everywhere 
 in the city's streets to-night. And whose the fault? 
 Did Strafford make kings? Did Strafford, at the 
 first, "set up a man to represent the multitude," 
 to be loved instead of them? Did he, Strafford, 
 make that king to be so attractive, so mild and per- 
 suasive in all his ways, that the man in him be- 
 comes loved despite the king — the man with the 
 "mild voice and mournful eyes" who now has 
 sent him forth "to breast the bloody sea" beyond 
 "with one star for guide." Yes, Lady Carlisle 
 was right: — 
 
 Night has its first, supreme, forsaken star. 
 
96 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 StraflPord, having hastened to take charge of his 
 command in the North, has met with reverses; 
 and, to combat their bad effect, the King has sum- 
 moned the Parliament, which is now in session in 
 Westminster Hall. In a street opposite Westmin- 
 ster have gathered Sir Henry Vane, Lord Savile, 
 Lord Holland, and others of the Court Cabal. Hol- 
 land and Savile have just been ejected from the 
 House at the instance of Pym and his coadjutors 
 in the League; and Vane, having escaped their 
 humiliation through absence, has hurried up to 
 Savile and Holland for confirmation of the news 
 of their ejectment. He can scarcely believe it to 
 be true. And they, with some impatience and tes- 
 tiness, inquire what has kept him from sharing 
 the incivility. 
 
 Their heat sets him on fire. Kept him? Cer- 
 tainly he has had good reason to be away. The 
 news from Scotland has kept him — news that is 
 worse, if possible, than the last. "All's up with 
 Strafford there." And now there is nothing to pre- 
 vent the "mad Scots" from marching on London 
 the "next Lord's day morning." It was that which 
 detained him. But he is all eagerness to hear how 
 they have fared. What was the order of business 
 before they were thrust out? Was their program 
 carried? Did their agent, Lenthal, act his part 
 well and say all they had set down for him? 
 
 Yes, Lenthal has done perfectly, not missing a 
 word of his instructions, declares Holland. But be- 
 fore Lenthal began his part, Savile and Holland 
 
STRAFFORD 97 
 
 with Bristol and some more having entered the 
 new Parliament in the hope of overawing it by 
 their united presence, were met by "such a gang 
 of graceless ruffians," who returned stare for stare, 
 that that portion of the plan was thwarted. The 
 "burly knaves" were there in goodly numbers, and 
 Vane's "hopeful son among them," with Hampden, 
 think of it! leaning upon his shoulder. 
 
 Vane waives that as beside the point of his con- 
 cern. What he would like to get at is Lenthal's 
 speech. What did Lenthal say.^^ Did he urge grati- 
 tude for "this unlooked for summons from the 
 King" and the great danger "that the Scots will 
 march on London"? 
 
 Precisely; just as he was drilled. And he made 
 so much of the danger that all seemed fair sailing, 
 and the House was just on the point of granting 
 " a dozen subsidies," when there occurred a most 
 unexpected interruption. It was the strangest 
 thing in the world, and it all happened so suddenly 
 that but a "vague memory " of it remains. Holland 
 can recall nothing distinctly — only "a kind of 
 vast unnatural voice." It was Pym speaking. 
 Holland tries to recall the words, but failing, turns 
 to Savile to be helped out. But together they can 
 call to mind only a few broken phrases: "work for 
 England," "England's great revenge"; how they 
 — the Court Party — were "strangers" to it, as 
 they were to all of England's work. Through it 
 all Pym was looking them straight in the face; 
 and the plain substance of it was that their "pres- 
 ence might be spared." The expulsion followed 
 "in the twinkling of an eye," and there they are! 
 
98 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Vane's comment that the ejectment was quite 
 the natural thing with the League, schooled as they 
 are in the methods of their former leader, Eliot, 
 whom they venerate, — Eliot whom they have 
 sainted, — provokes the prickly retort from Sav- 
 ile that Vane's habitual references to Eliot and the 
 way Parliaments should be managed are growing 
 tiresome. Let Vane bear in mind that, since he 
 does not relish the issue of this Parliament, it was 
 he. Vane himself, who "advised the Queen to 
 summon" it. 
 
 Savile's answer provokes this responsive splutter 
 from Vane : Savile needs to be reminded that he has 
 "done the best of turns to Strafford" in setting the 
 Scots on him, well-nigh compassing his defeat. 
 Strafford is at York now for reasons that are clear 
 to everybody; it would have been far better had 
 he not set the Scots on Strafford till Strafford had 
 put down Pym. 
 
 The altercation is interrupted by the appearance 
 of a messenger from the Queen. He is out of breath, 
 sent in hot haste to summon them — the occasion, 
 "something perilous and strange." But the inter- 
 ruption is only momentary; for, as they turn in the 
 street at Westminster to follow the messenger afoot 
 to Whitehall, they continue the controversy with 
 charge and countercharge, Savile denouncing the 
 Parliament the King had summoned at Vane's 
 persuasion as a calamity, and Vane darkly hinting 
 that Strafford's untimely betrayal into the hands of 
 the Scots lies at Savile's door. Holland interposes 
 that at such time of the Queen's need it was a 
 graceless thing to quarrel; that in the end Pym will 
 
STRAFFORD 99 
 
 overmatch the best of them all unless they hang 
 together. So they go on, hot-footed and in silence. 
 
 VI 
 
 At Whitehall the Queen is fretting at the meet- 
 ing of Parliament and the threatened impeach- 
 ment of the Earl of Strafford; not that she loves 
 Strafford, but that she fears the advance of the 
 Scots upon London during his absence from his 
 command at York. She fears the Commons, so 
 reluctantly called, and called solely to avert the 
 disastrous issues of the war, lest they wreak all 
 their spite upon the royal house; for the Com- 
 mons, she believes, are dominated by Pym and 
 the rebel League, those champions of the popular 
 grievances, those implacable opponents of the 
 King and Queen in their incessant clamor for 
 subsidies. 
 
 Strafford is known to have been sent for by the 
 King. Lady Carlisle expects his arrival and be- 
 seeches the Queen to do something to save him 
 from Pym and the Parliament. Yet the Queen af- 
 fects to believe that he will not come; that he would 
 not dare to leave his post at York in the face of 
 the threatened impeachment, of which he must 
 know through advice of the King. Surely, even 
 though he did not know of the charge, he would 
 still be averse to coming during the session of the 
 Parliament whose meeting he had vehemently op- 
 posed. In reality she is deep in a quandary, and has 
 just sent for advisers — Vane, Holland, and Savile 
 — to resolve her doubts. She does this without the 
 
100 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 knowledge of the King, and perhaps also without 
 that of Lady Carlisle, to whom she pretends that 
 the King is away at Theobald's, his manor in Hert- 
 fordshire. 
 
 Lady Carlisle has assured her that it is indispu- 
 tably true that the House has met, as reported, and 
 that their meeting is for Strafford's impeachment. 
 But the Queen clings to the idea that the impeach- 
 ment cannot possibly be in progress now, as it would 
 be quite contrary to all custom: 
 
 , . . The old way 
 Is to begin by talk of grievances : 
 They have their grievances to busy them. 
 
 Yet the fact is, custom or no custom, that "Pym 
 has begun his speech." Lady Carlisle says this with 
 an insistence that breaks down the Queen's stolid- 
 ity for a brief moment and leads her to inquire 
 quickly for Vane, for whom and the rest she has 
 just dispatched a messenger. But she regains her 
 composure as she urges the absurdity of Strafford's 
 leaving his post as President of the North to face 
 charges of impeachment in London. 
 
 Yet the King has sent for him, and he will come. 
 The Countess is firm in her position; and when re- 
 minded that, if the King did send for him, he let 
 him know also that it was imperative that the Par- 
 liament be called, — "a step which Strafford was 
 vehement against," — and that certainly opposi- 
 tion to the Parliament would keep him away, she 
 loses patience and lets fly a bitter jeer at the King's 
 pitiful indecision with the Parliaments, first 
 striking them to earth, and then "setting them 
 
STRAFFORD 101 
 
 upon their feet and giving them a sword." Patient 
 insistence gives way to vehement assertiveness 
 in her decisive, "He will come." 
 
 The Queen, all her defenses down, breaks out with 
 the plaintive query, "And what am I to do.^^" 
 
 "What to do?" She is passionately besought to 
 do anything that will save Strafford. The price of 
 the Queen's failure in her present enterprise is 
 not too great for that. Ruin is nothing compared 
 with such a service. Any way will do if it but achieve 
 the credit of one effort, one single effort. 
 
 Yet what can the Queen do with "the King away 
 at Theobald's"? 
 
 She can "send for him at once," and "he must 
 dissolve the house." 
 
 She can do nothing till Vane has confirmed the 
 report; after that she will . . . 
 
 What she would do is lost in Lady Carlisle's 
 bitter despair. When Vane comes, it will matter 
 little what the King does. Oh, the shame of thus 
 deserting one who "lends his arm and breaks his 
 heart" for the Crown. 
 
 Vane, Holland, and Savile have separated; and 
 they hasten to the Queen's presence, each with 
 his own account of the doings of Parliament. Vane 
 is the first to appear. He announces that the Com- 
 mons are sitting behind "closed doors," with "a 
 huge debate " in progress and "no lack of noise." 
 Nothing, he should guess, has been done "con- 
 cerning Strafford," and "Pym has certainly not 
 spoken yet." This is comforting to the Queen, 
 whose wish was father to the thought, and who 
 turns to Lady Carlisle with a triumphant, "You 
 
102 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 hear?" as much as to say. Was I not right? Have I 
 not said so all along? 
 
 Lady Carlisle disdains the thrust with feeling. 
 She has not heard that the King has been "sent for." 
 
 The Queen's triumph is short-lived; for Holland, 
 on entering, not only contradicts Vane with the 
 message that Pym is on his feet and "raging like 
 a fire," but adds the startling news — 
 
 The whole House means 
 To follow him together to Whitehall 
 And force the King to give up Strafford. 
 
 The Queen catches her breath in fear and as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 But that is not all. They may not "content 
 themselves with Strafford." All the People's sup- 
 posed enemies are swept in together by Pym's 
 raging indictment. Laud, for example, "is talked 
 of, Cottington and Windebank too." 
 
 The Queen in a panic bids Vane "go find the 
 King" and tell him of the advance upon White- 
 hall. 
 
 Relief follows anxiety; and Vane is recalled, as 
 Savile, on entering, correq|| the false news of the 
 general advance upon the royal palace. The 
 House of Commons is proceeding to the House of 
 Lords : — 
 
 they seek redress 
 On Strafford from his peers — the legal way. 
 They call it. 
 
 That is all. And Strafford really has nothing to 
 fear, being safe at York, "in his own county." He 
 will realize that the "Commons only mean to 
 
STRAFFORD 103 
 
 frighten him from leaving York"; and "surely, 
 he will not come." 
 
 Lady Carlisle is emphatic in the reiteration of her 
 conviction that Strafford, having been sent for, 
 certainly will come. 
 
 A sneer from Vane avails nothing. Of course it 
 is Strafford's way to "bring destruction with him." 
 Was it not so when "his coming spoilt all Conway's 
 plan" of securing the passes of the Tyne.'^ But the 
 King must choose his own friends and be ruled 
 by Strafford's counsel. And "what's the result"? 
 Look at the failure in the North. Let the Commons 
 have their way and give Strafford the fright they 
 doubtless intend. It will be a wholesome corrective. 
 
 A fright from Pym? The idea receives Lady 
 Carlisle's unhesitating scorn. "Pym will fail worse 
 than Strafford if he thinks to frighten him." She 
 turns to the Queen with a last appeal, "You will 
 not save him then?" 
 
 It is Savile and not the Queen who replies. There 
 will be time enough to save "when something like 
 a charge is made"; moreover, "the King will best 
 know how to save him." The matter were best 
 left to the King, who, while Strafford loses nothing, 
 may "reap advantage." Clearly, while Strafford's 
 conduct is the point of investigation in Parliament, 
 the Crown will enjoy a welcome relief from the 
 everlasting complaints concerning ship-money. 
 
 The Queen seconds this argument, and turns to 
 Lady Carlisle. The payment of the army is an- 
 other matter to be considered; and who will do it if 
 the Parliament is dissolved? Who, besides, will 
 "protect" the throne "from the insolent Scots"? 
 
104 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Lady Carlisle does not profess to know. " Straf- 
 ford's fate concerns" her "little." She was re- 
 quested to say "what course would save him"; 
 she obeys her Queen. 
 
 The Queen and her counselors console them- 
 selves with hope that aiffairs will turn out to their 
 advantage. Strafford pitted against Pym will save 
 them from Pym's attack; and there is much hope 
 there since Strafford, being vindictive, is likely to 
 seek "full revenge." On the other hand, who would 
 waste sympathy on Strafford.^ Why should he not 
 have a share in the general misfortune.? Has he not 
 been thoroughly trusted by the King, and has he 
 not ill repaid him.? Be assured he will stay at York 
 until all blows over; and then he will return, chas- 
 tened with a little wholesome humiliation, and 
 "thankful" for some place under as good a man. 
 Oh, yes, they shall be spared the pleasure of Straf- 
 ford's company "for a month or two"! 
 
 It is with mingled feelings of surprise and con- 
 sternation that their idle chatter is interrupted by 
 the triumphant entrance of Strafford. 
 
 With confidence written on his forehead, Strafford 
 meets the Queen's surprised "You here!" with the 
 calm assertion, "The King sends for me, madam"; 
 and interrupts her, as she is about to explain that 
 the King is away at Theobald's, saying quietly that 
 the matter is urgent and concerns his Majesty. 
 
 Lady Carlisle extends a proud welcome with 
 happy words and joyous smiles; but the sinister 
 presence of the Cabal as they retire, muttering and 
 shrugging, to a remote corner of the chamber, at 
 once excites his suspicions. 
 
STRAFFORD 105 
 
 The Countess, however, overlooking his sudden 
 concern, continues her welcome. They are happy 
 to have him back. They are proud of him. He was 
 "stanch at Durham " ; he did well there. Had he not 
 "been stayed," he might have . . . she was about 
 to say that he might have won at Durham, but is 
 checked with the thought that the word would be 
 only a painful reminder of his reverses there; so 
 repeats that their hope is in him. 
 
 Here Vane comes to say the "Queen would 
 speak" with her; and Strafford somewhat haugh- 
 tily requests that one of them, "his servants here, 
 vouchsafe to signify" his "presence to the King." 
 
 "An urgent matter?" is Savile's mocking 
 query. 
 
 Strafford parries. No matter that touches Lord 
 Savile. Suppose "it were some treacherous, sly, 
 pitiful intriguing with the Scots," why, Savile, 
 at least, would go free. For, aside from the royal 
 summons, it is the Cabal's traitorous conspiracy 
 with the Scots that makes immediate cause for 
 his return to the Court. In the bitterness of his 
 retort, he has unguardedly allowed himself to al- 
 lude to that conspiracy; but checking himself in 
 fear of having revealed too much, and addressing 
 the Queen, he again asks for audience with the 
 King — the service he would render much concerns 
 him. 
 
 The Queen is confused. His Majesty may be 
 away, she stammers, retiring to a far end of the 
 room for conference with Vane and Holland. 
 
 The importance of his service, then, "must plead 
 excuse" for his withdrawal, and the manifest "grief 
 
106 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 it gives Lord Savile," says Strafford, as he turns to 
 leave. 
 
 But the Queen, who has been speaking apart 
 with Vane and Holland, turns quickly, saying, 
 "The King will see you, sir ! " Then, drawing Lady 
 Carlisle aside, she whispers that there is little 
 need of fretting about the Parliament now; the 
 impeachment of Strafford, or his vindication, must 
 be over by this time. Let them appear to know 
 nothing. Otherwise they should only arouse sus- 
 picion "in the world's eye" and "work no good to 
 Strafford." Thus trying to retain Lady Carlisle 
 for the side of the Cabal, the Queen leaves her to 
 approach Strafford with an assuring smile — "His 
 Majesty has much to say with you " — and then re- 
 turns to whisper to the knot of agitated counselors. 
 
 Strafford tries to hide his apprehension, as he 
 replies with affected unconcern: "Time fleeting, 
 too!" But he cannot deceive the Countess. "No 
 means of getting them away? " he asks her. What is 
 all this whispering about? Does the Queen know 
 his purpose? They must be gotten away. 
 
 The Queen hastens back to Lady Carlisle to 
 repeat her injunction that Strafford is to know 
 nothing from them of the Parliament and the Par- 
 liament's action concerning him. "He thinks the 
 danger far off." Let him continue to think so. 
 There will be help in time; and till the time comes, 
 Lucy, so "self-possessed and calm," must keep him 
 in play. With raised voice she again gives Straf- 
 ford assurance that the King will be summoned; 
 and, to spare his "lordship some delay," she will 
 herself "acquaint the King." An expressive glance 
 
STRAFFORD 107 
 
 accompanies a whispered "Beware!" to Lady Car- 
 lisle. The Queen leaves the room, followed by Vane, 
 Holland, and Savile. Lady Carlisle is left to enter- 
 tain Strafford until the King will see him. She does 
 entertain him, but little in accord with the Queen's 
 instructions. It is with unsuppressed feelings that 
 each approaches the other, Strafford with the eager 
 question, "She knows it?" and the Countess with 
 the supplicating appeal, "Tell me, Strafford!" 
 She would know what his plans are. He would learn 
 if the Queen knows his purpose — he little surmises 
 how well she knows it, although unaware of his 
 definite plans. Then what is the scheme? Quick, 
 let him have the whole of it. 
 
 "He would learn if they connive at Pym's pro- 
 cedure," is her silent thought. If only the King 
 could have been apprised; "but there's no time for 
 falsehood, now," she reflects. Lifting her eyes, she 
 announces that the "whole is known," known by 
 the Cabal, and "hardly discountenanced." True, 
 the "King's not yet informed," but he "will not 
 dare to interpose." 
 
 Strafford makes no effort to hide his vexation. 
 Why wait any longer? "There's no counting on 
 the King." The declaration is made with light 
 laughter and a knowing manner, which the Count- 
 ess is at loss to understand. Could it be possible 
 that Strafford would joy "at the King's hollo w- 
 ness"? she asks herself. In reality Strafford is 
 thinking of his victory over the Scots at Durham, 
 a victory won in spite of the King and in direct 
 disobedience to the King's orders. That explains 
 his levity, which so puzzles the Countess. 
 
108 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 When all should be over, he knew that the King 
 and Queen would be glad of it, in spite of their 
 blundering efforts at help. He had "tried obedience 
 thoroughly," had taken "the King's wild plan"; 
 but, as he had expected, before he could reach the 
 army Conway had "ruined it." Then, drawing " the 
 wrecks together," he had "raised all heaven and 
 earth" to fight the Scots, but the King had "at 
 once made truce with them." 
 
 In the solemnity of the step he has taken and the 
 mad joy of that enterprise, his voice deepens to a 
 caressing richness : 
 
 God put it in my mind to love, serve, die 
 For Charles, but never to obey him more! 
 
 For while the King "endured their insolence at 
 Ripon," Strafford, by a swift and secret cavalry 
 movement, fell on them in their quarters at Dur- 
 ham and defeated a large body of them. Will she 
 tell the King that he has waited, and waited pa- 
 tiently? And he adds, "All the anteroom is filled 
 with my adherents." 
 
 Lady Carlisle cannot believe her ears. "What 
 daring act is this.^^" 
 
 Daring? Not so daring, as she will admit when 
 she knows. Here is the evidence, "ample proof," 
 "damning proof." He draws forth the papers 
 from the breast of his coat and specifies the in- 
 dictment: Bedford, Essex, Brooke, Warwick, Sav- 
 ile, Saye, and Mandeville — all have been "sold 
 to the Scots, body and soul, by Pym." Is this 
 the matter the Queen knows so well and has ap- 
 proved? 
 
STRAFFORD 109 
 
 Lady Carlisle's utter astonishment is an eloquent 
 no to that question. 
 
 The whole circle of them, "from Savile and his 
 lords to Pym and his losels," are " crushed !--Pym 
 shall not ward the blow nor Savile creep aside from 
 it! The Crew and the Cabal" — he crushes them! 
 
 He turns on his heel. 
 
 Is he going? — going now.^^ Fright takes the place 
 of astonishment. 
 
 Yes, but "about no work in the background." 
 His movements are above board and open to the 
 daylight. He is going "straight to the House of 
 Lords to claim these knaves." And, suiting the 
 action to the word, he raises his voice to call his 
 adherents. "Mainwaring!" he shouts. 
 
 No, Lady Carlisle must not try to prevent. It 
 is the only thing to do. It is the best course to take. 
 Besides, the Queen will soon be back with "some 
 little project of her own! No time to lose"; and the 
 King, too, may be scenting danger. 
 
 No dissuasion will touch Strafford ; and a warning 
 reference to the strength of the League under Pym's 
 leadership serves but to arouse his withering scorn. 
 "One and all they lodge within the Tower to-night 
 in just equality," the leader with the led. A second 
 time he calls, "Bryan! Mainwaring!" 
 
 The lieutenants burst in, followed by many of 
 Strafford's trusted adherents. 
 
 He addresses them, serving a commission upon 
 each. The Countess, too, is given a duty to do. It 
 is "a lucky chance" that the Peers debate just now 
 on the war with Scotland; no time more opportune. 
 Bryan, when the debate is over, must proceed to 
 
110 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Ireland with dispatches, these "for the Deputy, 
 and these for Ormond." The Irish army must be 
 hurried to London, as the dispatches provide. 
 Another is sent to York. Mainwaring must guard 
 all doors in London so that none escape, and wait 
 "to execute the Parliament's command" against 
 the traitors. 
 
 Does Lady Carlisle think him revengeful? She 
 would not, did she "know what these men dare!" 
 
 Her fear is that they dare very, very much. 
 
 Confidence and triumph mark his ready reply. 
 Truly they do dare much — he proved that long 
 ago. But his turn has come now. Goring must 
 keep a sharp watch "on the citizens," and see to it 
 that no sympathizer "harbors any of the brood." 
 Lady Carlisle, his "Lucy," shall also have part 
 and lot in the work. Her task shall be to deliver 
 a message of the exploit to Bishop Laud, who, 
 he knows, "will not be the slowest" in his praise. 
 Perhaps it is "foolish, to be so glad!" This life, 
 after so many reverses, so much pain of mind and 
 body, has regained its brightness. Let Lucy mark 
 this: 'T is worth while to have foes like his "just 
 for the bliss of crushing them." This day "is worth 
 the living for." 
 
 The Countess marks his flushed face. He must 
 not so perturb himself. 
 
 Oh, he is well. Does he not look well? And on 
 such a day? He "could not but be well on such a 
 day!" 
 
 And, this day ended, 't is of slight import 
 How long the ravaged frame subjects the soul 
 In Strafford. 
 
STRAFFORD 111 
 
 Her admiration finds utterance in the ardent 
 exclamation, "Noble Strafford!" 
 
 Strafford turns to go. She looks the expected 
 leave-taking. No, "no farewell," he says. He will 
 see her again to-morrow — the first thing in the 
 morning. Now, every moment is precious. The 
 Queen may come and spoil all. 
 
 A faintness seizes her, and he runs to her side to 
 support her. With an effort she regains her strength 
 and bids him go, if he must. It "is nothing"; only 
 her "heart that swells: it has been thus ere now." 
 Yes, he may go. 
 
 Well, then, he will see her to-night. Meanwhile, 
 he must see the King; then he will see her, "the 
 next after Him." He will hasten back to tell her 
 how Pym looked under the ordeal. He must be off. 
 
 Follow me, friends! 
 You, gentlemen, shall see a sight this hour 
 To talk of all your lives. 
 
 Now shall his loyalty to the King be proved, and 
 now his desert of the King's crowning approbation, 
 "My friend of friends!" 
 
 As^their retreating figures swing out in deter- 
 mined strides. Lady Carlisle muses upon the strange 
 fascination the King exerts upon this her hero. 
 The King fills his horizon. The King is his world, 
 with "no thought of one beside, whose little word 
 unveils the King to him," — her word, which yet 
 she will not breathe. She has spared him a pang in 
 withholding the King's perfidy, and will seek no 
 reward beyond the consciousness and memory of 
 having done so. Surely, too, in "some way," in 
 
112 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 some other ways, "he is the better for" her love. 
 It is her constant prayers that at last have brought 
 him joy and lit that new sparkle in his eyes. That 
 is an inspiration that reaches the farthest regions 
 of her soul, as slowly she leaves the deserted room. 
 
 VII 
 
 The Earl of Strafford has hastened away with 
 his followers — Main waring, Bryan, and others — 
 from the Queen's presence at Whitehall to the meet- 
 ing of the House of Lords at Westminster. At the 
 doors his entrance is disputed by Maxwell, Usher 
 of the Black Rod; and the Earl, not to be thwarted, 
 strikes him and passes on, taking his place among 
 his peers. 
 
 Immediately the antechamber where the blow 
 was dealt is filled with partisans of both sides. A 
 group of Presbyterians gather and are rudely 
 jostled by Strafford's adherents. The air is charged 
 with rumors. Retort follows retort from one side 
 to the other. There is a general craning of necks 
 among the Presbyterians toward the doors where 
 the brief scuffle was and from which Strafford has 
 just disappeared. One would hearten his com- 
 panions before their swaggering opponents. An- 
 other sees no good in the great army at Strafford's 
 back. A third wishes that Pym had made haste to 
 forestall the event. 
 
 The followers of Strafford take no pains to hide 
 their contempt of the Presbyterian "worthies," as 
 one calls them. Another, with unbounded faith in 
 the downfall of Pym, sours his visage with mock 
 
STRAFFORD 113 
 
 Puritanical piety to quote, "Where the carcass is 
 there shall the eagles" — But, before he has finished, 
 a third interjects, "For eagles say crows." 
 
 The Presbyterians are there to support Max- 
 well, the Usher, and one of them thunders at the 
 jostling "rufflers," "Stand back, sirs!" Hot words 
 follow, in which one of Strafford's adherents does 
 not hesitate to deride the King's person: "There's 
 Some-one at Whitehall who skulks obscure." It is 
 a contemptuous fling at the high-handed airs of 
 "King Pym" in brow-beating King Charles. The 
 rough bluster is meant to hide a secret misgiving, 
 which betrays itself in the nervous tone of one 
 who inquires among his fellows for St. John, 
 whose arrest the Earl had assigned to him; and 
 in another's anxiety that the Earl's enemies 
 had closed about him so promptly after the 
 doors to the House of Lords had swung behind 
 him. 
 
 Suddenly the doors open; and Maxwell, the 
 Usher, appears in the entrance to turn back the 
 crowd and open a passage-way through it. "Stand 
 back! a great thing passes here," is his command. 
 Jeers assail him from here and there among Straf- 
 ford's partisans: " Do you feel the Earl's hand yet 
 upon your shoulder. Maxwell?" "Say, Maxwell, 
 what great thing! Speak out!" 
 
 An unsuspecting Puritan joins the press from 
 without and is at once attacked with merciless 
 banter by Strafford's followers, whom he mistakes 
 for his own party. "King Pym has fallen," they 
 assure him; and not Pym only, but Vane, Rudyard, 
 Hampden, and St. John as well. He swallows the 
 
114 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 bait with solemn comment: "Pride before destruc- 
 tion, a haughty spirit goeth before a fall." 
 
 The doors at the back begin to open, letting out 
 much noise and a bright light; and again is heard 
 Maxwell's roar above the commotion: "Stand 
 back, all!" More banter assails the Puritan. Now 
 is the time for another text. And he quotes again 
 at a lucky guess : — 
 
 How hath the oppressor ceased! 
 The Lord hath broken the staff of the wicked! 
 The sceptre of the rulers, he who smote 
 The people in wrath with a continual stroke. 
 That ruled the nations in his anger — he 
 Is persecuted and none hindereth! 
 
 The doors are flung wide, and the Earl of Straf- 
 ford issues in the greatest disorder, and amid cries 
 from within of "Void the House!" The Puritan's 
 quotation gathers meaning; but its grim elemen- 
 tal humor is quickly dissipated in the tragedy 
 that ensues and the news of the tragedy just 
 enacted. 
 
 For the Earl of Strafford, immediately on finding 
 himself within the doors of the House of Lords, was 
 robbed of all accusing thunder by the incriminat- 
 ing assaults of Pym, whose voice rang out through 
 the tense silence with a stern demand for Straf- 
 ford's impeachment on the unequivocal grounds of 
 naked treason. "Traitor!" was the sharp word 
 flung at the Earl, and the outcry was immediately 
 followed by unceremonious ejectment. 
 
 Trembling with the shock of surprise, panting 
 under the sting of humiliation, and muttering angry 
 regrets at not having struck the "felon on that 
 
STRAFFORD 115 
 
 calm insulting mouth," he is here seized by Max- 
 well and bidden, "in the Commons' name" to yield 
 his sword. He draws it, but not to surrender. 
 
 "Let us go forth," he shouts to his adherents; 
 "follow me, gentlemen! Draw your swords too: 
 cut any down that bar us. On the King's service! 
 Maxwell, clear the way!" But escape is prevented 
 by the avenging Presbyterians, who, likewise draw- 
 ing their swords, crowd before him in the passage 
 to the street. — No matter. There is no need of 
 violence. Another way will serve as well. 
 
 Seizing tablets from one in the throng, he quickly 
 writes a message and gives it to Mainwaring at his 
 side to dispatch at once to the King. Maxwell need 
 not concern himself "for the next half -hour," at 
 least. Let violence cease. He shall have the sword 
 peaceably. As Maxwell advances to take it, a sud- 
 den revulsion of feeling causes Strafford to change 
 his mind. He withdraws the weapon and sends it 
 ringing back into its sheath. No, he cannot part 
 with that. Nothing can recompense the loss of that, 
 not even the blood of his accusers. When the King 
 lays Maxwell's head beneath the foot of the ac- 
 cused, "it will not pay for that." Strafford's sword 
 will remain in Strafford's keeping. Let them be 
 gone, all of them! 
 
 Maxwell dares to disobey. He will not be gone 
 and commands that none of his party stir. 
 
 Bryan makes a movement as if to dislodge the 
 officer, but is persuaded by his leader to desist. 
 
 There is worse in store for the Earl of Strafford. 
 Mainwaring either could not or would not find a 
 way out of the press, and the message to the King 
 
116 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 remains unsent. The Presbyterian "curs" are ap- 
 pealed to, on promise of immunity from the death 
 which is sure to overtake them; but none will save 
 his life at that price. 
 
 Through the closed doors from the Commons 
 within, come loud calls of "Strafford!" 
 
 With quickening apprehension the Earl turns to 
 Slingsby: — 
 
 Slingsby, I Ve loved you at least: make haste! 
 Stab me! I have not time to tell you why. 
 
 But Slingsby cannot. Neither can Bryan, nor 
 Mainwaring, each appealed to in turn. But why 
 not.f^ Is it because, as commander of the royal 
 forces, Strafford "spoke so hastily at Allerton"? 
 Well, "the King had vexed" him. 
 
 He turns his bosom to the Presbyterians, but 
 not even they will strike. No? If he lives over this, 
 the King is sure to have their heads, let them know 
 that. Half aloud he muses: "But what if I can't 
 live this minute through.?" Can he survive "Pym, 
 who is there with his pursuing smile!" Whether 
 unnerved by the thought or braced by it, he turns 
 from it in the shock of hearing louder cries of 
 "Strafford!" from behind the closed doors. 
 
 In his need his mind again reverts to the King. 
 Has the King forsaken him.f^ Ah, he sees it all clearly 
 now. Strafford has become troublesome to the 
 King, having "stood in the way of his negotiations " 
 for peace with Scotland. Is that the cause .^^ Yet the 
 King sent for him from York, guaranteeing his 
 safety besides, and — preparing a Parliament for 
 his trial at the same time! That was the meaning 
 
STRAFFORD 117 
 
 of the Queen's whispering at WTiitehall. How trans- 
 parent the trap ! He sees it all ! 
 
 The perfidy ! He chokes. Tearing off the George, 
 he treads it underfoot and casts a memory from 
 him. WTiat matters else? Let "one stroke" befall, 
 ending everything! 
 
 Renewed cries of " Strafford " surge through 
 the doors, and he is disarmed by his own ad- 
 herents. 
 
 At the sound, a new thought nerves him: the 
 vision of England and England's supreme good. 
 He presses toward the doors, praying leave to pro- 
 ceed. As he reaches them, they open wide, reveal- 
 ing Hampden and a crowd of the League and their 
 sympathizers in waiting, and Pym standing at the 
 bar some space apart. Strafford kneels, accepting 
 trial before the realm. 
 
 vm 
 
 The trial of the Earl of Strafford before the joint 
 session of the Commons and the Lords on the 
 charge of treason has been in progress for eighteen 
 days. Representatives from both Ireland and Scot- 
 land have been sitting with the Commons. The 
 Peers are serving as judges at the trial. Neither 
 has the King been absent, having witnessed the 
 proceedings every day from behind a screen in the 
 gallery. A crisis has been reached in the introduc- 
 tion, on the motion of Pym, of a Bill of Attainder 
 against the Earl; and it is expected that on this, 
 the eighteenth day of the trial, Strafford will rise 
 to defend himself. 
 
118 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 It is not strange, then, that tense expectancy 
 charges the air in the royal circle at Whitehall. The 
 King, much troubled by the situation, has given 
 audience about the matter to HoUis, Strafford's 
 brother-in-law and, at the same time, member of the 
 League of which Pym is the champion. Besides 
 the Queen, there is present the Lady Carlisle. In 
 the background lurk aloof the Cabal — Vane, Hol- 
 land, and Savile — whom HoUis disdains; and who 
 will not, perhaps dare not, come forward during 
 Hollis's presence. 
 
 The Queen's manner also is strikingly hostile to 
 Hollis, who, in his turn, is reserved and cold; bitter 
 in speech and haughty in silence. The King is 
 suave as always, and, indeed, supplicating to Hollis 
 at first; but as Hollis continues his message, the 
 King's manner changes to one of marked concern, 
 if not agitation, and later rises to an unwonted 
 pitch of determination. Lady Carlisle, perfectly 
 in sympathy with Hollis's efforts, approves them 
 with warmth and grace of word and demeanor; 
 and deeply concerned in the fate of the Earl, re- 
 ceives the royal charge respecting him with be- 
 trayal of tender est affection. 
 
 Hollis has come from the trial to make a plea for 
 the liberation of his brother-in-law; and, after hear- 
 ing much talk from Charles, professing grief at the 
 issue, stands shocked into silence by the presence 
 of the Queen and the Cabal and, above all, by the 
 temporizing tactics of the King. 
 
 But Lady Carlisle sees hope in the situation, and 
 implores Hollis to break silence. For Strafford's 
 sake let him answer them. Only "one word!" 
 
STRAFFORD 119 
 
 Charles seconds the appeal by adverting to their 
 old friendship and common childhood. For old 
 times' sake Hollis should speak. No, the King is 
 pleading in good faith; let the memory of those 
 other times bear witness. It was his dream that 
 the People loved him, their King. Yet what won- 
 der, were it otherwise .^^ But one more disappoint- 
 ment added to the rest! 
 
 Hollis protests that he is not deceived. Rather, 
 the King is deceiving himself in the hollow belief 
 that all that can be done for Strafford "has been 
 done." 
 
 The boldness of these words and their unfeigned 
 scorn rouses the Queen to come forward slyly with 
 the supposition, if they "kill Strafford" — but, 
 checking herself, she adds beneath her breath — 
 "come, we grant you leave." 
 
 Hollis, outraged by the imputation, and thinking 
 the interview to be futile, rises to withdraw, but is 
 intercepted by Lady Carlisle's earnest entreaty to 
 stay and "hear them out! 'T is the last chance 
 for Strafford!" Hollis must "hear them out! 
 
 The Queen's insult rankles. "Kill Strafford? 
 They, the Commons, or the League, or anybody, 
 kill Strafford "on the eighteenth day" of the 
 trial.? 
 
 Charles hastens to charge the implication to 
 Pym — Pym, who guides the Commons. 
 
 "Ah, true," is the retort. The King must know, 
 witnessing as he does from "the screened gallery" 
 the Commons' proceedings every day. Yet just 
 there is the opportunity for error. The screened 
 gallery admits of only a "partial glimpse" of the 
 
 
120 STORIES PROM BROWNING 
 
 House, Pym taking up "all the room" and shut- 
 ting out "the view," and engrossing all attention. 
 Yet the "rest of the place is not unoccupied." 
 
 The Commons sit 
 — That's England; Ireland sends, and Scotland too. 
 Their representatives; the Peers that judge 
 Are easily distinguished; one remarks 
 The People here and there; but the close curtaia 
 Must hide so much! 
 
 The Queen cannot ignore this cool insolence. 
 "This day the curtain shall be dashed aside!" It 
 has served its purpose. 
 
 Hollis's derision knows no abatement. "This 
 very day.? Ere Strafford rises to defend himself?" 
 What an opportune time ! 
 
 Charles, too, feels the sting. The King will defend 
 him. The King will "sanction the past this day": 
 it ever was the King's purpose to defend him. Let 
 Hollis rage at the King, not at Strafford! 
 
 Lady Carlisle forgets all other feeling in admira- 
 tion for the King. "Nobly!" is her impetuous 
 exclamation. "Will he not do nobly?" she asks 
 of every one. 
 
 The King will "do honestly; and, for that deed,'*^ 
 Hollis "too would be a king." The comment is 
 made with more than usual emotion but hardly 
 less of contempt in word and feature. 
 
 And perhaps the feeling is justified by the King's 
 weak hesitation — a return of indecision. To inter- 
 fere now is to be what Hollis himself would term 
 "deaf to subjects' prayers." It does not seem well 
 to oppose the Commons now when it is "so pal- 
 pably their will the trial should proceed." Or is the 
 
STRAFFORD 121 
 
 King's wavering only feigned, as a retort in kind to 
 Hollis's persistent irony? 
 
 True, the King perils much. Yet Strafford, the 
 King's "prime support, the sole roof -tree which 
 props this quaking House of Privilege" deserves 
 some risk, for without that support the whole 
 structure may fall. Hollis utters this with grave 
 earnestness; but momentary hope is submerged in 
 returning cynicism at the King's irresolution. 
 "Doubtless, if the mere putting forth an arm 
 could save" Strafford, the King would save 
 him. 
 
 The scorpion has its sting. There is a shade of 
 fear in the supple whine of the royal manner: "And 
 they dare consummate calmly this great wrong!" 
 
 — Strafford's execution! Is there "no hope? This 
 ineffaceable wrong! No pity then?" 
 
 Hollis can no longer endure the shame of the 
 spectacle. Is there "no plague in store for per- 
 fidy? Farewell!" His mission is ended. To Lady 
 Carlisle he would say that it was for her sake he 
 came "to save the Earl." Thank God that he has 
 learned "how far such perfidy can go!" The idea 
 that one who has just ruined Strafford should pre- 
 tend to help in the rescue is preposterous. 
 
 The King maintains composure with effort. In- 
 comprehensible! The King has ruined Strafford? 
 
 — "and how?" 
 
 How indeed ! By indirection, inaction, weakness. 
 The trial has been in progress for eighteen days; 
 and for eighteen days the Earl has thrown, "one 
 after one, Pym's charges back " — charges based 
 on "blind, moth-eaten law." He will break away 
 
122 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 at last, a free man and vindicated; and who will 
 there be to thank? Certainly not one who has 
 stood tamely and idly by. 
 
 Charles does not understand. What can Hollis 
 mean? 
 
 Clearly Hollis means that Pym unaided could not 
 have brought about Strafford's conviction; that 
 the necessary help was promptly and opportunely 
 forthcoming from the royal party — that is, the 
 Cabal — through the efficacious offices of Vane 
 — Vane who stands so near the Queen, and by that 
 token so near the King. This very day Sir Henry 
 Vane has clinched the charge of treason in "Straf- 
 ford's design of bringing up the troops to force this 
 kingdom to obedience." This day has furnished the 
 proof of that design. 
 
 The King's surprise knows no bounds. " Vane? " 
 Could it be possible? 
 
 Did Vane deliver up or no 
 Those notes which, furnished by his son to Pym, 
 Seal Strafford's fate? 
 
 Charles protests ignorance of anything "that 
 Vane has done " and demands "What treason next?" 
 He washes his hands of the perfidy. Vane is com- 
 manded to "speak the truth!" Let Vane himself 
 be asked. 
 
 Hollis, who associates with such patriots as Pym 
 and Hampden every day, cannot risk the contami- 
 nation of speaking to Vane, at all. 
 
 The Queen's hot anger returns. Let Hollis "speak 
 to Vane's master then! What gain to him were 
 Strafford's death?" 
 
STRAFFORD 123 
 
 What gain? Hollis's invective cuts like a two- 
 edged sword. The sure gain of putting away a 
 servant whose usefulness has spent itself, and whose 
 services, when known, will reflect little credit on the 
 master who needed them. What a master, what a 
 servant ! What devotion, what perfidy ! Can Straf- 
 ford turn on the assailant, bid him stand forth, "de- 
 mand if every hateful act " done in the King's serv- 
 ice " were not set down " in the commission from that 
 King; demand whether that King "contrived or no 
 that all the violence should seem" the servant's 
 work, and the "gentle ways" the King's own; con- 
 trived that the servant's part should be "to coun- 
 teract the King's kind impulses," and, while he 
 seemed to disobey, to be authorized to the dis- 
 obedience by a certain counter-charge, to be used 
 as occasion might arise .^ Can the servant thus 
 stand up in his own defense.'^ Ah, the master knows 
 all perfectly well; knows all the accused might say 
 but cannot. No protest shall avail. Let all be known 
 in this: that that master bade that servant "break 
 the Parliament" and "find some pretence for set- 
 ting up sword-law!" 
 
 The Queen bids the vilifier retire ! 
 
 Charles quietly but weakly reasserts ignorance 
 of anything "Vane dared do," and with the same 
 breath repudiates him as a rash fool. Charles 
 knows "nothing of Vane!" 
 
 Well, Hollis believes. Only, let faith requite 
 faith. Let this, too, be believed — this that . . . 
 but the plea falters at a stony stare from all 
 around. Only the Countess looks approval. So, 
 turning about and addressing her alone as not 
 
lU STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 wholly heartless, he speaks a last solemn warn- 
 ing:— 
 
 The question, trust me, takes 
 Another shape, to-day : not, if the King 
 Or England shall succumb, — but, who shall pay 
 The forfeit, Strafford or his master. 
 
 Then, facing Charles: — 
 
 Sir, 
 You loved me once; think on my warning now! 
 
 For a moment old affection and the nobler na- 
 ture sway the wavering soul of the King; but not 
 unmixed with fear at HoUis's warning and under 
 stress of shame and pique at Vane's betrayal. 
 "Carlisle! That paper!" he calls suddenly; and, 
 snatching it from her, he signs it, despite the 
 Queen's warning and Vane's mute effort to inter- 
 pose. It is an order to the Earl of Strafford to 
 command Percy Lord Northumberland, Lady 
 Carlisle's brother, to "bring the army up," when 
 "Strafford shall head it and take full revenge." 
 Lady Carlisle is to seek Strafford in the Parliament 
 and deliver him the commission before he rises 
 to defend himself. 
 
 The Queen sneers exaggerated surprise that Hollis 
 should have worked so miraculous a change upon 
 the lately reluctant King. 
 
 But Charles, unheeding save in a growing im- 
 patience of manner, renews his directions to Lady 
 Carlisle. Her brother is to bring the army up and 
 fall on the Parliament. Hollis shall then learn the 
 desert of insolence! The scheme is all the King's; 
 let Strafford be so instructed; also that the King 
 
STRAFFORD 125 
 
 cursed "Vane's folly" in her hearing. "If the Earl 
 does rise to do "them "shame, the fault shall lie 
 with" Lady Carlisle. — Hollis's invective has stung 
 to the quick. Charles cannot risk exposure as a heart- 
 less trickster conniving at the villainy of Vane. 
 
 The Countess willingly undertakes the mission, 
 yet indulges a flickering hope of persuading Charles 
 to "tear down the veil," abjure secrecy, step out 
 into the open, and save the accused. 
 
 The Queen bids her make haste and go. 
 
 The Countess's heart bounds at the thought of 
 meeting Strafford again. She shall see and speak to 
 him. But, if she is to do her work well, her heart 
 must be still. Shall she tell the truth and expose 
 all in their true rottenness? "What's gained by 
 falsehood? There they stand whose trade it is, 
 whose life it is." She is not one of them — and 
 will not be. "Strafford shall know, thoroughly 
 know them!" Her reverie is rudely broken by 
 the Queen's sibilant adjuration to the King. She 
 will not suffer that infidelity ! But the Countess's 
 composiu'e remains unruffled under the Queen's 
 direct sneer: Carlisle seems inclined, "alone of all 
 the Court, to serve poor Strafford : this bold plan " 
 of hers "merits much praise, and yet" . . . 
 
 Lady Carlisle would be about her errand. 
 "Time presses, madam," she urges. 
 
 "Yet," resumes the Queen, "may it not be some- 
 thing premature? Strafford defends himself to-day 
 — reserves some wondrous effort, one may well 
 suppose!" 
 
 "Ay, Hollis hints as much." 
 
 But Charles is only nettled by the specious argu- 
 
126 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 ment and the delay it occasions. "Why linger 
 then?" The Countess must make "haste with 
 the scheme" — the King's own scheme. The King 
 himself shall be there in the Hall to watch Straf- 
 ford's look. 
 
 The Queen brushes the Countess aside to retire 
 in high indignation; and the Cabal retire with her. 
 
 Charles has one word more for his eager mes- 
 senger. She is to say that "Vane is hardly ever at 
 Whitehall"; and "remember," adds the King, 
 "I shall be there!" 
 
 She will be faithful. 
 
 And he, when he returns, will await her in the 
 presence-chamber. 
 
 Together they reach the door, and the King steps 
 aside to let her pass. She drops a curtsy and awaits 
 His Majesty, saying, "Sir, I follow you." 
 
 Tarrying a moment, she ponders the exact course 
 she will take. Shall she "prove the King faithless "? 
 It is a great temptation. Yet, so, "all Strafford 
 cares to live for" will be forfeited. No, she will 
 renounce self. The "King's scheme" and Straf- 
 ford's own good shall prevail. She can save Straf- 
 ford, yes, has saved him. Yet why this uneasiness 
 that fills her heart.? Because her "poor name " will 
 scarcely cross his mind. Away with the thought of 
 selfish advantage! How little she is worthy of him! 
 
 IX 
 
 The trial of the Earl of Strafford has reached its 
 climax in Westminster Hall, and to learn of its 
 progress many curious spectators have assembled 
 
STRAFFORD 127 
 
 in a passage adjoining the audience chamber. They 
 have divided themselves into gossiping groups, 
 and a number of officers have been distributed 
 among them to preserve order. The crowd is the 
 largest of the many that have assembled during the 
 long days of the trial, and those in the passage 
 are straining eye and ear to catch knowledge of 
 the proceedings. 
 
 Their curiosity singles out the Earl amid his 
 stern accusers. That is Pym plainly in view. Yes, 
 Pym is now speaking — speaking, it seems, with 
 prophetic fire and pointing with his arm as with 
 "a prophet's rod." Beside him is Hampden, who, 
 next to Pym, is the most celebrated of the accus- 
 ing side. The Earl himself is within view, and it 
 is to reply to the Earl's rejoinder that Pym now 
 holds the floor. There has been "some pretty 
 speaking," and it is expected there will be more 
 in the Earl's rebuttal. And it is whispered that the 
 Earl's eloquence is a thing to be reckoned with, 
 forceful enough to turn the tide in his favor. It 
 needs, says one spectator, but " a foolish word or two 
 about his children," and men will see in him "not 
 England's foe" but the man who, weakened with 
 disease and blinded by flattery, has been made 
 the unwilling butt and tool of deception and in- 
 trigue. 
 
 The attention of the curious is caught by a flut- 
 ter in the curtains that screen the King's gallery, 
 and the momentary appearance there of a hand. 
 It is the King's. What can Pym be saying to pro- 
 voke the unusual spectacle .^^ "Nor is this way a 
 novel way of blood." The words come clear and 
 
128 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 sharp in a voice of electric power, calling for a sus- 
 pension of the trial by the Commons before the 
 House of Lords and moving, instead, a Bill of At- 
 tainder to be passed in each house and to be rati- 
 fied finally by the King. No wonder, then, at the 
 King's agitation; here is a new trial put upon his 
 courage. This is the supreme moment to break 
 down that barrier and screen, as before coming 
 hither from Whitehall he had declared to Hollis 
 he would do, and to rise in Strafford's defense and 
 vindication. What a world of significance in that 
 momentary flutter behind the royal curtains, could 
 the curious have guessed it! What depths of the 
 royal hesitation, weakness, and temporizing, for 
 the merciless eye of Hollis! 
 
 But the incident has a more startling accompani- 
 ment, yet one in no way connected with it. Ac- 
 cuser and accused turn; and as they face each other^ 
 the speaker, Pym, is electrified by a light in Straf- 
 ford's eyes, and is paralyzed into immobility and 
 silence by an overpowering memory. All bend for- 
 ward to lose no movement in the drama, and from 
 here and there among the groups of craning necks 
 come exclamations of astonishment: There! 
 
 What ails him? No — he rallies, see — goes on. 
 And Strafford smiles. Strange! 
 
 Their eager interest is intensified by the sudden 
 entrance of an officer who calls for "Haselrig!" 
 The officer is plied with numerous questions about 
 the issue of the debate, and ruefully informs the 
 questioners that the case is "utterly lost "; and lost, 
 too, just at the moment when every one 
 
STRAFFORD 129 
 
 looked for Pym 
 To make a stand against the ill effects 
 Of the Earl's speech. 
 
 But Pym has a message for Haselrig, an important 
 witness. "Is Haselrig without?" 
 
 Opinion among the spiectators is divided. Some 
 venture that the Earl will yet be found too much 
 for his foes; while others scout the idea, placing 
 implicit trust in the efficacy of "these notes of 
 Vane's" — the notes that seek to establish Straf- 
 ford's design of coercing the Parhament with the 
 army. 
 
 The crowd is commanded to "stand back" and 
 make a passage. As they do so, they see the Earl 
 approaching, and believe that the court is breaking 
 up. His brother Hollis, too, is coming by his side 
 and speaking as if deprecating "some fierce act in 
 Strafford's mind just now." Again the curious are 
 pushed back, and again they press forward to 
 catch a closer view of "the veiled woman" who has 
 joined the pair and is engrossed in earnest conver- 
 sation with the Earl. A hush falls upon the throng 
 as they press back to make way for Strafford emerg- 
 ing from the Hall, accompanied by Slingsby and 
 other Secretaries, Hollis, Lady Carlisle, Maxwell 
 the Usher of the Black Rod, Balfour the Consta- 
 ble of the Tower, and their attendants. 
 
 The party are in search of a place for private 
 conference, and to that end the spectators have 
 been directed to retire to the background. A table 
 is placed in the passage; and papers, with other 
 records of the trial, are arranged for use. The party 
 gather around it as Strafford adverts with new 
 
130 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 lightness of heart to the first budding of April, the 
 "blossom-month," and the whiffs of fragrance 
 that are blown in about the laden table, which has 
 been so placed as best to catch the invigorating 
 air. 
 
 The Earl turns first to Slingsby, his Secretary, 
 with a note of satisfaction in his voice that "Pym 
 can quail " under a steady eye. Then, impatient to 
 end the business, he calls for the charges to be 
 answered. Then, despite the grave remonstrances 
 of Lady Carlisle, he rejects the King's offer without 
 so much as looking into it. It is "too late" now to 
 consider outside help. For eighteen sick and weary 
 days it has been "something" to stand 
 
 Fighting for life and fame against a pack 
 Of very curs, that He through thick and thin. 
 
 He will fight the fight through to the end. He can- 
 not now listen to the Countess's message. 
 
 Again Lady Carlisle would move him to glance 
 at the King's paper, but fails. 
 
 Messengers come and go from Lane and other 
 of Strafford's counsel within the Hall, and rouse 
 him to work with renewed energy. In the activity 
 of the opposition, he sees a fresh danger. Ah, he 
 will beat them all, and HoUis as well, in spite 
 of their tricks, in spite of Pym — the Pym who 
 cowers under an honest eye. Clearly Pym is no 
 man to stand up in Eliot's shoes, who "would have 
 contrived otherwise." A messenger from Lane is 
 sent back with a memorandum containing all that 
 Strafford "can call to mind about the matter" in 
 question, important though it be. Hold ! One word 
 
STRAFFORD 131 
 
 more. Let the messenger wait a moment and tell 
 Lane also that Radcliffe, being the only witness 
 who can contradict Pym on the point in hand, 
 has been thrown into prison — a crafty way of de- 
 priving the defense of their principal witness. But 
 what matter.f^ The trick will be baffled, and the 
 victory will be the greater. 
 
 The messenger dismissed, Strafford implores 
 Lady Carlisle not to look so grieved. The King's 
 help is not needed. Did not Pym quail, and did not 
 that betray Pym's weakness .^^ Strafford shall be 
 acquitted. And then.^^ Then Strafford shall "tran- 
 quilly resume" his task, — the task of impeaching 
 "Pym and his fellows," "as though nothing had 
 intervened since" he "proposed to call that traitor 
 to account." 
 
 Hollis interjects a question. Why did not Straf- 
 ford protest against the trial long ago.? "Why feel 
 indignant now"? Why stand this long time "en- 
 during patiently"? 
 
 Why? Strafford cannot tell Hollis why, nor Pym 
 through Hollis. Such confidence can be entrusted 
 only to the "slight graceful girl, tall for a flowering 
 lily." He was "fool enough to see the will of Eng- 
 land in Pym's will," and in the fear of having 
 wronged England, fool enough to stand trial and 
 await England's judgment. But behold the rueful 
 disappointment ! 
 
 A messenger who stoops to whisper a question 
 from Lane is directed to reply that Lane is to 
 answer no such matter. Strafford will see the trial 
 through to the end. His purpose is as firm as ever 
 to try his actions by the standard set by his foes. 
 
132 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 not by his own — "Their law allowed that levy." 
 As for the rest, that lies between Strafford and 
 his God; what business can it be of Pym's or 
 Lane's? 
 
 Lady Carlisle, thus encouraged, prays the Earl 
 feelingly to "secure this chance." "The King is so 
 weak," and it may never present itself again. 
 Besides, the trial has its grave danger in the notes 
 furnished Pym by Vane. 
 
 Ah, the notes! Lucky reminder! What a splen- 
 did point for closing the trial "worthily"! 
 
 Strafford has been making a brief of his argu- 
 ment at the table; and, as he finishes writing, he 
 rises, talking. He "feared some spice of nobleness 
 might linger yet and spoil the character of all the 
 past." But Vane, with his despicable "notes," has 
 come opportunely. The case of the accusers clearly 
 proves too much; it defeats its own ends. The vil- 
 lainy which is Vane's and theirs must drag them to 
 perdition. He will return to the Hall at once and 
 "say as much to Pym" and to that England which 
 Pym affects to represent. Let all follow. He has 
 "a word to say." 
 
 Yet wait! Nothing shall be done in pride. No, 
 he will not "insist upon the little pride of doing all " 
 himseM and sparing his King the "pain" of inter- 
 cession. Let Lucy apprise the King that the triumph 
 is his; that "when Pym grew pale, and trembled, 
 and sank down, one image was" in Strafford's eye, 
 — the image of his King, — and it was the force 
 of that which conquered. Let Lucy put aside the 
 past, which has grown " so indistinct, so obscure"; 
 there is "nothing to forgive in it." 
 
STRAFFORD 133 
 
 From this day begins 
 A new life, founded on a new belief 
 In Charles. 
 
 "In Charles? Rather believe in Pym!" The 
 words are reminiscent of Hollis's scornful inter- 
 view with the monarch and the circle of intriguing 
 advisers; and, as Hollis speaks them, Pym passes 
 the group on his own tragic errand. 
 
 The advice is rejected with quiet but conclusive 
 emphasis. Strafford has abjured speech with Pym 
 forever. He ** would not look upon Pym's face again. " 
 
 Confident of victory, the Earl returns with his 
 friends to his defense in the Hall. The light that 
 shines from his worn face is its own answer to Lady 
 Carlisle, in whose eyes admiration and disappoint- 
 ment struggle for the mastery. She stays him for a 
 moment, her hand outstretched for a guarded fare- 
 well. After parting, she would cherish the thought 
 of having pressed his own. 
 
 But the Court has adjourned, and the trial will 
 not be resumed until the day following. As, ac- 
 cordingly, Strafford and his circle retire from the 
 passage adjoining the Hall, there emerge into it the 
 court functionaries, with Pym, the Solicitor-Gen- 
 eral St. John, Fiennes, Rudyard, and others of that 
 party, preceded by Hampden and Vane. 
 
 A division of opinion has separated Pym from 
 his followers. Pym's moving the Bill of Attainder 
 has chilled the feelings of all save the judicial 
 Hampden. Vane is especially fearful. It was Vane's 
 connivance with the Cabal, through Sir Henry Vane 
 his father, that brought to light the "notes" which 
 the prosecution deem so important and incriminat- 
 
134 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 ing. Pity, awakened by Strafford's heroic patience, 
 has taken the place of accusation; and with pity 
 has come not only sympathy but admiration. 
 
 Vane, who at the first was violent in Strafford's 
 denunciation, calls upon Hampden to save the 
 *' great misguided man" and "plead Strafford's 
 cause with Pym" — Strafford, the man with the 
 superhuman endurance and the "kind calm eyes." 
 And Rudyard, who in the early meetings of the 
 League, was among the hottest to demand Straf- 
 ford's blood, now shrinks in horror from the doom 
 which Pym's Bill invokes upon the "drowning 
 man." Fiennes is of the same opinion, characteriz- 
 ing "this new course " as "monstrous " and inviting 
 other Presbyterians less prominent in the League 
 to join the side of moderation and mercy. Indeed, 
 he bids Vane "take heart," on the assurance that 
 this Bill of his Attainder "shall not have one true 
 man's hand to it." 
 
 Turning from Hampden, Vane pleads with Pym. 
 What, after all, is Pym's Bill.? Simply this: a 
 subterfuge to bring about Strafford's ruin in the 
 absence of any direct and legitimate legal means 
 of prosecution. "The task of fixing any single 
 charge on Strafford" has fallen through and failed. 
 All regular ways have been tried and exhausted. 
 The law has no "hold of him on any charge," and 
 because of that the Parliament must be called 
 upon to make a law. And a law based upon what? 
 
 Upon the abortive mass 
 Of half-borne-out assertions, dubious hints 
 Hereafter to be cleared, distortions — ay. 
 And wild inventions. 
 
STRAFFORD 135 
 
 In the depths of his remorse Vane implores Pym 
 to have pity — pity in virtue of their friendship 
 — and prevent the memory of having murdered 
 Strafford with those tell-tale notes. 
 
 Pym solemnly absolves Vane and bids him have 
 no care for aught that he has done. But this only 
 impels Vane to renew the appeal with Hampden : 
 
 Plead for us ! 
 When Strafford spoke, your eyes were thick with tears! 
 
 But Hampden is unmoved : — 
 
 England speaks louder : who are we, to play 
 The generous pardoner at her expense. 
 Magnanimously waive advantages. 
 And, if he conquer us, applaud his skill? 
 
 Again importuned on the score of old friendship 
 with Strafford, Pym again rejects the plea; and, 
 when upbraided that England who trusts him im- 
 plicitly will not be well served otherwise, Hampden 
 breaks the blow with an imprecation upon that man 
 "who turns the opportunity of serving her ... to his 
 own mean account" and would thus "look nobly 
 frank at her expense ! " 
 
 Fiennes deplores the depth to which this day they 
 have descended. 
 
 But Pym, in defense, asserts his long and deep 
 study of the situation. The action he has taken he 
 was moved to by his responsible headship in the 
 opposition to the traitor, and his conviction that 
 the man must be destroyed. He himself has long 
 lived with the idea, whereas Fiennes and his like 
 have "taken up "the thought only "to play with," 
 and "for a gentle stimulant," and 
 
136 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 To give a dignity to idler life 
 
 By the dim prospect of emprise to come. 
 
 But ever with the softening, sure belief, 
 
 That all would end some strange way right at last. 
 
 Being mere dilettantes in the business of state- 
 craft, little wonder that they shrink when the criti- 
 cal moment presents itself. 
 
 Fiennes deplores the trifling character of the 
 charge against the Earl. 
 
 "Petty charges ?^' A flush suffuses Pym's face. 
 Can one "come to the real charge at all".? Picture 
 the apostate "safe in tyranny's stronghold." True, 
 "apostasy is not a crime, treachery not a crime" 
 by legal specification; yet "the cheek burns, the 
 blood tingles, when you speak the words," and oc- 
 casion must be made to serve in taking "revenge." 
 The sins are there with all their mockery, and to 
 tolerate them would be to pay all too dearly for 
 them. 
 
 Rudyard objects to the course proposed as "un- 
 exampled" and to the Bill as having no precedent. 
 
 Still unshaken, and rather fixed the firmer in his 
 position, Pym denies the sanctity of "precedent and 
 custom" in the presence of each man's God-given 
 conscience, "the great beacon-light God sets in 
 all" for the judgment of right and wrong. Let 
 "each man lay his hand upon his breast, and 
 judge"! 
 
 Vane will have no part in this horror of Straf- 
 ford's death. 
 
 Rudyard and others chorus their intercession. 
 Will not Pym forgive, just at the time, too, when 
 Strafford, realizing the King's treachery, would 
 
STRAFFORD 1S7 
 
 come back to the League? Pym must bear the par- 
 don from the Commons. Nothing could be more 
 appropriate ! 
 
 "Meet him?" Meet Strafford again? Very well, 
 Pym will meet him on the morrow to discuss with 
 Lane the "points of law" involved; and then, the 
 next day, Haselrig will "introduce the Bill of At- 
 tainder." For a moment the man's iron resolution 
 seems to bend at the recollection of Strafford's 
 pallid look at the trial and the vision of their old 
 friendship. His stern features soften with an ex- 
 pression of sadness, and his voice betrays a touch 
 of tenderness as he bids all pray for him. 
 
 At Whitehall, meanwhile, the King is torn with 
 conflicting emotions: admiration for Strafford's 
 irresistible defense; gratitude for the magnanimity 
 which withheld everything that seemed to impli- 
 cate the King; remorse for his own shabby treat- 
 ment of the Earl; impatience at Lady Carlisle's de- 
 lay in returning from Westminster; and fear that 
 the accused, in deference to the royal wishes, has 
 accepted the offer of intervention with the army. 
 "The future must recompense the past" somehow, 
 and Strafford be paid for his good offices. His own 
 sanction of Lady Carlisle's "mad scheme" to liber- 
 ate the Earl was too precipitate and quite un- 
 necessary in view of Strafford's undoubted success 
 in liberating himself unaided. Will not the Count- 
 ess soon return and resolve his fears? Ah, that is 
 her step now! 
 
138 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 What? Not Carlisle, but Pym? What presump- 
 tion thus to break in unannounced! 
 
 Pym deprecates the King's show of annoyance. 
 It is of Strafford Pym would speak. 
 
 "Of Strafford!" Charles will hear no more of 
 Strafford. He has heard too much from Pym on 
 that subject. 
 
 Pym but spoke as the advocate of the People. 
 Will not the King grant him leave to say a word 
 on his own account now.? 
 
 Charles mistakes Pym's insistence for a sign of 
 Strafford's victory in the trial, the triumph of 
 Strafford's eloquence. "Lord Strafford, sir, has 
 spoken for himseff," is his curt reply. 
 
 Yes, Strafford has spoken "sufficiently," and the 
 "trial fails." But there is another course open to 
 the People, a course quite new; Pym has come to 
 apprise the King. 
 
 Yes, Charles is aware of it; and Pym, for the part 
 he has taken, shall be well recompensed. 
 
 The schedule of action is here; Pym would have 
 the King's judgment from the King's own mouth. 
 The plan is this : The trial having failed, Pym has 
 drawn up a Bill of Attainder specifying the grounds 
 of Strafford's treason. This the Lords and Com- 
 mons are expected to pass; and, in the event of their 
 doing so, the parchment will require the royal seal 
 and signature. But, will the King approve.? If 
 so, the measure is guaranteed to secure the vote 
 of both Houses within a week. However, should 
 the King not approve, the Bill will be "cast aside." 
 
 Charles catches at a straw in the new turn which 
 events have taken. If Pym can hinder the "intro- 
 
STRAFFORD 139 
 
 duction of the Bill," then, by all means, let him pro- 
 ceed. Charles has wronged the Earl, his friend. Were 
 the Earl not his friend, he might sign the Bill. Be- 
 cause Pym hates Strafford is no reason why every 
 one else should do so. Yes, Pym need not depre- 
 cate the assertion; Pym does hate Strafford. On 
 the other hand, Strafford has saved the King, and 
 how shameful the recompense — a mere drudge's, 
 indeed ! whose sole happiness is in public service. 
 Moreover, there are wife and children. For their 
 sakes, too, the only course is mercy. 
 
 Pym shows some signs of relenting, but he steels 
 his courage with the thought of the cause and the 
 good of England. 
 
 The King resumes earnestly: The Bill must be 
 prevented. Pym's course hitherto has seemed fair; 
 but in the end the responsibility for Strafford's 
 death will rest on the royal shoulders alone. This 
 must not be. Another way will serve to meet the 
 Commons' counsel. Strafford shall be dismissed. 
 But the Bill must be estopped. Pym is not worthy 
 of it; still, that can be forgotten. Is Pym satisfied .^^ 
 
 For reply Pym invokes the accusing memory of 
 Eliot, whose heir and successor in the People's 
 cause he is. Nor can he betray the love and trust 
 of Hampden, his friend. Besides, is he not striving 
 for the best interests of England and of England's 
 King? 
 
 iThat King, interrupts Charles, thanks Pym for 
 his good wishes and for leaving to "that King his 
 servant." 
 
 The sly persuasiveness fails of its intended effect; 
 and a shade of desperate weariness steals into the 
 
140 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 face of the determined Commoner. He must speak 
 out his mind without reserve, for he " may not speak 
 again." His "spirit yearns for a cool night after 
 this weary day." The trial has failed; but this new 
 task, which is "more fatal, more august, more full 
 of England's utter weal or woe," must succeed, 
 and succeed with the aid of the King. Much more 
 than Strafford's fate is involved. The matter 
 touches vitally the personal safety of the King him- 
 self, the King whom Pym would save. "How long 
 the Many must endure the One" is the all-impor- 
 tant question. Who shall be the sacrifice, the Earl 
 or the King.f^ Let the King take warning. Should 
 Parliament decree the death-warrant, the safest 
 course will be either not to interfere, or, better 
 still, to sign the measure. 
 
 The King breaks down in dismay at the alter- 
 natives. 
 
 God forsakes me. I am in a net 
 
 And cannot move. Let all be as you say! 
 
 In the struggle between the monarch's worse and 
 better natures, self again has triumphed. At this 
 crisis Lady Carlisle enters in accordance with her 
 appointment, her eyes radiant with the message of 
 the Earl's heroism. Yes, Strafford would spare his 
 Liege all pain, loves him, and is grateful for the 
 royal message. He never dreamed of being for- 
 saken "in the evil day." But, disdaining "a course 
 that might endanger" the King, or not needing it, 
 he returns the scheme of liberation through the army. 
 What love! What magnanimity! Is it not so.^* 
 
 Suddenly she sees Pym, who, at the sound of her 
 
STRAFFORD 141 
 
 approach, had turned aside. Her expectation of 
 meeting the King alone, coupled with her generous 
 enthusiasm for Strafford's conduct, had kept her 
 oblivious to Pym's presence. But now, at sight of 
 him, a second thought revives her confidence. 
 They have met most luckily. "No fear for Straf- 
 ford!" He is safe, since "all that's true and 
 brave" on the People's side is with him and will 
 help him. His sympathizers are now "stronger 
 than ever." — Suddenly she stops. What is this 
 she sees.^ A parchment in the King's hands.? 
 
 Charles signs the measure, and Pym quietly nods 
 approval, saying: "Sir, much is saved us both." 
 
 A new fire kindles in the Countess's eyes, and 
 Charles quails under the searching gaze. Hastily 
 Pym takes back the warrant and clutches it to his 
 bosom with self -approving unction : 
 
 No recreant yet! 
 The great word went from England to my soul. 
 And I arose. The end is very near. 
 
 It is with horror that Lady Carlisle sees that all 
 so far is lost. Yet it is with equal determination that 
 she resolves to stand as Strafford's champion, even 
 though she have to stand alone. She will remain 
 loyal even at the hazard of death : 
 
 Heaven will make strong 
 The hand now as the heart. Then let both die! 
 
 XI 
 
 Hollis has again come to Whitehall to gain audi- 
 ence with Charles, and this time to protest against 
 a most astounding and horrifying commission. In 
 
142 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 an anteroom he meets Lady Carlisle, radiant and 
 animated over a wonderful scheme; but the details 
 of the enterprise, though recited with much artless 
 enthusiasm, fall upon listless and despairing ears. 
 
 Meanwhile, at Westminster the Parliament have 
 voted the Bill of Attainder; Charles has signed 
 the death-warrant; and Strafford now lies impris- 
 oned in the Tower. None has told him of the 
 King's treachery, and so the hope of pardon from 
 that dubious quarter lures and beckons still, shed- 
 ding a faint ray of cheer upon the forbidding walls 
 around. 
 
 Lady Carlisle's scheme concerns Strafford's 
 liberation, and she presses it upon Hollis with all 
 the ardor of her hopeful nature and the strength 
 of her young love. Hollis listens; but suggests, at 
 length, that they go in and lay the plan before the 
 King. 
 
 No, she objects, the King "must not hear till it 
 succeeds." 
 
 "Succeed.^" The sad deprecation in Holhs's 
 voice is unmistakable. "No dream was half so 
 vain." She would "rescue Strafford".? But how.? 
 By outwitting Pym? Hopeless dream! Pym is 
 crafty, and Strafford is doomed. Yet that doom, 
 how horrible — the block with all its "hideous 
 show" pursuing! And to-day, to-day he is to tell 
 Strafford he must die, "all the while he's sure of 
 the King's pardon." No, he cannot do it. He will 
 not do it, though the King rage and "rend his hair." 
 He cannot, will not, see Strafford! 
 
 Lady Carlisle protests, smiling; bids him remem- 
 ber that, if her plan succeeds, she renounces all 
 
STRAFFORD 143 
 
 praise. The credit must be the King's. Strafford 
 must be told that it was Charles who "saved him. 
 He would hardly value life" unless a gift from 
 Charles. But she must go; her "stanch friends" in 
 the scheme are waiting. And Hollis must waste no 
 time, but go in to Charles. 
 
 Hollis frankly speaks his admiration — speaks 
 it with a shade of pity in his tones — for the con- 
 stancy, the heroism, of one who, "fragile, alone, 
 so young, amid rude mercenaries," devises a plan 
 to save her friend. The man has been deserted long 
 ago by all except herself. And she would stand alone 
 in the face of the death-warrant, the Queen's im- 
 patience at the "eternal subject," the Court's dis- 
 missal of it, and the Earl's timely withdrawal! 
 And in the event of her failure, what reward can 
 she have? 
 
 Reward.'^ A sparkle of the eyes sets off the flush 
 of her cheeks. Would Hollis imply that she might 
 go to France with Strafford .^^ Hollis himself shall 
 help with the reward — Hollis, 
 
 Who lived with Strafford even from his youth 
 Before he set his heart on state-affairs 
 And they bent down that noble brow of his, 
 
 shall reward her with knowledge of Strafford's 
 youth, shall help her make Strafford's youth her 
 own. She has "learned somewhat of his latter life, 
 and all the future" she shall know; but Hollis 
 must provide her with the past — when Strafford 
 "is saved." 
 
 Hollis : My gentle friend, 
 
 He should know all and love you, but 't is vain! 
 
144 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 "Love?" repeats Lady Carlisle. No, it is "too 
 late now." "Let him love the King!" It is "the 
 King's scheme"! Silence is the word. Hollis has 
 given his promise, let him remember. They must 
 "keep the old delusion up." But there is no time 
 to lose. Each of them has work to do. 
 
 Go to the King! I hope — Hollis — I hope! 
 
 Say nothing of my scheme! Hush, while we speak 
 
 Think where he is! Now for my gallant friends! 
 
 "Where he is?" The thought rankles sorely. 
 Hollis sees him all too plainly — Strafford, the 
 doomed, "pacing the prison-floor, calling wildly 
 upon Charles," and "guessing his fate." No! "Let 
 the King tell him!" is his muttered exclamation, as 
 he follows the Countess out of the room. 
 
 XII 
 
 The Earl of Strafford, imprisoned in the Tower, 
 is seated in his cell with his small children, William 
 and Anne. Without, the "broad moonlight" 
 gleams on the river and bathes the grim structure 
 in silver. The soft sound of lapping water and a 
 dipping oar is borne in on the air, with the occa- 
 sional noise of a coarse song from the street below, 
 jeering at the prisoner as renegade and apostate. 
 
 To compose their father to sleep, the children 
 carol the soft words of an Italian boat-song; and 
 the imaginative pictures that William conjures up 
 to suit the words answer to and interpret the sounds 
 from the river below. The father, though very tired, 
 is too wakeful to sleep — "too tired," as William 
 says, "to sleep." The Earl says wearily that he 
 
STRAFFORD 145 
 
 does sleep; or, if he does not sleep now, he will sleep 
 "by and by and all day long in that old quiet 
 house" which will be his retreat after his release. 
 Meanwhile, they "sleep safe here." 
 
 Why not go back to Ireland .^^ is Anne's wondering 
 question. A touch of sadness softens the father's 
 slow reply: "Too many dreams" to sleep well in 
 Ireland. Then, with forced cheerfulness : 
 
 That song's for Venice, William: 
 You know how Venice looks upon the map — 
 Isles that the mainland hardly can let go? 
 
 Yes — in answer to the boy's question — he was 
 in Venice once. He "was young, then." It was 
 long ago. 
 
 And Venice, adds William with feeling, is 
 
 A city with no King; that's why I like 
 Even a song that comes from Venice. 
 
 William is checked by his father — a shade of 
 rebuke in his voice. 
 
 And the child replies that he knows why. Then, 
 seeking sympathy from Anne, he asks, "Do you 
 love the King.^" and adds, "But I'll see Venice for 
 myself one day." 
 
 "See many lands, boy," his father advises, "Eng- 
 land last of all, — that way you'll love her best." 
 
 William is puzzled. "WTiy do men say you 
 sought to ruin her, then?" 
 
 The naive question has its unwitting sting. But 
 the boy persists with the query, which the Earl play- 
 fully evades. He supposes they "must have words 
 to say," just as William must have words to sing. 
 
 Anne is ready with the information that the 
 
146 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 crowd "make songs" as well. "Last night" she 
 "heard one, in the street beneath, that called" 
 father . . . Oh, such names! 
 
 William calls out manfully: "They soon left off 
 when I cried out to them." 
 
 "We shall so soon be out of it," says Strafford; 
 it is "not worth while" to take offense; "who 
 heeds a foolish song.f^" 
 
 "Why, not the King," is the pouting reply. 
 
 The precocious answer fires the old train of 
 thought afresh. To be misunderstood and vilified 
 "has been the fate of better" men, muses the Earl 
 sadly. Yet why give up. f^ "Wherefore not feel sure 
 that Time" will bring just recompense and vindica- 
 tion .^^ that the ignoble and distorted conceptions 
 of enemies will give place to just appraisement of 
 honest endeavor.? 
 
 The Earl's mood of troubled abstraction deep- 
 ens, prompting Anne to suggest to William that 
 they sing again. "He does not look thus when we 
 sing," she whispers. 
 
 But the Earl resumes, in deep soliloquy: 
 
 For Ireland, 
 Something is done: too little, but enough 
 To show what might have been. 
 
 And William, catching his father's mood, whis- 
 pers to his sister, "I have no heart to sing now!" 
 How "very sad" their father looks. Oh, the de- 
 testable King! How William hates him in spite 
 of all his father says! 
 
 The Earl's mind runs irresistibly upon the past, 
 and the future which the past has earned. A scrap 
 
STRAFFORD 147 
 
 of song from the street quickens his thought : What, 
 they sing that Strafford has forsaken the People? 
 "Nothing more?" Fame comes not to the noisy 
 and the importunate. Whose will be the Name she 
 will immortalize? Will it be Patriot Pym or Apos- 
 tate Strafford? Time will take account of every- 
 thing and strike a just balance in the end. 
 
 He pauses, and soon the children try again to 
 sing; but again his pained look constrains them, 
 and they lapse into silence. Soon the hush is 
 broken by the sudden entrance of two figures, the 
 one cloaked and muffled to the ears. The other, 
 too, is at first unrecognized in the dim light of the 
 cell; but after a little the Earl sees that it is HoUis 
 and greets him gladly. He is "in good time." But 
 who is with him? 
 
 "One that must be present," is the grave answer. 
 
 Ah, he understands. Laud, to be sure! They will 
 not let him "see poor Laud alone. How politic!" 
 How considerate! They would accustom him "by 
 degrees to solitude." Then, affecting a lightness of 
 heart that consorts but ill with the scene, he con- 
 tinues: Just now, before their entrance, he was 
 "solicitous what life to lead" after his release. De- 
 barred from every office hereafter by the attainder, 
 — "not so much as Constable in the King's serv- 
 ice," — will there be "any means to keep one's 
 self awake"? After so much "bustle" what would 
 Hollis do were he so favored? 
 
 Hollis is shocked at such levity — shocked in 
 presence of the horror impending. 
 
 The Earl goes on, lightly. — And then, after 
 Pym and he are friends again, Pym and Hollis shall 
 
148 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 find him "news enough." That will keep him 
 awake. And how pleasant it will be to hear it 
 "under a quince-tree by a fish-pond side" on his 
 estate at Wentworth; and "Garrard must be re- 
 engaged " as "newsman." Or, stay ! " a better proj- 
 ect " — When all this troublesome business has 
 ended, and the Saints, these august dissenters, reign, 
 what a lark to venture up to London some day, 
 and sautiter unseen through the Town, and notice 
 how Pym, the newly-appointed Tribune, likes the 
 office and the life at Whitehall; to see how swim- 
 mingly the "Senate's work goes"; to "drop quietly 
 into a tavern" and overhear some point discussed, 
 as "whether Strafford's name were John or James," 
 and then hear himself appealed to — himself, in- 
 deed ! who shall so nearly have forgotten who or 
 what he was ! 
 
 HoUis gravely interrupts, but is checked again. 
 He may speak later — not now. Strafford wants 
 now only to "hear the sound of" his "own tongue" 
 and silence the ghosts in the gloomy old prison. 
 Only one more thing of rare, surpassing interest! 
 Who, when Strafford thus returns for a holiday 
 to London, will have become the King's advisers, 
 his Sejanus on the one hand, his Richelieu on the 
 other, a "patient pair of traitors," with prosperity, 
 and health, and children — happy children .^^ Ah, 
 but his own children there, William and Anne: 
 does not his William's "cheek grow thin"? 
 
 " 'T is you look thin, father," is the child's quick 
 rejoinder. 
 
 The Earl smiles cheerfully: "A scamper o'er the 
 breezy wolds sets all to-rights." 
 
STRAFFORD 149 
 
 Hollis frowns : Strafford surely cannot forget that 
 a "prison-roof" is over him and that serious busi- 
 ness is in hand? 
 
 At that the prisoner lets fall his mask of levity : 
 Why, no, he would not, he does not, forget. Yet he 
 would not be the first to touch on that matter. To 
 advert to that is left to Hollis; and let Hollis say at 
 once that the "King can find no time" to set his 
 prisoner free. Is it a "mask at Theobald's " that so 
 occupies him.f^ 
 
 Strafford is assured that it is "no such affair" 
 that detains the King. 
 
 "True," he returns bitterly. What is the need of 
 "so great a matter" to detain the King.^ Is it, 
 then, the "Queen's lip may be sore"? Whatever 
 it be, presumably it is "well." One must needs 
 wait until the King pleases. Yet, one wants the 
 air; "it vexes flesh to be pent up so long." 
 
 Hollis prays for speech, uninterrupted and alone. 
 It is from the King that he bears a message. 
 
 William and Anne, bidden to go and try over 
 their song again, retire. 
 
 The Earl, following the children with a lingering 
 gaze, affirms their loyalty "at all events," then, 
 turning directly to Hollis, says he knows the gist 
 of the message. There is "nothing new" to tell. 
 "From the first" he "guessed as much." 
 
 I know, instead of coming here himself. 
 
 Leading me forth in public by the hand. 
 
 The King prefers to leave the door ajar 
 
 As though I were escaping — bids me trudge 
 
 While the mob gapes upon some show prepared , 
 
 On the other side of the river! Give at once 
 
 His order of release! 
 
150 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Strafford's sudden impatience merges into a 
 quieter scorn. He has heard, moreover, that the 
 King has made "certain poor manoeuvres " to avoid 
 granting the pardon at risk to himself. Instead, he 
 must first "prattle" a little to the Lords and Com- 
 mons, affirm his grief that Strafford "should 
 abuse" a misplaced confidence; absolve them from 
 any blame, and . . . White anger and withering 
 scorn make pale the Earl's thin cheeks. "Where's 
 the order .^" is his hot demand. 
 
 "Spare me!" pleads Hollis. 
 
 A gentler mood succeeds to Strafford's fury: 
 Would the King have him "steal away" like any 
 criminal .f^ Would the King have him sneak off 
 " with an old doublet and a steeple hat likePrynne's" 
 — like any common defamer of the King's person, 
 that is.^ Would the King have him "smuggled" 
 like any outlaw "into France, perhaps"? For his 
 children's sake, no ! — many times no ! 
 
 A shade of wistfulness softens the Earl's fierce 
 anger. He hurries on. It was for them (pointing 
 to the next room), his children, that he "first con- 
 sented to stand day by day" before the Commons 
 and give their "Puritans the best of words," re- 
 turning soft answers to stinging insults; spoke 
 when called upon, observed "their rules," forbear- 
 ing the sore temptation of promptly returning 
 them their lie. Another wistful look in the direc- 
 tion of the next room : 
 
 What's in that boy of mine that he should prove 
 Son to a prison-breaker? I shall stay 
 And he'll stay with me. Charles should know as much. 
 He too has children ! 
 
STRAFFORD 151 
 
 He turns in his grief to the muffled figure in the 
 shadow of the room, who, though he has drawn up 
 his cloak to his eyes, Strafford yet suspects to be 
 one of the officials of the trial. There is something 
 familiar about the form; he has seen it before. 
 Even so, the stranger has his pardon, nay, his 
 thanks for coming; "for there is one who comes 
 not," he adds, thinking of the King. 
 
 Whom, as you are about to die, forgive! — Hollis 
 has at last delivered the message. 
 
 But Strafford does not discern the warning, and 
 replies only with the light generalization that, 
 indeed, "all die, and all need forgiveness." He does 
 indeed forgive him from the bottom of his soul. 
 
 Hollis marvels at the man's obtuseness, involun- 
 tary or assumed. It is a "world's wonder." But the 
 brutal message must come out: "Strafford, you 
 must die ! " Hollis breaks down — recoils from the 
 tragic force of the words. There is a pause. Then 
 Strafford: — 
 
 Sir, if your errand is to set me free 
 
 This heartless jest mars much. Ha! Tears in truth? 
 
 We'll end this! See this paper, warm — feel — warm 
 
 With lying next my heart! Whose hand is there? 
 
 Whose promise? Read, and loud for God to hear! 
 "StraJBPord shall take no hurt" — read it, I say! 
 *'In person, honor nor estate — " 
 
 Hollis takes the paper, stammering in explana- 
 tion: "The King . . ." 
 
 The King.? Strafford "could unking him by a 
 breath ! " But he will remain firm and faithful to the 
 end. This is not the first time, indeed, that he 
 has been sounded on the subject. Just as Loudon 
 
152 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 did before, so Hollis does now, sitting where he sat, 
 prophesying the "certain end" and offering, as the 
 only means of escape, the protection of Pym and 
 the League if Strafford will "renounce the King." 
 No, Strafford "stood firm" on the King's good 
 faith, and so he will stand now. The King who 
 lives. . . . 
 
 But here Hollis interposes with, — "to sign the 
 warrant for your death." He cannot escape his 
 commission; the Earl must be made to understand. 
 
 A wan face and a hollow voice give expression to 
 Strafford's despair: 
 
 ** Put not your trust 
 In princes, neither in the sons of men. 
 In whom is no salvation! '* 
 
 Hollis puts his arm about the bent shoulders. 
 Let him "trust in God"! For the "scaffold is pre- 
 pared"; "they wait for" him; the King "has con- 
 sented." Now, "cast the earth behind!" 
 
 At this, the figure in the dark corner flings back 
 its cloak; revealing the anguished face of the King. 
 He comes forward and kneels before the stricken 
 man. 
 
 You would not see me, Strafford, at your foot! 
 It was wrung from me! Only, curse me not! 
 
 Hollis adds his plea to the King's : — 
 
 As you hope grace and pardon in your need. 
 Be merciful to this most wretched man. 
 
 In the next room William and Anne join their 
 voices in the soft notes of the Italian boat-song. 
 
STRAFFORD 153 
 
 The music soothes the stricken man's hurt and 
 gives direction to his scattered thoughts: Ah, the 
 children! Yes, the children must be provided for. 
 Will the King be good to them? Will the King 
 believe in their loyalty — in spite of anything the 
 Queen may say? William was to remain a "stran- 
 ger" to all rumors; but the King, who is "so ut- 
 terly deprived of friends," must acquaint him and 
 claim his service. Will not the King "be good to 
 him"? 
 
 Strafford's calmness contrasts strangely with the 
 perturbation of the King, who, for reply, solemnly 
 raises his hand to heaven. 
 
 Strafford interrupts; and the oath and promise 
 remain unspoken. Let there be no promises, no 
 oaths. To Hollis is committed the charge of the 
 children. Hollis must do the best he can. There 
 is none else to turn to and trust. " Wandesf ord 's 
 dead," Radcliffe is safe, and " Laud's turn" at the 
 block " comes next." In the late turmoil there has 
 been little time for private affairs, yet the Earl 
 trusts any of them, even Pym, with the children 
 
 — " No one could hurt them." Besides, "there's 
 an infant" to be provided for; and the King could 
 not assume "these tedious cares"! His Majesty 
 must pardon a "peevish word" uttered in momen- 
 tary f orgetfulness of extenuating circumstances — 
 his Majesty's "education, trials, much tempta- 
 tion," and all coupled with some natural weakness. 
 
 — The mood is gone, and he blesses his King at 
 the last. "You know," he says affectionately, 
 "all's between you and me ; what has the world to 
 do with it? Farewell." 
 
154 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Remorse, grief, rage touch Charles's pitying 
 heart. Hastening to the door, he calls loudly, 
 "Balfour, Balfour!" 
 
 The Constable of the Tower obeys the royal 
 summons and enters. He is commanded peremp- 
 torily to go to the Parliament and "grant all 
 demands." They may sit permanently. More- 
 over, they may "keep their money if they will" 
 and force him to sue to them for "every coat" he 
 wears and "every crust" he eats. AH this they 
 may do, but they shall not kill Strafford. The 
 King chooses to "pardon Strafford," and the 
 Queen shall do the same. 
 
 Meanwhile, the walls without are assailed by the 
 mob howling "for blood," and the King's voice 
 sinks to a low whisper. Balfour entreats him to 
 step back from the open door and retire from 
 danger. The King places all the troops at the Con- 
 stable's disposal; but that officer shakes his head 
 doubtfully. "There are some hundred thousand 
 of the crowd," he says. 
 
 Charles takes Strafford by the arm and bids 
 him have courage. Together they will face the 
 multitude. 
 
 But the Earl stands immovable with a new light 
 in his face: Balfour must betray "nothing to the 
 world of this. " By a " dying man " he is charged to 
 forget that he "gazed upon this agony of one" who 
 would pardon but was powerless to do so. Yet he 
 may say that the "King was sorry" and "even 
 wept," and that Strafford "walked the lighter to. 
 the block because of it. " 
 
 The King makes an appealing gesture. 
 
STRAFFORD 155 
 
 Strafford protests that he shall indeed walk 
 lightly. 
 
 Earth fades, heaven breaks on me; I shall stand next 
 Before God's throne: the moment 's close at hand 
 When man the first, last time, has leave to lay 
 His whole heart bare before its Maker, leave 
 To clear up the long error of a life 
 And choose one happiness for evermore. 
 
 He will go, praying for Charles. "Be saved through 
 me!" His death? No one could prevent it; let the 
 world know that no one could prevent it. 
 
 The King, paralyzed by irresolution and pity, 
 stands gazing into vacancy. 
 
 Strafford continues: "Lead on!" — ^to the scaf- 
 fold. Let them do it now, and do it quickly. Is the 
 crowd impatient? It is because "they'll be kept 
 too late for sermon at St. Antholin's." Now is 
 the time to go. "Tread softly — children are at 
 play in the. next room. " 
 
 With a courtly bow he motions the rest to pre- 
 cede; he will follow. 
 
 The door swings open, and admits — Lady 
 Carlisle, with many attendants. True to her word, 
 she has come to effect a rescue with a convoy of men 
 under the command of Billingsley. A boat lies in 
 readiness on the river below, to carry them hence. 
 Billingsley follows the Countess, and his men light 
 up the room with many torches. "Follow" was 
 Strafford's last word, and the Countess seizes upon 
 it as she approaches the Earl with a supplicating 
 gesture and the soft entreaty, "Follow me, Straf- 
 ford, and be saved!" 
 
 The light of the torches falls upon the rigid fig- 
 
156 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 ure of the Eling, his disguise cast aside, revealing 
 his kingly state; and she turns to him with the 
 hurried word that the "convoy are ranged with- 
 out," just as he had ordered. She means to trick 
 Strafford into believing that the rescue is the King's 
 doing, not hers; but seeing the King's state, she 
 drops the ruse and turns to Strafford with a frank 
 avowal of her own responsibility. Since the King 
 is there in state, Strafford cannot help but know all. 
 She thought it would look best for the King to 
 make the rescue, it would seem a shame for Straf- 
 ford to owe her anything. But now, since all is 
 known, why must her part appear a shame? Surely 
 Strafford will not "feel shame at being saved" by 
 her.f^ 
 
 But Strafford, bewildered by the quick turn of 
 affairs, stands stricken — dumb. 
 
 Hollis would rouse him, reassure him: Yes, it 
 is "all her deed! this lady's deed!" Then he in- 
 quires hurriedly, and with the eagerness of an ac- 
 complice, if the boat is "in readiness" below? Is 
 this man who has just entered, Billingsley, in com- 
 mand of the convoy? He turns to the Earl: 
 
 Speak to her, Strafford! 
 See how she trembles, waiting for your voice! 
 The world 's to leam its bravest story yet. 
 
 The Countess is all impatience for the departure. 
 There will be time enough to "talk afterward" 
 during the "long nights in France"; to talk of 
 home, sitting " beneath the vines " there. 
 
 At last the Earl finds voice for words whose 
 wonderment has a double edge: 
 
STRAFFORD 157 
 
 You love me, child? Ah, Strafford can be loved 
 As well as Vane! I could escape, then? 
 
 Lady Carlisle interrupts all possible endear- 
 ments. "Haste! Advance the torches, Bryan ! " 
 
 But the escape is humiliating, abhorrent to Straf- 
 ford's proud nature, and out of harmony with his 
 course hitherto. England's foe shall be worthy of 
 England, and no craven. He "will die." Having 
 fought England "to the utterance" and having 
 fallen, he will die for England. Moreover, there are 
 the "lookers-on, " the invisible witnesses. "Eliot, " 
 noble old patriot, "is all about this place, with his 
 most uncomplaining brow. " 
 
 "Strafford!" cries the Countess in a tone that 
 conveys a world of hurt affection. 
 
 His reply is calm but firm. If his friend "could 
 know how much" he loves her, she would be re- 
 paid. 
 
 She renews the plea for her own sake, then; for 
 the sake of the love he bears her. 
 
 A smile, tender but resolute, interprets his mean- 
 ing: It is even for her "sweet sake" that he 
 stays. 
 
 Hollis interjects, with a wave of the hand which 
 indicates the whole circle of Strafford's accusers: 
 It is "for their sake," rather! 
 
 But Strafford is buoyed by the thought of his 
 children in the next room. Could he escape like 
 a felon and "bequeath a stain ".f^ Away with the 
 thought! No, they must leave him. But it is with 
 compassion that he asks of the Countess: "Girl, 
 humor me and let me die!" 
 
 The Countess in despair importunes the tranced 
 
158 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 figure of the King: "Bid him escape — wake, King! 
 Bid him escape!" 
 
 And looking on the mute misery of his Sov- 
 ereign, Strafford replies quietly, with a new and 
 firm resolve. 
 
 True, I will go! Die and forsake the King? 
 I'll not draw back from the last service. 
 
 "Strafford!" exclaims the Countess in a voice 
 of unbounded love. 
 
 The tone, the look have shaken an iron will to 
 the core. "After all, what is disgrace" to him? Let 
 them be going. Pity "that it should end this way " ! 
 Let them lead on. He feels "strangely. It was not 
 to end this way." 
 
 Physical weakness ensues to the conflict within 
 him, and he totters. The Countess is by his side 
 and bids him lean on her. He leans heavily, and 
 HoUis offers to assist; but she protests; "I can sup- 
 port him, Hollis!" 
 
 As Strafford turns to go, his steps are heavy with 
 regrets for the King and what might have been: 
 "Oh, had he trusted me — his friend of friends!" 
 Lady Carlisle leads him to one of the doors; but, as 
 they near it he cries out that that is not the way. 
 It is a dangerous way, that gate, for he dreamed of 
 it. Yes, it is the same, "with something ominous 
 and dark, fatal, inevitable." 
 
 He is assured that it is the way of escape; that 
 "it opens on the river"; that their "good boat is 
 moored below"; their "friends are there." They 
 must go that way, " to save the King, to save the 
 King!" 
 
STRAFFORD 159 
 
 Persuaded against his will, he opens the river 
 door. In the darkness of the passage, Pym con- 
 fronts him, with Hampden, Vane, and others of 
 the League. Resignation soon follows the conster- 
 nation written on the Earl's features. He falls back, 
 and Pym comes forth slowly. A strange gentleness 
 softens Pym's voice; a new exaltation shines in his 
 look; a new light, but the old affection. 
 
 Has he "done well" in thus frustrating a bold 
 escape.^ Let England bring the answer — that 
 England for "whose sole sake" he has labored with 
 consistent disregard of his own feelings; that Eng- 
 land for whom his "youth was made barren" and 
 his manhood wasted to sacrifice for her the friend of 
 that youth — the friend of that manhood — the 
 friend who walked in youth with him and, it may 
 be, loved him; the friend whom, for "forsaking 
 England's cause," he hunted through all paths 
 and "by all means " (trusting that England " would 
 sanctify all means) even to the block which waits. " 
 And saying this, he feels "no bitterer pang" than 
 he felt at the first, when he swore at Greenwich 
 that, though Went worth might leave England's 
 cause, he would never leave Wentworth so long as 
 his head was on. But he does leave Wentworth 
 now. In the sight of God, he renders up his charge 
 to his country which "imposed it." He has done 
 his country's bidding, perhaps poorly and wrongly, 
 perhaps "with ill effects," for he is but human and 
 weak; still he has done his best, his "human best, " 
 without "faltering for a moment." And now "it 
 is done. " With this said, he may say too that he 
 "never loved but one man" — David loved not 
 
160 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Jonathan more than he has loved Went worth. 
 "Even thus" he loves him now; and for his own 
 "chief portion" and reward looks not to this world 
 but to that other world "where great hearts led 
 astray are turned again. " It may come soon. Yes, 
 it certainly will come soon; for now that his mis- 
 sion is over, he shall "not live long"; and in that 
 other world to which he must soon repair, his great 
 reward will be England's good. Yes, he talks of 
 that here, as if it were all he hoped for; but in his 
 "inmost heart" he hopes once more to walk apart 
 with Wentworth, friend of his youth, — Went- 
 worth "purged from all error, gloriously renewed"; 
 and Eliot, the hero and pattern of their youth, 
 shall not blame them. Ah, who shall paint the 
 glorious hour? But it is not yet. No, this is not 
 their meeting. "Tears increase too hot." And 
 there will be no tears then, nor will there be any 
 blood. "A thin mist — is it blood. ^^ — enwraps 
 the face" that once he loved. No, their meeting 
 is not yet. 
 
 Strafford lifts his head to speak. He, too, has 
 "loved England"; and, since his love has had such 
 recompense, it will be well to meet then, well to die 
 now. 
 
 Youth is the only time 
 To think and to decide on a great course: 
 Manhood with action follows; but 't is dreary 
 To have to alter our whole life in age — 
 The time past, the strength gone! As well die now. 
 
 It will be time enough then to "be set right — not 
 now. . . . Then if there 's any fault, fault too dies, 
 smothered up." 
 
STRAFFORD 161 
 
 Poor gray old little Laud 
 May dream his dream out, of a perfect Church, 
 In some blind corner, 
 
 and "no one left" to help him. But the King? 
 Strafford must entrust "the King now wholly" 
 to Pym — there is no one else. Yet what guarantee 
 is there of the King's safety then.f^ All is dark and 
 uncertain; no Strafford will be there to help a 
 forsaken King; a King whose "friends fail — if 
 he have any." And then the King is weak, and 
 pliant to the will of the Queen, whom he loves; 
 and . . . 
 
 With horrified look, his eyes fixed on Charles, 
 Strafford recoils as if to escape a ghastly vision. 
 His own fate is "nothing — nothing!" But let 
 them not touch that "awful head," that Majesty! 
 Avert that fate, that end ! 
 
 He covers his face with his hands; and Pym, with 
 the old flare of battle on his forehead, looks the 
 unalterable determination of an avenging Nemesis: 
 If England shall declare to him the sacrifice even 
 of the King, it shall be accomplished. 
 
 A flame of denunciation leaps forth in Strafford's 
 words: Pym help England.^ Help England in that 
 way.f^ Help England in the murder of her King.^ Is 
 this what Strafford, doomed to die, must see.f^ 
 Curses on the murderer! God plague him, "sati- 
 ating hell"! What.? England, the England that 
 Pym professes to help, to become through him 
 "a green and putrefying charnel"? Will that be 
 his bequest to England's children .^^ Yes, let Pym 
 bethink himself: some Englishmen, thank Heaven! 
 "have children," and so are spared the blight of a 
 
162 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 "darkened brow, an over-serious look," a prema- 
 ture old age. Wherefore that silence? Has he 
 nothing to say? What if Strafford curse him, then? 
 "send a strong curse forth, clothed from" his 
 "heart, lapped round with horror"? — a curse 
 that shall become a fury, "fit with her white face 
 to walk the world" and scare "kind natures" from 
 the dreadful cause that, blind with fanatical hatred, 
 can murder a King? a curse that shall sit down 
 with each one at table, at the "gathering for 
 prayer"? a curse that shall "creep up, and quietly 
 follow each one home, you, you, you " — he points 
 at Pym, and Vane, and Hampden standing there, — 
 "be a nestling care for each to sleep with," which 
 he hardly feels gnawing quietly at his heart, "till, 
 lo he starts" and "gets off with half a heart eaten 
 away"! None shall escape with less! Will Pym 
 not "say a word" to him and — to the King? 
 
 The same steady voice gives utterance to the 
 same inexorable determination: If England shall 
 declare to Pym the sacrifice even of the King, it 
 shall be accomplished. 
 
 Strafford falls on his knees before the shaft of 
 granite. "Not for England now, not for Heaven" 
 does he plead, but, behold! for his own sake, for 
 the sake of the old friendship before Greenwich — 
 not as Strafford, but as Wentworth. This, then, is 
 their meeting, friends at last ! His friend he thanks 
 "for the death " ! Strafford loves him well ! 
 
 As if from an embodied retribution comes back 
 the unyielding voice of Pym : 
 
 England, — I am thine own! Dost thou exact 
 That service? I obey thee to the end. 
 
STRAFFORD 
 
 163 
 
 To the scaffold that awaits him outside, the Earl 
 steps forward with the agonizing thought that the 
 King too is doomed. But when will the stroke 
 fall ? How long must he live on without his faith- 
 ful servant? Who will serve him, Strafford gone ? 
 And all his loyal soul cries out : 
 
 O God, I shall die first — I shall die first! 
 
IN A BALCONY 
 
 Love and Fidelity 
 
 This is the story of a young man and a young 
 woman of the court, and their Queen. The young 
 man, Norbert, is already accounted a brilliant 
 diplomat. The young woman, Constance, is the 
 Queen's cousin; Norbert and she are lovers. The 
 Queen herself is an unhappy woman well advanced 
 in middle life. 
 
 It is evening. Within the palace all is brilliance. 
 Without is soft moonlight. The first star trembles 
 in the sky. In a balcony are standing Constance 
 and Norbert in love's embrace. Sounds of music 
 and dancing issue from the hall, where the Queen 
 is seated in marble stateliness, presiding over the 
 revels. The silver light of the moon lies softly on 
 the balcony, the palace, the court: on the foun- 
 tain which raises a light mist in the yard; on palm, 
 magnolia-bell, and eye-flower; on trees and lovely 
 statues standing around, "abrupt, distinct" — 
 
 The Muse forever wedded to her lyre, 
 Nymph to her faun, and Silence to her rose. 
 
 The great hall whence issue the sounds of revelry 
 holds rich treasures of art that make it a dome of 
 magic for all beholders. In them the outside world 
 is mirrored. One sees 
 
IN A BALCONY 165 
 
 The fight of giants or the feast of gods. 
 Sages in senate, beauties at the bath, 
 Chases and battles, the whole earth's display, 
 Landscape and sea-piece, down to flowers and fruit — 
 
 "things painted by a Rubens out of naught," and 
 "all better, all more grandiose than the life. " 
 
 The dancing is the sequel to a feast which the 
 Queen has ordered in Norbert's sole honor. For 
 Norbert is a youth of splendid achievement. With- 
 out name and fame, he was admitted to the Queen's 
 council-board one short year ago, and within that 
 period has set many difficult matters aright. He 
 has become minister, and not the least of his serv- 
 ices has been the "junction of two crowns" on one 
 sole head, the Queen's — a fruition which "her 
 house had only dreamed of anciently. " No won- 
 der, then, that for Norbert many heads have 
 been turned and many hearts broken. And this is 
 the hour of his triumph; his "minute's in the 
 heaven," his star at its height. Yet the path of 
 success has lain through chaos of intrigues, hopes 
 and fears, surprises and delays. His reward awaits 
 him. He needs but ask it of the Queen on her 
 throne in the hall adjoining, and it will be given 
 him. So much the Queen has said. 
 
 Constance is the Queen's dependent, having 
 been brought to the Court from poverty many 
 years before to brighten the Queen's lonely heart, 
 to feed her starved soul with love; and Constance 
 loves her. She would do nothing to contradict 
 that love or to belie its gratitude. She owes the 
 Queen "everything — life, fortune," and she must 
 be faithful, true, constancy in name and in deed. 
 
166 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 But in her love for Norbert she strives to be no 
 less. 
 
 Norbert, in the balcony, pleads to go to the 
 Queen at once for his reward; but Constance can- 
 not yield her consent. Instead, she urges her own 
 plea — silence yet awhile. It would be folly, ruin, 
 to ask the Queen now to sanction their love. But 
 he resumes: 
 
 Let it be now. Love! All my soul breaks forth. 
 How I do love you ! Give my love its way ! 
 A man can have but one life and one death, 
 One heaven, one hell. Let me fulfil my fate — 
 Grant me my heaven now ! Let me know you mine. 
 Prove you mine, write my name upon your brow. 
 Hold you and have you, and then die away. 
 If God please, with completion in my soul! 
 
 Has she not given him all — "passed into his 
 heart and beat its beats " — given all that was of 
 her to give away? She loves him so well that all 
 her spirit is his and takes sides with him against 
 herself — the woman — her selfish self; so well as 
 to ask that he think less of the world's approval, 
 "the courtly name" that will one day be his, the 
 "pride of circumstance," for which she cares so 
 little; that is not the way to win the crown of 
 crowns, which is love. This premature disclosure 
 will lose him both — love and the world. And 
 
 the world may cry, "So much for him — 
 The man predestined to the heap of crowns: 
 There goes his chance of winning one, at least!" 
 
 Norbert is surprised to find himself charged with 
 loving the world first and to the exclusion of every- 
 thing else. Yet Constance assures him that such 
 
IN A BALCONY 167 
 
 is her meaning, pleading that he love her "quite 
 as well. " Still he cannot understand. 
 
 Let her, then, convince him in another way. She 
 has said that he loves the world, and she will not 
 stand in the way of his ambitions. He loves the 
 world because he would tell the world his love of 
 her by asking her hand in marriage — asking it of 
 the Queen. (She gives him a rose to look at, while 
 she pleads.) He is at the height of his success — 
 the prime favorite of the Queen for a year's splen- 
 did achievement. Such "genius, patience, en- 
 ergy" is the admiration of all, and rightly. The 
 Queen expects to make lavish returns. "Name 
 your own reward," she says, expecting to give of 
 things that shall count supremely in the affairs of 
 the realm and the moulding of his own career. 
 Then comes this paltry request, the "very declara- 
 tion of which . . . will turn the scale" against him 
 and "neutralize" his work — the request for her 
 cousin's hand. That cousin's future and his are 
 the alternatives. She cannot let him choose to 
 ruin his future — to spoil his world. 
 
 But Norbert interposes. Has she not always 
 believed the Queen is generous — is just.? he asks, 
 putting the rose in his bosom, and clasping Con- 
 stance in his arms. 
 
 But she answers lightly with an air of superior 
 compassion for such ingenuousness. Thus men 
 show how little they know of women's hearts. 
 The Queen's generosity and justice are things that 
 Norbert has yet to learn to fathom. Constance 
 will instruct him. She gives a kiss, lets him hold 
 her hands. And why? Would he beheve the kiss 
 
168 STORIES FROM BROWTSTING 
 
 was given because he has a name at court? And 
 the hands for the gift of a jewel in each? Are kisses 
 and hands bestowed for such things? Apply the 
 case to the Queen. Why did you make common 
 cause with her? Only to gain access to a pretty 
 cousin? Will the Queen be pleased to discharge 
 her gratitude with such a gift? 
 
 Norbert maintains that, nevertheless, it would 
 display the Queen's justice to do so. K not gener- 
 ous, is she not just at least? 
 
 Yes, replies Constance, the Queen would be 
 just, but just in the Queen's own way. Norbert 
 has told her that he "served her for herself. " Very 
 well, then; and must she find that to serve her was 
 to serve himself? By his own showing, the Queen 
 is convinced of his ambitions, which must not be 
 jeopardized. Her sense of justice would seek to 
 express itself in that direction. Besides, her point 
 of view is a thing removed, detached, isolated — 
 lacking sympathy, reality, humanity. Consider 
 the magic dome in which she was born and brought 
 up, with all its wealth of artistic beauty and refin- 
 ing influences — the splendid pictures on the walls, 
 the painted life all round her; a father and mother, 
 — no real father and mother, after all; no true 
 friends among the crowds who circle her; never a 
 true lover among the many who stoop to her hand; 
 at last a husband, but he a lie like all the rest: no 
 more real life than the pictures Rubens painted; 
 all shadows, these, "more grandiose than the life, 
 only no life; mere cloth and surface-paint"; so one 
 feels while one admires. Real love she has never 
 known; how can she know it in others? She will 
 
IN A BALCONY 169 
 
 prefer her own poor sham presentment of it. How 
 else should she feel, having stood thus for "fifty 
 years the sole spectator in that gallery"? The 
 result will be that Norbert will lose footing, his 
 life will slip back, his petition scorned. 
 
 Norbert admits that the Queen lives and moves 
 in her own world, and that it could hardly be other- 
 wise. As for himself, he is "alive in every nerve 
 and every muscle, " and in touch with life at many 
 points. Though "she cannot love," the "good of 
 life is precious" to her as it is to him. Yet he, on 
 his side, disclaims all desire to rule. His "life's 
 good " looked at him from Constance's eyes, spoke 
 to him in Constance's voice, just "a year ago." 
 Constance outweighs all other values — all other 
 joys of earth. She is his supreme good. To get 
 her there was no other way than to serve the Queen. 
 Accordingly, the Queen he served. Not only that, 
 but he surpassed all other servants in the service 
 he gave. There were no promises, there was no 
 understanding; under the circumstances surely the 
 reward is for him to name. Well, suppose such a 
 thing exceeds the Queen's dreams; the Queen will 
 awake to its reality, its justice, its propriety. Does 
 she fancy that "men wear out their lives" in 
 "chasing such shades" as "love of power, high 
 fame, pure loyalty".'^ Very well; he has "a fancy 
 too." He worked because he wanted Constance 
 with his "soul" — no less. He therefore asks her 
 hand. He must lay his suit before the Queen at 
 once. 
 
 Constance reproves again, pleading her requital 
 of his love "from the very first" and the proof of it 
 
170 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 in their clandestine meetings — their meetings in 
 the balcony now "under death's spread hand" 
 when the folk within think them otherwise occu- 
 pied: Noxbert with ajffairs of state, and she with 
 *' festal robes." Let him think of her devotion and 
 the great joy of their secret love — 
 
 And then the sudden sleights, strange secrecies, 
 Complots inscrutable, deep telegraphs. 
 Long-planned chance-meetings, hazards of a look, — 
 
 and be patient. 
 
 A year of this compression's ecstasy 
 All goes for nothing 
 
 if Norbert goes to the Queen, giving this up for 
 the "old way, the open way, the world's" way; in 
 short, for "his way who beats and his who sells his 
 wife." Then, if the Queen grants the suit, the 
 gain at best will be that she will rid herself of both 
 at once and doom them to the common lot. The 
 "world's warrant" binds and hampers before it 
 will set free. But nature is nature without the 
 world's officious sanction. Must such sanction be? 
 Men may believe it, but "no woman's such a fool. " 
 Norbert's impatience is stimulated rather than 
 checked. He declares his preference for candor 
 and truthfulness. It is secrecy that hampers and 
 restricts — not the world's knowledge and ap- 
 proval. He has done much under the spur of her 
 secret love. How much more he will do in the 
 broad light of the world's knowledge — not for 
 "power's sake" or "fame's sake" but for hers! 
 
 Truth is the strong thing. Let man's life be true! 
 
IN A BALCONY 171 
 
 Love has been the truth of Norbert's life. Time 
 shall prove the rest ! 
 
 I choose to wear you stamped all over me. 
 Your name upon my forehead and my breast. 
 You, from the sword's blade to the ribbon's edge. 
 That men may see, all over, you in me — 
 That pale loves may die out of their pretence 
 In face of mine, shames thrown on love fall off. 
 Permit this, Constance ! Love has been so long 
 Subdued in me, eating me through and through. 
 That now 't is all of me and must have way. 
 
 No, after his long days of work, the "chaos of 
 intrigues, . . . surprises and delays," he would 
 ** liberate to beauty life's great need o' the beauti- 
 ful." The time is now, this beautiful evening, 
 when all is peace and harmony in the moonlight 
 without — in the cloudless sky, in the abandoned 
 trees, in "every flower and every weed" of the 
 garden, in the statues round about. Here is the 
 harmony of perfect candor. 
 
 Let us do so — aspire to live as these 
 
 In harmony with truth, ourselves being true! 
 
 Yet how, without perfect truth before the world, 
 can there be truth between man and woman .^ 
 
 A burst of music from the hall announces the 
 march-step for the dance. It is a signal for him to 
 be up and doing. He will claim her of the Queen, 
 now! "the world to witness, wonder and applaud. " 
 Their "flower of life breaks open. " There must be 
 "no delay." 
 
 Constance objects that to go now will only invite 
 ruin for both of them. Norbert does not under- 
 stand the Queen. Constance knows her thoroughly 
 
172 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 — "to the skin and bone. " It will be best to appeal 
 to the Queen's generosity, for she can be generous, 
 as generous as he. "There lived a lavish soul " once 
 in her "pain-twisted," care- wracked frame; but, 
 " debarred of healthy food, " that soul has starved. 
 She sits detached in her queenhood, shut out from 
 life and laughter, sun and youth. So it would be a 
 mistake to appeal to her generosity and tenderness; 
 for of tenderness none is left to appeal to; and her 
 generosity can be reached only through her sense 
 of justice. It was so when she took up Constance 
 as her kinswoman. Justice was the basis of that 
 action; and more was done "on that bare ground 
 than other loves would do on greater argument." 
 But Constance cannot repay in such cold coin, but 
 only in love; she will love her and help her. And 
 in love she cannot permit Norbert to exact of the 
 Queen mere justice, — that is, a mere "acquit- 
 tance of the past," — for "women hate a debt 
 as men a gift. " There is a more tactful, a more 
 gracious, way to the Queen's starved heart : it is to 
 proffer love and to declare that success is its own 
 recompense. That would be so, in a sense. "What 
 were it else.^" That will "loose her generosity," 
 which, then, of itself will offer the desired gift; and 
 the suitor then will be in the triumphant position of 
 
 Accepting just, in the poor cousin's hand. 
 Her value as the next thing to the Queen's — 
 Since none love Queens directly, none dare that. 
 And a thing's shadow or a name's mere echo 
 Suffices those who miss the name and thing! 
 
 It will be like picking up "just a ribbon she has 
 worn" to keep as a token of the Queen's loved self. 
 
IN A BALCONY 173 
 
 Let Norbert say he would have Constance as such 
 a token of the Queen, and the Queen will grant the 
 suit with queenly grace, whereas the merest hint 
 of exaction, the "least show" of extortion — Nor- 
 bert 's deprecating unbelief stops her a moment; 
 but she nods emphatically, — 
 
 You'll see! and when you have ruined both of us. 
 Dissertate on the Queen's mgratitude! 
 
 Norbert is half persuaded. It is not his way; he 
 has "more hope in truth" — in out-and-out truth- 
 fulness, in absolute frankness. Yet it "were 
 scarcely false" to say he loves the Queen. He will 
 go now and press his suit as Constance wishes. 
 Will she remain in the balcony till he returns .^ 
 
 Constance is overjoyed at his readiness, pleased 
 to think that he will be her "minister" as he has 
 been the Queen's. Yes, the plan is a good one; for 
 does she not "owe that withered woman every- 
 thing — life, fortune," even him.^ Stand on his 
 rights.? — why should he? What rights has he but 
 hers, when he holds her "rose," her "hands," her 
 ** heart " ? He has no rights but hers. 
 
 "How you know me ! " says Norbert, as he breaks 
 from her embrace. And she stands alone in the 
 balcony while the music of the dance comes out to 
 her from the brilliant hall within. 
 
 n 
 
 Norbert has hastened in among the dancers and 
 pressed forward to the throne. His coming was not 
 unexpected, as this was to be the time when he 
 
174 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 should declare his recompense. He sues as bidden, 
 affirming his great love for his Queen and pray- 
 ing for Constance's hand as a token, like a ribbon 
 the Queen has worn. But the Queen's amazement 
 knows no bounds. She rises and leaves the hall to 
 quiet her perturbed feelings — going to seek Con- 
 stance as one nearest her heart for sympathy and 
 guidance. The suit has succeeded only too well ! 
 
 The Queen finds Constance sequestered in the 
 balcony, as Norbert had said, and demands hotly, 
 **Is it so.^ Is it true or false?" Is it possible that 
 Norbert loves her — her very self — the Queen? 
 
 Constance, not guessing the true import of the 
 Queen's words, mistaking the cause of her agita- 
 tion, replies quietly, "True" — it is true. 
 
 The Queen breathes a prayer of gratitude to 
 heaven. Constance cannot understand. And again 
 the Queen begs, Is it true, all true, what Norbert 
 said? 
 
 "Why should you doubt it?" is Constance's 
 unsuspecting rejoinder. 
 
 Still, the Queen cannot realize it. She begs to be 
 made to see it. None see themselves as others see 
 them. Constance must see for her and give her 
 faith. The Queen had despaired of ever being loved, 
 had "abjured the hope" of it as truly as the palm 
 in the court without has abjured the thought of 
 "seeing Egypt from that plot" where it grows. 
 
 Constance begins to see the mistake. A sharp 
 exclamation betrays her great wonder and surpriscr 
 
 Yet the Queen, little suspecting the girl's true 
 feelings, protests, — 
 
 But it was so, Constance, it was so! 
 
 / 
 
IN A BALCONY 175 
 
 Men say, or perhaps only her fancies say, — 
 
 No love for you, too late for love — 
 Leave love to girls. Be queen: let Constance love! 
 
 To rule is a queen's part, not to love. Yes, so it 
 has been always; and so a face grows old, hair 
 grows gray, "poor arms" grow "lean" — but this 
 is not the end: love comes at last. 
 
 Constance affects not to understand, hiding her 
 concern. 
 
 The happier you are, says the Queen, if you do 
 not understand what gray hairs without love may 
 mean. Oh, the loneliness of a woman's heart with- 
 out love ! For women 
 
 There is no good of life but love — but love! 
 What else looks good, is some shade flung from love; 
 Love gilds it, gives it worth. 
 
 Let Constance remember that; — and remember, 
 too, how well the Queen loves her. 
 
 Constance answers simply, "I love you" — no 
 more. She would help, but cannot see her way. 
 
 The Queen goes on. This love at last has come 
 through Constance, she does believe; through Con- 
 stance whom she took to her heart "to keep it 
 warm when the last chance of love seemed dead. " 
 Is the Queen very old, after all.^^ No, she will believe 
 it true — what Norbert said — "it shall be true!" 
 
 Constance asks to know more, that she may 
 judge if it be "true or false." 
 
 Ah, but will not Constance after all find her 
 "grown unlovely quite. . . . Men want beauty still. " 
 
 Constance calms her: "And now you feel not 
 sure, you say?" 
 
176 
 
 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 At that the Queen begins to recount how Nor- 
 bert came — not unexpectedly, since many men 
 have come and gone. Yet what should his com- 
 ing matter? He was but "one young man the 
 more," and what could he see in a queen's "mar- 
 ble stateliness"? Yet how "gracious, youthful, 
 like a god" he was, and she, by that contrast "still 
 older" than before — 
 
 We two those dear extremes that long to touch. 
 
 Then how hard it was to see him absorbed in state 
 affairs in the "old way" and "for the old end — 
 interest," his own interest. And the Queen's sad 
 way from of old has been to receive homage like 
 a "marble statue all the time"; to be praised, 
 pointed at, exalted as better than life itself, and 
 yet to be left for the first real woman's smile, 
 the "first dancer's, gipsy's or street baladine's"! 
 Men have been respectful, careful, tactful, cold. 
 All have been of a kind. Not one to break from 
 the ranks and speak his heart; not one to write 
 "a vulgar letter all of love"; not one to catch her 
 hand and press it "like a hand." 
 
 There have been moments, if the sentinel 
 
 Lowering his halbert to salute the queen. 
 
 Had flung it brutally and clasped my knees, 
 
 I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul. 
 
 Constance cannot suppress her astonishment 
 and dismay: "Who could have comprehended.'^" 
 
 "Why, no one," admits the Queen: not a single 
 soul, except Norbert, who has. And yet it may be 
 all a mistake. Will not Constance assure her? Will 
 she not "tell the truth"? 
 
IN A BALCONY 177 
 
 Constance waits to tell it. She waits to know 
 all. 
 
 The Queen reviews Norbert's great efficiency, 
 his splendid achievement within the year. What 
 could have been the motive of so wondrous a suc- 
 cess.'* Not love of the work itself; "souls need a 
 finer aim to light and lure!" He must have "loved 
 — loved somebody "; and that some one, the Queen 
 truly had believed was Constance. 
 
 Constance exclaims her surprise; not that she 
 would hide the truth, but rather because her own 
 estimate of the Queen's discernment is shown to be 
 false. 
 
 But the Queen mistakes the words — the tone; 
 and for answer, gives her reasons: It seemed that 
 Constance's face was ever in Norbert's eye; that 
 Constance herseK "approved his love" and both 
 "were in intelligence"; all signs at meeting in the 
 garden and the balcony bore witness. Besides, "it 
 seemed so true, so right, so beautiful . . . that all 
 this work should have been done by him not for 
 the vulgar hope of recompense, but that at last" 
 he might "claim his due reward" of his Queen, 
 saying, "Give her hand and pay me so. " 
 
 And I (O Constance, you shall love me now!) 
 I thought, surmounting all the bitterness, 
 — "And he shall have it. I will make her blest. 
 My flower of youth, my woman's self that was. 
 My happiest woman's self that might have been ! 
 These two shall have their joy and leave me here." 
 
 The surprise of this confession is overwhelming. 
 Truly Constance has misjudged the Queen's gen- 
 erosity. She can only murmur, "Thanks!" 
 
178 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 The Queen continues, engrossed in her own train 
 of thought. The gift was on her lips when Norbert 
 "burst in upon" her, and she turned to hear "a 
 inere calm statement of his just desire for payment 
 of his labor. " But instead there came — blinding, 
 deafening, to her eyes and ears — avowal of his 
 love for her, his Queen — "from the first step to 
 the last " 'twas her love he craved. 
 
 Constance, believing the Queen's headlong de- 
 sire has caused her to deceive herself, protests: 
 
 You hardly saw, scarce heard him speak 
 Of love: what if you should mistake? 
 
 The Queen rejects the thought. There was no 
 mistake, no — and there shall be none! His man- 
 ner, his words, attested his meaning. Constance, 
 he said, was the Queen's own reflection, was like 
 the ribbon the Queen "had worn. 
 
 » 
 
 He kissed my hand, he looked into my eyes. 
 And love, love came at end of every phrase. 
 
 "Love is begun . . . the rest is easy." Constance 
 must help her. She will rely on Constance to teach 
 her how to keep what she has won. Gray hairs do 
 not count; her hair was "early gray." Youth will 
 return, and joy can make hair brown, cheeks red 
 again; nor is all her beauty gone; she is still beau- 
 tiful; the men who have painted her have said so 
 — the "last French painter did. " But though men 
 flatter, Constance will not. Constance must help, 
 requiting a long trust and love; and Norbert is not 
 your lover after all. Plainly those looks he gave 
 you were intended for his Queen; for did he not say 
 that Constance was the reflection of the Queen's 
 
IN A BALCONY 179 
 
 own self? "You have not been mistaking words or 
 looks? " Besides, he is "not such a paragon" to 
 younger women who may choose among a thou- 
 sand lovers. Something in the girl's look wakes 
 suspicion in the Queen. 
 
 Speak the truth ! 
 You know you never named his name to me: 
 You know, I cannot give him up — ah God, 
 Not up now, even to you ! 
 
 Constance seeks to calm her. 
 
 But yes, yes, she must admit it — what a con- 
 trast does the moon reveal between her face and 
 Constance's ! Beauty gone, yet is not her soul there 
 still? — her soul, her very self? Is not that worth 
 something? It is so with women who love great- 
 ness in men, irrespective of their years. 
 
 Young beauties love old poets who can love — 
 Why should not he, the poems in my soul. 
 The passionate faith, the pride of sacrifice. 
 Life-long, death-long? I throw them at his feet. 
 
 See the fountain in the courtyard. Who cares to 
 know what shape it has, whether a "Triton's or a 
 Nymph's, " when it pours its foam lavishly, making 
 "rainbows all around"? The floods of love the 
 Queen will pour shall hide herself. "Cannot men 
 love love?" Men tell you "that 'tis not beauty 
 makes the lasting love," but they like "soul" and 
 "phantasy" and "novelty even" and — "they will 
 love a queen . . . will not, does not — he?" 
 
 Constance calmly interposes an obstacle — the 
 Queen's marriage. Though it be but a "name," 
 it is "still a bond." Then there is the great differ- 
 ence in rank. How can he of the noble soul aspire 
 
180 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 to be the Queen's "favorite," with "shame and 
 all"? 
 
 The Queen laughs at these difficulties. They are 
 nothing and shall have an easy solution and dissi- 
 pate as quickly as the mists "before the moon" 
 that shines above them. The "enforced calamity 
 of youth" shall be retrieved: the hateful marriage 
 shall be dissolved. 
 
 Constance, almost fiercely, bids the Queen pause 
 and think about what she says. 
 
 A light laugh from the Queen — she is thankful 
 for this opportunity to teach the rights of love — 
 to display a soul to match that face of Constance's. 
 The world has indeed remarked her burdens and 
 her patience under them; and the world will now 
 count her blameless in taking her own way. Provi- 
 dence sets her free. Besides, it is for her subjects' 
 own good that she should cut that hateful knot. 
 Yes, she will come into her own. The future gives 
 her strength. 
 
 Greatly perplexed, Constance can say little. 
 She must "consider. It is all too strange. " 
 
 But the Queen is sure that all is as it should be. 
 Let Constance follow her example and love a lover. 
 Constance is "young, beautiful," and "will have 
 many lovers." She should love one with "light 
 hair, not hair like Norbert's," to suit hers; love 
 him unreservedly and "simply for his very self." 
 So she herself loves Norbert. And "He loves me," 
 she cries passionately. 
 
 " He shall," is Constance's, laconic reply. 
 
 "Let us have one heart," returns the Queen 
 joyously. She will come to Constance often for 
 
IN A BALCONY 181 
 
 counsel; and in turn will tell her all that Norbert 
 says, all that he does. And the Queen and Norbert 
 will speak of Constance's lovers, and match her 
 love according to her "beauty's worth. " She shall 
 choose one, and he shall be procured. For herself, 
 her heart has been lightened; now she must go. 
 She will pace about the rooms with the crown of 
 her new joy, wear it before the world, and then 
 be back to tell how well it feels. 
 
 How soon a smile of God can change the world! 
 How we are made for happiness — how work 
 Grows play, adversity a winning fight ! — 
 
 under the smile of love. The future will recompense 
 the dreary past. Many years remain: "God has 
 been very good." Constance must wait for her 
 return — wait to be told how sweet it is to love — 
 as "different from dreams" about it and the 
 "mind's cold calm estimate of bliss" as the "stone 
 statues" in the courtyard are different from "flesh 
 and blood. " And looking up in the moonlight of 
 lovers, she exclaims. 
 
 The comfort thou hast caused mankind, God's moon! 
 
 As the Queen leaves, another burst of dance- 
 music from the hall strikes the ear of Constance 
 left alone in the balcony. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Norbert reappears in the balcony to announce 
 the result of his suit to the Queen. True, he has 
 received no definite encouragement, the Queen 
 
182 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 having left the hall before reply. But her Majesty 
 may have her answer ready now, and there is little 
 time to spare. He has "but one minute and one 
 word" to say before he goes back to her. He has 
 come to tell Constance, as he had engaged to do. 
 
 Constance, for her part, has decided upon a new 
 course, which will yet be the old course — the 
 circumstances only being changed. The Queen's 
 astounding revelation has amazed and stunned 
 her. At first she did not know what to do save in 
 some way to maintain her fidelity — her constancy 
 to the Queen. This had been her desire from the 
 very first; this is her desire now. From the very 
 first, too, her resolve was to keep absolute trust 
 with Norbert and live up to the high demands of 
 her great devotion to him. She loved the Queen, 
 she loves her now. Her love for Norbert could not 
 permit him at first to imperil his future for her 
 sake; but now that she finds herself so completely 
 mistaken in judging the Queen's nature — now 
 that she finds that Norbert, not she, was right — 
 she resolves to accept Norbert's course of perfect 
 frankness. She will tell him all, serving the Queen 
 in doing so. On the other hand, she will give 
 herself to him unreservedly, convinced that the 
 gift is his due. She will place the choice of his 
 happiness wholly within his power. He must now 
 choose between the alternatives which her blunder- 
 ing has forced upon him — the world, the material 
 fruition of his successes, and the Queen on the 
 one side, — and pure love with the renunciation 
 of his career, on the other. She, the dependent, is, 
 as she feared from the first, pitted against Norbert's 
 
IN A BALCONY 183 
 
 name and fame. Though the fight prove a losing 
 one, she will act the part of constancy to the end. 
 
 "I am yours, Norbert," are her first words at 
 his approach. 
 
 "Yes, mine, "says Norbert, not suspecting theii 
 new significance. 
 
 She explains that she has not been wholly his 
 "till now." She had kept something back. Now 
 she gives herself wholly; she is unreservedly his. 
 
 His acceptance is neutralized with a shade of 
 perplexity. 
 
 She will reassure him. She is his own, truly. 
 Instead of giving herself bit by bit, instead of 
 doling herself out "coin after coin," to prolong to 
 a distant ending the joy of giving and receiving, 
 she chooses "the simpler" way of giving "all at 
 once." For good or ill she yields herself wholly, 
 letting him decide now how he will use the gift and 
 thrive. 
 
 The gift is sealed with a kiss. Norbert clasps her, 
 thanking God. 
 
 From this high ground, says Constance, they 
 will "look on through years." Happiness so per- 
 fect cannot endure forever. They cannot "kiss, 
 a second day like this." That would be too good, 
 too perfect, for this bad, imperfect world. (Her in- 
 most thoughts revert to the danger of their clan- 
 destine love — to death's hand which she has 
 seen spread over the balcony from the beginning 
 — but she hints no more of this to her lover.) 
 
 No, "with this day's heat" they "shall go on 
 through years of cold," corrects Norbert, confi- 
 dently. 
 
184 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 She assents; though a melancholy, a vague dread 
 of something unforeseen, saddens her look. Nor- 
 bert will be quickened and sustained by the "first 
 glow" of this day; he will not brood over it in inef- 
 fectual sorrow when the glow is gone and love is 
 dead. "Yes, love lives best in its effect"; and hers, 
 "full in its own life, yearns to live" in his. 
 
 Norbert answers fervently that he will prove 
 his devotion day by day through the long years 
 ahead, finding this day's love full enough to stock 
 each minute of the days to come. 
 
 Constance is eager to know how. 
 
 Does she mean, how he will order his life to 
 prove it .^ That is easily told : 
 
 I count life just a stuff 
 To try the soul's strength on, educe the man. 
 Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve. 
 As with the body — he who hurls a lance 
 Or heaps up stone on stone, shows strength alike: 
 So must I seize and task all means to prove 
 And show this soul of mine, you crown as yours. 
 And justify us both. 
 
 Constance in rapt admiration of the noble 
 beauty of his word and thought, and perhaps 
 thinking too of her own dependence and poverty 
 and longing that they might both be independent of 
 the Queen, wishes that Norbert could "write books, 
 paint pictures." Such words and thoughts were 
 worth enshrining. To "write or paint" such 
 visions would recompense one's poverty; then, one 
 could pity the rich. r 
 
 That, says Norbert, would be to take the shadow 
 for the reality — to love one's painting or writing, 
 
IN A BALCONY 185 
 
 and not one's mistress. Life is best; and their own 
 life is best for them as it is. Poets and painters Hve 
 detached and aloof, in order the better to see their 
 subjects. "Let us be the thing they look at." He 
 could not bring himself to make her beauty current 
 for others even in art. She is his in life. They are 
 realities. Let Rubens there — Norbert motions 
 toward the splendid pictures in the lighted hall 
 within — let Rubens paint them ! 
 
 Constance sees how deeply in love with action 
 her lover is. Any other career than that which lies 
 in the thick of life would be beyond his sympathies 
 and capabilities. But the thought finds utterance 
 only in two soft words of sure conviction and self- 
 effacing resolution: "So, best!" 
 
 Norbert rejoices in their community of interests 
 — in her sympathy " with life, with action, power, 
 success. " There is no time to change his occupa- 
 tion. Men must be led; they must be inspired. 
 The task is for some one "through ways of work 
 appointed by the world." The gift of creation is 
 not his, but the gift of leadership is; the gift, that 
 is, of finding, uniting, and executing the people's 
 wills. In that spirit he began at first. In that 
 spirit he achieved the year's success, of which to- 
 night marks the crown and fruition in the Queen's 
 gift of Constance. What if to-night, too, see the 
 birth of a new power from the "instincts of the 
 heart that teach the head"! What if the people 
 see it and follow it to new heights which yet he 
 only sees! She gave him the strength with her 
 kiss. His hand is "plastic" to mould "this mass 
 of men"; she makes his "muscles iron" to guide 
 
186 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 them. To-night is the crown of the first issue — the 
 first triumph; another lies distinct in sight. He 
 shall mould their wills as the potter moulds a vase 
 " to the curl of the god's lip, " — a vase with fair 
 Graces "rounded" on it in a "dance" that men 
 shall "recognize with turbulent applause and 
 laughs of heart"! 
 
 So triumph ever shall renew itself; 
 Ever shall end in efforts higher yet. 
 Ever begin ... 
 
 Constance catches fire from his fire — interrupts. 
 And shall she help — always? 
 
 For answer he seizes her in his arms, saying, 
 "Thus!" 
 
 Thus Constance feels her resolution strength- 
 ened. If this night's crown of love will work such 
 results for her beloved, his career will be safe — 
 even with the Queen. The words struggle to her 
 lips; but before they are said, and before she can 
 tell him, as she had determined, of the Queen's 
 passion, the Queen herself enters in her exulting 
 search for Norbert, or perhaps with some new con- 
 fidence for Constance's ear. 
 
 IV 
 
 The lovers start at the Queen's sudden appear- 
 ance. But Constance's presence of mind is perfect. 
 She has done all in her power for their common 
 happiness. Now she will take the only course left. 
 Since "action, power, success" are Norbert's ideals, 
 and are indispensable to his happiness — as she 
 has just been apprised — he must fulfill his ideals 
 
IN A BALCONY 187 
 
 and have his happiness; and she will help him. 
 Thus, too, she will be true to the Queen. 
 
 This determination finds no direct utterance, 
 but it colors her whispered address to the Queen: 
 "Hist, madam! So have I performed my part." 
 Then, turning to Norbert with affected coldness, 
 she raises her voice for both to hear. "You see 
 your gratitude's true decency, Norbert.^" What! 
 "a little slow in seeing it!" Then begin to see it 
 now, that payment may be the sooner over! Yes, 
 they have kissed, as the Queen has seen; but 
 "what's a kiss".'^ A mere trifle sometimes; now, 
 but the natural sign of a decent gratitude. 
 
 Norbert's voice, surprised, reproachful, ques- 
 tioning, falters "Constance.'^" 
 
 But Constance's resolve knows no undoing. She 
 will play the part out. Promptly she opens her 
 lips with the same coldness. Must she repeat the 
 lesson, and must he have a "witness" to his "dul- 
 ness".'^ Will he not understand what she has been 
 saying "these ten minutes long".? Does he falter 
 now at the critical moment .^^ Would he deny the 
 role that he the "young handsome man" has 
 taken, being "pleased to fall in love with one be- 
 yond, so very far beyond him, as he says," and 
 "so hopelessly in love that but to speak would 
 prove him mad"? Would he renounce his judi- 
 cious scheming to make "some insignificant good 
 soul," like herseK, "his friend, adviser, confidantr 
 and very stalking-horse to cover him in following 
 after what he dares not face".? 
 
 With studied impatience added to the pretended 
 coldness, Constance continues. Then, when such 
 
188 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 a gentleman's end is gained, and he finds that she 
 whom he "dares not face has loved him first" (here 
 she appeals to the Queen for support), and that 
 his hope is fulfilled even beyond **his wildest 
 dream," and that all wish him well, — especially 
 she, the confidant, *' who brought the same 
 about, " — at such a moment of supremest joy it 
 is the part of the "merest gentleman" not to 
 "start rudely from the stalking-horse," the me- 
 dium, the instrument, and dismiss her, forget 
 her, "show his back unmannerly." Rather is it 
 his cue to show "a liberal heart" and acknowl- 
 edge that "a tingling time of hope" was theirs in 
 common; acknowledge that so the "confidant, the 
 Constance, served not ill"; acknowledge that, 
 though he will forget the instrument "in due time" 
 ("as she herself bids " him do) still that instrument 
 "has rights, the first thanks go to her, " 
 
 The first good praise goes to the prosperous tool. 
 And the first — which is the last — rewarding kiss. 
 
 Norbert cannot take her words seriously. 
 
 "Constance, it is a dream — ah, see, you smile!" 
 
 With renewed fortitude Constance persists. She 
 turns resolutely to the Queen. Norbert's task has 
 been "properly performed." Now, herself, she 
 faces the Queen to finish hers and to "do justice" 
 on her side. It is true that Norbert has loved the 
 Queen — loved her "long and well." But he 
 could not hope to tell her so; and Constance has 
 served to prove that the Queen's soul was "accessi- 
 ble," leading his thoughts on, drawing them "to 
 
IN A BALCONY 189 
 
 their place," keeping love "constant toward its 
 natural aim." Her duty has been the duty of 
 fidelity and constancy. And the Queen now will 
 "stoop," meet them "half-way," and spare their 
 "fears. " It will be royally done and like the Queen. 
 Norbert thanks her, and Constance herself joins 
 her thanks with his. She yields him with "full 
 heart, " — sincerely and wholly, — her act being 
 its own reward. May both be happy, and the 
 Queen especially so in the thought that she alone 
 on earth can "do all for him"; can do "much more 
 than a mere heart which though warm is not" as 
 "useful in its warmth as the silk vesture of a queen." 
 May the Queen "fold that around him gently, 
 tenderly." As "for him, — he knows his own 
 part, " and will do it well. 
 
 Norbert, so far as he can understand this calcu- 
 lated speech, regards it as a "jest," the result of a 
 mad and foolish "wager. " But whether Constance 
 made the wager or only accepted it, at least she 
 loses by it. 
 
 Sincerity still speaks in Constance's voice and 
 manner. Facing the Queen, she renews her plea 
 with sustained earnestness: Norbert speaks thus 
 from an excess of diffidence; and, turning to him, 
 she begs him not to shrink now; for now she yields 
 her whole right in him to the Queen. With the 
 Queen he shall "go put in practice the great 
 schemes" he teems with and "follow the career" 
 that otherwise would be closed to him. She only 
 can be the inspiration to all his creative powers. 
 Again addressing the Queen, Constance implores 
 her to say the right word now — to say that she 
 
190 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 loves him, say it frankly, and break down his fears, 
 which are fears, in very fact. Thus only will he be 
 convinced. She knows the man, and speaks of him 
 truly. 
 
 But the Queen keeps silent, looking gravely at 
 Norbert, who, with a note of bitterness in his 
 words, says that, for his part, he knows "the 
 woman somewhat, " and confesses that he thought 
 she would have "jested better." "She begins to 
 overcharge her part." He gravely awaits the 
 Queen's pleasure. Jesting aside, where is his 
 reward? 
 
 The Queen replies with equal seriousness. A 
 shade of tolerance for Constance, the "wild girl," 
 colors the caressing tones of her voice. Constance's 
 "eccentric speech and variable mirth" sound as 
 strange to her ear as to Norbert 's. Yet Constance 
 "may still be right." She, the Queen, will con- 
 firm what still "appears a dream" even to herself; 
 yet it "is true." Yes, Norbert's declaration of 
 love and devotion a little while ago in the hall was 
 no surprise to her, but "justified a warmth felt 
 long before." "From the first" she loved him. 
 His courage is a help to hers. He did well to speak 
 as he did on this night that crowns his twelve- 
 month's toil. His avowal, when it came, "stirred 
 no novel sense" in her, because she had discerned 
 his heart long before he revealed it. His great zeal 
 for his work attested it, without the words he 
 ventured a moment ago. The night has been 3 
 strange one, but has a "happy ending" — in his 
 love which hers meets. So let it be ! As he chooses 
 her, so she chooses him. 
 
IN A BALCONY 191 
 
 Norbert finds in the Queen's words the same 
 meaning that he saw in Constance's. They have 
 joined in subjecting him to a great test. Confi- 
 dently, then, he meets the Queen's ardor with an 
 equal fervor: The Queen, he says, chooses worthily, 
 and he "will not be unworthy" of her "esteem." 
 He does love her; he will meet her nature, now that 
 he sees it clearly. She is justified in her daring ex- 
 periment; though none but a queen had ventured 
 to make it. He rejoices in the test before she grants 
 to his arms the "dearest," "beauteousest" and 
 "best of women. " Again, as in the hall, he pledges 
 his "devotion to the uttermost." Yet even she, 
 the Queen, cannot create in him the love their 
 Constance does. It is not the superb magnolia- 
 bell in the courtyard yonder, but the "small eye- 
 flower nearer to the ground," that "invites a cer- 
 tain insect. " So, turning to Constance, he concludes, 
 "I take this lady." 
 
 Constance puts out her arms in wild protest and 
 checks his advance, whispering that that would 
 be the worst of all mistakes. The test — the 
 "trap" — was not the Queen's but hers. And 
 aloud, to the Queen, she says, "He is too cunning, 
 madam ! " 
 
 "You, was it, Constance.f^" demands Norbert 
 sternly. Then, in truth, he finds it difficult to 
 pardon; only "the grace of this divinest hour" 
 which makes her his can persuade him to forgive. 
 The Queen has his devotion; but she knows only 
 his brain; and, knowing it, she may "experiment" 
 upon his heart — and learn more of that by the 
 result. But — and here the old tenderness returns 
 
192 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 — for Constance who knows him, who "so long" 
 has told his "heart-beats over, and held his life" 
 in her "white hands" — for Constance "it is not 
 well " to be so cruel. 
 
 Constance brushes the plea aside lightly. As she 
 has said, even "the heart-beats" and life itself are 
 for the Queen's sake. 
 
 Norbert's cheek flushes red at the rebuff. It is 
 "enough. " What "test" is this.f^ He had not dared 
 to do the like. He could not so have insulted "the 
 meanest woman in the world," had that woman 
 loved him and proved her love. He could return to 
 Constance the soul she offered, and keep his own; 
 but, take the quivering soul you offer me, but 
 which I cannot use, and "give it to some playful 
 friend" for the trifle he will requite me with — 
 could I do that? cries Norbert. Could 
 
 I tempt a woman, to amuse a man, 
 
 That two may mock her heart if it succumb? 
 
 No: fearing God and standing 'neath his heaven, 
 
 I would not dare insult a woman so, 
 
 Were she the meanest woman in the world. 
 
 And he, I cared to please, ten emperors ! 
 
 Constance trembles under the terrible blow and 
 can find voice for reproach in only one dear word, 
 "Norbert!" 
 
 Norbert 's indignation permits no interruption: 
 
 I love once as I live but once. 
 What case is this to think or talk about? • 
 I love you. Would it mend the case at all 
 If such a step as this killed love in me? 
 Your part were done: account to God for it! 
 But mine — could murdered love get up again. 
 
IN A BALCONY 193 
 
 And kneel to whom you please to designate. 
 And make you mirth? It is too horrible. 
 You did not know this, Constance? now you know 
 That body and soul have each one life, but one: 
 And here's my love, here, living, at your feet. 
 
 Livid anger glows in the face of the Queen; and 
 Constance's poor mistaken scheme of constancy 
 has broken down again. She flies to Norbert, 
 beseeching him to listen to "one more last word," 
 protesting that her "jest" was not "earnest." 
 
 Norbert, for his part, can discern no jest. Where 
 is the laughter that should go with it.^ And why 
 "this horror that grows palpable" in the face of 
 the Queen.? 
 
 He turns to address the Queen, who leans upon 
 the balcony for support: Has he "done iir'.f^ Has 
 he not spoken the truth.? What else could he have 
 done.? Was it not the Queen's "test" to try him 
 and find what his "love for Constance meant"? 
 Her Majesty herself must be the first to approve 
 that he "should choose thus"; since thus even a 
 beggar who refuses in scorn to sell his child is ap- 
 proved for the nobility which speaks through his 
 rags. But Norbert stops suddenly, seeing the 
 Queen's eyes fixed on Constance with a panther's 
 glare, and Constance gazing steadily back at her. 
 
 In that encounter Norbert sees the world crum- 
 bling to ruin. Yet Constance remains; and in her 
 features he reads the assurance that outweighs 
 every other good. She did not, in this night's "wild 
 whirl of things, sell " him whose soul was her "soul of 
 souls for any price." \Miat could have prompted 
 her to this vain act of self-sacrifice.? Was it a "mad 
 
194 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 trial " to exceed him in love? If so, still, though he 
 "might curse, " he loves her. He is love "and can- 
 not change: love's self" he casts at her feet! 
 
 The Queen steadies herself and goes slowly out, 
 anger and vengeance flaming from her eyes. 
 
 In the possession of each other the lovers re- 
 nounce the world. Death's spread hand is closing 
 upon them; but having attained what "men have 
 died" to get, they fear not the most the Queen 
 can do, being "past harm now" and leaning "on 
 the breast of God." Constance rejoices to find 
 Norbert so far above the ways of men as not to be 
 tempted even "with a crown"; but Norbert feels 
 that their bliss, being "too perfect," "must end 
 here." 
 
 Within the hall the music has ceased at the 
 sharp command of the infuriated Queen. To the 
 fated balcony there comes the sound of a "meas- 
 ured heavy tread. " Doors open, letting out a blaze 
 of light. The guard approaches for the arrest; and 
 the doomed lovers kiss. 
 
JAMES LEE'S WIFE 
 
 The Transcending Power of Love 
 
 The season is summer at the point of change to 
 autumn. The place is a desolate spot on the coast 
 of France, windswept, rocky. There stands a cot- 
 tage of four rooms in a field now growing red and 
 rough; soon it will yield scarcely a blade for the pil- 
 fering rabbit or the magpie. A fig tree furls its 
 leaves in the yard amid olives and vines. Beyond 
 them lies the sea, stretching in stripes like a snake 
 — to the leeward, olive-pale; to the weather side, 
 black, spotted white with the wind. Nearby is a 
 cliff, where sometimes the wind plays, ailing; and 
 round about are rocks, thrust out seaward, like 
 huge knees and feet, bones of the brown old earth 
 
 For the ripple to run over in its mirth. 
 
 Within the cottage the hearth is blazing with fire- 
 wood, flotsam and jetsam of oak and pine from 
 shipwrecks 
 
 Long ago 
 Befallen this bitter coast of France; 
 
 and the fire on a stormy night sends a shaft of 
 ruddy cheer through the casement of the warm 
 house to toiling sailors who. 
 
 Drenched and stark. 
 From their bark 
 
196 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 eye the peaceful glow in envy. Conspicuous among 
 the furniture of the room is a drawing board and 
 the plaster cast of a perfect hand. 
 
 Such is the setting of the poem; and its mood is 
 organically consistent with it, since out of the 
 mood and its theme the scenery has, in all likeli- 
 hood, been evolved. It is a mood of bleak sadness, 
 induced in a married woman, presumably of mid- 
 dle age or more, who speaks of herself, though not 
 in abandoned self-pity, as faded, with hair grown 
 into "coarse hanks" and skin like the "bark of a 
 gnarled tree." 
 
 Estrangement has come between James Lee and 
 his wife; and but a single day has served to bring it. 
 The sky 's deranged. The summer season of their 
 love has stopped. This she realizes one day as she 
 stands musing by the window. Outside, summer is 
 just changing to autumn. The same change, she 
 feels, is taking place in her married life, though her 
 own heart is true, and hungering for love. 
 
 II 
 
 Again, one day by the fireside aglow with drift- 
 wood, the estrangement assails her, and more bit- 
 terly than before. With wood from shipwreck their 
 fireside is warmed, and the curse of it now strikes 
 into their very lives. To sailors eying the case- 
 ment from out on the sea, the ruddy glow of the , 
 hearth speaks of safety and cheer. God help them 
 at their need and spare them this fate, worse 
 
JAMES LEE'S WIFE 197 
 
 still ! For worse by far is it for some ship to rust and 
 rot in port 
 
 All through worms i' the wood which crept. 
 Gnawed our hearts out while we slept. 
 
 And ruefully she asks of herself. Have other lovers 
 suffered our lot? Who were the former occupants 
 of the house? and were they, too, shipwrecked in 
 their love? 
 
 Ill 
 
 Another day, and she stands in the doorway, and 
 the sinister look of the sea ruffled by the wind fore- 
 bodes that 
 
 "Good fortune departs, and disaster's behind." 
 
 Dried and curled are the leaves of the fig tree, 
 where lingers no glimpse of summer's golden fruit; 
 the vines are withered — how they "writhe in 
 rows, each impaled on its stake" ! And her " heart 
 shrivels up," her "spirit shrinks." The rough field 
 with its scant yield of grass reflects the chill and 
 desolation of their love. But why must cold 
 spread? Why the spirit change? Why cannot the 
 soul inherit its Creator's power and transfuse with 
 life the cold of the world? Then not age or winter 
 should estrange whom youth and summer brought 
 together. 
 
 IV 
 
 Out on the beach goes James Lee's wife to rea- 
 son in quiet awhile — to reason the right and the 
 wrong. At first they wanted each other's love — 
 
198 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 so much is true. What has wrought the change? 
 She took him to be a whole world to her — but love 
 glorifies "what was mere earth before." 
 
 You were just weak earth, I knew: 
 With much in you waste, with many a weed. 
 And plenty of passions run to seed. 
 
 But a Httle good grain too. 
 
 As such she took him, awaiting the rich harvest of 
 the after-years — a harvest which never came. 
 
 What did the failure prove? 
 The man was my whole world, all the same, 
 With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame. 
 
 And, either or both, to love. 
 
 But her fault, she realizes, is too persistent a pa- 
 tience. She waits too well and wearies him. It's 
 all grown "an old story" now. Her wisdom is too 
 serious, she knows; his way is pleasure. The mar- 
 riage bond galls him. Then let her bid him fare- 
 well. His fancy may turn to "a laughing eye," — 
 content itself with that, — and why should it care 
 for more? 
 
 V 
 
 Time passes, and she loiters alone on the cliff. 
 The turf she leans against, dead to the roots, a 
 rock left dry by the receding tide, become, like all 
 else around her, symbols of her lovelorn life. Flat 
 lies the rock, like an anvil's face, with no sign of 
 weed or shell from the intimate sea. It is ice at the 
 core; it lies like "death's altar" on the lonely 
 beach. Behold a sudden change! A fairy wand 
 touches the turf to life. 
 
JAMES LEE'S WIFE 199 
 
 On the turf, sprang gay 
 
 With his films of blue. 
 
 No cricket, I'll say, 
 
 But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too. 
 
 The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight. 
 
 Real fairy, with wings all right. 
 
 On the rock, too, falls a transforming light from 
 the two red wings of a butterfly 
 
 Like a drop of fire 
 From a brandished torch. 
 
 No turf, no rock; in their ugly stead. 
 See, wonderful blue and red! 
 
 And she questions, "Is it not so with the minds of 
 men?" Love, settling unawares, transfigures all 
 things ! 
 
 VI 
 
 James Lee's wife sits under the cliiff, reading from 
 a book of poems. The poet's theme is of the ailing 
 wind striving to give expression to itself. Is it the 
 spirit of some wronged thing that entrusts its 
 cause to him? — a tale of 
 
 faith, requited 
 With falsehood, — love, at last aware 
 Of scorn, — hopes, early blighted? 
 
 Such tone of pathos needs no human tongue. Would 
 men "go mad without a moan" if they could un- 
 burden themselves in such a sigh? Which, of all 
 love's sighs, would this wind's sigh mock? That 
 from the starved lips of a nun early bereft of love, 
 and now stretched on her pallet of straw, nails 
 indenting the clammy palm, the body all mute and 
 
200 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 shrunken in death? Or is this moaning wind no 
 mocker of futile grief, but a would-be comforter? 
 So, says the poet, there came, as he was sadly pac- 
 ing the sands one morning, a hound that refused 
 the food he offered, and, whining up at him, only 
 wanted to lick his hand. 
 
 These, she reflects, are a young man's fancies on 
 the meaning of disappointment. His path, clearly, 
 is untried; his zeal is the learner's. With the confi- 
 dence of youth he flings you lessons on the meaning 
 of failure and disgrace, his own undoubted triumph 
 for eternity seeming so manifest. Can inexperience 
 and instinct read the riddle? No; 
 
 for kind 
 Calm years, exacting their accompt 
 Of pain, mature the mind; 
 
 and some bright morning he will hear the wind 
 softly murmuring among the vines, "Here is the 
 change beginning," and will know that there is a 
 limit to beauty and a limit to bliss — that 
 
 Nothing can be as it has been before — 
 
 better, perhaps, but not the same. 
 
 Why this is the old woe o' the world; 
 Tune, to whose rise and fall we live and die. 
 
 And the lesson it speaks is courage, progress, not 
 despair : 
 
 Rejoice that man is hurled 
 From change to change unceasingly. 
 His soul's wings never furled! 
 
 Does the lesson mean probation, too? Who knows? 
 
 God does: endure his act! 
 
JAMES LEE'S WIFE 201 
 
 Only, for man, nothing endures ; and how bitter it 
 is that he cannot have graven on his soul "one 
 fair good wise thing just as he grasped it"! To 
 himself comes death's wave: but first, alas! time 
 washes o'er and sweeps away all that he 'd sink 
 to save." 
 
 VII 
 
 So much thought out ! And now this autumn 
 morning, here among the rocks, the brown old 
 earth wears a new smile of revelation, 
 
 Listening the while, where on the heap of stones 
 The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. 
 
 Be of good cheer. That is the doctrine of life's trial. 
 Love is not for selfish gain, not for clear gain, but 
 for development. 
 
 Make the low nature better by your throes! 
 Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! 
 
 VIII 
 
 James Lee's wife is seated before the drawing 
 board in her workroom, copying from the plaster 
 cast of a hand, "live once, dead long ago." It is a 
 "perfect thing," this plaster cast. From its delicate 
 beauty one could fancy how the artist 
 
 Looked and loved, learned and drew. 
 Drew and learned and loved again. 
 
 Till beauty mounted into his brain, 
 
 and on the finger of that faultless hand that all his 
 genius could not copy perfectly, he placed a ring — 
 
202 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 fancy's eye can still discern it on the ringless model 
 there. Lifeless fingers, a cold clay cast! She had 
 sent away the little peasant girl with the poor 
 coarse hand and had turned to this to draw. Did 
 she do well.f^ Would Da Vinci have done so — he 
 
 " Who threw the faulty pencil by. 
 And years instead of hours employed. 
 Learning the veritable use 
 Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath 
 Lines and hue of the outer sheath,'* 
 
 that he might perchance reproduce one motive of 
 those physical powers 
 
 "that make 
 The poorest coarsest human hand 
 An object worthy to be scanned 
 A whole Hfe long for their sole sake"? 
 
 She hears him laugh her woes to scorn. 
 
 "The fool forsooth is all forlorn 
 Because the beauty, she thinks best. 
 Lived long ago or was never born, — 
 Because no beauty bears the test 
 In this rough peasant Hand!" 
 
 This faultless beauty, this perfect pattern, 
 "lived long ago or was never born".? Perhaps the 
 same is true of perfect love. Yes; for Da Vinci 
 reproves her cry, 
 
 saymg, 
 
 'I must live beloved or die!* 
 
 The peasant hand that spins the wool 
 And bakes the bread, why lives it on. 
 Poor and coarse with beauty gone, — 
 What use survives the beauty?" 
 
JAMES LEE'S WIFE 203 
 
 She has her lesson. Earth does not yield the per- 
 fect whole; but life and art have each their use, and 
 so has love. So has the love in her own heart, which, 
 because now imperfectly requited, lifts her to the 
 serene height where she can see its present good, 
 not as a consolation but as a stimulus for life and 
 hope, and, so far, as positive satisfaction. This is 
 for her the transcending power of love. 
 
 IX 
 
 So fortified, with the lesson learned, James Lee's 
 wife sets him free, sails away into exile from the 
 land and the home where love had been life, and 
 life had been love. The fault of too much loving ! of 
 mistaking love for life and life for love ! Of putting 
 aside life's daily uses for some pettish seeking of the 
 perfect whole which earth does not yield — and 
 missing it, part by part, the while ! She has learned 
 her lesson. — How? To know she "should be dead 
 of joy " could their two hearts in perfect love be one. 
 
THE STATUE AND THE BUST 
 
 Love and Indolence 
 
 Ages ago there leaned out of a certain palace 
 window in Florence a lady, newly married, with 
 her bridesmaids, one on either hand; and they saw 
 how the blush of the bride increased as she watched 
 an idle knight riding in the square below. "Who 
 rides by with the royal air?" she asked. "The 
 Great-Duke Ferdinand," was the whispered reply. 
 And he, in turn, riding gayly with a friend as gay as 
 he, looked up inquiringly. "A bride the Riccardi 
 brings home to-day," was the answer. White was 
 her brow and black her hair; and he looked at her 
 with a lover's eye. She looked upon him as one 
 who awakes. 
 
 That night the bridal feast was held on the Via 
 Larga. The Duke was there, and 
 
 on the lady a kiss conferred 
 As the courtly custom was of yore. 
 
 Plainly, the marriage was not an affair of the 
 heart, but a convenient arrangement between two 
 scheming families. The formal greeting between 
 guest and wife had instantly become a message of 
 love; and its significance had not escaped the hus- 
 band nor failed to arouse his avenging ire. Impris- 
 oned she must be, away from life and danger. Her 
 lone window looked out upon the square, the Via 
 Larga. Here she might view the world beneath, 
 
THE STATUE AND THE BUST 205 
 
 but be not of it. Openly the bride acquiesced; but 
 secretly she resolved to escape. A moment brought 
 the thought of her father, come to bless their union, 
 and of the pain she might cause him; and the resolve 
 broke, for the time at least. To-morrow she would 
 flee, or the next day. She would wait a little 
 while. 
 
 The Duke, on his side, resolved to win her. 
 Though dearly the cup of this love might cost him, 
 he would drain it to the dregs. On the morrow, 
 therefore, he proposed to the Riccardi a visit to 
 Petraja in the Apennines, ostensibly to escape. the 
 heat and gloom of the city, and compensate for the 
 dullness of last night's feast. But the cunning offer 
 was declined with courtly thanks. The lady's 
 health was delicate and would not permit it. The air 
 of the Apennines was too chill at Petraja. Very 
 well; "Be our feast to-night as usual here," said 
 the Duke with an inward resolution to abduct the 
 lady then. But stop! One thing lies in the way. 
 The Envoy comes to-night with business from 
 France. That must be attended to. Love must 
 keep for a day. Besides, he may catch a sustaining 
 glimpse of the lady at her window, as he has 
 before. 
 
 So said, so done. But, alas! the successive days 
 passed in vows and vows only. Ever and anon 
 something intervened to avert fruition. Yet still 
 each thought, when the storm passed the rose 
 would blossom, and all in good time. So they 
 waited, ever waited, in the consolation of losing no 
 friends and gaining no foes and ever cherishing the 
 sweet boon of the daily glance they stole each out 
 
206 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 of the other's face, as the one delayed at the 
 palace window and the other rode in the square 
 below. 
 
 The weeks grew months, and the months grew 
 years, until youth had gone and old age had come 
 to look at the lady boldly, as she peered at her sil- 
 vered hair, her puckered brow, her hollow eye and 
 haggard cheek staring back at her from the mirror. 
 Startled at the apparition, she commanded that a 
 sculptor be brought to fix her face with what vestige 
 of beauty yet remained, saying. My image in clay 
 will serve just as well for life's uses as myself does 
 now. Let it be carved there in the cornice of the 
 shrine for all who will to look upon. Robbia's 
 craft shall stay what yet there is of beauty and 
 youth. 
 
 The fate of the Duke.^^ It was just the same. 
 "Can the soul, the will, die out of a man" as youth 
 escapes? Even so, let the record remain. Bring me 
 the crafty sculptor, John of Douay, and bid him 
 fashion my statue of bronze and place it in the Via 
 Larga I have crossed so often, that men may ad- 
 mire, and admit that once I knew how to take my 
 pleasure, the while, alas! I lie in my tomb and 
 laugh "at idleness which aspires to strive"! 
 
 This is the sermon and this the commentary on 
 an equestrian statue and a lady's bust seen to this 
 day on the square of Florence : Thus men fail, pos- 
 sessed of a longing, but deprived, by their own in- 
 ertia, of the power of possession and attainment. 
 What if the Duke's and the Lady's desire was a 
 crime and their wish a vice? A counter will serve 
 
THE STATUE AND THE BUST '207 
 
 as well as a coin to illustrate the game. If you 
 choose to play at all, play well. 
 
 Let a maD contend to the uttermost 
 For his Hfe's set prize, be it what it will! 
 
 The sin of failure is the unlit lamp and the ungirt 
 loin ! The unpardonable crime of life is inertia and 
 irresolution, — the "idleness which aspires to 
 strive." 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 
 
 Love and the Conventions 
 
 An old huntsman, bald yet hearty and hale, is 
 seated over his cups with a friend. The liquor they 
 clink in their cannikins is green Moldavia, 
 
 Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids. 
 
 And friendship is as exhilarating, giving the soul a 
 stir-up, suppling a dry brain, quickening the heart, 
 and guaranteeing age is not all sloth and ease. 
 
 Long since has Jacynth, the huntsman's wife, 
 found her repose in the churchyard, and all their 
 children, too, have gone the way of the roses. Ah, 
 
 Love is the only good in the world ! 
 
 And, now that he is old and times have changed, it 
 is sweet to ponder his by-gone youth. It is sweeter 
 to plan how, once more, to meet one he knew in 
 those dear young days of his, and, having met her, 
 to go to his own rest at last. Since the Duchess's 
 flight thirty years have passed — long years — and 
 with them has gone his head's adorning. Yes, old 
 age is here. But the Duke's yoke was hard to 
 bear, and for that very reason he helped her off 
 with it. The tale is a curious one, and here it is. 
 — Says the huntsman, tippling his Cotnar : 
 
 The Duke's demesne is a great wild country. It 
 is hard for the eye to sweep the wide reach of it. 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 209 
 
 First, there's the cornfield land; and then come 
 the vineyards where flocks are packed ; and, beyond, 
 the sheep-range leads to cattle tract and open 
 chase, and then to the very foot of a mountain 
 where dark priest-like pine trees go up on this side 
 and down on the other to still wilder and wider 
 lands 
 
 Whence iron's dug, and copper's dealt; 
 
 And forge and furnace mould and melt. 
 
 And then, beyond that lies the bounding rim of the 
 
 salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore. 
 — And the whole is our Duke's country. 
 
 It was as many years ago as I am old that the 
 Duke was born. 
 
 We are of like age to an hour. 
 
 My father was huntsman before me — none better 
 — and the 
 
 old Duke would rather 
 He lost a salt-pit than my father. 
 
 A great day it was when the bantling was brought 
 out and shown to the wondering people. The news 
 of it reached the Kaiser's ears, — the Kaiser of our 
 old Teuton land, — and it was not long before 
 his courier blew his horn at the castle gate. 
 
 Since 
 The Duke has got an heir, our Prince 
 Needs the Duke's self at his side. 
 
 This was the summons; and the Duke, though 
 unwilling, was not long in obeying it. He went. 
 
210 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 with a wince to be sure, but thinking of world-wide 
 wars, castles afire, and men on the march with 
 crests and shields and banners flying. Alas ! it was 
 not the grand parade of arms after victory that 
 awaited him; but, instead, a gilt glove, a silk shoe, 
 and a velvet petticoat like a herald's; and but one 
 short year sufficed to finish him amid the perfumed 
 confinement of the court. And so he died, and 
 
 ' So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess 
 Was left with the infant in her clutches. 
 
 At the castle, long years of solitude ensued; for 
 mother and child went away to her tribe, leaving 
 the halls empty and the fires out. Loud our people 
 railed and gibed at the desertion, but in vain. Years 
 after, though, when the little Duke had grown a 
 man, they returned one day from their travels, 
 
 — he 
 
 the pertest little ape 
 That ever affronted human shape. 
 
 Not that he despised the bluff old ways of his coun- 
 trymen; far from it. Rather, he overdeemed them 
 
 — overdid them — since in Paris the elf's noddle 
 had been filled with superior notions of his rough 
 old northland as the world of lays. He thought 
 there still survived here in this evil time the he- 
 roic spirit of the Middle Age, reflected in its 
 
 true castles, with proper towers. 
 Young-hearted women, old-minded men, 
 And manners now as manners were then. 
 
 So he set his heart foolishly on a revival of old 
 
 usages. 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 211 
 
 In due course it was decided the time had come 
 for him to marry. It was the spring of the year. 
 The word of his intention having been promptly 
 broached abroad, the lady came as promptly, and 
 all preparations were made for her arrival. 
 
 My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger! 
 She was the smallest lady alive. 
 
 Nor was she hard to please. Indeed, overfilled with 
 gladness, she approved of all things as she saw 
 them. Suddenly the Duke appeared. She was just 
 lightly springing down, her foot upon my hand, 
 when he stepped up, stiff -backed, and greeted her 
 with his grandest smile; and just as suddenly, like 
 a wind to the northward, chilly and forbidding, 
 loomed up in the rear the old Dame, his mother, 
 and, alas! 
 
 The lady's face stopped its play, 
 As if her first hair had grown gray. 
 
 But the world seemed good to her, for she had just 
 come out of a convent; so 
 
 In a day or two she was well again; 
 And smiling as at first went she. 
 
 She was full of life and vivacity, and she looked 
 about her pleasantly, seeing how much was to be 
 done, and eager to do it. But no; every one had his 
 post, every man his office. She was to be an orna- 
 ment merely, she perceived soon enough — a tro- 
 phy with the other trophies — to sit, stand, see, 
 and be seen at the proper place and time, whether 
 outside the hall or in it, and thus die away by slow 
 
212 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 degrees. The idleness itself was irksome enough; 
 but to make it more so, the Duke and his mother 
 listened with contemptuous complacency to her 
 sprightly comments, whether praise or blame. 
 
 So the little lady grew pale and silent, hiding her 
 chagrin as best she might. But this did not escape 
 the Duke's watchful and jealous eye; he declared 
 it was done to spite him, and sooner or later he 
 would mend matters to his taste. 
 
 Autumn came with its frosty mornings; so frosty 
 that early, ere the sun rose, the pond was covered 
 with a thin sheet of ice. "Just the time for a 
 hunting party," thought the Duke, consulting his 
 calendar for the pleasures in season. Poets were 
 ransacked for all the old usages of the chase; 
 paintings, tapestries, panels studied for the least 
 suggestion for accouterments, trappings, jerkins 
 and hose of venerers, prickers, and verderers. All 
 was to be done in the precise manner and spirit of 
 the Middle Age, and no pains were spared to find 
 out how. Eureka! By dint of much searching 
 and questioning, the lady's function, too, was dis- 
 covered: 
 
 "When horns wind amort and the deer is at siege. 
 Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet. 
 And, with water to wash the hands of her liege 
 In a clean ewer with a fair towelling. 
 Let her preside at the disembowelling." 
 
 So thought the Duke, but not so the Lady; she 
 lifted tired lashes, spoke of her health, and, thank- 
 ing him, declined the hunting. As everything had 
 been got in readiness, — the towel and oldest ewer 
 for the disemboweling, a piebald, pink-eyed jennet 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 213 
 
 for her to ride on, — no wonder the Duke was 
 nettled and found her conduct most affronting. 
 Nevertheless, she persisted; while he, on his part, 
 kept fuming, amazed and stricken dumb in a sultry 
 smother of vexation and chagrin, and at last, in 
 grim despair, handed the vixen over to her mother- 
 in-law for schooling and correction. 
 
 At sunrise all our company gathered. The hunts- 
 man was bidden unkennel the hounds. The pricker 
 blustered and bustled. The courtyard was filled 
 with fog, thick enough to chop with an axe; in the 
 Duke was a queasy sulkiness. Soon came the sun, 
 dispelling the mists, and, in its wake, as chance 
 would have it, a band of gypsies. They came no one 
 knew whence, all unexpectedly, as if risen from the 
 ground. 
 
 Curious folk, the gypsies. Few things they can- 
 not make. Ores they fashion into snaffle and lock, 
 horseshoes and bells. No better glass-blowers, no 
 better potters than they ! 
 
 Such are the works they put their hand to. 
 The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. 
 
 Up out of the valley they sauntered, men and 
 women, to meet the Duke as he rode from the 
 castle. Annually they came, — and each time, 
 they swore, for the last time, — to pay the Duke 
 their respects, and importune a stipend. Up they 
 sallied till they reached the moat and there 
 stopped, letting an old witch squeeze out from 
 their midst — a stooping old crone whom Ja- 
 cynth used to bother me to have tell our fortune. 
 She seemed the oldest gypsy alive. She sidled up 
 
214 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 to the Duke, peering at him so steadily through 
 her eyes, or rather eye-holes, that the horse he 
 rode reared back in a fright. Then, in a whee- 
 dling voice she broke silence, — a voice like the 
 whine of a violin, — and proffered him gifts: a 
 dog-whistle, a porcelain mouth-piece for a pipe- 
 end; then stopped, awaiting the Duke's good pleas- 
 ure. Not a word from the Duke, till the crone, 
 with a sly afterthought, declared she had come to 
 pay her homage to the new Duchess, the youthful 
 beauty. A sudden thought lit up his features: 
 
 . . . Who so fit a teacher of trouble 
 As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? 
 
 His child wife must grow up. 
 
 If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow. 
 She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow. 
 
 And I was the man the Duke beckoned to con- 
 duct the gypsy to the lady's chamber. And while 
 I was coming, he told the crone about what he 
 deemed the Duchess's forwardness and ingrati- 
 tude, and got no doubt a promise to give the will- 
 ful child a thorough frightening. 
 
 Needless to say, he was mistaken; and that's why 
 we 're coming to our story. Of a sudden, the witch's 
 mien was wholly altered. The face looked trans- 
 figured. The eye-holes gradually grew eyes, live 
 and aware. And her cloak, too, which before had 
 hung loose in tatters, showed fringes of gold coins 
 along the edges. So we came to the door of the 
 lady's chamber, and found Jacynth standing guard 
 outside and glad for company of any sort, since not 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 215 
 
 a single word had the lady spoken the whole day 
 long. So they entered the presence together, leav- 
 ing me to pace the balcony without and watch the 
 weather. 
 
 What took place at first it were hard to say, as 
 Jacynth, on entering the room, seemed suddenly 
 bewitched and dropped away into profound uncon- 
 sciousness, while I, on the balcony, suspecting 
 little, found engrossment in the hunt as it wound 
 from bushes and hillocks to the open plain. Of 
 a sudden, a strange sound arrested my ear — a 
 sound as of some musical instrument, unheard 
 before, yet sweet. What was it.f^ In a moment I 
 had pushed aside the lattice and pulled up the cur- 
 tain, only to see Jacynth fallen asleep in a tense 
 attitude of attention, with her head against the 
 door; and there, as on a seat of state, the woman 
 sat, bending over my lady, who knelt enraptured 
 between the witch's knees, drinking in, with face 
 upturned, a light that streamed from either pupil. 
 Up and down moved the gypsy's hands in a curious 
 gesture. Was it blessing or was it banning? The 
 matter was past finding out; for, as I listened, fas- 
 cinated, to the sound and its weird accompaniment 
 of motion, myself was seized by the spell. And this 
 is what she murmured : — 
 
 "We will go on a long and terrible journey. I 
 trace the story in the marks your veins make on 
 your forehead. We will reach' our tribe, and you 
 shall be placed in our midst. The mystic mark here 
 says so. The kindred gleam in the depths of your 
 deep, dark eyes confirms it. The scarlet tinge on 
 your cheek proclaims it. You shall take the vow 
 
216 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 and join us. Trials will come, but you shall endure 
 them victoriously and know, finally, your great 
 deliverance and this, that 
 
 love is the only good in the world. 
 Henceforth be loved as heart can love. 
 Or brain devise, or hand approve ! 
 
 You shall be ours and we yours, as the vine is the 
 sturdy tree's that props it and the steadfast tree is 
 the clinging vine's that seeks it. Proud we may be 
 of you or ashamed, glad or angry, but indifferent 
 never, as you share our lot in crowded city or lonely 
 swamp — always ours and one of us until the twi- 
 light of old age shall fuse all the memories of life 
 into one hue, and from the dark the gleam of an- 
 other morning shall touch the flesh and waken the 
 soul from its long dream." 
 
 Here the voice grew more and more musical and 
 the words less and less distinct until only music 
 entranced the ear, and I, too, stood bound by the 
 spell. Then, of a sudden, snap went the charm, and 
 I awoke! The crone had been bewitching the lady, 
 I knew, and, with a spring, I leapt from the case- 
 ment, ran round to the door and found, not the 
 Duchess, but the Duchess transformed, — 
 
 She was so different, happy and beautiful. 
 
 And I.f^ I stood stock-still, awaiting her commands, 
 seeing a new light in the eye, a new brightness on 
 the brow, a new life in her breathing. And then I 
 knew that I was hers, and hers only, for life or for 
 death. Instinct told me of her slightest wish. 
 Without command or faltering I led the way, and 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 217 
 
 we descended into the courtyard. As to the crone, 
 not a semblance of her bewitchment shone from 
 eye or feature. Back into its stooped body her soul 
 had shrunk, as back into its sheath a sword is sent. 
 Quickly I saddled the palfrey that had brought my 
 lady as a bride, and quickly she mounted, the gypsy 
 behind her. Fain was I to follow on my own nag, 
 but a little shake of the head said no, and all I could 
 do was to stammer my readiness to serve her 
 
 Whenever God should please she needed me. 
 
 And her look of gratitude was a crown and a bless- 
 ing to me as, with a gracious gesture, she dropped 
 me what I shall prize until the day of judgment. 
 
 It was a little plait of hair 
 
 Such as friends in a convent make 
 
 To wear, each for the other's sake. 
 
 And I took it, and put it in my breast, where it still 
 lies and shall lie, always. And then (to cut the 
 story short) I pushed open the gate, she bounded 
 away on her palfrey, and so we lost her ! 
 
 Futile were it to describe the consternation of 
 the Duke on his returning, and the panic of the 
 yellow old mother-in-law. At the news she only 
 snapped viciously like a man-eating shark at its 
 prey. But to me the light had all gone out of the 
 world — the face of it looked so stern and forbid- 
 ding. The lady had fled, and all things seemed to 
 have come to a standstill. Yet the world, thinking 
 otherwise, poured out and spent its full spite on 
 me. Nor did the old Duchess, as you might well ex- 
 pect, die outright of futile chagrin, like a thwarted 
 
218 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 snake stinging itself to death; but the affair was 
 hushed up between them and a ban put upon the 
 subject in their presence. For sorely the Duke's 
 pride was hurt, and the sore rankled. No search 
 was made, and no inquiry; and whenever a fresh 
 band of gypsies paid us a visit, they were bidden 
 at once be gone and haste beyond the border. 
 
 Some day soon I shall pack up and go journeying 
 with a staff and a plump skinful of wine. For Ja- 
 cynth, you see, and the children lie snug in the 
 churchyard; and what's left for me but to go trav- 
 eling and find my lady in the land of the gypsies? 
 And, having found her, to find me out 
 
 some snug corner 
 Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight. 
 Turn myself round and bid the world good-night; 
 And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing 
 Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) 
 To a world where will be no further throwing 
 Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen! 
 
CRISTINA 
 
 Love Idealized 
 
 The speaker is a jilted lover who is telling his 
 story to a sympathetic friend. The woman who 
 jilted him has married another for honors and posi- 
 tion. 
 
 The Friend has said : Why do you waste so much 
 time in brooding over this woman's rejection of 
 you? She is a thoughtless flirt and deserves no 
 more of your concern. Clearly, she meant no harm. 
 
 The jilted Lover replies with conviction: I am 
 not so sure what the lady meant. But she should 
 never have looked at me as she did, picking me out 
 from the whole circle of her wooers, if she meant I 
 should not love her. Those others are men of a sort 
 whom one — with reservations, to be sure — 
 might call men; men whom "she may discover all 
 her soul to, if she pleases," without scruple about 
 the harm done. But I am not of their kind, and she 
 knew it. 
 
 The Friend: Still it is not clear that she was 
 serious. 
 
 The Lover: What? Not serious? She meant 
 nothing? True, I am unable to weigh that point 
 precisely. Yet that she is a mere empty-headed 
 coquette, I cannot bring myself to believe. Surely, 
 too, she can have intended no vile cant such as that 
 "the sea feels the need of strewing the bleakness of 
 some lone shore with its pearl-seed," or that "souls 
 
220 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 have a strange yearning to give most lavishly to 
 those who have least to render in return." 
 
 The Friend : Yet the world is the world, and 
 women as well as men are not perfect. 
 
 The Lover (with rapt expression) : True, we 're 
 sunk enough here, God knows ! But not irredeem- 
 ably sunk. To all of us come moments — seldom 
 enough, though surely — when the spirit's true 
 endowments stand forth separated from its false 
 ones, point out for us the right way from the wrong 
 one, and let us know if we are choosing triumph or 
 disaster. Such times reveal crises in our lives, — 
 perhaps in flashes struck from midnights, perhaps 
 in fire-flames noondays kindle. At such moments 
 of revelation piled-up honors perish, and swollen 
 ambitions dwindle; and some poor impulse, for 
 once having free play, seems the sole work of a life- 
 time and the only thing worth while. 
 
 The Friend: But had the Lady such an in- 
 sight? 
 
 The Lover : Can you doubt she felt in some such 
 moment — perhaps the moment when with that 
 look she fixed me, that supreme moment when she 
 revealed to me her soul — felt clear proof of the 
 soul's existence ages past, its little sojourn in this 
 world, its flight hence for ages more; and felt 
 clearly that its tarrying here is only for this love- 
 way, whereby it seeks with some other soul to 
 mingle.? This opportunity lost, this life loses its 
 supreme end and loses it eternally. There may be 
 other, perhaps deeper, blisses in store elsewhere, 
 but this life's supreme purpose has been lost to this 
 life here. Do you doubt — I cannot! — that she 
 
CRISTINA 221 
 
 felt this when at her look our two souls rushed to- 
 gether? 
 
 The Friend: Then why should she have jilted 
 you? 
 
 The Lover: Oh, of course, next moment the 
 thought of wealth, position — the world's ambi- 
 tions — trampled out the light forever. It is a way 
 the devil has, to quench such knowledge lest we 
 walk the earth in rapture. But it only makes those 
 who catch God's secret so much the more prize it. 
 
 The Friend: And you are one of these? 
 
 The Lover : Yes, such am I. Thank Heaven the 
 secret's mine. Though she has lost me, I have 
 gained her. Her soul's mine; and so, having per- 
 fected love's intention for me here, I shall spend my 
 remaining days satisfied. Life will just suffice to 
 prove both our powers, hers and mine, alone and 
 blended. After that, may the next life come — 
 and quickly! For this world's purpose will have 
 been fulfilled. 
 
MY LAST DUCHESS 
 
 Love Perverted 
 
 The Duchess of Ferrara was a woman beloved 
 by every one for her abounding good spirits and joy 
 in Hfe. She loved all beautiful things without stint 
 — the waning day, and all the passing moods of 
 Nature. She loved all living creatures, and, not 
 the least of these, the "white mule" upon which 
 she used to ride around the terrace of the ducal 
 grounds. She was the soul of good nature and cour- 
 tesy to all with whom she came in contact, for she 
 loved goodness and kindness in all persons without 
 distinction of rank or fortune; loved gracious words 
 and favors. And, to show her gratitude, she with- 
 held no kindly impulse. And her ways were always 
 simple and natural, as the blush attested that 
 mantled her cheek whenever she was pleased. And 
 in all her graciousness there spoke a simple sincer- 
 ity; from her countenance there shone a "depth of 
 earnestness and passion" which none who looked 
 upon her could miss. 
 
 The Duke of Ferrara was proud of her beauty; 
 but prouder still of his own rank and culture; proud 
 of his lineage, whose greatness had been famed 
 through nine centuries. But he was not kind ex- 
 cept as kindness exacted obeisance to his pride. 
 Neither was he gracious or generous. He loved 
 beauty, — the beauty of the Duchess, — but only 
 so far as it flattered his superior tastes, which he 
 
MY LAST DUCHESS 223 
 
 gratified in the attainment of many splendid works 
 of art. His greatest joy lay in the possession of a 
 rare statue or painting. Pride was his master- 
 passion, and even the Duchess was esteemed only 
 to the extent to which she paid tribute to it; and as 
 she, in her ingenuousness, could not do so con- 
 sciously and completely, a day came when his sel- 
 fishness broke all bounds, chiding her cruelly in his 
 jealous rage. 
 
 It was the day when Fra Pandolf, the painter, 
 came to make her portrait, and with lavish cour- 
 tesy paid homage to her charms, saying, "Her 
 mantle laps over my lady's wrist too much." She 
 blushed; and this display of beauty called forth a 
 still warmer compliment — "Paint must never 
 hope to reproduce the faint half-flush that dies 
 along her throat." The Duke in anger noticed this. 
 Not that he was jealous of any improprieties on 
 Fra Pandolf 's part, but rather of the Duchess's un- 
 disguised pleasure at the slightest encouragement. 
 Her blush, he felt, was as deep for the artist as for 
 him — her husband and the Duke. It was the 
 same at all times. She was "too soon made glad, 
 too easily impressed," liking whatever "she looked 
 on," and "her looks went everywhere." She was 
 too lavish with her affections — too indiscrimi- 
 nate, the Duke's "favor at her breast" ranking just 
 the same in her regard as the "bough of cherries 
 some officious fool broke in the orchard for her." 
 Rank and name seemed to be as nothing in her eyes. 
 He would not say exactly what it was in her that 
 disgusted him, he would not stoop to seek excuse 
 or explanation. He commanded her to have a care 
 
224 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 and mind her station. The proprieties must not be 
 trifled with. . . . 
 
 And then, of a sudden, the bright smile, that 
 had been for all, stopped, the bloom on her cheek 
 faded, and her flower-like beauty withered on the 
 stalk and died. Her spirit broken, a gloom settled 
 on all her joyous ways, and soon the Duke's world 
 knew her no more. 
 
 But the cold heart of the man felt no mourning. 
 On the contrary, he had rid himself of a vexing and 
 unappreciative companion; while in the fine paint- 
 ing by Fra Pandolf he had retained as much of her 
 as he had ever cared for — her matchless charms — • 
 and had gained, besides, a wondrous work of art. 
 The painting was indeed a masterpiece — a full- 
 length portrait — with the characteristic blush of 
 joy, the "depth of passion" in the earnest counte- 
 nance. Greatly he prized it among his other price- 
 less possessions, giving it unstinted praise in the 
 presence of all visitors to the gallery. 
 
 But the ducal hall could not long remain without 
 a mistress, and soon negotiations were begun to 
 fill the poor Duchess's place. The daughter of a 
 neighboring Count of "known munificence" would 
 grace the palace and do honor to its guests. A 
 messenger was sent from Duke to Count, from 
 Count to Duke; and but one matter, a point of 
 weight and moment, remained to be determined — 
 the question of the dowry to go with the lady's 
 hand. The Count's agent, having come with a reply 
 from his master, — and here the poem opens, — is 
 conducted through a company of guests to the gal- 
 lery above and shown the prized beauty of the late 
 
MY LAST DUCHESS 225 
 
 Duchess caught and fixed by Fra Pandolf s facile 
 brush. The interview ended, the curtain that hides 
 the treasure from the gaze of the unworthy is drawn 
 close again, and envoy and Duke leave it for the 
 company below. 
 
 But the beautiful painting, were it endowed with 
 the unsullied simplicity of the last Duchess and 
 the gift of her innocent speech, might suggest un- 
 consciously the deadly horror of a union where love 
 is not, or having been, is perverted by an arrogant 
 pride. 
 
SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER 
 
 Love Perverted by the Conventions of Religion 
 
 It is mid-afternoon on a far-past day in mediaeval 
 Spain, and the slanting rays of the sun lie lazily 
 upon the quadrangular court of a monastery, and 
 upon the figures of two monks, one of whom is pac- 
 ing idly the paved walk of the arched and columned 
 cloister, while the other is more industriously en- 
 gaged in the monastery garden. The light falls upon 
 the garden's rich and well-kept verdure. There are 
 fruit-trees, pleasant to see, greengages and oranges 
 among their leaves; there is a vegetable plat, whose 
 herbs and melons often grace the tables of the 
 Abbot and his monks. And the bright-colored flow- 
 ers against their soft background of bush and tree 
 glow and blend in the yellowing light. Brother 
 Lawrence, whose devoted care they are, goes busily 
 about from one to the other, now trimming a myr- 
 tle-bush, now watering a rose-acacia in its leaden 
 vase. 
 
 Beyond the Convent court, just outside its bor- 
 dering bank, the afternoon light lies less quietly 
 upon the brilliant beauty of two girls, Dolores and 
 Sanchicha, steeping their blue-black, lustrous 
 tresses in the tank of water there and exchanging 
 gossip to pass the hours away. 
 
 The shadows lengthen; soon the Vesper-bell will, 
 ring out its summons to prayer. 
 
 It is an age — this of Brother Lawrence — of 
 
SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER 227 
 
 curious conviction and controversy with regard to 
 forms of ritual and modes of religious belief and 
 worship — the followers of Manes, for example, 
 holding to the faith that light is the source of all 
 good, and darkness the source of all evil, and that 
 between these two forces there is conflict intermin- 
 able; and the adherents of Arius espousing the 
 principle that Christ, the Son, having been begot- 
 ten by the Father, is subordinate and not equal to 
 Him in the triune Godhead. And these two forms 
 of heresy, having been under especial condemnation 
 in Spain for a long time, the names "Manichee" 
 and " Arian," to designate their devotees, had come 
 to be widely current as epithets of opprobrium and 
 infamy. 
 
 As it is an age, too, of extreme devotion to cere- 
 monial and intense conviction of its efficacy, it is 
 not to be wondered at that even a monk should 
 seek to attain a special grace at "refection" by 
 taking his drink of orange juice, as the idle brother 
 boasts he does, in three sips to illustrate the Trin- 
 ity, and, after the meal, by laying his knife and 
 fork crosswise to praise the Crucified; or that he 
 should attribute a supernatural power to a Scrip- 
 tural text when used as a charm; or venture to make 
 a compact to sell his soul to Satan and yet hope to 
 escape the disastrous consequences by leaving a 
 flaw in the indenture. Nor is it to be wondered at 
 that such ceremonial, instead of bettering its de- 
 votee, should undo the shallow-hearted, leading 
 him to rely, for his soul's salvation or escape, on 
 some deft hocus-pocus at the end. 
 
 Such a person is the brother who, a little before 
 
228 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Vespers on this old-time summer afternoon in 
 Spain, is taking his accustomed recreation in the 
 paved cloister of his convent, while Brother Law- 
 rence is enjoying his habitual diversion in whole- 
 some and useful exercise among the roses, lilies, 
 and melons of the garden. Hatred, whose motive 
 is the envy which the naturally evil feel toward the 
 naturally good, fills the heart of the idle brother as 
 he watches the gardener at work; his imprecations 
 almost choking him with their passionate malig- 
 nity as he mutters them under his breath : — 
 
 Water your damned flower-pots, do! 
 If hate killed men. Brother Lawrence, 
 God's blood, would not mine kill you! 
 
 He rambles on, unheard by Brother Lawrence: The 
 silly talk I must hear, sitting next to you at table, 
 about the sort of season we're having, the dearth 
 in the "cork-crop" and the scarcity of "oak-galls" 
 — bosh ! And then to be asked for the Latin of 
 parsley — the prig! What's the Greek for Swine's 
 Snout — him, I say? Whew ! How careful we are to 
 have our platter polished brightly, to lay it away 
 neatly on our own individual shelf, to provide our- 
 self with a fire-new spoon; to have, too, our own 
 private goblet marked with L. for our initial and 
 rinsed like something sacred before it is fit to touch 
 our chaps — 
 
 See there! He — he! He's broken that lily with 
 his clumsiness! Serves him right! 
 
 They call him a saint, the hypocrite! Saint, in- 
 deed ! — looking with gloating eyes, as I know he 
 does, at Dolores and Sanchicha squatting over 
 
SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER 229 
 
 there. What, a saint? — when he scarcely knows 
 enough to lay his knife and fork crosswise, as I do 
 at refection in Jesu's praise, or to illustrate the 
 Trinity and confound Arianism by drinking his 
 orange- water in three sips, as I do mine — but he 
 must swallow it, like the dolt he is, at one unholy 
 gulp! 
 
 There he goes to his precious melons, now. If 
 he's able, he says, he'll give us all a feast. How 
 nice! One whole one will go to the Abbot's table. 
 We're to be thankful if we each get a slice. Ho, ho! 
 he's looking at the flowers. Not one of the fruit- 
 sort can he find. Strange ! he does n't know the 
 pains I've taken to keep them close-nipped on the 
 sly! 
 
 Yes, I'll have him yet — I swear I will, by hook 
 or crook! I'll trip him, dying, just when he's sur- 
 est of Heaven, with a certain reliable text from 
 Galatians and send him scurrying off to hell, a 
 Manichee. Or, if that won't serve, I '11 seduce and 
 corrupt him with my scrofulous French novel, 
 folding the pages down at the risky place and slip- 
 ping it into his basket when next he gathers his 
 greengages. Or, should that fail, one can turn to 
 Satan and sell one's soul — always, of course, with 
 a flaw in the indenture as a loop-hole of escape — 
 for the sweet satisfaction of blasting that rose- 
 acacia we're so proud of! Something I'll find to 
 cross and curse him with. But hush! There's the 
 Vesper-bell, and I must pray. "Plena gratia, Ave, 
 Virgo!" There — he's praying too! Oh, how I 
 hate him ! Gr-r-r- you swine ! 
 
Concerning Art 
 
ANDREA DEL SARTO 
 
 Perfection in the Technique of Art 
 
 Andrea del Sarto, "the faultless painter," and 
 his wife Lucrezia are seated in a window of their 
 house in Fiesole. It is the twilight of evening. 
 Behind them is Andrea's studio with its wealth of 
 paintings, some from his own brush, others from 
 Michel Agnolo's and Rafael's. The season is 
 autumn. Through the window they see and hear 
 the varying signs of life in Fiesole: a bell's clinking 
 from the chapel -top and a monk leaving the con- 
 vent garden opposite, darkened by the trees which 
 huddle close to the convent wall. The dusk gradu- 
 ally settles, obscuring Mount Morello's outline in 
 the distance. The stars appear overhead. A little 
 while later the cue-owl speaks, and they withdraw 
 from the open window into the interior of the 
 room. 
 
 Andrea has achieved his name "the faultless 
 painter" through native gifts and well-used oppor- 
 tunities. When a vagabond scrub in Florence, 
 Rafael and Agnolo had not been ashamed to give 
 him praise. Once he won the admiration and pa- 
 tronage of King Francis in Paris, and one long 
 festal year he passed in the splendor of Fontaine- 
 bleau. Here, at the invitation of Francis, human- 
 great monarch of France, he wrought with brush 
 and canvas, the King's breath on him. Proudly he 
 painted while all the court watched, seeing with the 
 
234 STORIES FROM BROWTS^ING 
 
 King's eyes. Profusely his hand kept plying, as the 
 King stood by with one finger in his beard or 
 twisted curl over his mouth's good mark that made 
 the smile, with one arm thrown about the artist's 
 shoulder and neck. And withal Lucrezia kept 
 beckoning to him from Fiesole that he come back 
 to her after his work should be done, to crown the 
 issue with a last reward. 
 
 Andrea could not await the result and yielded to 
 the temptation before the work was finished. With 
 the King's gold hidden in his pockets, he stole back 
 to Lucrezia, built his house in Fiesole, and, leav- 
 ing father and mother to die in want, lavished 
 the remainder of his treasure on his idol. Thus 
 Lucrezia had been a potent factor of ruin for 
 Andrea. The Paris lords are on the lookout for him 
 now, and he hardly dares stir from his studio for 
 fear of meeting them. Lucky is it when they pass 
 and look aside. Besides, there are gaming debts of 
 her making, clandestine relations with a cousin, and 
 gross extravagance in dress. Even now, as they sit 
 in the window, and the dusk gathers, and the stars 
 come out over the gray convent opposite, and the 
 last monk is leaving the convent garden, the cousin 
 is waiting below. He must have the money, and is 
 awaiting Lucrezia' s return with it. He whistles im- 
 patiently. She hears the preconcerted signal, while 
 Andrea talks of his career, his art, his long love for 
 her. But she cannot understand; could not if she 
 would. How else could she at her impatient com- 
 ing-in have ruined, in carelessly passing with her 
 robes afloat, a painting the like of which others 
 agonize to do but fail of doing.? How else could she 
 
ANDREA DEL SARTO 235 
 
 have made so impatient an exit when the guilty 
 whistle called a second time? 
 
 Yet Andrea loves her in spite of all. To him she is 
 his serpentining beauty still, with round on round 
 of rolling flesh; perfect ears — too perfect to prick 
 and put a pearl there; and a face which every one 
 looks on and calls his. Her adorer and slave he 
 will always be. He promises to paint the five pic- 
 tures she requires. He will get the thirteen scudi 
 for the ruff she fancies, and shut them in her small 
 hand when next it shall take his. But she must sit 
 for the pictures; it will save a model. 
 
 That is what Andrea and Lucrezia quarreled 
 about before the dusk gathered and the cousin's 
 first impatient whistle was heard below; and this is 
 the way Andrea proposes to mend matters. "Bear 
 with me for once," he pleads. "Sit down and all 
 shall happen as you wish." He bids her lay her 
 hand in his to sit the quiet evening through, that 
 thus he may gain refreshment for the morning's 
 work. And thus prompted, he falls to musing on 
 many things: on his art, his career in France, all 
 his achievements and Lucrezia's part therein, 
 sometimes as a help in a fleshly way, but oftener as 
 a hindrance to a larger, a better, a spiritual influ- 
 ence. He is called "the faultless painter." Per- 
 fection in technique of color and line is his, and yet 
 he knows himself to be a failure in the abiding soul- 
 values of aTt. "A man's reach should exceed his 
 grasp, or what's a heaven for.^^" 
 
 I can do with my pencil what I know. 
 What I see, what at bottom of my heart 
 I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 
 
236 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, 
 I do not boast, perhaps. 
 
 No sketches first, no studies, that's long past; 
 1 do what many dream of all their lives. 
 
 Yet how far short do I fall of their faulty accom- 
 plishment. Morello's outline there is wrongly 
 traced, the hue mistaken. But, with my work, all is 
 silver-gray — a dead level of spiritual inefficiency. 
 See Rafael pour out his soul, reaching above and 
 through his art to heaven; yet note that arm in the 
 painting — how wrongly put, and one stroke of my 
 crayon would set it right. But no, rub it out; he's 
 Rafael, and I am only I with my easy perfection 
 and, Lucrezia, with — you. Who's to blame? 
 Where the lack.? 
 
 But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow. 
 And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, 
 And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird 
 The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — 
 Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind ! 
 Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged 
 **God and the glory! never care for gain. 
 The present by the future, what is that? 
 Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 
 Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" 
 I might have done it for you. So it seems: 
 Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. 
 Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; 
 The rest avail not. Why do I need you? 
 "What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? 
 In this world, who can do a thing, will not; 
 And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : 
 Yet the will 's somewhat — somewhat, toO, the power — 
 And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 
 God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
 
ANDREA DEL SARTO 237 
 
 *T is safer for me, if the award be strict. 
 
 That I am something underrated here, 
 
 Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. 
 
 But Lucrezia cannot understand, or will not. 
 The divine eludes a mere fleshly nature. Dream, 
 vision, meaning, soul are not to be waked from 
 forth-right craft, but are a gift superadded. 
 
 Beyond the penetration of the poet which could 
 see into Andrea's habit of thought and portray the 
 externals of life in a manner true to Andrea's age 
 and time, the question of outstanding prominence 
 here is the tragic one of perfection of workmanship 
 failing through deficiency of imagination — a 
 tragedy which has involved sterile, though able, 
 eras no less than individuals. 
 
 The union of physical charm with spiritual dull- 
 ness, and the soul-numbing influence such a nature 
 as Lucrezia's sheds about itself, have been common 
 characteristics of Eve's-flesh as far back, no doubt, 
 as the first tragedy in the garden of Eden. 
 
ERA LIPPO LIPPT 
 
 Realism and Idealism in Art 
 
 A SQUAD of police have made an arrest at an 
 alley's end, in a mediaeval city near the gray of 
 dawning. It is a quarter of the town "where spor- 
 tive ladies leave their doors ajar." The prisoner is 
 a monk, they guess by his garb, pushing their 
 torches into his face to make quite sure. He resists; 
 a scuffle ensues; he is overpowered. To secure their 
 prisoner the better, they thrust their fists a-fiddling 
 at his throat. With a deadly gullet's-gripe they 
 hold him thus. Seeing who their captive is, and 
 persuaded by a timely bribe — a quarter-florin 
 wherewith to drink a health — they lower pike and 
 lantern, loosen their grip, and, mollified, seat them- 
 selves with hip to haunch in a ring around and lis- 
 ten to his story, their eyes a-twinkle for further 
 proffers from his willing hand. 
 
 The season is spring. The night is warm. 
 Brother Lippo Lippi, of the Carmine cloister, is 
 recognized by his robe and tonsure. Yes, he con- 
 fesses, it is he. Let them go search the cloister for 
 others, too, if they cannot abate their officious 
 zeal; pry into every corner; harry out 
 
 Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole. 
 And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, 
 Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company. 
 
 Half afraid of him, they ply their further ques- 
 tions. He answers: 
 
FRA LIPPO LIPPI 239 
 
 Who am 1? 
 Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend 
 Three streets off. . . . 
 
 "He's a certain Cosimo of the Medici, and lives in 
 the house that caps the corner, a munificent house, 
 and I'm his painter." They nod their recognition. 
 His doings have been reported from all quarters. 
 And seeing they have a prize indeed, their palms 
 itching for more gratuities, they affect an eager 
 patience, begging his pardon for their surly rough- 
 ness. 
 
 But the artist's eye is alert. What subjects for 
 his painting! That one a Judas! He in the door- 
 way, the slave that holds John Baptist's head 
 a-dangle by the hair. Had he a bit of chalk, now, 
 or a stick of wood-coal, he'd draw them to the life. 
 
 "Yes," he continues in answer to their importu- 
 nities, "here's spring now, and carnival time, when 
 singing bands roam up and down the town for 
 merriment." Three long weeks he has been shut up 
 in his prison-room, painting saints and saints for 
 Master Cosimo of the Medici. Imprisoned.'^ Why.^^ 
 For fear, most likely, that he'd wander off and 
 leave the work unfinished. But, never mind, he '11 
 return all safe and sound and no one the wiser, in 
 the same way he came. Paint all night .^^ How 
 could he.^ So, leaning out of window for fresh air, 
 there came a band of laughing dancers, a hurry of 
 little feet, a sweep of lute-strings and a whift of 
 song: 
 
 Flower o* the brooiriy 
 
 Take away love, and our earth is a tomb 1 
 
240 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Flower o' the quince, 
 
 I let Lisa go, and what good of life since? 
 
 Flower o' the thyme . . . 
 
 Round they went, three slim shapes, with a titter 
 like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight. What 
 then? Well, what of flesh and blood? Who 
 would n't do the same? Into shreds went curtain 
 and counterpane and coverlet, — all the bed-fur- 
 niture, — and with a dozen knots there hung a 
 ladder from the window. Down he swung, scram- 
 bling somehow, and in a trice was after them, 
 catching up with the fun hard by Saint Laurence 
 with a hail-fellow-well-met for and from every 
 one. 
 
 And now that all is over, he must hasten back 
 and get to bed and have a bit of sleep ere he go to 
 work in the morning on the painting of Saint 
 Jerome knocking at his poor old breast with his 
 great round stone to subdue the flesh. If Master 
 Cosimo announce himself, mum 's the word, natu- 
 rally; for Cosimo must not know. His tonsure? 
 They need not eye it so austerely. For, though a 
 monk, he's flesh and blood no less. A beast? And 
 why a beast? 
 
 Flower o' the broom. 
 
 Take away love, and our earth is a tomb I 
 
 That's why or not, just as they choose. 
 
 Scruples? Scruples, indeed, for Brother Lippo, 
 left from infancy an orphan in the streets, starving, 
 God knows how, on fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds 
 and shucks, refuse and rubbish, with none to care 
 for him. And then? One fine frosty day came old 
 
FRA LIPPO LIPPI 241 
 
 Aunt Lapaccia and carried him away along the 
 wall, over the bridge, by the straight cut to the 
 convent. 'T was refection-time when the good fat 
 father, wiping his own mouth, admitted them 
 there, and gave him a piece of bread to munch (the 
 first for a month). In brief, they made a monk of 
 him at just eight years old, with good bellyfuls, 
 serge to keep him warm, and blessed idleness all 
 day long, and books and Latin. 
 
 Flower o' the clove. 
 
 All the Latin I construe is, ''amo" I love! 
 
 I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds: 
 You should not take a fellow eight years old 
 And make him swear to never kiss the girls. 
 
 But when a boy starves in the streets eight years 
 together, he learns a thing or two other than Latin, 
 
 Watching folks' faces to know who will fling 
 The bit of half-stript grape-bunch he desires. 
 And who will curse or kick him for his pains, 
 
 or which gentleman in the processional will let him 
 catch the candle-droppings that he may sell them 
 again; wary to see if the dog trotting from the heap 
 of offal in the street will bite if he rob it of its bone : 
 thus, with soul and sense grown sharp with hunger, 
 a ragamuffin will needs learn the look of things. Eye 
 and brain crammed full, he fell to drawing faces on 
 his copy-books, scrawled them within the antiph- 
 onary's margin, on walls, benches, doors, till all 
 the monks looked black and would have turned him 
 out but for the Prior, who, saying, "What if at last 
 we get our man of parts.?" bade Lippo daub away. 
 Never was such prompt disburdening of crowded 
 
242 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 brain on the long blank walls of the monastery. He 
 drew everything, nothing escaping his brush : every 
 sort of monk, the folk at church, the gossips waiting 
 to confess; a breathless fellow fresh from murder, 
 in sanctuary at the altar-foot, with little children 
 around him in a row of admiration and the victim's 
 son shaking a fist with one fierce arm. At length the 
 ladder is laid flat, and the fresco is unveiled. The 
 monks crowd around to admire and praise. "It's 
 the life," they cry. "Look at the boy who stoops 
 to pat the dog, and the woman there just like the 
 Prior's niece." "How, what's here.^^" interrupts 
 the Prior; and stops it all in no time with prompt 
 rebuke: "Your business, Lippo, is to paint men's 
 souls and not their bodies; make them forget 
 there's such a thing as flesh. Leave alone the small- 
 ish female with the breasts. Never mind the legs 
 and arms; paint the soul, like Giotto with his 
 saints a-praising God, that sets us praising." What 
 then? Swallowing his rage, he paints to please 
 them — sometimes does, and sometimes not. But 
 now he's his own master, paints as he pleases, 
 having his friend there in the Corner-house. Yet 
 still the old schooling sticks; he feels them peeping 
 over his shoulder as he works — 
 
 The heads shake still — " It's art's decline, my son! 
 You're not of the true painters, great and old; 
 Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; 
 Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer : 
 Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!'* 
 
 They are likeliest to know — they with their 
 Latin? For him — he sees always the garden and 
 God there a-making man's wife, and learning thus 
 
FRA LIPPO LIPPI 243 
 
 his lesson of the value and significance of flesh, he 
 does these wild things in pure rage, playing the 
 fooleries they catch him at at carnival. 
 
 Flower o' the peach. 
 
 Death for us all, and his own life for each! 
 
 Is he a beast, then? Even so. 
 
 But he must be going. No, he needs no lights; 
 the street's hushed and he knows his own way 
 back. Good-by and a hand-shake. Zooks! there's 
 the gray of morning ! 
 
 To the persevering, if not to the cursory, reader 
 it becomes apparent that the prime object of this 
 poem is historical character-portrayal. How would 
 a fleshly artist of the Middle Age, turning from 
 the seK-abnegating and flesh-abhorring religion of 
 his times, be likely to regard his art.? One illumi- 
 nating answer to that question is given by William 
 Edward Hartpole Lecky in his "Rationalism in 
 Europe." It may serve to shed light upon the art of 
 Browning's Andrea del Sarto as well. Says Lecky : 
 
 As the old Catholic modes of thought began to fade, 
 the religious idea disappeared from the paintings, and 
 they became purely secular, if not sensual, in their tone. 
 Religion, which was once the mistress, was now the serv- 
 ant of art. Formerly the painter employed his skill 
 simply in embellishing and enhancing a religious idea. 
 He now employed a religious subject as the pretext for 
 the exhibition of mere worldly beauty. He commonly 
 painted his mistress as the Virgin. He arrayed her in the 
 richest attire, and surrounded her with all the circum- 
 stances of splendor. He crowded his pictures with nude 
 figures with countenances of sensual loveliness, with 
 
244 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 every form and attitude that could act upon the pas- 
 sions. . . . The creation of beauty became the single 
 object of his art. His work was a secular work, to be 
 judged by a secular standard. . . . The religion of one 
 age is often the poetry of the next. 
 
 To show something of this kind, or, rather, to 
 portray an artist at work with the consciousness of 
 something of this kind, is apparently the purpose 
 of the poem. Paint the soul, says the Prior, like a 
 fire, smoke — "vapor done up like a new-born babe 
 (in that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) "; 
 and ** never mind the legs and arms — 
 
 . . . that white smallish female with the breasts. 
 She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say. 
 Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! 
 Have it all out!" 
 
 The answer which Lippo confides under the 
 strange circumstances of an arrest at the break of 
 day near an alley's end "where sportive ladies 
 leave their doors ajar," is a commentary on religion 
 as well as on art, not only in their historical but in 
 their essential aspects, perhaps for the very reason 
 that the historical view reveals the essential one. 
 Fra Lippo's answer is : — 
 
 Does not body interpret soul, and soul body? 
 Does beauty of face obscure spiritual meaning.? 
 Or, if there is such a thing as sheer beauty with no 
 soul at all, is it not something for the artist to find 
 the soul within himself and to add that.^^ 
 
 On the Prior's assumption and by Lippo's own 
 conviction, the function of Art is the same as that 
 of Religion; but to learn the meaning of both 
 truly, one must abandon the ways of Giotto and 
 
FRA LIPPO LIPPI 245 
 
 the Prior. Go back to Nature; she will reveal the 
 secret. This is so for a few vital reasons: First, 
 because of the authority of the instincts. Witness 
 the old mill-horse who, "after hard years, throws 
 up his stiff heels so" in pasture, because he knows 
 perfectly the good of grass, and does not have to 
 listen to the miller preaching about it. Second, 
 because God made both man and Nature; and, in 
 view of this, the right feeling to have is thankful- 
 ness. For what? 
 
 For this fair town's face, yonder river's line. 
 The mountain round it and the sky above. 
 Much more the figures of man, woman, child. 
 These are the frame to. 
 
 A third reason — because the function of Art is 
 not to improve upon Nature, but, by means of 
 superior insight and skill, to open men's eyes to the 
 best in her. For 
 
 We're made so that we love 
 First when we see them painted, things we have passed 
 Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; 
 And so they are better, painted — better to us. 
 Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; 
 God uses us to help each other so. 
 Lending our minds out. 
 
 Art, as compared with preaching, has a superior 
 insight because it looks at things as they are — 
 things missed by the million, but things the million 
 thank the artist for pointing out. It is not neces- 
 sary, were it possible, for the artist to compete with 
 Nature and to beat her; but it is needful, first of 
 all, to see. The simplest example will serve : — 
 
246 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Have you noticed, now. 
 Your cuUion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, 
 And trust me but you should, though! 
 
 All that is required is to indicate the meaning 
 already there. Is this, then, to take the "Prior's 
 pulpit-place" and "interpret God"? Yes, even so. 
 
 Oh, oh, 
 It makes me mad to see what men shall do 
 And we in our graves ! This world 's no blot for us. 
 Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: 
 To find its meaning is my meat and drink. 
 
 Art's superior insight, moreover, is not confined 
 to lower things, but it can discern the true values 
 of the higher things, even of those which are sup- 
 posed to be the peculiar province of the pulpit. 
 Art can see not only God making Eve in the gar- 
 den, but it can see God's ministers, like John, 
 Ambrose, Job, the man of Uz; and it can see God 
 as well. Thus seeing, the artist, though a poor 
 scapegrace like Fra Lippo, shall find himself 
 accounted at the last one of God's own saints. ] 
 
 Finally, the true function of Art is known in its 
 effects. Here again its superiority to the pulpit is 
 quite clear and unmistakable, despite the strictures 
 of the Prior : — 
 
 "Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer! 
 . . . when your meaning 's plain 
 
 It does not say to folk — remember matins, | 
 
 Or mind you feast next Friday!" 
 
 On the contrary. Art can instigate to prayer by 
 the simplest means — so simple, indeed, that one 
 would hardly call it art : — j 
 
FRA LIPPO LIPPI 247 
 
 A skull and bones. 
 Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, 
 A bell to chime the hour with. 
 
 But Art can do much more. It can deeply stir the 
 emotions and move men to right conduct. 
 
 For pity and religion grow i' the crowd — 
 Your painting serves its purpose! 
 
 Study, for example, Fra Lippo's painting of 
 Saint Laurence at Prato, where the fresco is 
 splashed "in fine style." 
 
 "How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" 
 I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns — 
 
 ** Already not one phiz of your three slaves 
 Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, 
 But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content. 
 The pious people have so eased their own 
 With coming to say prayers there in a rage: 
 We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 
 
 See what else Lippo can do: 
 
 Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns! 
 They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint 
 God in the midst. Madonna and her babe. 
 Ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood. 
 Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 
 As puff on puff of grated orris-root 
 When ladies crowd to Church in midsummer. 
 And then i' the front, of course a saint or two — 
 Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, 
 Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white 
 The convent's friends and gives them a long day. 
 And Job, I must have him there past mistake. 
 The man of Uz (and Us without the z, 
 Painters who need his patience). Well, all these 
 Secured at their devotion, up shall come 
 Out of a corner when you least expect. 
 
348 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 As one by a dark stair into a great light. 
 
 Music and talking, who but Lippo! I! — 
 
 Mazed, motionless and moonstruck — I'm the man! 
 
 Back I shrink — what is this I see and hear? 
 
 I, caught up with my monk's things by mistake. 
 
 My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, 
 
 I, in this presence, this pure company ! 
 
 Where's a hole, where 's a corner for escape? 
 
 Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 
 
 Forward, puts out a soft palm — "Not so fast!" 
 
 — Addresses the celestial presence, "nay — 
 
 He made you and devised you, after all. 
 
 Though he 's none of you ! Could Saint John there draw — • 
 
 His camel-hair make up a painting-brush? 
 
 We come to brother Lippo for all that, 
 
 Iste perfedt opiis!*' 
 
 The Prior was wrong. The world and the flesh 
 have a place in Art as in Religion. Indeed, both 
 Art and Rehgion must recognize this; for the 
 truest art is an insight into things as they are, 
 and its highest expression is the interpretation of 
 things as they are to spiritual ends, — not by 
 mere preaching, but in Art's own way. In short, 
 the ideal is expressed in the real; and idealism and 
 realism are inseparable terms. 
 
Concerning Faith 
 
A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 
 
 Faith in an Ideal 
 
 A BAND of men are carrying a corpse up a moun- 
 tain side to a city at the top for burial. They have 
 been trudging all night with their burden. Be- 
 neath them sleeps the'plain. Above, at the moun- 
 tain's rim, the day is breaking. The city for which 
 they are bound is crowded with culture, and the 
 plain which they are leaving behind is low, unlet- 
 tered, of the night. As they march, they sing a 
 heartening chorus, for the path is narrow and 
 steep. But the city is a glorious destination, the 
 home of high-flying birds, on the loftiest of a clus- 
 ter of peaks where lightnings break and storms 
 blow and meteors shoot — a city with its citadel 
 and market-place gaping to receive them. 
 
 The corpse that is being borne to this lofty sum- 
 mit is that of a scholar who \ spent his life in the 
 service of learning and a consuming ideal. Those 
 who are bearing him on their shoulders were his 
 pupils. Once he was a man of the features and face 
 of Lyric Apollo, godlike in beauty. The years 
 passed him by, unnoticed, till at length fame found 
 him learned. Now death has found him, prema- 
 turely old, bald, half -blind, with accents uncertain, 
 yet with soul still athirst for the truth. 
 
 As he toiled at his lonely task, men chided him 
 for his pains. Yet, guided by an inner light, he 
 stepped on with pride over men's pity, till youth 
 
252 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 was gone and old age come to bow and weigh him 
 down. 
 
 "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? 
 Show me their shaping. 
 Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage." 
 
 And, having mastered the scroll to the last, 
 called for the comment to master that also. Even 
 to the crumbs he'd fain eat up the feast of 
 learning. 
 
 . . . Before living he'd learn how to live — 
 
 No end to learning : 
 Earn the means first — God surely will contrive 
 
 Use for our earning. 
 Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes: 
 
 Live now or never!" 
 He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! 
 
 Man has Forever." 
 
 No obstacle was too great, no detail too tedious or 
 trivial. Though racked by calculus and attacked 
 by tussis, scornful of rest, he addressed himself to 
 the task, fierce as a dragon and not a whit troubled. 
 Heedless of time, he threw on God God's task to 
 make the heavenly period perfect the earthen, 
 magnifying mind, venturing neck or nothing for 
 heaven's success. Not grammar for grammar's 
 sake, but truth for truth's. So it was that he did 
 not pause till he had run down the function of 
 oTi and the enclitic Se — all the while paralyzed 
 from the waist down. And thus, by undaunted en- 
 deavor to the end, he earned a place upon earth's 
 topmost peak where play the great forces of the 
 heavens. The multitude live in the lowland. 
 
A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 253 
 
 This man decided not to Live but Know — 
 
 Bury this man there ? 
 Here — here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form. 
 
 Lightnings are loosened, 
 Stars come and go ! Let joy break with the storm. 
 
 Peace let the dew send ! 
 Lofty designs must close in like effects: 
 
 Loftily lying, 
 Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects. 
 
 Living and dying. 
 
 First learn to live; time enough to live after 
 learning how. — This, the poem means to suggest, 
 was the undaunted spirit of learning shortly after 
 its revival in Europe; and there is probably no 
 successful scholar who will object to the imputa- 
 tion that it is his own. 
 
CLEON 
 
 Faith without Christ 
 
 Gleon is a poet who, from the seventeen isles 
 of Greece that lie sprinkled like lilies in the sea, 
 addresses an answering letter to one just received 
 from Protus the king. The royal message has been 
 brought by a galley, which, while Cleon is in the 
 act of writing a reply, is unlading its cargo of rich 
 gifts, piling them high in the court of his abode. 
 Among the gifts is a group of slaves, white and 
 black. From among them comes forward a "white 
 she-slave," clad in "crocus- vest woven of sea- 
 wools," and holds extended another gift, a 
 "strainer and a cup," which the king's lip had 
 touched in salute to Cleon before the cargo sailed. 
 
 Protus, so the letter reads, has heard of Cleon's 
 far-going fame not only as poet but as painter, 
 sculptor, and musician; and he writes to commend 
 and reward, and to win counsel on various matters 
 of conjecture touching happiness, the soul, and the 
 future state after death. These inquiries have been 
 prompted both by Cleon's fame and by the growing 
 repute of one called Paulus, a barbarian Jew, — 
 the same Paul who, on Mars' Hill, himself had 
 preached the Christ, making mention of such as 
 Cleon in the memorable phrase — "As certain also 
 of your own poets have said." 
 
 The other questions of Protus's letter concern, 
 first, Cleon's wonderful achievements: An epos 
 
CLEON ^55 
 
 graven on a hundred plates of gold; a little chant 
 which fishermen sing; a Poecile covered with sto- 
 ried paintings; three philosophical dissertations on 
 the soul; and certain notable inventions in music. 
 Protus continues with a self-depreciative com- 
 parison of his own worth with that of Cleon. The 
 king, however powerful now, will be forgotten and 
 supplanted by his heir; while Cleon will continue 
 to live, an immortal influence in the memories of 
 men. This is success. Dost thou, Cleon, asks the 
 king, fear death less with success in thy right hand? 
 The letter closes with an inquiry concerning a new 
 Jewish philosophy as set forth by Paulus and 
 Christus, upon which Cleon finally and decisively 
 comments, 
 
 Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. 
 
 This is Cleon's opportunity for much fine philos- 
 ophizing on the worth of the poet's calling, and 
 his chances for happiness. Cleon's argument is : 
 
 The poets of a later day are of a greater mind 
 than their forerunners, since they are more com- 
 posite in grasp and scope of intelligence. Theirs is 
 the ambition of viewing life, not point by point as 
 their predecessors have done, but as a great whole; 
 and with this end in view, they find those who 
 have gone before supplementing instead of succes- 
 sively effacing one another. The new worth is not 
 superimposed upon the old, blotting it out; rather is 
 each value laid side by side with all the others, and 
 so all are combined to form a perfect scheme; as, in 
 a mosaic pavement, rhomb and lozenge and trape- 
 zoid are by the artist joined on a level to make a 
 
«56 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 picture. The meaning of life, which it is the poet's 
 function to explore, grows as man grows. Relative 
 and suited to that is the prophecy of each artist 
 and poet. Those divine men of old time. Homer, 
 Terpander, Phidias, are each greatest at his own 
 point, and so far greater than Cleon; but Cleon, 
 running these into one soul, has distilled their 
 individual excellences into one; and not in vain, 
 any more than is the cultivated flower inferior to, 
 though smaller than, the wild one from which it was 
 evolved. The relative worth of individual life may 
 be symboled by a little water which at a given 
 moment touches a point of the sphere that holds it, 
 and, the sphere being turned, may touch all points 
 successively; but life's absolute value is symboled 
 by the air which, filling the sphere, touches it at all 
 points simultaneously. 
 
 Then, to answer another of Protus's questions, 
 Cleon continues: Is the poet so attaining the "very 
 crown and proper end of life" to be accounted 
 greater than Protus, or any king? In other words, 
 is the philosopher on all accounts greater, more se- 
 renely able to face death, than the man of affairs.^ 
 Is the knower and thinker more able than the doer 
 to possess and enjoy? Protus thinks so; for, says 
 he, life stays in the poems, and men will sing 
 them. Posterity will study pictures, whereas the 
 statue that commemorates a king's greatness will 
 be dragged down by the next generation. To which 
 Cleon replies: Admiration grows as knowledge 
 grows; imperfection means perfection hid. Viewing 
 the long line of evolution culminating in the devel- 
 opment of man, one rightly says that man's gift of 
 
CLEON 957 
 
 consciousness, of knowledge of himself, of intro- 
 spection and self-supervision, is his crown and dis- 
 tinction over the brute. But does this quality fit 
 him for happiness? The soul climbs to its high 
 watch-tower of capability and cries out exulting in 
 the joy the world around seems meant to minister. 
 But does it so minister .f^ The soul sees and craves 
 all, but by so much as it has spent itself in the 
 effort to know what there is to enjoy, it has dimin- 
 ished its physical recipiency of enjoyment. 
 
 And so a man can use but a man's joy 
 While he sees God's. . . . 
 Most progress is most failure. 
 
 What if the poem and the painting live for men in 
 the after-time? The knowing bow to live and the 
 showing how are not the same as the actual liv- 
 ing. Is the sculptor who carves the young Phoebus 
 therefore young? Is the old singer of love odes 
 therefore beloved? Can he who knows imagina- 
 tively the joys of kingship therefore rule? Nay; the 
 deadly fate of him who knows is daily to have his 
 sense of joy grow more acute, his soul more en- 
 larged and keen; daily to feel his hand shake, and 
 the heavy years increase; and, at last, to see the 
 consummation slipping past when he knows most 
 and least enjoys, and men shall mouth the poet's 
 odes while he lies sleeping in his urn. This is so 
 horrible a thought that only some future state, 
 unlimited in capacity for joy, can satisfy man's 
 joy-hunger here. 
 
 But no! 
 Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas. 
 He must have done so, were it possible ! 
 
258 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Wherefore it might be reasonably said, — 
 
 Let progress end at once, — man make no step 
 Beyond the natural man, the better beast. 
 
 The letter ends with a skeptical report on the 
 philosophy of Paul — his message of Christ — 
 which, if accepted, had given a positive instead of a 
 negative turn to Cleon's argument for a future 
 state and for the attainment of the joy the philos- 
 opher learns of here but cannot have. 
 
BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY 
 
 Faith and Doubt 
 
 Bishop Blougram and Gigadibs, his guest, hav- 
 ing dined sumptuously, have pushed back their 
 chairs from the table to talk, and are now drinking 
 no less sumptuously than they dined, from two 
 jugs well iced. It is the time when Goethe, Buon- 
 aparte, and Count d'Orsay were living realities in 
 the memories of men; when the London "Times" 
 and "Blackwood's Magazine" enjoyed the vogue 
 of oracles; when Dickens had set forth his sketches 
 of slum life; when Balzac's fifty volumes were still 
 new; when writing for reviews in Dublin and New 
 York first led the reviewer's aspiration to meas- 
 urable returns. Gigadibs is a representative of 
 " Blackwood's," and as such has come to seek an 
 interview with the Bishop. 
 
 The Bishop is a soft-handed sensualist of the 
 Romish church, not many degrees removed in 
 station from the Pope himself. His ambition for 
 place and power has been satisfied through no im- 
 moderate exercise of intellect and learning, it is 
 true, but by virtue of his tact in letting external 
 forces work for him. It is with oily satisfaction 
 that he contemplates his worldly circumstance: his 
 bishop's outfit; his taste in books, music, and art — 
 Greek busts, Venetian paintings; his ring for a 
 Duke and the million to kiss; the ten mules to his 
 carriage for crossing St. Gothard, — the carriage 
 
260 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 with a bed slung inside; his articles on music, po- 
 etry, the fictile vase found at Albano, chess, Anac- 
 reon's Greek; in a word, his style and title of 
 Bishop in countries where — 
 
 (the deuce knows not what 
 It 's changed to by our novel hierarchy). 
 
 So much for Blougram, his state and circumstances, 
 as disclosed in half-sincere, self-gratulatory con- 
 fidence to Gigadibs. 
 
 Gigadibs, on his part, is a person of no outward 
 circumstance or show, but a literary adventurer of 
 thirty years of age, writing statedly for " Black- 
 wood's Magazine"; and his literary best has been 
 a lively lightsome article in the style of the true 
 Dickens on "The Slum and Cellar, or Whitechapel 
 Life Limned after Dark. " A rough and ready man 
 is Gigadibs — a man who writes apace, reads some- 
 what seldomer, thinks perhaps even less; believes 
 he sees two points in Hamlet's soul unseized by the 
 Germans yet; is an unbeliever, a would-be cham- 
 pion of honest doubt; and an advocate of the simple 
 life. This is Gigadibs. Yet, with all his accom- 
 plishments, Gigadibs can scarcely be styled a match 
 in dialectic for Blougram, having besides at this time 
 the disadvantage of being guest — the obligation, 
 that is, of subduing himself to the mood of his host. 
 Moreover, a subconscious awe, a vague but discon- 
 certing timidity springing from secret admiration 
 of Blougram and his worldly rank, stifles his asser- 
 tiveness, his ardor of retort in the argument which 
 ensues. While the great Bishop rolls him out "a 
 mind long crumpled," till " creased consciousness" 
 
BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY 261 
 
 lies smooth, the literary aspirant plays absently 
 with spoons, explores his plate's design, and ranges 
 the olive stones about its edge. Though awed by 
 Blougram's worldly trapping and circumstance, 
 Gigadibs professes contempt for it; at the same 
 time he is proud of the society of so great a man, 
 and elated (so charges the Bishop) at the capital 
 material the Bishop's confession will make for an 
 article on, say, "Blougram, or The Eccentric Con- 
 fidence," or "The Outward-bound." 
 
 The Bishop's talk is an apology — a justification 
 and defense of his position in the eyes of Gigadibs, 
 who knows him by report a believer, learned, 
 widely read: decisive in his faith, conclusive and 
 positive in the terms thereof. This is the Bishop's 
 ostensible profession; he makes it before the world 
 for the world's good things and for the world's 
 guarantee that he may live to the limit of his bent. 
 At the same time, he is an unbeliever, but relatively 
 so, not decisive in his unbelief, not conclusive 
 and positive in the terms thereof. Certainly this 
 anomaly needs justification and apology; and his 
 defense has at least the semblance of cleverness to 
 Gigadibs; though, as the sequel will show, it is 
 neither conclusive nor decisive in the sense Blou- 
 gram intends. 
 
 Says the Bishop : — You despise me, I know. 
 You would not be I. You abjure my ideal of life; 
 prefer to speak your mind at all times, to be wholly 
 and solely yourself — imperial, plain, and true. 
 An unbelieving, play-acting Pope whom Death may 
 meet unawares, touch on the sleeve familiarly and 
 ask what his baubles mean, would not do, you say. 
 
262 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Gigadibs. — Yes. No pasteboard crown, sham 
 orb and tinsel's dart for me. I would be all; not 
 merely much, but all, or nothing. And so far in our 
 argument I beat you, sir. 
 
 Bishop. — No, friend, you do not beat. See my 
 hand! The common problem, yours and mine, 
 believing or not, is first not to find what should be, 
 provided it could be, but to find what may be, and 
 to live up to our means of making it so. We live in 
 Rome or London, not in Fool's-paradise. Suppose 
 a simile: We're on the ocean, let us say for a six 
 month's voyage. That's life. Each has his cabin 
 to live in and make the most of. You bring your 
 landsman's list of furniture: an Indian screen, a 
 pianoforte, Balzac's novels (fifty volumes), a shelf 
 full of little Greek books, slabbed Parma marble 
 for your bath, Correggio's Jerome (marvelous 
 painting). Protests the captain, "Six feet square! 
 If you won't understand what six feet mean, com- 
 pute and purchase stores accordingly." What 
 then.^ In pique because your Jerome, frame and 
 all, your pianoforte and bath are overhauled, you 
 come unprovided. But you've proved your artistic 
 nature, while sympathizers see you off. And what 
 of me? Behold my bishop's outfit! Better be prac- 
 tical; better be a bishop. 
 
 Gigadibs. — I don't believe — I can't believe — 
 in any revelation called divine, so long as it fails in 
 the system necessary to a science. Overhaul theol- 
 ogy, I say. Make it a real science; otherwise it loses 
 all authority for me. 
 
 Bishop. — These are your difficulties .^^ I, too, 
 have difficulties; and, to meet you on common 
 
BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY 263 
 
 ground, Overboard with them, I'll say. Now, 
 what's the gain? Shall both of us be unbelievers, 
 determinately fixed to-day, to-morrow, and forever 
 in our faith of no-faith? Not so! Just when we 
 think we 're safest comes a fancy from some flower, 
 a sunset, a death, to rap at and enter our soul with 
 whisper of the grand Perhaps, — "The Way, the 
 Truth, the Life." 
 
 Take another simile. — There lies a way over 
 the mountain called life. Standing thereon, one 
 sees it terminate, lead no whither; indeed, no road 
 at all. The viewpoint's the thing. On the way we 
 see nothing ahead. From the desert on either side, 
 up goes the line — plain from base to brow. 
 What's a break or two? The most consummate 
 of contrivances to train man's eye; to teach him 
 what faith is. You, Gigadibs, view a life of doubt 
 diversified by faith; I, Blougram, see a life of 
 faith diversified by doubt. Better be a bishop, 
 Gigadibs. 
 
 Besides, belief or unbelief determines the be- 
 ginning, determines life's whole course. The world, 
 since neither you nor I have made it, I mean to 
 take as it is; and, as for me, positive belief bears 
 me fruit in power, peace, pleasantness, and length 
 of days. 
 
 Gigadibs. — And unbelief does as much for me. 
 
 Bishop. — Does it? Let us see. Faith is my wak- 
 ing life; night is the time for sleep and dreams, tc 
 get done with (the sooner the better). Since you 
 prize midnight and its doubts, bed is the place for 
 you at all times. The common-sense o' the world is 
 right: Doubt-ridden is bed-ridden. The good 
 
264 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 things of the world are mine with faith. Better be 
 a bishop, Gigadibs. 
 
 Then, too, life's a game. The player dare not 
 be indifferent, seeing what the stake is — riches, 
 honor, pleasure, work, repose. Be your choice what 
 it will, the world, which is judge, demands that it 
 be consistent. As in love, so in life. A man should 
 wed the woman he loves most, for he cannot wed 
 twice. He cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his 
 soul. As for me, my choice is the form of Christian 
 faith I happened to be born in. With tact I let 
 external forces work for me and make my life an 
 ease and joy and pride; afford my power its scope, 
 my will its chance to dominate; gaining mankind's 
 respect, obedience, and the love that 's born of fear. 
 
 Gigadibs. — So far your choice is a success. But 
 were you made of better elements, with nobler in- 
 stincts, purer tastes — 't would be a failure. 
 
 Bishop. — Friend, we speak of what is, not of 
 what might be. Grant I am a beast, my business is 
 not to remake myself, but to make the absolute 
 best of what God made; if He have made of me a 
 pig in a stye, why then my business clearly is to see 
 that the hutch should rustle with sufficient straw. 
 
 Gigadibs. — But, as I said, in the life you choose 
 to lead there is not sufficient provision for the 
 nobler instincts, and ... 
 
 Bishop. — Ah, is n't there? By whose estima- 
 tion, pray.f^ Suppose we allow your premise that 
 one wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools'; 
 and that to win the plaudits of a dozen men of 
 sense is better than to pine among my million 
 imbeciles. Friend, here is my answer: Your prime 
 
BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY 265 
 
 men are men still, only they confuse themselves. 
 Their interest is on the dangerous side of things; 
 in, let us say, the honest thief, the tender mur- 
 derer, the superstitious atheist, the demirep that 
 loves and saves her soul in new French books; in 
 the lad o'erstric^ing a chimney-stack. The danger 
 of a fall is the measure of your prime men's inter- 
 est. They eye only the extremes. And I? Why, 
 pray, should I be fool or knave, believer or unbe- 
 liever, while a world of values lies between .f^ Then 
 why may not a superior man believe and disbe- 
 lieve as well.^ Is not that, too, keeping an equilib- 
 rium at a dizzy height, walking the line, courting 
 danger .f^ So there you are! 
 
 Gigadibs. — However much these prime men 
 may admire you, I don't. 
 
 Bishop. — Well then, what is your ideal? Pre- 
 sent your own perfection. Napoleon.? What, in the 
 first place, of his tastes .^^ And, in the second place, 
 of his star, his crazy trust .^^ Could Napoleon be 
 Napoleon and yet disbelieve — a conscious quack 
 blowing millions up, their bowels writhing in be- 
 wildering entanglement, and he — Napoleon — 
 conscious all along of judgment, of a life to come? 
 No, better be a bishop and dine, sleep, read, and 
 chat in quiet, as I like ! 
 
 Gigadibs. — Take another case. Take Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 Bishop. — Shakespeare? I or he? Which of us 
 realizes most? Much he imagined, that we may 
 allow. But how much did he possess? Supposing 
 he despised the world, your argument were good. 
 But did he? What of his Stratford house, his coat 
 
266 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 of arms, successful dealings in grain and wool? All 
 his imagined world, brave as it is, cannot weigh 
 with my real one, gross though you make it. On 
 the mere supposition, then, that this life 's all, who 
 wins the game — Shakespeare or Elougram? No, 
 enthusiasm's the best thing, I repeat, be it Napo- 
 leon's or Shakespeare's or Blougram's. Shake- 
 speare could imagine a bishop; and so far so good; 
 but could he be one? And I? I receive incense in 
 my nose, and style myself the cousin of Queen 
 Bess. Paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. 
 
 Gigadibs. — But is success a flare? Does the 
 dream count for everything? Suppose the dream 
 be false. 
 
 Bishop. — Success, my friend, is a flare, as the 
 world counts. Take Luther. There's a life to 
 lead, incomparably better than my own. His work, 
 he said, was to reclaim God's earth for God. And 
 yet he flared out in a great conflagration — his 
 failure proved by the advent of Strauss, who, 
 taken all in all, makes no fire any more than ice 
 does. Add, too, the plaguey hundredth chance that 
 Strauss may be wrong, and where are we, suppos- 
 ing death a little alters things? 
 
 Gigadibs. — Give me whole faith or none. What 
 is the good of vacillating betwixt Paul and Strauss? 
 What the good of cool indifference? How is that 
 better than frank unbelief? The risk is the same in 
 either case. 
 
 Bishop. — Is it? The difference between blank 
 doubt and doubt plus enthusiasm is that the latter 
 has a life to show in this world, while the other has 
 nothing. If you desire faith, then you've faith 
 
BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY 267 
 
 enough. "What think ye of Christ?" is the im- 
 portant question; and not, "What think ye of the 
 proof of his existence?" Has Christianity your 
 vote to be Christianity if it can? If so, you have 
 faith enough. 
 
 Gigadibs. — I would have pure faith or none. 
 
 Bishop. — Pure faith? Impossible. It sears too 
 much; it was not meant to be borne. It would 
 wither up the brain and blind the eye. But the 
 brain has a covering for a shield; the eye a lid: so 
 faith has unf aith for a defense and good has evil for 
 a protection. "With me faith means perpetual 
 unbelief kept quiet like the snake 'neath Michael's 
 foot, who stands calm just because he feels it 
 writhe." With me a pinch of snuff makes my nose 
 aware of peace by itching fits. Let doubt occasion 
 still more faith. 
 
 Gigadibs. — But the pure faith of the Middle 
 Age — 
 
 Bishop. — Was no better than Noodledom, with 
 its souls more blank than a decanter's knob; with 
 its pillage, lying, killing, robbing, fornicating like 
 beasts full in belief's face. No; better for the soul 
 to grow and never leave growing. The sum of all 
 is, my doubt is great, my faith's still greater; then 
 my faith's enough. 
 
 Gigadibs. — Why not purify your faith? Why 
 not prune it of its excrescences? 
 
 Bishop. — Because to such a process I discern 
 no end. The last cut will be Fichte's clever cut at 
 God himself. No; keep faith whole; respect the 
 creature-comforts; suit your luggage to the cabin's 
 size; live for this world now to make the next life 
 
268 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 more intense. Listen to a dream I had lately: A 
 traveler from North to South ever living in ad- 
 vance of his time and place, sheds fur in Russia, for 
 what's its use in France? scorns flannel in France, 
 since where 's the need of it in Spain? and last, 
 spurns his skin as a superfluity in Timbuctoo. 
 When was the fool at ease? 
 
 Gigadibs. — No, it 's better, if we doubt, to act 
 up to our truth perceived, however feebly. 
 
 Bishop. — Do so, then ! Act away. Act on the 
 basis of your natural religion, and we'll see where 
 you'll land. Lie, kill, thieve, fornicate to the end 
 of your bent. Can you? 
 
 Gigadibs. — - Instinct, I should say, would inter- 
 fere. 
 
 Bishop. — Ah, instinct! There I have you. 
 And why should not I live up to my instinct, who 
 must have a God before I can be aught, do aught, 
 and a relation from that God to me? I live my life 
 here; yours you dare not live. 
 
 Gigadibs. — You have misrepresented my case 
 and disfigured it. The simple life for me ! 
 
 Bishop. — Your simple life, in the last analysis, 
 means self-abnegation; which, if you like it best, is 
 best on all accounts; and there you beat me. But 
 do you like it best? 
 
 Stood you confessed of those exceptional 
 
 And privileged great natures that dwarf mine — 
 
 A zealot with a mad ideal in reach, 
 
 A poet just about to print his ode, 
 
 A statesman with a scheme to stop this war. 
 
 An artist whose religion is his art — 
 
 I should have nothing to object: such men 
 
 Carry the fire, all things grow warm to them. 
 
BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY 269 
 
 They beat me. But you — you 're just as little as I 
 am. 
 
 Gigadibs quietly takes his leave. But, instead 
 of writing for " Blackwood's" the startling account 
 of an unbelieving bishop's confession under the 
 caption, "The Outward-bound," he buys a stock, 
 not of cabin-furniture, but of settler's implements 
 and starts for Australia. He has beaten after all. 
 The simple life is the best, and in time he will 
 prove it so. 
 
 The "Apology" is a dramatic monologue; that 
 is, it presents but one side — the Bishop's — of its 
 dialogue; and, as the purpose of the dramatic ele- 
 ment in a dramatic monologue is to afford the 
 greatest possible play of emotion in the reaction of 
 one or more characters upon situations and inci- 
 dents, it would seem at first that the "Apology," 
 with its single situation of a dinner at which two 
 views of conduct are brought into conflict, with the 
 result of changing the course of Gigadibs's life, 
 fails of its purpose; yet there is surprise enough in 
 the Bishop's disclosures, and suspense enough in 
 the portrayal of their effect on Gigadibs. The form 
 of the poem thus justifies itself, its emotional ap- 
 peal consisting in this conflict of opinion. 
 
 For the sake of clearness, the principles which 
 are opposed to each other will be reviewed. 
 
 The Bishop's thesis is, that, since truth is rela- 
 tive and the business of life is an immensely 
 practical thing, it is not only folly but an impossi- 
 bility to live up to an absolute standard of religion; 
 that, consequently, a union of unbelief and faith 
 
270 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 in the same person is not only a possible but the 
 most practical condition. So long as faith has the 
 mastery, unfaith is a positive good — an adjunct to 
 faith and coadjutor with it, a sustainer of faith and 
 a valid proof thereof: just as evil proves good; just 
 as itching fits prove the desirability of peace for 
 the inside-nose. A corollary to the relative status 
 of truth and therefore of faith is the folly of antici- 
 pating one's time and place in the matter of truth 
 and faith. Man, as John says in "A Death in 
 the Desert," is spoon-fed with truth. A Bishop's 
 worldly success would seem to show the validity of 
 his opportunist philosophy when squared, according 
 to Gigadibs's demands, by a revelation made con- 
 clusive and decisive in its terms; which is to say, 
 one as positive and compelling as a science. 
 
 So much is plain regarding Blougram. Quite the 
 contrary, however, is just as plain concerning 
 Gigadibs. His demand is for absolute belief, with- 
 out temporizing with expediency and the vitiating 
 conditions of here and now. He abjures any form 
 of sham and hypocrisy masquerading in the selfish 
 and ease-loving guise of practical adaptation of 
 means to ends. Give me pure, unadulterated faith, 
 cries Gigadibs, and I will act up to it. And on the 
 Bishop's final admission that while that is possible 
 on the part of the zealot, it means, nevertheless, a 
 form of self-abnegation of which Gigadibs is as 
 incapable as he; and on his further admission that 
 the zealot incomparably beats him — the Bishop 
 — in his own game of life, in which he still, as comr 
 pared to Gigadibs, stoutly maintains his superior- 
 ity, Gigadibs packs up his belongings and starts for 
 
BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY 271 
 
 a settler's life in Australia, determined consistently 
 to live up to his standards of natural religion, 
 unhampered by the relative and the expedient. 
 
 As between these two, what is the reader's con- 
 clusion? Whom does the poet wish him to choose? 
 A plausible answer is, Neither, since it is not certain 
 with whom Browning's sympathies lay. His inten- 
 tion was merely to portray these two types of char- 
 acter so far as he understood them — and there the 
 matter ends. Browning was neither doctrinaire nor 
 controversialist, but an observer, a poet, able like 
 Shakespeare to create a bishop but not to be one, 
 and so far content. 
 
 The doctrinaire and controversialist among his 
 readers, however, — he who speaks in positive 
 terms, — will doubtless make out a different case; 
 to wit: Browning's purpose is the exaltation of 
 Blougram, for Blougram is the chief disputant and 
 victorious in argument; he is the aggressor; he 
 is meant to engage our sympathies; and his postu- 
 lates of the relativity of truth, the necessity of ex- 
 pediency and opportunism, are voiced time and 
 again by others of Browning's dramatic creations. 
 Besides, is he not known from sources other than 
 his own writings to have been a man of the world 
 no less than a poet? 
 
MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM" 
 
 Imposture and Faith 
 
 Sludge is the name of a spiritualistic medium 
 whose business one day takes him to Boston. As a 
 medium he has succeeded in attracting much atten- 
 tion; and among those whom he counts his admir- 
 ers are persons of all sorts and occupations — some, 
 according to Sludge's own appraisement of them, 
 being skeptics, but the greater number curiosity- 
 seeking dupes. Among his patrons are found also 
 such unlikely persons as the philosopher and meta- 
 physician, the hard-headed judge and the immod- 
 est woman, the literary dilettante and the social- 
 science fribble; and Sludge's exploitation of these 
 gullible folk has afforded him a very plentiful har- 
 vest. 
 
 But it happens one day that Sludge makes a fatal 
 mistake with one Hiram H. Horsefall, an enthusi- 
 astic and profitable customer. Horsefall, desirous 
 of establishing communications with his deceased 
 mother, has approached the medium to that end, 
 inviting him to his fine mansion, and plying him 
 there with lavish presents of jewelry and money and 
 rich champagne dinners as a sign of gratitude and 
 an eagerness to know more. A number of success- 
 ful seances have been conducted at the Horsefall 
 mansion; and that the case would be sufficiently 
 remunerative to Sludge was shown, aside from 
 the champagne and the presents, by the opulence of 
 
MR. SLUDGE, THE MEDIUM 273 
 
 the mansion's appointments. But one day Sludge 
 imbibes too freely, and, perpetrating the fatal mis- 
 take, is furiously attacked by the disillusioned 
 Horsefall. The medium, making the best of a bad 
 situation, summons to his defense his oiliest manner 
 and most persuasive arguments. His defense, 
 briefly stated, is this : — 
 
 Sludge's ability to communicate with the spirit- 
 world is an established fact, and it is true too that 
 all spirits are not only willing but very eager to 
 respond to his summons, imperfect man though he 
 be, since, by reason of his temperamental fitness, 
 he is one of the very few persons through whom 
 they can communicate with this world. Among 
 those who have come at his call are Franklin, Tom 
 Paine, Bacon, Johnson, Wesley, Barnum, Beethoven, 
 Saul and Jonathan, Pompey and Caesar, Milton, 
 Locke, Homer, Asaph, Shakespeare, and Mary 
 Queen of Scots. They, one and all, the celebrated 
 with the obscure, flock to the medium as eager to 
 learn if all is well with their sons and successors in 
 the old home on earth as is the outside world crowd- 
 ing to a prison window to see how the prisoners fare 
 within. 
 
 Yes, it is true that Sludge operates by means of 
 so-called spirit-rappings, table-tippings, spirit-writ- 
 ing in sympathetic ink, odic lights from phosphor- 
 matches, tricks with glass balls, dim shapes con- 
 jured up in a darkened room hung with curtains; 
 but this is the only means of communication and 
 the only authentic spirit language. Why should 
 Horsefall doubt it? Why start up in such a fury of 
 resentment, clutching Sludge by the windpipe and 
 
274 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 all but choking the life out of him? Why this talk 
 of exposure in Greeley's newspaper? Exposure is the 
 game, is it? Well, there may be things to expose 
 on Horsefall's side as well. That will serve admir- 
 ably to cool his execrable temper and make him 
 listen. Horsefall does well to listen now and hand 
 over the money. The sixty "V-notes" will do, if 
 he will promise to keep quiet about the cheating 
 until, at least. Sludge has boarded the next steamer 
 for England. 
 
 Sludge's plea for exculpation is a long and ingen- 
 ious one, extending from this particular instance of 
 crookedness in which he has just been detected to 
 chicanery and fraud in general. There is cheating 
 everywhere, he says: not only in spiritual seances, 
 but in the supposedly more sacred realms of litera- 
 ture, history, philosophy, and religion. However, 
 disappointment crowning his efforts to win rein- 
 statement in Horsefall's affections, he creeps off 
 sullenly to bed with half-muttered curses and 
 threats to burn Horsefall's house down, or get even 
 by starting a scandal to the effect that Horsefall 
 had hastened his succession to the family estate by 
 murdering his old mother. 
 
 A more extended account of Sludge's argument is 
 the following : Men are conceited prigs, who, though 
 wary* enough when money is concerned, are steeped 
 in credulity in other matters, being especially prone 
 to all kinds of gullibility with respect to spirits and 
 things spiritual. In their conceit and credulity, men 
 invite being duped, swallowing as they do, bait and 
 hook, anything in print purporting to be philosophy ; 
 and so, when they 're caught, it 's no one's fault but 
 
MR. SLUDGE, THE MEDIUM 275 
 
 theirs. Of course, mediums are imperfect, any im- 
 perfection or vulgarity in the medium being due 
 to the nervous shock and the great difficulty of 
 dealing with the spirit- world. So men say. And 
 furthermore, men pounce upon a medium as upon 
 a prize, or a medal dug up, or the first edition of a 
 book discovered, claiming the credit of a grand dis- 
 covery, giving it their name, and calling it their 
 own. It is thus that men encourage lying and cheat- 
 ing, pretending all the time to look askance at it; 
 and it is thus that, with their cosseting and coddling, 
 they encourage dishonesty in a medium. And how 
 do they support the occasional skeptic among them 
 who claims to have exploded the humbug.'^ Simply 
 by outcrowing him until he stands abashed, and 
 doubt in him succumbs. Under these favorable cir- 
 cumstances imposition naturally multiplies. \Miat 
 else could be expected.'^ What else — when women, 
 lending a hand, feast and lionize your impostor? 
 As for lying and imposition, truly there's exactly 
 as much of it as the world invites. 
 
 Where may one stop? Nowhere! The cheating 's nursed 
 Out of the lying. 
 
 The supply of wonders is manufactured to suit 
 the demand ; and a wonder always finds a ready de- 
 fense among the multitude, so that, when there 
 does, at length, arise a cry of "cheating," the sym- 
 pathizers retort that it was only a mistake in the 
 performance. As for sleight of hand, they declare, 
 why there is no more of that in blowing glass or in 
 tossing biscuits flat into an oven than in spirit rap- 
 ping. Suppose the demurring person be of the hard- 
 
276 STORIES FROM BROWNmG 
 
 headed Judge Humgruffin type. Silence ensues for 
 a little; for of all the persons to expose a fraud, your 
 Judge Humgruffin is the ablest. Humgruffin tries 
 his best and — fails. What happens then? Vic- 
 tory, and victory redoubled; for if Humgruffin fail 
 at exploding a fake, how can Sludge succeed at one? 
 Ergo, say the credulous. Sludge is the real thing. 
 
 There comes another test. A mother wishes to 
 speak to her departed child; and the medium star- 
 tles her with the occult knowledge that the infant 
 died at six and rode a rocking-horse. Witness the 
 mother's blank expression, little suspecting the 
 nurse who supplied the information. Yes, there are 
 ways known to Sludgedom of bringing the wariest 
 to their knees, and the hardest-headed among the 
 Humgruffins. You call Sludge a cheat? Just as 
 well call the cobbler who kept pegging away with 
 nose to lapstone a cheat. Yet he was neither cob- 
 bler nor cheat. But 
 
 his trade was, throwing thus 
 His sense out like an ant-eater's tongue; 
 
 and every Sunday he touched his pay and took his 
 praise — a government-spy ! Does Sludge do the 
 impossible and learn the unknowable? Well, if so, 
 it is only by such simple means as these. Does 
 Sludge cheat? Why, yes; but no more than is to be 
 expected. He has cheated Horsefall — he admits 
 it — and, what is more, courts exposure; for, sup- 
 pose Sludge did confess, would the people believe 
 him? His partisans and defenders would but say 
 that under provocation he might cheat the unwary 
 for the mere sport of the game; — but as for us. 
 
MR. SLUDGE, THE MEDIUM 277 
 
 he would n't try to cheat us for the simple reason 
 that he knows we 're too sharp for him. He may be 
 a worthless character — true : that 's his nature : 
 all mediums are worthless, and by virtue of their 
 worthlessness all the more efficient. 
 
 Bless your soul, 
 'T is these hysteric, hybrid half-and-halfs. 
 Equivocal, worthless vermin yield the fire! 
 
 These are the gulls whom Sludge deals with; and, 
 seeing who they are, why, pray, should Sludge 
 waste any gratitude on them? They deserve to be 
 fooled — for their selfishness and blind trust in 
 their own acuteness, for one thing; and, for another 
 thing, for being so debauched with self-deception 
 as to ascribe any supposed imposture by a medium 
 to his natural imperfection of character rather than 
 to any intentional duplicity. All men are imperfect, 
 and mediums are no exceptions; moreover, the world 
 must be satisfied with such mediums as are suscep- 
 tible to spirit influence. So an occasional slip is to 
 be expected as evidence of the medium's mere hu- 
 manity. 
 
 And that, you say, is so much the more reason 
 for being grateful.? Grateful for being used as a 
 showman's ape? Grateful to the superior super- 
 intending sort for using Sludge to sweep truth from 
 the skies with a broom? No, the gullible shall be 
 gulled — men and women alike; for, as regards the 
 women, they deserve it even more than the men, 
 because, though ordinarily so sensitive as to faint 
 when a male hand squeezes theirs, your ladies have 
 no scruples whatever to dally with such as Sludge, 
 
278 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 excusing themselves on the ground that Sludge is 
 but a medium. In fact, they will condone any im- 
 propriety with the explanation that in the next 
 world values are reversed, as, for example, in a pic- 
 ture of nude nymphs conversing unblushingly with 
 a passing cavalier on a populous street. Gratitude 
 to them.f^ No need to worry on that score; for the 
 ladies come to feed their self-conceit, and to find 
 one more novelty to cackle over. When lambs 
 come for wool and go home shorn, where 's the 
 harm done? From such as they, a medium, impostor 
 or no impostor, is surely worthy of his hire. 
 
 Another side to the business — its sacrilege, its 
 sinfulness.'^ On that score, too, Horsefall may rest 
 easy; for the matter as it stands is decidedly a help 
 instead of a hindrance to religion: does not your 
 Sludge with mysteries comparable to those of Saint 
 Paul and Swedenborg, lay your crass atheist sprawl- 
 ing on his back.? The relation of your medium to 
 religion has been altogether misunderstood; but this 
 once seen in its true light, Sludge will be awarded 
 the credit he deserves. For is it not Sludge's part 
 to join in the general cause against the common 
 enemy? Down with the skeptics everywhere! They 
 are liars all, and the best means of baffling them are 
 lies. It takes a lie to kill a lie. Then, consider the 
 moral use there is in a lie; the use, that is, which a 
 harlot subserves in evoking belief in purity by ex- 
 posing the skeleton beneath the flesh — a shorter 
 way of teaching that men have souls than by citing 
 old philosophies. Moreover, there's a real love of 
 lies among liars as of sugar-plums among girls. The 
 liking for both is universal; and a lie once indulged 
 
MR. SLUDGE, THE MEDIUM 279 
 
 vitiates the best of faith, and vitiates it completely. 
 All in the quagmire of falsehood have had due warn- 
 ing, to which they pay not the slightest heed before 
 they venture, and wallow in the slough. Then hear 
 the fools reason : — 
 
 In so many tales 
 Must be some truth, truth though a pin-point big. 
 Yet some: a single man's deceived, perhaps — 
 Hardly a thousand: to suppose one cheat 
 Can gull all these were more miraculous far 
 Than aught we should confess a miracle. 
 
 Has one no respect for the authorities who support 
 spiritualism, and none for that medium of limpid 
 nature and spotless honor .^^ 
 
 Such are Sludge's supporters. Yet he finds no 
 lack of them from a more unexpected source; from 
 a class of men, that is to say, who are wholly emas- 
 culated; who in cold blood and perfect safety are 
 able to dally with superstitions — your out-and- 
 out skeptics, unbelievers as to anything and every- 
 thing, seekers merely of the latest sensation. These, 
 the self -proclaimed champions of truth, fair-play, 
 and disinterested investigation, set up your Sludge 
 for a public spectacle, proclaim him as a thing to 
 experiment with, discuss and cant about. Another 
 sort of enthusiasts, still more contemptible, are 
 your literary folk, who sift a dung-heap to gain a 
 pearl and roll in the slime of the slough for the 
 book's sake and the public stare. But the most 
 detestable class of all is that of your sociological 
 fribble 
 
 Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block 
 To try the edge of his faculty upon. 
 
280 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 These, then, are Sludge's patrons. And Shidge is 
 asked to show them gratitude? Perhaps, on mature 
 dehberation, your Sludge might give them as much 
 as a prostitute feels for a greenhorn or a bully. 
 
 There is another aspect to the case.^ Really.^ 
 What about Sludge and Sludge's God.f^ Is that the 
 question.? Oh, as to that it must be said that, in the 
 last analysis, there's a substratum of truth in 
 spiritualism, tricks or no tricks. There is sl spirit- 
 world; there's no denying that. With so much con- 
 ceded, the next question is: What may be the mode 
 of intercourse between this world and that.^^ Con- 
 sider what the Bible says, what history says. 
 
 Since Samuel's ghost appeared to Saul, of course 
 My brother's spirit may appear to me. 
 
 It is admitted, to be sure, that such things have 
 been, and yet it is urged that it 's best to hold belief 
 in abeyance until more satisfying proof be forth- 
 coming. Meanwhile, one may reach a sort of 
 compromise by acknowledging some means of com- 
 munication with that other world, now, as there was 
 in Saul's time — not the old way, to be sure, but a 
 way suitable to new and changed conditions. And 
 this is not for all men to employ, any more than it is 
 for all men to paint pictures or even to see all the 
 colors in the rainbow. Some are born color-blind. 
 And most are born with lack of the sensitiveness 
 needful if one would serve as a medium. Though 
 the times may have changed and the modern world 
 be regarded as new, yet the laws by which the mod- 
 ern world is operated are the same as of old; though 
 in passing from infancy to manhood one may grow 
 
MR. SLUDGE, THE MEDIUM 281 
 
 away from one's first stock of Bible lore, the truth 
 of the Bible is still the same; though disillusionment 
 may come with regard to Santa Claus and fairies, 
 the truth of the real faith can suffer no change. It is 
 so with the whole spirit world; for, all illusions gone, 
 there remains as much of the supernatural as ever. 
 
 What unseen agency outside the world 
 Prompted its puppets to do this and that? 
 
 Just so I reason, in sober earnest still 
 About the greater god-sends, what you call 
 The serious gains and losses of my Hfe. 
 
 Moreover, Sludge must recognize that in this 
 world he is a reality and as such is put to the neces- 
 sity of looking out for himself. This being the case, 
 the use of things is to serve his purpose as a player 
 in the show of life. For life is a show — a spectacle 
 — in which signs and wonders abound. Stars, for 
 instance, are set to show when sheep should be 
 sheared, corn sowed, trees pruned; and Charles's 
 Wain seen at midnight signifies even so seemingly 
 trivial a thing as that the time has come to have 
 one's hair cut. But what constitutes triviality .^^ Is 
 man too insignificant for providential care, even the 
 slightest .f^ Search history for instances. Take the 
 common example of a handkerchief lost and a 
 wreck thereby escaped. Though hundreds of others 
 not so favored, and Boston to boot, had gone down 
 in the disaster, the sign of the lost handkerchief was 
 yet a special providence for Sludge. Why then 
 should Sludge scorn to be on the alert for such signs? 
 On the contrary, he chooses to look for them, and 
 look carefully, 
 
STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Into each hour with its infinitude 
 Of influence at work to profit Sludge; 
 
 chooses 
 
 To spy a providence in the fire's going out. 
 The kettle 's boiling, the dime's sticking fast. 
 
 Is this unreasonable? For, "if nothing guards and 
 guides us Httle men," what can be the need of Prov- 
 idence? What, too, can be the need of gratitude to 
 Providence if men are not taken into partnership 
 with a benevolent Providence? On what other 
 basis can men be true beneficiaries of Providence? 
 Is it more of a miracle that out of the many millions 
 of worlds, the earth should have been chosen to make 
 Adam in, than that Adam should have been chosen 
 for the earth? By the same token. Sludge, being 
 chosen, as he believes, a medium to read God by 
 signs, chooses his own daily course by signs. Nor 
 is the least too insignificant for his use — not even 
 the dropping of an apple-pip from either can thus of 
 the eye; for, if the left pip drops, it's a sure warning 
 to let well-enough alone and forego a certain en- 
 terprise for a time at least. 
 
 Is Sludge asked if these rules are infallible? Cer- 
 tainly they are not. They are no more infallible — 
 and no less so, for that matter — than your scien- 
 tist's rules. Take the case of two farmers, one of 
 whom was a wiseacre in his own conceit, and after 
 much studying of seasons, rummaging almanacs, 
 quoting the dew-point, registering the frost, pro- 
 phesied confidently that the next summer would 
 be dampish. Yet, contrariwise, it proved a drought, 
 and he lost all. The other farmer, not so scientific. 
 
MR, SLUDGE, THE MEDIUM 283 
 
 observed that his brindled heifer stiffened her tail 
 of evenings late in March, and, taking it for a prog- 
 nostication of ensuing drought, managed accord- 
 ingly and so profited greatly, saving hay and corn 
 and making cent per cent thereby. Yes, it is un- 
 doubtedly a gift to know what signs are true and 
 what false, requiring, as it does, a certain predispo- 
 sition of the flesh as well as of the mind, and the 
 faith that the world was made to serve one's indi- 
 vidual end and aim; that the infinitely great is not 
 too great for converse with the infinitely small ; nor 
 the *' terrible " too far aloof for that. It is curious to 
 note how men first came to despise the little things, 
 at first seeing Providence only in thunder, light- 
 ning, earthquake, and whirlwind, and so, in awe- 
 stricken fear, not daring, even like the Jews at the 
 present time, to pronounce His name. WTiat, as a 
 result, has become so insignificant as the grass, and 
 the worm and fly that feed there ! And yet daily life 
 is a vast current of common things; and each of 
 these, read aright, has its own meaning. The old 
 way has somewhat altered in these days, and great 
 things are seen as made up of little things. 
 
 And little things go lessening till at last 
 
 Comes God behind them . . . 
 
 The small becomes the dreadful and immense; 
 
 whereas the lightning, once so terrible, can now be 
 made — a dollar's worth with 
 
 A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk, 
 
 a bit of wire and a knob of brass. The Magnum ei 
 terribile is terrible no more, and the argument con- 
 
284 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 cerning our importance in the scheme of things has 
 changed its emphasis. We are His children, we 
 say, meaning thereby that all the world is a contriv- 
 ance to keep up an incessant play of love between 
 children and Father. Amen to it! 
 
 As for the child's part, Sludge is not ashamed of 
 it; on the contrary, he is proud of it, perfectly con- 
 fident of his divine heirship if he but act his child's 
 part properly. He believes with child-like faith and, 
 child-like, lives by signs and wonders, which, he 
 trusts, exist only to point him out the way of safety 
 and acclaim his heavenly lineage. He disclaims any 
 part or lot with your clever people for whom all life 
 is but an arid expanse of the commonplace diversi- 
 fied with the inexplicable. For him, as with the 
 California gold-seekers, the miraculous and not 
 the commonplace is the everyday occurrence. So 
 gold is found, the dirty rest of life being flung aside; 
 and what is kept is gold, pure gold. 
 
 The other fools believed in mud, no doubt — 
 Failed to know the gold they saw. 
 
 On the other hand. Sludge has his drawbacks. 
 He will not deny them; they are his, and he 
 freely confesses it. They but make him human, 
 binding him to the common lot. With all his sen- 
 sitiveness to what's going on behind the veil, he 
 owns to a streak of cowardice and likewise to an 
 inclination to play the cheat and liar sometimes. 
 But, when all's said and done, what does it come 
 to? Is there no use whatever in lying .^^ Take this 
 illustration and see. Sludge, frightened, could not 
 walk a plank between windows a hundred feet 
 
MR. SLUDGE, THE MEDroM 285 
 
 above Beacon Street; but, to beget the necessary 
 courage to do so, pasted paper on each side of the 
 plank, swore the paper cheat was pavement, and 
 walked the plank whistling. Take another case. 
 A chalk nest-egg is a cheat, to be sure; yet does it 
 not serve admirably to help a credulous hen to lay 
 a real egg daily for weeks to come.^ Everybody 
 can, will, and does cheat. Moreover, every cheat is 
 inspired, and every lie alive with a germ of truth! 
 Could n't Sludge do without cheating.^ And if 
 so, why does he condescend to it? Well, for one 
 reason, because 
 
 There's a strange secret sweet self-sacrifice 
 In any desecration of one's soul 
 To a worthy end. 
 
 More than that, he must cheat in self-defense. 
 What's the world worth otherwise .^^ Does any one 
 find it made to his satisfaction? 
 
 Don't it want trimming, turning, furbishing up 
 And polishing over? 
 
 Better have faith, though at the sacrifice of truth, 
 and so grow, than, having skepticism or a com- 
 placent acceptance of things as they are, wither 
 up and die ! Look, too, at the practical gains that 
 come with genius, beauty, rank, and wealth — 
 all participating in Sludgehood. Thus this world 
 grows, and grows worth while, until — 
 
 Why, here's the Golden Age, old Paradise 
 Or new Utopia ! Here 's true life indeed ! . . . 
 
 This way cheating justifies itself. It justifies itself 
 in other ways as well; in poetry, for instance: in the 
 
286 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 romance of Troy that never was, in the Greeks that 
 have only a fictitious existence in Homer. It justi- 
 fies itself in history, biography, geology, — each 
 being as the author wants it. So there you are! 
 Sludge is vindicated, and all Sludges are only a 
 blessing in disguise. 
 
 Regarding the impression of this tour deforce on 
 mediums and spiritualism there may arise some dif- 
 ference of opinion. It is obvious that the advocates 
 of Sludge's particular cult of spiritualism regard 
 themselves as ridiculed. With the incredulous, of 
 course the contrary is the case, as in their eyes the 
 taunt of emasculation applies not to themselves 
 but to Sludge. 
 
 Is a wider application than this possible.^ Was 
 the poem meant to impale a more numerous class 
 of humbugs than those of the Sludge sort — a class 
 who, whether itinerant or residential, prey upon the 
 ignorance of a sensation-loving populace for private 
 gain and public notoriety, or, to quote Sludge him- 
 self, for the cheap titillation that goes with play- 
 ing the liar.f^ The Sludge argument against disinter- 
 ested and truth-loving investigation has been made 
 current coin by the cheap jacks of every description, 
 — medical, theological, and educational, — who 
 will find in "Mr. Sludge" a striking delineation of 
 their distinguishing characteristics. 
 
AN EPISTLE 
 
 CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERI- 
 ENCE OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN 
 
 Faith and Science 
 
 The general title of the volume in which the 
 "Epistle" is contained is "Men and Women." 
 This furnishes a clue to the epistle's purpose, which, 
 manifestly, is to portray character. The portrayal 
 here primarily concerns Karshish, the writer, and 
 Lazarus, who has died and been raised again from 
 the dead. Karshish is a physician, and the phe- 
 nomenon of Lazarus 's death and his resurrection 
 at the end of three days furnishes the all-important 
 subject matter of the physician's investigation and 
 of his report to Abib, a brother in the medical pro- 
 fession. The author of Lazarus's miraculous cure 
 is discovered to have been a Nazarene physician. 
 Another character is mentioned in the account — 
 a Syrian messenger to whom Karshish's letter is 
 entrusted for delivery to Abib. There are no women 
 in the story. Those, then, who are portrayed here 
 are, first Karshish, second Lazarus, and third the 
 Nazarene healer. 
 
 Karshish is tarrying at Bethany while on his way 
 from Jericho to Jerusalem. A picker-up of learn- 
 ing's crumbs, he is zealous in the interests of his 
 calling, storing his memory with all matters of 
 medical utility. Herbs, minerals, human diseases, 
 are the objects of his painstaking scrutiny and 
 
288 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 study. He is inquisitive how pricks and cracks be- 
 fall the flesh through too much strain. It is the 
 twenty-second time he has written to Abib, his 
 medical preceptor and friend; and in his letter he 
 encloses three samples of true snake-stone, good for 
 charms and still better, when pounded fine, for 
 drugs. Other objects of his observation in Jewry are : 
 a new kind of gum-tragacanth, which is clear-grained 
 and friable under the pestle; a viscid choler observ- 
 able in tertians; blue-flowering borage, very nitrous, 
 and found in abundance on the margin of pools; 
 ash-gray spiders, mottled on the back, which in 
 doses of five are a cure for falling-sickness. Most 
 remarkable of all is the case of a man with a queer 
 look. He is aflflicted with mania; with epilepsy 
 prolonged unduly some three days in trance. In a 
 most strange manner, writes Karshish, he met the 
 man at Bethany. He himself was weary — he had 
 shed sweat enough afoot and left flesh and bone on 
 many a flinty furlong of the land. A black lynx 
 had pricked a tufted ear and snarled, lusting for 
 his blood. Robbers had twice stripped and beaten 
 him, A town had declared him for a Roman spy. 
 Then — 
 
 I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills 
 Like an old lion's cheek-teeth. Out there came 
 A moon made like a face with certain spots 
 Multiform, manifold and menacing. 
 Then a wind rose behind me. So we met 
 In this old sleepy town at unaware. 
 The man and I. 
 
 The man Lazarus, thus met by Karshish, is a 
 sanguine Jew, fifty years of age, proportioned, of a 
 
THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH 289 
 
 wholly laudable habit of body and in an uncom- 
 monly good state of health. Only his mental con- 
 dition is abnormal. He eyes the world like a child, 
 yet is no fool. He pays little heed to questions 
 about himself, addressed to the elders of his tribe; 
 watches the buzzing flies; speaks only when spoken 
 to; seems to have lost all sense of proportion in 
 the size, the sum, the values of things : is regard- 
 less of the prodigious army assembled to besiege 
 his city, but magnifies trifles into facts of mo- 
 mentous import; cheerful in the presence of his 
 child, though it were sick unto death, but grave 
 and startled into an agony of fear by a word, ges- 
 ture, glance from that same child at play or at 
 school or laid asleep. Whole results he knows, views 
 the sum of things, measuring each act and occur- 
 rence from this standard. He holds on to this earthly 
 life as to a thread, amid the before and after of the 
 spiritual world orbing him around. Ever humble 
 and studiously submissive to the heavenly will, he 
 reveals by a look the eager soul springing into his 
 face as if he saw and heard again the sage physician 
 who bade him rise, knowing God's secret. Reproved 
 for his stolid carelessness while Rome is on the 
 march to stamp out his town, his tribe, and him at 
 once, he merely stares back with large wide eyes. 
 And yet the man is not apathetic, for all things 
 he loves: flowers, brutes, and birds; impatient at 
 nothing except at ignorance. 
 
 But strangest tale of all is that of the Nazarene 
 who cured him; who, accused of wizardry in a tu- 
 mult many years ago, perished at the hands of the 
 mad populace. It was the time the earthquake fell. 
 
290 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Many wild rumors are afloat. But they are, they 
 must be, lies. And the most astounding is the re- 
 port about our patient, Lazarus, who after all is but 
 a person stark mad. One thing more — nothing 
 must be withheld from a leech. It is this : Lazarus 
 cured regards the curer as none other than God him- 
 self — God, who came and dwelt in the flesh awhile, 
 taught, healed the sick, and died. It is a tedious 
 case, tediously set forth. Yet, think, Abib! Could 
 this have been the very God.^ What if the All- 
 Great were the All-Loving too.? — saying to man 
 His creature: 
 
 " O heart I made, a heart beats here ! 
 Face my hands fashioned, see it in myself! 
 Thou hast no power nor mayst conceive of mine. 
 But love I gave thee, with myself to love, 
 And thou must love me who have died for thee!" 
 
 The madman saith He said so; it is strange! 
 
 The distinguishing features in the personality of 
 Karshish are, first of all, his devoted industry as a 
 picker-up of learning's crumbs in the service of 
 medicine and his reluctance in admitting to a 
 brother physician any other than a professional 
 explanation of Lazarus's idea of his resurrection, 
 persisting to the end in calling it a malady. His 
 professional habit is further displayed in his per- 
 sistence in regarding the Nazarene as a physician; 
 in his sorrow that the Nazarene's cure for epilepsy 
 is not obtainable; and in his professional disposition 
 to explain Lazarus's mental divagations as due to 
 a drug administered. Of course, nothing is proved, 
 and the diagnosis remains pure conjecture. As a 
 
THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH 291 
 
 result, the current rumor of the Nazarene's wizardry 
 finds no acceptance with him; yet the other popu- 
 lar explanation of the divinity of the wonder- 
 worker makes in the end an irresistible appeal. 
 
 From the concrete dramatic form of the poem 
 it is impossible to predicate Browning's own feel- 
 ing in the case, especially concerning the validity of 
 the argument. Doubtless it would be a mistake to 
 view the poem as a tour deforce in argumentation or 
 doctrinal preachment. Rather, it is to be regarded 
 as a work of art whose purpose is to portray a por- 
 tentous historical situation with fidelity to time, 
 place, and persons. The problem Browning pro- 
 poses is to view the resurrection of Lazarus with 
 the eyes of contemporaneous medical authority; 
 and the solution is worked out in conceiving of 
 Karshish as a typical exponent of medicine within 
 the life-time of Lazarus. 
 
 The epistolary style adopted as the artistic me- 
 dium has its difficulties; difficulties which Brown- 
 ing recognizes in the lines. 
 
 Thy pardon for this long and tedious case, 
 Which, now that I view it, needs must seem 
 Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth. 
 
 Prolixity is a natural characteristic of letters, es- 
 pecially of the news-giving, diary- writing sort; and 
 it is needless to say that the poet has imitated them 
 admirably — even to the crossing of a "t" or the 
 dotting of an " i." The letter opens with appropriate 
 jottings-down on the country traversed in the jour- 
 ney from Jericho to Bethany; the minerals, herbs, 
 and diseases that abound in Jewry. It continues 
 
292 STORIES FROM BROT^TTO^G 
 
 with a rambling account of Lazarus, who, as the 
 diagnosis and not the man is the question of first 
 importance, is not mentioned until the narrative is 
 well on its way. The strange meeting with the man, 
 unaware by moonlight, is withheld until near the 
 close; and the time and other place allusions are 
 woven in as if by the way or incidentally, instead 
 of being bunched or lumped together. This tech- 
 nique makes for the illusion of reality: the epistle 
 is a real letter. It also simulates the extempora- 
 neous current of conversation which requires the 
 reader to float with the stream the moment he finds 
 himself on it, and to catch, as chance offers, the in- 
 formation necessary to a knowledge of his where- 
 abouts. 
 
 These, then, are some of the sources of real pleas- 
 ure derived from a perusal of "The Strange Medi- 
 cal Experience of Karshish." His medical diagno- 
 sis we at once take to be characteristic, knowing it 
 to be informing only so far as it is characteristic. 
 On the other hand, we are met much as Karshish 
 met Lazarus, by strange ideas touching us, too, 
 with peculiar interest and awe : the effect of absolute 
 truth upon a finite intelligence would be inertia, in 
 that it would act as a distorting medium for the 
 perception of earthly values. Truth needs to be 
 graduated in proportion to capacity. That Brown- 
 ing himself seriously held to this faith is to be in- 
 ferred from his presentation of it in other poems, 
 as, for instance, "A Death in the Desert" and 
 "Development." The important matter for Kar- 
 shish — a matter that seems to have grown upon 
 him while he was writing, if not in the course of 
 
THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH 293 
 
 his diagnosis — is a reluctant and ashamed con- 
 sciousness of the supernatural claims of the Na- 
 zarene healer; and a consciousness of the force of 
 that claim in the revelation that the All-Great may 
 be the All-Loving too. In proportion as the reader 
 finds this teaching acceptable, so far will he feel 
 the poem satisfying; and if he sees himself in the 
 position of Karshish, he will hail the writer as great. 
 These considerations are intended to stress the 
 moral values of the "Epistle"; since, after all, it 
 is for such values that society cares. 
 
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 
 OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND 
 
 Faith and Theology 
 
 Caliban is a representative of the natural man. 
 In Shakespeare's "Tempest" he is a monster, a 
 crawling thing, somewhat of the shape of a man 
 and with the scales of a fish. Browning's Caliban 
 is undoubtedly derived from Shakespeare's. Brown- 
 ing's creation is possessed of belly, elbows, chin, 
 feet, spine, arms, eyes, hair and beard. And in the 
 course of the poem he is made to speak, kick, 
 laugh, and, indeed, philosophize. His philosophiz- 
 ing, as is indicated in the alternative title, takes the 
 course of natural theology. Since the theology is 
 meant to be natural, it is not unlikely that the 
 philosopher, Caliban, is meant to be no less so. He 
 "talks to his own self" in a most singular way, 
 "letting the rank tongue blossom into speech." 
 The world of civilization is unknown to him except 
 in the persons of Prosper, his master, and Mi- 
 randa, Prosper's fair and innocent daughter, the 
 only human beings on Prosper's island in tropical I 
 
 mid-ocean. So we are informed in "The Tempest." 1 
 
 The only other human beings Caliban has known I 
 
 are his mother, the foul witch Sycorax, and the airy J 
 
 spirit Ariel, doomed to do her service. Much of this ^ 
 
 is antecedent to the situation; and, while it is more •; 
 
 or less clearly alluded to in the poem, is taken by ,' 
 
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 295 
 
 the poet as matter of common knowledge with the 
 reader. 
 
 The situation is this : Caliban lies kicking in the 
 cool slushy mire at the mouth of a cave with elbows 
 wide and clenched fists propping his chin. Small 
 eft-things course about his spine and ribs, running 
 in and out each arm, and make him laugh. A pom- 
 pion-plant trails its vine from the cave's brow over- 
 head and tickles his hair and beard. Flowers grow 
 -around him; ripened fruit falls, which he catches 
 and crunches. The sea lies open before him, the 
 breakers curling on the beach just under his eyes. 
 
 The island has been his only home, and he knows 
 it well with all its living things : the otter, sleek- wet, 
 black, lithe as a leech; the brown badger that hunts 
 with slant white- wedge eye by moonlight; the pie 
 that with long tongue pricks deep into oakwarts 
 for a worm; the ants that build a wall of seeds and 
 settled stalks about their hole; the gourd-fruit 
 which, when melted into mash with honey added 
 and pods, rises into bladdery froth, and, when 
 drunk, makes maggots scamper through the brain; 
 the hoopoe with a great comb; the grigs that make 
 merry din saucily through their veined wings; the 
 crabs that march from the mountain to the sea — 
 some with purple spots, some with nippers ending 
 in red; quails; cuttle-fish; hips and grapes; ounces, 
 moles; the pauch-bill crane; the armored ore; the 
 squirrel, stealing the nut from underneath his 
 thumb ; the urchin which at need curls up into a ball ; 
 grubs that grow into butterflies; flies with purple 
 films and pink; beetles rolling their ball on head 
 and tail; and the raven, dark messenger of the sky. 
 
296 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Slave to Prosper, Caliban grudges him service; 
 knows it to be drudgery and shirks it; envies him; 
 would have Miranda for his own. 
 
 This is the natural world of Caliban. What is his 
 natural theology.^ What can he know of God? It 
 is the answer to that question that makes, accord- 
 ing to the variant title, the purpose of the poem. 
 
 Caliban, savage though he is, has some concep- 
 tion of divinity; and casual observers in that field 
 need not be surprised to note a parallel between 
 certain lines of Caliban's thinking and certain 
 ideas of divinity current at this time. Caliban knows 
 a god, and his name is Setebos. Behind and above 
 Setebos, and controlling him, is another; and his 
 name is the Quiet. Caliban's concern is with Sete- 
 bos; of the Quiet he thinks more vaguely, indeed 
 only as a benevolent and absentee master of Sete- 
 bos himself. But of Setebos Caliban has clear-cut 
 ideas. For example: It is by reason of his servitude 
 to the Quiet that Setebos is filled with cold and ache 
 and envy and wanton cruelty and tyranny; delight- 
 ing, in turn, in the fear and submission and misery of 
 his creatures — a blinded beast, loving only whoso 
 puts flesh-meat on his nose. 
 
 Mark the bold lines of Caliban's cogitations: 
 Setebos, he thinks, dwells in the cold of the moon. 
 This is not by choice but by compulsion. He would 
 dwell in warmer places, but like a fresh- water fish 
 that would swim in the sea, finds that he cannot 
 live out of his element. That is why Setebos de- 
 spairs ; that is why he hates. Consequently, he made 
 this isle and all that in it is, in envy, listlessness, or 
 sport; made all his creatures what himself would 
 
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 297 
 
 in a manner be; and so admires them, but mocks 
 them, too, because, however bravely beautiful all 
 things are, they are after all but the creatures of his 
 whim; nothing prospers if he begin to plague. It is 
 just like this, says Caliban : Suppose I drink of the 
 bladdery gourd-fruit mash till maggots scamper 
 through my brain; and, wishing to be a bird, am 
 denied my wish; and so make one for my sport and 
 pleasure out of clay, with a great comb like the 
 hoopoe's and a sting to do his enemies offense. I 
 send him to nip grigs on yon rock-top; and, while 
 he pleasures me, he snaps his leg like brittle clay. 
 Then, to lesson him that he's mine and merely 
 clay, I either make him three new legs or strip him 
 of all clean as an egg, as suits my whim. The same 
 does Setebos. 
 
 Suppose I cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint, 
 which, blown through, gives exactly the scream of 
 the jay; and the pipe grows boastful, and prattling 
 says, "I, the pipe, am the crafty thing, making the 
 cry my maker cannot make." Should the pipe say 
 this to me, would I not then smash it with my foot? 
 The same does Setebos. 
 
 But why is he so rough and cold and ill at ease? 
 Who knows? What knows? Perhaps the something 
 over Setebos that made him. Perhaps he knows — 
 the Quiet, who alone has happy life. Setebos, out 
 of spite for his ill condition, makes him a bauble- 
 world here in this island, imitating his master the 
 wonder-worker, as I imitate Prosper the magician, 
 my master; and takes his mirth with make-believes 
 as I take mine. So it is that Setebos, the malicious 
 bungler, made all things in this isle. Else why did 
 
298 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 he not make them more perfect: my scalp, for in- 
 stance, with a cap of bone for the snow; my flesh 
 armored against danger Hke an ore? 
 
 And Setebos, besides, creates things merely for 
 the keen joy of experimentation — for work's 
 sole sake; only to destroy them again some day as 
 ruthlessly as I, Caliban, overturn these blocks of 
 chalk in the sand. 
 
 Moreover, he is terrible and spiteful; else, why 
 lick up with one fell sweep of the sea my half -win- 
 ter's work of wattles for catching she-tortoises 
 crawling here to lay their eggs? Witness, too, this 
 newt, petrified, shut up in a stone — the work of his 
 envy. His glory is in fear from his creatures ; and his 
 hope to surprise even the Quiet's self some strange 
 day and grow up into a Quiet, too, as grubs grow 
 butterflies. 
 
 Meanwhile, the expedient thing for me, Caliban, 
 to do is to trick and humor him, Setebos; and never 
 to arouse his envy by seeming too happy. Behold 
 these gaudy flies; those painful tumble-beetles 
 rolling their ball on head and tail as if to save their 
 lives: the flies he kills for their gayety; the beetles 
 he coddles for their abject misery. 
 
 — At this juncture the sky blackens, lightning 
 blazes white, thunder claps, and Caliban crouches, 
 lying flat; declares he loves Setebos; vows fasting 
 and sacrificial offerings; so will he escape the wrath 
 of Setebos. 
 
 The attributes here assigned to the Deity are 
 not so fire-new as to be astonishing; or, rather, 
 they are not so obsolete as to appear monstrous, 
 
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS ^99 
 
 even when full allowance is made for the monstrous 
 source of their expression in Caliban. God's envy 
 is not a strange, but rather a familiar conception 
 with those persons who habitually refrain from 
 being too happy lest they invite the visitation of 
 some dire calamity, like the mother who fears to 
 love her child too much lest it be snatched from her. 
 God's hatred is an idea even more widely prev- 
 alent than his envy. Witness the familiar Russian 
 Hymn : ^ — 
 
 God the All-terrible! King who ordainest, 
 
 Great winds thy clarions, the lightning thy sword. 
 
 God the Omnipotent! Mighty Avenger, 
 Watching invisible, judging unheard. 
 
 Envy, hatred, and wrath as elements in primitive 
 conceptions of the Deity are unmistakably present 
 in various forms of the idol worship of the world 
 in which sacrificial offerings form a part. Is the 
 same to be said of the sacrifices recorded in Holy 
 Writ? Has the doctrine of the Atonement for its 
 basis such motives as Caliban ascribed to Setebos 
 — the motive, for instance, of the grave displeas- 
 ure of God.f^ 
 
 The love of Setebos for wanton and whimsical 
 destructiveness finds reflection in that naturalis- 
 tic philosophy which has its chief exponent in the 
 doctrine of evolution. Tennyson gives voice to it 
 in "In Memoriam," lv: — 
 
 So careful of the type she [Nature] seems. 
 So careless of the single life. 
 
 ^ Preshyterian Hymnal, No. 670; Methodist Hymnal, No. 1092. 
 
300 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 On the other hand, the idea is doubtless as old as 
 fatalism. It finds fatalistic expression in the memor- 
 able words of Shakespeare, put into the mouth of 
 the blinded Gloucester in "King Lear" (iv, i, 
 37-38): — 
 
 As flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods; 
 They kill us for their sport. 
 
 The conception of endless experimentation on 
 the part of the Deity is no less a modern one, being 
 also intimately associated with the theory of evo- 
 lution. Nature hits the mark not by means of a 
 single shot, but by firing in all directions. 
 
 The concluding and climactic feature of Caliban's 
 reflections — that, namely, where he is frightened 
 by thunder and lightning out of his blasphemy 
 into pious vows of submission and sacrificial offer- 
 ing, is too common an experience, even with the 
 rationalists, to require comment. A proverb puts 
 it with as much, though with a less subtle sort of, 
 humor : — 
 
 The Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be; 
 The Devil was well, — the devil a monk was he! 
 
 What is to be said of Browning's purpose in this 
 poem.^ That he meant to illustrate a kind of "natu- 
 ral theology" the variant title makes plain. That 
 his meaning is colored with ridicule might be in- 
 ferred from the unmistakably humorous touches 
 in the process of characterization, and especially 
 from that final stroke of delineation which shows 
 Caliban in panic at the display of Setebos's terrible 
 anger. According to this view, then, the poem is a 
 
CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 301 
 
 satire; but of whom, it is not necessary to point 
 out. 
 
 Another interesting element in the intellectual 
 and emotional values of "Caliban upon Setebos" 
 is the resemblance of its central idea to that of 
 Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound." In Shelley's 
 work, it will be recalled, Jupiter, ruler but not 
 creator of all things, is pictured as possessed of 
 envy and hatred as well as power. He hates Pro- 
 metheus for having brought the fire of knowledge 
 from Heaven and having spread it among men. 
 He envies Prometheus for his fortitude in enduring 
 the torture to which he has condemned him — the 
 beak and talons of a vulture tearing at his vitals as 
 he hangs chained to a rock. He hates and envies 
 Prometheus for rejecting liberation on the condi- 
 tion that he disclose the cause for the prophesied 
 downfall of his captor. Jupiter's failure lies in his 
 lack of love for his creatures. A power incapable 
 of the feeling of love cannot endure. The downfall 
 comes; and the Ruler of the Universe is carried 
 away by Demogorgon to everlasting ruin. The hos- 
 tile attitude of Shelley's poem toward orthodox re- 
 ligion needs no further explanation. The attitude 
 of "Caliban upon Setebos" does not, however, 
 seem so clear. It is enough for our purpose if we 
 recognize, as by this time we assuredly do, some of 
 the deep suggestiveness of Browning's poem. 
 
 Another course of questioning to which it lends 
 itself is prompted by the word "projected" used 
 by John in "A Death in the Desert" to describe 
 the heresy of a later day concerning the love and 
 the power of Christ. That Setebos with his attri- 
 
302 
 
 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 butes of hatred, envy, and wanton destructiveness 
 is only a projection of Caliban's disposition, is quite 
 patent. The poem does not indicate a generaliza- 
 tion affecting all religions, and makes no allusion 
 in this light, as does "A Death in the Desert," to 
 Christianity. If it did, the reader would lose no- 
 thing by referring to John for a refutation of the 
 idea. Nor is it without profit to note that such 
 ideas have obtained and that refutation has been 
 made; and the observation is one more testimonial 
 to the thought-provoking character of the poem. 
 
A DEATH IN THE DESERT 
 
 Faith and Heresy 
 
 One day, probably late in the first century of the 
 Christian era, Cerinthus has before him a Greek 
 manuscript upon which he muses as he reads. The 
 manuscript is supposed to be by Pamphylax, the 
 Antiochene, and concerns the death of John in a 
 cave in the desert. It is a parchment roll of three 
 skins glued together, the fifth in the library of an 
 unknown person whose identity is indicated only 
 by the letters Mu and Epsilon. The account Ce- 
 rinthus reads relates to John's ministry, the com- 
 position of his gospel in the island of Patmos, and 
 his subsequent death in the desert. The story is, 
 first, that of Pamphylax, an eye-witness of John, 
 and, second, that of John himself as quoted by 
 Pamphylax. 
 
 John, arrived at extreme old age, lies unconscious 
 in a cave. He is surrounded by four men. They have 
 brought him here to minister to him in his extrem- 
 ity. They are: Pamphylax, who later tells the story 
 to Phoebas; Xanthus, afterwards burned at the 
 stake; Valens, and a Boy. Loving brethren these, 
 and disciples; and they have repaired to the mid- 
 most grotto of their retreat, both to escape the glare 
 and heat of the sun, and to circumvent the spying 
 soldiery of a bloody persecution. For safety they 
 liave left on guard at the mouth of the cave a de- 
 voted convert, a Bactrian, who there makes pre- 
 
304 
 
 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 tense of feeding a goat on a ragged growth of various 
 herbs, "plantain and quitch," which "the rock's 
 shade keeps ahve." 
 
 John, the aged disciple, teacher and writer, lies in 
 a stupor. How to rekindle the fading spark of life, 
 is the concern of his four attendants. One offers the 
 dying man wine, chafes his hands, and cools his fore- 
 head with a cloth steeped in water; another breaks 
 a ball of nard and makes perfume. Suddenly the 
 Boy, "stung by a thought," runs to an inner recess 
 of the chamber and brings a "plate of graven lead," 
 and reads from it the restoring words, "I am the 
 Resurrection and the Life." The effect is instanta- 
 neous. John, opening his eyes, sits up, looks around, 
 while in the entrance to the outer grotto of the 
 cave the Bactrian sentinel repeats a reassuring cry 
 in imitation of the ruffed desert-bird for sign that 
 all is well. 
 
 John speaks: I recall now who I am and where. 
 I remember all like a spark rekindling a half -burnt 
 stick. James and Peter are long since released by 
 death. If I live, it will be still to bear witness to 
 Him I saw, the Word of Life. Bidden by Christ, for 
 many years I went about the world teaching what 
 I heard and saw. Then, bidden once more, in Pat- 
 mos isle I wrote; and men believed. Then I taught 
 again. I taught that men should believe for love's 
 sake and in love's strength. 
 
 Antichrist came, followed by many antichrists. 
 Them, too, I answered patiently; not as in early 
 days, by treading the serpents dumb; my answer 
 ever being the story of the Lord's life, forgotten or 
 misdelivered; and it grew to new significance and 
 
A DEATH IN THE DESERT '305 
 
 fresh result. Others came, crying, "It is getting 
 long ago. Where is the promise of his coming .f^" 
 These also I answered; and thus endeavoring, fell 
 sick; ye brought me here. And now, revived, weak 
 memory pales; and my senses go groping into the 
 future; and I hear strange men cry, "Was John 
 at all.?" 
 
 Can I assure thenLf^ How.^^ Can they see as I 
 see.? Can the spirit of youth break through the thick 
 barrier of flesh.? Is not God now in the world and 
 at issue with sin? Are not sin and death contribu- 
 tory and necessary to His resurrection and uprise 
 to the right hand of the throne.? To learn life, learn 
 love. Learn the double way of life : the way of the 
 flesh and the way of the soul; the prompt upgrowth 
 of the body and the slow development of the soul. 
 Witness the fire of Prometheus, snatched from 
 Heaven for the body's use. This never will the body 
 surrender. Witness Christ. Were his worth to the 
 soul as plain as the worth of Promethean fire to the 
 body, could the soul give Him up.? Yea, even I who 
 have seen Him in a moment denied Him. Stricken 
 by fear of sudden Roman faces and violent hands, 
 I forsook Him and fled, as it is written. Nay, but 
 I recovered. That is the way of the soul's growth; 
 and having recovered, I lit the souls of many to 
 clasp the cross with a light laugh and wrap the 
 burning martyr's robe around. 
 
 A greater difficulty than the facing of violence 
 arose in the shrewd tongue of doubt, questioning 
 my own existence. A time will soon be when by the 
 followers of Christ it will be asked, not. Will Christ 
 come again and when.? but, Was He revealed by 
 
306 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 any of His biographers as Power, as Love? and, 
 if so, did not we ourselves make Him? His love? 
 'T is mere projection from man's inmost mind. His 
 power? Behold the sun and the power which drives 
 it. What is that power? Mere projection of our- 
 selves again: so our ancestors thought, declaring 
 a charioteer's yoked steeds brought the sun up the 
 east and down the west. But this is not so. Force 
 we cannot know; love and will, once seen, we can 
 and do know. 
 
 Again the skeptic : A mere zeal for right has made 
 men declare the sun at undue times arose or set 
 or else stood still. Go back to the birth of things. 
 Mark Jove's brow, Juno's eyes, head, body, hands 
 and feet; mere projection, these, from the mind of 
 man. Brow, eyes, body, of the gods vanish; and 
 their power, love, and will eventually vanish too, 
 making place for law. 
 
 Attend to my answer — No, I need no wine, for 
 I am strong : Since man was made to grow, the helps 
 he needed once and found good he needs no more. 
 All things suffer change, save God the truth; and 
 with change the old helps are cast aside. Nothing 
 shall prove twice what once was proved. As ordered 
 twigs in a garden plot show where lately the seed 
 was sown, but, now that the fruit has grown, are 
 discarded; so my book at first needed miracles to 
 prove its truth; but miracles now it needs no more. 
 Aye, man was made to grow, to develop; not made 
 and then abandoned like a machine, a wheel-work 
 to wind up. Minds at first must be spoon-fed with 
 truth. When they can eat, babe's-nurture is with- 
 drawn. By miracles faith grew. Later, because they 
 
A DEATH IN THE DESERT 307 
 
 would compel instead of help, they ceased. As 
 excess of light produces darkness; as excess of oil 
 chokes a lamp ; as excess of food starves the stomach : 
 so excess of might blinds man to the will in him- 
 self, at one with the Infinite Will behind all might. 
 
 Take love and the power of Christ in love. It is 
 the same again. God revealed love behind will and 
 might. 
 
 Again the skeptic: We ourselves made the love, 
 and Christ was not. 
 
 My answer: The man must love and would be 
 loved; yet owning his own love that proves Christ, 
 he rejects Him through very need of Him. He per- 
 ishes of his own surfeit. 
 
 Again the skeptic : But places, names, and dates 
 are wrong. False premise, false conclusion. Perfect 
 truth should have perfect transmission of it; there 
 should be no flaw in the record. Why hit or miss? 
 Why not hit and never miss? Is the fact in the 
 fable? Is the record symbolical? Why this per- 
 plexity? Why not tell the whole truth directly and 
 in proper words? 
 
 My answer: Man is not God, is not perfect; but 
 must grow from good to better, from mistake to 
 fact. This is the way of service and obedience, 
 conditioned upon love and will behind the highest 
 might: denying which, life becomes impossible, 
 and death ensues. But assume man's service and 
 obedience; assume that man is made to know only 
 what he can know and no more, converting fancies 
 into fact, finding progress, — so becomes clear 
 man's distinctive use and place. Such progress 
 were impossible, were all things known absolutely. 
 
308 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 God's gift was that man should conceive of truth 
 And yearn to gain it, catching at mistake 
 As midway help till he reach fact indeed. 
 
 Such is the method of the statuary : by repeated 
 and successive efforts fashioning the approximate 
 image. 
 
 John resumes: These are the doubts of later 
 years. These are my answers; which, if they be 
 insufficient, may I survive another hundred years 
 to pluck blind men from the abyss. 
 
 — John dies about mid-afternoon. In the evening 
 they bury him. Each of the five attendants goes 
 his own way alone, Pamphylax returning disguised 
 to Ephesus. Having dictated the story to Phcebas, 
 he goes to fight the beasts in a dread persecution 
 of the Christians. 
 
 This is the parchment which Cerinthus, doubting, 
 reads. Another, reading it years afterward, aflfirms 
 the divinity of Christ on the basis of love, whereby 
 He becomes incorporate with him as with John and 
 Pamphylax. Only Cerinthus and the company of 
 unbelievers with him are lost. 
 
 On the score of verisimilitude, Browning's own 
 word, "projected," put into the mouth of a skeptic 
 of Christ's love and power, is suggestive. This 
 skeptical philosophy has confessedly been pro- 
 jected from a much later century into the time 
 of John's ministry. John is made to anticipate cer- 
 tain theological irregularities which have marked 
 the progress of civilization since John's death in the 
 desert. The poem attempts to make plausible this 
 supernatural foresight of John by referring it to 
 
A DEATH IN THE DESERT 309 
 
 the discipleship of the miracle-working Christ, to 
 the supernatural wisdom of John's extreme old 
 age, and to his nearness, by reason of his great age, 
 to the All- Wise Infinite. 
 
 The touches of local color which reproduce early 
 time and place, are quite distinct : The Bactrian on 
 guard at the cave's mouth, feeding a goat on ragged 
 weeds of plantain and quitch, and at intervals 
 making the cry of the ruffed desert-bird as a pre- 
 concerted signal that all is well; the plate of graven 
 lead bearing the inscription, "I am the Resurrec- 
 tion and the Life"; the manuscript of three pieces 
 of parchment glued together and marked Chi, and 
 preserved in a trunk of cloth of hair; the proper 
 names, Pamphylax, Xanthus, Valens, Phcebas, 
 and Cerinthus, and the incidental references to 
 Xanthus's being burned later at the stake; to 
 John's having denied Christ during a moment of 
 violence at the hands of Roman soldiery; to Pam- 
 phylax dictating to Phoebas the record of John's 
 death; to the gloss of Theotypas on the threefold 
 soul of man; and to the final gloss by an unknown 
 hand on the divinity of Christ. These touches are 
 all in the interests of historicity; or rather, of the 
 illusion of historicity. 
 
 Such devices for verisimilitude are, of course, 
 common to all fiction; only. Browning's way of 
 handling them is characteristic. Another device to 
 the same end, which is supremely characteristic, is 
 implied by Browning himself in the title, "Drama- 
 tis Personse," for the general group of poems to 
 which "A Death in the Desert" belongs. This de- 
 vice, while, like the ordinary drama, it brings a 
 
310 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 group of persons into view, does not allow them to 
 engage in dialogue, but permits only one end of a 
 dialogue to be developed, which for that reason is 
 comparable to what a person speaking into a tele- 
 phone is overheard to say. Naturally, this one-sided 
 dialogue is cast in the first person singular, and 
 assumes the form of monologue and not of solilo- 
 quy. As already noted, the monologuists of "A 
 Death in the Desert " are successively an unknown 
 reader, Pamphylax, Theotypas, John, Cerinthus, 
 and an unknown commentator. While the alleged 
 difficulty of Browning is due largely to this form, 
 in which so much is left to suggestion on the part 
 of the writer and conjecture on the part of the 
 reader, it is to be said, not by way of extenuation 
 and excuse but by way of appreciation and com- 
 mendation, that this is one way of life, and es- 
 pecially the way of direct psychological expression. 
 It discloses a mind — that of John in this case — 
 so reacting upon a situation as to be self -interpreta- 
 tive; it does not permit the stage-manager to ex- 
 plain the manipulation of his puppets — it does not 
 even allow his presence; nor yet does it allow the 
 other characters in the performance to explain 
 either themselves, one another, or the situation. 
 
SAUL 
 
 The Transcending Power of a Vision 
 
 Abner says to David, after the two have saluted 
 with a kiss: "Since Saul the King has sent for thee, 
 we have neither eaten nor drunk. He is sick in 
 spirit unto death. There in the darkness of his tent, 
 he has staid these three days in silence." Thus 
 David, harpist of the golden hair, is welcomed, 
 — David, with lilies twined about his harp-strings 
 to keep them from snapping in the noon-day heat. 
 
 He kneels in prayer, then runs over the sun- 
 parched sand to Saul's tent. He finds the entrance 
 unlooped, but a spear obstructing it. Pulling this 
 up, he crawls in on hands and knees, and announces 
 his presence. There is no answer. Gradually in the 
 darkness grows visible the figure of Saul, gigantic, 
 leaning against the "prop which sustains the pa- 
 vilion" in the center, "arms stretched out wide on 
 the great cross-support." Still there is no response. 
 
 Then David unwinds the lilies from his harp and 
 plays first a sheep-tune; then a quail-tune; then a 
 tune to "make the crickets elate"; then a tune to 
 "set the quick jerboa a-musing"; then a "help- 
 tune for reapers"; then a funeral march; then a 
 marriage-chant; then a builders' song; and, last, 
 a paean to the Highest. At this Saul shudders so 
 that the male-sapphires of his turban wake a lord- 
 lier light, and the rubies a deeper glow. But there 
 is no response. 
 
312 
 
 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 Again David sings, his theme this time the wild 
 joys of living in manhood's prime vigor, the rending 
 of boughs from the fir-tree, the plunge in a pool's 
 living water, the hunt of the bear, the meal of rich 
 dates and locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the 
 sleep amid bulrushes in the dried river-channel; 
 sings of father, mother, brothers, friends of boy- 
 hood — boyhood of wonder and hope; sings of high 
 ambition and of fame crowning the monarch, Saul. 
 
 At this upsoaring cherubim-chariot of song, 
 Saul, like a mountain which in spring shakes off its 
 breastplate of snow, shakes off his lethargy, the same 
 Saul as before, though life has not come. How to 
 sustain him where song has restored him.? With 
 song of the ways of the spirit, of schemes of life; 
 of courage that gains, of the prudence that keeps, 
 what men strive for. In our flesh grows the branch 
 of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. Leave the 
 flesh to its fate; let the spirit be owned; knowing the 
 palm's self shall decay while the palm-wine shall 
 stanch every wound of man's spirit. By the spirit 
 he shall live in old age; for each deed he has done, 
 dies, revives, goes to work in the world. Is Saul 
 dead.f^ No; poet and statesman shall rear him a 
 monument of great word and sweet comment. 
 
 David pauses to pray for aid that he may com- 
 plete this adventure of clearing the distance be- 
 tween God's throne and man's grave in the life of 
 Saul. Hereupon Saul resumes his kingly habitudes, 
 replumes his black locks, adjusts the swathes of 
 his turban, girds his loins as of yore, feels for his 
 priceless armlets. He sinks by the tent-prop, lean- 
 ing on his armor piled there, one arm around the 
 
SAUL 313 
 
 prop. With a hand soft and grave but in mild 
 settled will he pushes back the poet's hair, intent 
 to peruse it as men do a flower. The ultimate truth 
 flashes upon David; but this time, leaving harp 
 and song, he speaks : 
 
 An instrument of God's purpose and judge of 
 God's creation and work, he discerns that all 's love, 
 yet all's law. And straining each faculty to per- 
 ceive God's work, he has learned man's worth. Has 
 he knowledge .f^ It shrivels at wisdom laid bare. Has 
 he forethought.'^ How purblind and blank to God's 
 infinite care. He pictures success .^^ God's perfection 
 confronts him — in the star, the stone, the flesh, 
 the soul, the clod. By submission and obeisance 
 man climbs to God's feet. Withal, there is a gift 
 to discover and exercise — the faculty of love. Do 
 I, David, distrust it.? Do I fear that God's love 
 will fail to match it? Is it possible that in love the 
 creature will surpass the Creator.'^ Will not God, 
 who made Saul and me, love him more than I can, 
 and bestow on him the marvelous dower I wish for 
 — on Saul stripped of failure and awakened from 
 probation to new light and new life? Surely it is 
 so, since I am but God's instrument, able to be- 
 lieve but what he wills. What of impuissance and 
 success? This: 'tis not what man does which 
 exalts him, but what man would do. This makes 
 my service perfect, my service in my wish to help, 
 in my willingness to suffer for him that I love. As 
 love is Almighty, so is the power of being beloved. A 
 hand like mine — weak, but weak in strength; weak 
 in the flesh, but strong in the spirit — shall throw 
 open the gates of new life to Saul. 'T is Christ's. 
 
314 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 With this conviction thrilling his veins, David 
 finds his way home in the night, with witnesses 
 about him, unseen powers. The whole earth is 
 awakened, hell loosed with her crews, and the stars 
 of night with emotion. In rapture he falls asleep; 
 and awaking, finds the new power still about him, 
 in hills and forest, and winds; in startled wild beasts 
 and birds paralyzed; in the serpent that slides away 
 silent; in the white humid faces of flowers; in vines 
 and trees and brooks; all saying, "E'en so, it is so!" 
 
 It is an act of temerity to quarrel with the poet; 
 but given the temerity, one might say that this is 
 more manifestly the story of David than the story 
 of Saul. Of the nineteen sections of the poem, Saul 
 takes part in only the first fifteen, and that a pas- 
 sive part only. Never does he emerge far out of the 
 background. At no time can l^e be said to assume 
 the role of a dramatic personage. It is David's 
 healthy mental state, rather than Saul's morbid 
 perturbation, that makes the real subject of in- 
 terest. On the contrary, it may be urged that, as 
 Saul represents any life and David any savior, the 
 human side as seen in Saul is the more universal 
 and hence the more interesting; so it is Saul's story. 
 On the other hand, again, it is to be maintained 
 that David represents not only the Christ, but any 
 one capable of Christlike functions; a character as 
 universal as the character in need of ministry. And, 
 as David is in the foreground and Saul is not, it is 
 David's story and not Saul's. 
 
 From these considerations it would appear that 
 the moral values of the poem are dominant. Let us 
 
SAUL 315 
 
 work up to this conclusion by reconsidering the 
 structure of the poem. From its story it appears 
 that a critical moment in Saul's life, a moment of 
 mental and spiritual climax, is the fundament of 
 the narrative. Indeed, so far as action in physical 
 incident is concerned, there is next to none. Saul 
 has been sick three days, and David is summoned 
 to minister with music. Saul is heartened not only 
 for this life, but for the next; and David makes the 
 discovery that ministry in love is the perfection of 
 life. It is the real and final purpose of the poem not 
 to portray Saul's mental and spiritual condition, 
 for we are told little about it; nor yet to delineate 
 his character, as a knowledge of that is taken for 
 granted; nor yet to picture the atmosphere or color, 
 the manners and customs of the people of Saul and 
 David's time, since these features are etched in by 
 a few bold strokes. David is a fair-haired figure 
 with a harp with lilies wound about its strings. Saul 
 is of gigantic presence with sapphires and rubies 
 flashing in his turban. The scene is a tent or pa- 
 vilion, in the desert. Other local touches present 
 the shepherd life of David : his familiar converse 
 with the sheep of his pasture, the quail, the crick- 
 ets, the jerboa, the reapers of the plain. These are 
 elements incidentally wrought into the web of the 
 main narrative, which concerns itself with spiritual 
 operations. Working alleviation for Saul, David 
 achieves the supreme discovery, not only for him- 
 self but for all men, that " 'T is not what man Does 
 which exalts him, but what man Would do." 
 
 This brings us to the subject of emotional values. 
 Is this doctrine of perfection in loving service, of the 
 
316 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 insignificance of achievement as weighed against 
 motive and desire, acceptable? "See the Christ 
 stand." Is that injunction acceptable and pleasing? 
 The emotional values of the discovery for David 
 himself are vividly drawn in the concluding sections 
 of the poem. The whole world has changed; rap- 
 ture in the new law that "all's love, yet all's law" 
 pervades all things — the forests, the startled wild 
 beasts, the birds, the flowers, the vine-bowers and 
 brooks. And the rapture of David's discovery is 
 meant to stand for the rapture of any man's dis- 
 covery. 
 
 The emotional basis of the poem in aesthetics as 
 distinct from morals will involve a view of its imag- 
 ery, its coloring, its metre, and its characteriza- 
 tion. 
 
 Imagery, we recall, is either progressive (which 
 is to say, narrative) or Episodic (which is to say, 
 ancillary or ornamental or epic). This distinction 
 in imagery discloses its purpose : it is either a vehicle 
 of the thought or an embellishment of it. The 
 images of "Saul" can serve best as vehicles of its 
 story if they are true to conditions of time and 
 place; and, in outlining the narrative, we have 
 already noticed that the oriental and primitive 
 setting of the action is without anachronisms or 
 contradictions in local color. The most notable 
 of the episodic pictures are these two from sec- 
 tion X : — 
 
 Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the 
 
 aim. 
 And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he 
 
 alone. 
 
SAUL 317 
 
 While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad 
 
 bust of stone 
 A year's snow bound about for a breastplate, — leaves grasp 
 
 of the sheet? 
 Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his 
 
 feet. 
 And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your moun- 
 tain of old. 
 With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold — 
 Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and 
 
 scar 
 Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — all hail, there 
 
 they are! 
 — Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest 
 Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on its 
 
 crest 
 For their food in the ardors of summer. 
 
 I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any 
 
 more 
 Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the 
 
 shore. 
 At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a sun's slow decline 
 Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine 
 Base with base to knit strength more intensely : so, arm folded 
 
 arm 
 O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. 
 
 So far as these pictures do not exist for their own 
 sakes, — as, however, they do largely, — they 
 have' their excuse and function in the rich deep 
 tone and coloring they impart to the narrative. The 
 coloring is not oriental or local to any extent; in- 
 deed, it is elemental and universal. 
 
 The question of truth to time and place when 
 applied to characterization produces different re- 
 sults. That the historic David could and did sing 
 the tunes ascribed to him in the poem may be ac- 
 
318 STORIES FROM BROWNING 
 
 cepted as possible and not improbable. That, on 
 the other hand, he could and did animadvert upon 
 the function of the poet as that of an observer and 
 seer, is, it is believed, subject for reasonable differ- 
 ence of opinion. (See sections xvii-xix) . Is Brown- 
 ing here speaking for himself under cover of David .^ 
 If so, here is an instance of anachronism, which is 
 paralleled only by the universal practice of the 
 pulpit in reading modern civilization and culture 
 into the Biblical text; and of the no-less-general 
 practice of interpreting Shakespeare in terms of 
 nineteenth and twentieth century life. Does the 
 reader find in " Saul " what Stedman finds in " Pippa 
 Passes," the acute analysis of an erudite and phil- 
 osophical Paracelsus .f^ Is this a characteristic of 
 most of Browning's works .^^ 
 
 On the whole, however, the unity of artistic im- 
 pression remains unbroken in "Saul"; and the 
 verse, suggesting as it does with its five anapaestic 
 beats the slow soft movement of a harpist's accom- 
 paniment, is quite in accord with setting and senti- 
 ment. One is reminded, with reason, of the not dis- 
 similar dactylic movement of the "Iliad," the 
 "iEneid," "Hermann und Dorothea," and "Evan- 
 geline." In its lyric accompaniment "Saul" is as 
 epic as any of these; or as "Beowulf," of which the 
 lilt is not unlike that of either the anapaest or the 
 dactyl. Is it not fair, then, to say that "Saul" is 
 nothing if not gratifying both in message and in 
 craftsmanship? 
 
 Questions of this sort would seem naturally to 
 suggest themselves even to the least careful reader; 
 
SAUL 319 
 
 but no effort has been made to present them with 
 very much system, — with a system, that is, which 
 Gigadibs would style severely "exclusive, conclu- 
 sive and decisive" in its terms, — or to consider all 
 the questions, or even to select the most important 
 ones either here or in the renderings of the other 
 poems. This course, as was pointed out at the 
 beginning, was taken with set purpose; as the com- 
 ments, like the stories themselves, are meant only 
 to direct attention anew to the genius and achieve- 
 ment of Robert Browning, and to suggest, rather 
 than to insist upon, a few salient features of his 
 thought and feeling. To have attempted more than 
 this might easily have become an affront not only 
 to that genius himself, but to all who have the 
 desire and the right to discover him for themselves. 
 Three words, however, do stand out from the 
 pages of Browning; and if they speak clearly here, 
 the essential marks of his character will be dis- 
 cerned. They are Love, Art, and Faith; and to 
 them, all matters of style are wholly subordinate. 
 Nor, if a pure categorical with regard to each be 
 desired, can it be much amiss to say — 
 
 In Love, have Faith; 
 In Art, have Soul; 
 In Faith, have Love. 
 
 THE END 
 

ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Abbot, the, in Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 226, 229. 
 
 Abib, a physician to whom is addressed the letter of Karshish, 
 
 287, 288, 290. 
 Abner, welcomes David to Saul's tent, 311. 
 Aceldama, epithet applied by Hampden, in Strafford, to Ireland 
 
 under Wentworth's rule, 60. 
 Adam, and the earth, opinion of, in Mr. Sludge, " the Medium," 282. 
 Mneid, the, dactylic movement of, 318. 
 Agnolo, Michel, mentioned in Andrea del Sarto, 233, 236. 
 Ahithophel, epithet applied to Went worth, in Strafford, 51, 54. 
 Albano, fictile vase found at, 260. 
 
 All-Loving, the, is the All-Great, in An Epistle, 290, 293. 
 Allerton, mentioned in Strafford, 116. 
 Anacreon's Greek, prized by Bishop Blougram, 260. 
 Andrea del Sarto, as interpreted by W. E. H. Lecky, 243. 
 Angelico, Brother, mentioned in Fra Lippo Lippi, 242. 
 Anne, Strafford's little daughter, sings Italian boat-song in the 
 
 Tower, 144, seq.; during Hollis's visit to Strafford, 148-149; 
 
 sings in room adjoining the cell, 152; protection for, implored 
 
 of the King, 153; committed to Hollis, 153. 
 Antichrist, following upon John's ministry, in A Death in the 
 
 Desert, 304. 
 Antiochene, John the, in A Death in the Desert, 303. 
 Apollo, the Grammarian compared to, 251. 
 Argimientation, compared with forms of poetry, xi, xii. 
 Arian, an epithet, in Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 227. 
 Arianism, how to confound, in Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 
 
 229. 
 Ariel, a sprite in thrall to the witch Sycorax, in Caliban upon 
 
 Setebos, 294. 
 Anus, followers of, defined, 227. 
 Asaph, spirit of, responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 Asolo, scene of Pippa Passes, 3, 5, 8, 14, 16. 
 As You Like It, sequence of incidents in, 15. 
 Atonement, the, query concerning, in Caliban upon Setebos, 299. 
 Austin. See Tresham. 
 Australia, Gigadibs repairs to, 269, 271. 
 
 Austrian government, plot against, by Luigi, in Pippa Passes, 12. 
 Austrian police, on the watch for Luigi, in Pippa Passes, 8. 
 
322 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Bacon, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Bactrian, the, a convert who guards the cave where John lies 
 dying, in A Death in the Desert, 303-304, 309. 
 
 Baladine, a street singer, in In a Balcony, 176. 
 
 Balfour, Constable of the Tower, Strafford's attendant at his trial, 
 129; summoned by Charles to convey the royal pardon of 
 Strafford to Parliament, 154. 
 
 Balzac, his fifty volumes, in Bishop Blougram's Apology, 259, 262. 
 
 Bamum, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Beacon Street, Boston, mentioned by Sludge, 285. 
 
 Bedford, accused of conspiracy with the Scots, in Strafford, 108. 
 
 Beethoven, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Benet the Capuchin, mentioned in Pippa Passes, 5. 
 
 Beowulf, its lilt, 318. 
 
 Bethany, scene of the strange experience of Karshish, 287, 288, 291. 
 
 Bible, the, quoted by Sludge, 280; truth of, affirmed by Sludge, 281. 
 
 Bill of Attainder, moved by Pym against Strafford, 117, 128; chills 
 Pym's supporters, 133, seq.; to be introduced by Haselrig, 137; 
 drawn up by Pym and reported to Charles, 138-139; opposed 
 by Charles, 139; voted by Parliament, 142. 
 
 Bill of Rights, mentioned in Strafford, 50, 51, 53, 60. 
 
 Billingsley, commander of a convoy of men procured by Lady 
 Carlisle to effect Strafford's escape from the Tower, 155, 156. 
 
 Blackwood's Magazine, an oracle in Bishop Blougram's day, 259; 
 Gigadibs a contribution to, 260; Gigadibs does not write up 
 Blougram for, 269. 
 
 Blougram, or the Eccentric Confidence, title of a supposed article by 
 Gigadibs, 261. 
 
 Bluphocks, a shameless vagabond who attempts to seduce Pippa, 
 
 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 16, 17. I 
 
 Boat-song, Italian, sung by William and Anne to comfort their 
 father, Strafford, in the Tower, 144, 147, 152. 
 
 Boston, scene of Mr. Sludge, " the Medium," 272, 281. j 
 
 Bristol, one of the Cabal, in Strafford, 97. | 
 
 Brooke, accused, in Strafford, of conspiracy with the Scots, 108. j 
 
 Browning, doctrine (the effect of absolute truth upon a finite Intel- J 
 
 ligence) presented by, 292, 307-308; epistolary style well simu- j 
 
 lated by, 291; his purpose: in An Epistle, 291; in Bishop Blou- f 
 
 gram's Apology, 271; in Caliban upon Setebos, 300-301; his j 
 
 technique in the dramatic monologue, 309-310; his technique !; 
 
 in the interests of verisimilitude, 308-310; 315-318; in A Death 
 in the Desert ascribes to John a knowledge of the skepticism of 
 later times, 308; portrays the function of the poet as that of the 
 seer, in Saul, 318; character of, 319; suggestiveness of, in Caliban 
 upon Setebos, compared with Prometheus Unbound, 301. 
 
 Bryan, one of Strafford's adherents, 109, 112, 116, 157. 
 
 Buonaparte, in Bishop Blougram's day, 259. 
 
ANALYTICAL INDEX 323 
 
 Cabal, the, or Court Faction, in Strafford, 68, 69, 86, 90, 91, 96, 
 97, 98, 104; conspiracy of, with the Scots, 105, 106, 108, 109, 
 110; present at Whitehall when Hollis intercedes for Strafford, 
 118; furnishes Parliament the " notes " upon which Strafford's 
 trial is based, 122, 133. 
 
 Caesar, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Calculus, the Grammarian attacked by, 252. 
 
 Caliban, Shakespeare's, the prototype of Browning's Caliban, 294. 
 
 California, gold-seekers in, mentioned by Sludge the Medium, 284. 
 
 Carbonari, the, served by Luigi in Pippa Passes, 8, 9, 12, 13. 
 
 Carlisle, Lucy Percy, Countess of, friend and confidante to Went- 
 worth, Earl of Strafford: welcomes him at Whitehall on his 
 return from Ireland, 63-66; suspected of heartlessness by Straf- 
 ford, 67; said by the King to have interposed in Strafford's 
 behalf, 72; sues Strafford to relinquish his command in the 
 North, 89-94; heartens Strafford for his enterprise, 95; expects 
 Strafford's return from his command at York, 99-103; pleads 
 that the Queen save Strafford from impeachment, 101; welcomes 
 Strafford, 104, 105; is instructed by the Queen to keep Strafford 
 in ignorance of his impeachment, 106-107; frightened by Straf- 
 ford's bold plan of arresting his enemies, 108-110; admires 
 Strafford's infatuation for the King, 110-112; seconds Hollis in 
 his plea for Strafford's rescue, 118-124; commissioned by the 
 King to apprise Strafford of the proposed manoeuver of the 
 army under Northumberland, 124; undertakes the mission, 125; 
 taunted by the Queen, 125-126; considers revealing the King's 
 faithlessness to Strafford, 126; appears veiled at the trial, 129; 
 beseeches Strafford's acquiescence in the King's plan of libera- 
 tion, 130-132; her scheme of liberating Strafford repudiated by 
 Charles, 137; returns to Court with the message of Strafford's 
 magnanimity, 140; witnesses the signing of the death-warrant, 
 141; devises a new scheme of liberation, 142-144; sustained by 
 the strength of unselfish love, 143-144; with a band of armed 
 men, appears in the Tower, to rescue Strafford, 155-159. 
 
 Carmine, The, cloister of Fra Lippo Lippi, 238. 
 
 Cerinthus, muses upon the account of John's death in the desert, 
 303, 308, 310. 
 
 Charles I, King, in Strafford, assailed by the League, 50; heart- 
 ened by Went worth, 53; weakness of, 54; an oath-breaker, 57; 
 summons Wentworth from Ireland, 58; Pym's early sympathy 
 with, 59; confers Northern Presidency on Wentworth, 60; turns 
 Ireland into a "hunting-ground," 60, 64; fascinating personal- 
 ity of, 63; wavering character of, 66, 67, 136, 155; receives 
 W^entworth on the latter's return from Ireland, 71-74; to make 
 war on Scotland, 72; professes trust in Wentworth, 72; confers 
 earldom upon Wentworth, 73; consents to calling a Parlia- 
 ment, 74; a victim of uxoriousness, 75, 76; assailed in the League, 
 76-82; receives Strafford on the latter's second return from Ire- 
 land, 82-86; accused of perfidy in altering Strafford's plans and 
 
324 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 dissolving Parliament, 84-87; Strafford's infatuation for, 91- 
 95, 111, 132-133, 143, 163; summons Parliament, 96; sends for 
 Strafford at York, 99 ; at Theobald's when new Parliament meets, 
 100; disobeyed by Strafford at Durham, 107-108; to be visited 
 by Strafford on latter's return from York, 111; accused by the 
 populace of skulking obscurely, 113; Strafford, arrested at 
 Parliament, would send message to, 115; spoken of hastily by 
 Strafford at Allerton, 116; believed by Strafford to be ready to 
 punish the latter's enemies, 116; distrusted by Strafford, 116- 
 117; present at Strafford's trial for treason, 117; besought by 
 Hollis to end the trial, 118-124; charges Pym with the respon- 
 sibility for outcome of trial, 119; stung by Hollis to fear for per- 
 sonal safety, 120-121; abandons irresolution on learning that 
 the Cabal have furnished incriminating evidence involving him, 
 122-124; dispatches Lady Carlisle to Strafford with order plac- 
 ing the army at his service, 124-125; accused of infidelity by the 
 Queen, 125; prompts Lady Carlisle to quiet Strafford's suspi- 
 cions, 126; witnesses the passage of Strafford's Attainder, 127- 
 128; his offer of succor rejected by Strafford, 130-132; his 
 treachery emphasized by Rudyard and others, 136; repents his 
 order of intervention, 137; signs the Bill of Attainder, 138-141; 
 Hollis seeks audience with, 141-142; comments on, by William, 
 145-146; visits Strafford in the Tower, 147-163; pleads for for- 
 giveness, 152-153; would order Parliament to revoke the sen- 
 tence, 154; welfare of, entrusted by Strafford to Pym, 159-161; 
 execution of, seen in a vision by Strafford, 161. 
 
 Charles's Wain, in Mr. Sludge, ''the Medium,'' 281. 
 
 Chiara, Luigi's sweetheart in Pippa Passes, 9. 
 
 Christ, Arian doctrine concerning, 227; defense of the love and 
 power of, in A Death in the Desert, compared with Caliban's 
 theology, 301-302; divine love as revealed in, greater than di- 
 vine will and might, 307; divinity of, affirmed on the basis of 
 love, 308; divinity of, witnessed to by a gloss at close of the 
 manuscript account of John's death in the desert, 308, 309; his 
 love and power a mere projection of men's selves, 306; John 
 bidden by, to teach, in A Death in the Desert, 304; preached by 
 Paul on Mars' Hill, in Cleon, 254; in David, in Saul, 314. 
 
 ** Christ, See the, stand " — a test of the emotional values of 
 Saul, 315-316. 
 
 ** Christ? What think ye of," Bishop Blougram's vital question, 
 267. 
 
 Cleon, a Greek poet who writes his King a reply concerning the 
 relative value of the poet's calling and the continuity of life, 
 254-258. 
 
 Comedy, compared with other forms of literature, xii. 
 
 Constance, the Queen's cousin, in love with Norbert, in In a Bat- 
 cony, 164-169, 171-194. 
 
 Constancy, Constance's part, in In a Balcony, 182-183, 186-189. 
 
 Conway, mentioned in Strafford, 85, 103, 108. 
 
ANALYTICAL INDEX 325 
 
 Correggio, mentioned in Bishop Blougram's Apology, 262. 
 
 Cosimo of the Medici, patron of Fra Lippo Lippi, 239, 240. 
 
 Cotnar, liquor drunk by the huntsman in The Flight of the Duchess, 
 208. 
 
 Cottington, Francis, Lord, Chancellor of the Exchequer, in Straf- 
 ford, 54, 58, 102. 
 
 Council. See Privy Council 
 
 Cousin of Queen Bess, Bishop Blougram styled, 266. 
 
 Covenant, League and, in Strafford, 69, 71. 
 
 Crew, opprobrious name for the League in Strafford, 109, 
 
 Cristina, a coquette beloved by a poet, 219-221. 
 
 Crone, the gypsy, in The Flight of the Duchess, 213-217. 
 
 Customs, Wentworth's share in the, in Strafford, 65. 
 
 David, and Jonathan, Pym and Wentworth likened to, in Straf- 
 ford, 159, 160; ministers to Saul, 311-316. 
 
 Da Vinci, as student of anatomy, in James Lee's Wife, 202. 
 
 Death in the Desert, A, inertia the result of a complete knowledge 
 of truth, taught in, 292; its teaching concerning the love and the 
 power of Christ, compared with Caliban's theology, 301-302. 
 
 Death-warrant for Strafford, 140-143, 151-152. 
 
 Death's spread hand, in In a Balcony, a personification of Fate ? 
 — 170, 183, 194. 
 
 Demogorgon, Shelley's, in Prometheus Unbound, 301. 
 
 Development, the moral theme of, 292. 
 
 Dickens, his vogue in Bishop Blougram's day, 259, 260. 
 
 Dolores, a beauty seen from the cloister in Soliloquy of the Spanish 
 Cloister, 226, 228. 
 
 Dome (Duomo S. Maria) of Asolo, in Pippa Passes, 4i, 5, 8, 10, 12, 
 13, 16. 
 
 Douay, John of, who fashioned the statue of the Great-Duke Fern- 
 dinand, in The Statue and the Bust, 206. 
 
 Dniids, 208. 
 
 Dublin, journalism in, in time of Bishop Blougram, 259. 
 
 Duchess, the, in The Flight of the Duchess, 208-218. 
 
 Duchess of Ferrara, the, subject of My Last Duchess, 222-225. 
 
 Duke, the, in The Flight of the Duchess, 208-214, 217-218. 
 
 Duke of Ferrara, the, the speaker in My Last Duchess, 222. 
 
 Durham, Scots engaged by Strafford at, 105, 107. 
 
 Earldom of Strafford, gift to Wentworth for services in Ireland, 64, 
 
 70, 73-74. 
 Egypt, a palm from, in In a Balcony, 174. 
 Eliot, John, early leader of the League in Strafford, 58, 59, 69, 98. 
 
 139, 157, 160. 
 England, Sludge the Medium proposes to flee to, 274. 
 
326 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Ephesus, Pamphylax returns to, in A Death in the Desert, 308. 
 Epic, the, compared with other forms of poetry, xii. 
 Essex, accused of conspiracy with the Scots, in Strafford, lOS. 
 Europe, the spirit of the revival of learning in, portrayed in 
 
 A Grammarian's Funeral, 253. 
 Evangeline^ dactylic movement of, 318. 
 Eyass, 26. 
 Eye-flower, in the Queen's courtyard, in In a Balcony, 164, 191. 
 
 Faction, a name for the League, in Strafford, 65. 
 
 Fate, a motive of feeling and action, in In a Balcony, 170, 194; 
 a motive of feeling and action, in Strafford, 54, 68, 69, 89. 
 
 Felippa (Pippa), 1-20. 
 
 Felton, John, assassination of, mentioned in Strafford, 59. 
 
 Ferdinand, Great-Dnke, beloved by the bride of the Riccardi in 
 The Statue and the Bust, 204, 205, 206. 
 
 Fichte, deprecated by Bishop Blougram, 267. 
 
 Fiennes, Nathaniel, one of the League, in Strafford, 50, 52, 55, 62, 
 71, 77, 78, 133-136. 
 
 Fiesole, scene of Andrea del Sarto, 233, 234. 
 
 Florence, scene of Andrea del Sarto's youth, 233; scene of The 
 Statue and the Bust, 204, 206. 
 
 Fontainebleau, Andrea del Sarto at, 233. 
 
 France, coast of, scene of James Lee's Wife, 195; dream of, in 
 Bishop Blougram' s Apology, 268; Envoy from, in The Statue 
 and the Bust, 205 ; King of, in Andrea del Sarto, 233; Scots 
 intrigue with, in Strafford, 71, 72, 73, 87; Lady Carlisle to flee to> 
 with Strafford, 143, 156; Straff ord scorns escaping to, 149. 
 
 Francis, King of France, patron of Andrea del Sarto, 233. 
 
 Franklin, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273, 
 
 ■Franz, of Austria, in Pippa Passes, 9. 
 
 French novel, in Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 229. 
 
 French painter, of the Queen, in In a Balcony, 178. 
 
 ** Friend of friends, my," Charles's crowning approbation of 
 Strafford, 111 
 
 Gaddi, Luca, husband of Ottima, in Pippa Passes, 4, 5, 6. 
 Galatians, text from, in Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 229. 
 Gallery, the screened, in the House of Commons, in Strafford, 
 
 119-120, 127-128. 
 Garrard, mentioned in Strafford, 148. 
 George, the, decoration conferred upon Wentworth in Straffdrd, 
 
 73, 93, 94; cast away by Strafford, 117. 
 Gerard, an old huntsman and warrener, in A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, 
 
 24, 32-34, 42, 45. 
 
ANALYTICAL INDEX 327 
 
 Gideon, mentioned in Strafford, 57. 
 
 Gigadibs, the guest and interlocutor of Bishop Blougram, 259- 
 
 269; starts for Australia, 269; denies the authority of theology 
 
 when unscientific, 262, 270. 
 Giotto, painter of saints, 242; style of, abandoned by Fra Lippo, 
 
 245. 
 Glanville, former member of the League in Strafford, 79. 
 Gloucester, in King Lear and Caliban, 300. 
 Golden Age, the, fostered by Sludge the Medium, 285. 
 Goring, one of Strafford's adherents, 110. 
 Gottlieb, a student in Pippa Passes, 6. 
 Greece, the seventeen isles of, home of Cleon the poet, 254. 
 Greek busts. Bishop Blougram proud of his, 259. 
 Greek manuscript of A Death in the Desert, 303. 
 Greeks, the, in Homer, in Mr. Sludge, " the Medium," 286. 
 Greeley's newspaper, exposure of Sludge in, 274. 
 Greenwich, Pym's vow at, in Strafford, 54, 68, 69, 89, 159, 162. 
 Guendolen. See Tresham. 
 Gypsies, description of, in The Flight of the Duchess, 213. 
 
 Haman, epithet applied to Wentworth in Strafford, 51, 54. 
 
 Hamilton, James, Marquis of, mentioned in Strafford, 54, 58, 64. 
 
 Hamlet motivation of group-action in, 16. 
 
 Hamlet's soul, two points in, unseized by the Germans yet, 260. 
 
 Hampden, John, counsellor of moderation in the turbulent meet- 
 ings of the League, 50-57, 59-62; mentioned as a patriot by 
 Pym, 69, 71; attacked in the League for indirectly aiding Went- 
 worth, 78-80; coupled with Pym as a leader in the League, 87; 
 accompanies Pym to Whitehall to regain Strafford, 87; aban- 
 dons Strafford, 88; helps to eject the Cabal from Parliament, 
 97; reported defeated with the League, 113; with the League 
 arraigns Strafford for treason, 117; called patriot, 122; sup- 
 ports Pym at Strafford's trial, 127, 133; called upon to save 
 Strafford, 134-135; remembered by Pym, 139; at the Tower to 
 thwart Lady Carlisle's scheme, 159; cursed by Strafford, 162. 
 
 Haselrig, a witness in Strafford's trial, 128, 129; introduces the Bill 
 of Attainder, 137. 
 
 Henriette, Queen of England, instigator of the Cabal and enemy to 
 Strafford, 61, 63, 64, 67, 74, 75, 76, 86, 91, 93, 98-109, 117-120, 
 122-125, 149, 153, 154, 161. 
 
 Herodias, the Prior's niece compared to, in Andrea del SartOti^^. 
 
 Hermann und Dorothea, dactylic movement of, 318. 
 
 Holland, Earl of, 'one of the Cabal in Strafford, 63, 64, 66, 69, 91, 
 93, 96-99, 101, 102, 105-107, 118. 
 
 Hollis, Denzil, brother by marriage to Wentworth, Earl of Straf- 
 ford, and loyal to him to the end: member of the League, 50; 
 
3^8 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 defends Wentworth before the League, 52, 57, 79; asks the King 
 for Strafford's release from trial, 118-124; charges the Vanes 
 with furnishing notes incriminating Strafford and involving the 
 King in perfidy, 122; warns the King of personal danger, 121, 
 124; assured that the King will intercede openly at the trial, 120; 
 seen with Strafford at the trial, 129; suspected by Strafford, 131; 
 scorns Strafford's trust in Charles, 133; deprecates Lady Car- 
 lisle's scheme of liberating from the Tower, 142; revolts against 
 his commission of informing Strafford of his doom, 141-142, 144; 
 implored by Lady Carlisle to help in her scheme, 143-144; ac- 
 companied by Charles, visits Strafford in the Tower, 147-163; 
 delivers the message, 151-152; confronted with the King's writ- 
 ten promise of freedom, 151; entrusted with the care of Straf- 
 ford's children, 153; urges Strafford to escape, 156, 157, 158. 
 
 Homer, a mere fiction, says Sludge the Medium, 286; compared 
 with Cleon, 256; episodical similes of, 17, 18; his spirit respon- 
 sive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Hoopoe, a bird known to Caliban, 295, 297. 
 
 Horsefall, Hiram H., a client victimized by Sludge, 272, 273. 
 
 House of Privilege, epithet for the royal house, in Strafford, 121. 
 
 Himigruffin, Judge, a type of hardheaded person who, hypotheti- 
 cally, fails to expose Sludge the Medium, 276. 
 
 Iliad, the, dactylic movement of, 318. 
 
 In Memoriam, quoted apropos of Caliban's natural theology, 299. 
 
 Intendant, Bishop's, the, the rascally steward of the estate of the 
 Bishop's dead brother, in Pippa Passes, 8, 10-13, 15, 17. 
 
 Ireland, misery of, mentioned in Strafford, 53, 60, 64, 75, 77, 79; 
 representatives from, in the Parliament that tries Strafford, 117, 
 120; thought of by Strafford in the Tower, 145, 146; Went- 
 worth, Lord Deputy of, 50, 51, 57, 62, 65, 66, 69, 73, 75, 85, 92. 
 110. 
 
 Israel, mentioned in Strafford, 57. 
 
 Jacynth, the huntsman's wife, in The Flight of the Duchess, 208, 
 
 213-215, 218. 
 James and Peter, spoken of by John at the time of his death, in 
 
 A Death in the Desert, 304. 
 Jerboa, an animal known to David, in Saul, 311, 315. 
 Jericho, to Jerusalem, the route of Karshish, as described by him 
 
 in his letter to Abib, 287, 291. 
 Jerome, Correggio's, in Bishop Blougram's Apology, 262. 
 Jerusalem, from Jericho to, the route of Karshish, as described 
 
 by him in his letter to Abib, 287. 
 Jew, a sanguine, description of Lazarus by Karshish, the Arab 
 
 physician, 290, 291. 
 Jewry, observations made in, by Karshish, 288, 291. 
 Jews, the, dare not, says Sludge, pronounce His name, 283. 
 
ANALYTICAL INDEX 329 
 
 Job, in a painting by Fra Lippo Lippi, 247. 
 
 John, death of, in A Death in the Desert, 308; explains the purpose 
 of the flaws in his gospel, 307; his existence questioned in times 
 following his ministry, 305; his supernatural foresight, 305, 308- 
 309;' his teaching in A Death in the Desert compared with Cali- 
 ban's, 301, 302; says that man is spoon-fed with truth, 270, 
 306. 
 
 John Baptist's head, subject for a painting by Fra Lippo, 239. 
 
 John of Douay, sculptor called to fashion the Duke's statue, in The 
 Statue and the Bust, 206. 
 
 Johnson, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Jonathan, and David, mentioned in Strafford, 159, 160; his spirit 
 responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Jove, a mere projection of man's mind, 306. 
 
 Judas, epithet applied to Went worth in Straff or d, 59; subject Fra 
 Lippo Lippi proposes for a painting, 239. 
 
 Jules, a young art student in love with Phene, in Pippa Passes, 
 3, 4, 6, 7, 12, 13, 15. 
 
 Juno, a mere projection of man's mind, 306. 
 
 Jupiter, as pictured in Shelley's Prometheus Unbound, 301. 
 
 Kaiser of Teuton land, ruler of the Duke's country, in The Flight of 
 the Duchess, 209. 
 
 Karshish, an Arab physician who writes to a brother in the profes- 
 sion about the resurrected Lazarus, 287-293. 
 
 King Charles I, See Charles I. 
 
 King Lear, motivation of group-action in, 16; quoted apropos of 
 one of Caliban's theological ideas, 300. 
 
 Lane, one of Strafford's counsel at the trial, 130-132, 137. 
 
 Lapaccia, Aunt of Fra Lippo Lippi, 241. 
 
 Latin, Fra Lippo's contempt for, 241. 
 
 Laud, WUliam, Archbishop, 54, 58, 61, 63, 68, 70, 72, 73, 83, 102. 
 110, 147, 153, 161. 
 
 Laughter, a natural rhyming, xiii. 
 
 Lawrence, Brother, a pious monk and object of jealousy in Solil- 
 oquy of the Spanish Cloister, 226-229. 
 
 Lazarus, the subject of An Epistle of Karshish, 287-292. 
 
 League, the, in Strafford, 50-62, 65, 68, 69, 70, 71, 73, 76-82, 77, 
 78, 80, 81, 88, 96, 98, 99, 109, 117, 119; meet to frame a list of 
 grievances, 50-62; and Covenant, in Scotland, 54, 71; John Eliot, 
 early leader of, 54; Puritan complexion of, 57; Faction, the, 
 another name for, 65, 73; People, the, another name for, 65; 
 through Pym, implore Wentworth's return to them, 67-71; 
 meet to denounce the new Parliament, 76-82; under Pym's 
 leadership welcome Strafford at Whitehall, 81-82; are repulsed 
 
330 
 
 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 by him, 87-89; are in possession in the new Parliament, 96, 98; ar- 
 raign Strafford before Parliament, on the charge of treason, 117; 
 imputed intent of, to kill Strafford hotly resented by HoUis, 119; 
 members of, protest against Strafford's doom, 134-137; its im- 
 agined protection scorned by Strafford in the Tower, 152; mem- 
 bers of, thwart Lady Carlisle's scheme of rescuing Strafford 
 from the Tower, 159. 
 
 Lecky, William Edward Hartpole, quoted apropos of Andrea del 
 Sarto and Fra Lippo Lippi, 243, 244. 
 
 Lee, James, estrangement between, and wife, 196. 
 
 Lenthal, accomplice of the Cabal, in Strafford, 96, 97. 
 
 Lippi, Fra Lippo, power of, to interpret God, 246-248; realistic 
 features of painting of Saint Laurence at Prato by, 247. 
 
 Locke, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 London, to raise a loan, in Strafford, 85; in danger of attack by the 
 Scots, 96, 97, 99; to be put under martial law by Strafford, 110; 
 mentioned by Strafford in prison, 148; mentioned in Bishop 
 Blougram's Apology, 262. 
 
 London Times, The, an oracle in Bishop Blougram's day, 259. 
 
 Lord-Deputyship of Ireland, office held by Wentworth, in Straf- 
 ford, 50,51. 
 
 Lorenzo, Brother, a true painter, in Fra Lippo Lippi, 242. 
 
 Loudon, Earl of, head of the Scots' Commissioners, in Strafford, 
 50-52, 55-57. 151. 
 
 Love, All's, yet all's law — the ultimate truth discovered by David 
 in ministering to Saul, 313, 316. 
 
 Love, as taught by John, 304; between children and father, 284; 
 Christ's divinity affirmed on the basis of, 308; in, have Faith; 
 in Art, have Soul; in Faith, have, — a summary of Browning's 
 message, 319; the only good, 216; to minister in, the perfection 
 of life, 315. (See also Contents, for group themes.) 
 
 Lover, the, the monologuist of Cristina, 219-221. 
 
 Loving, the. See All-Loving. 
 
 Lucrezia, wife of Andrea del Sarto, 233-237. 
 
 Luigi, a Carbonari conspirator, in Pippa Passes, 3, 4, 8, 9, 12, 13, 
 15, 16. 
 
 Luther, career of, compared by Bishop Blougram to his own, 266. 
 
 Lutwyche, a rhymester, in Pippa Passes, 7. 
 
 Lyric, the, compared with other forms of poetry, xii. 
 
 Maffeo, the Bishop's Intendant, in Pippa Passes, 8, 10-13, 15, 17. 
 Magna Charta, mentioned in Strafford, 54. 
 
 Magnolia-bell, in the Queen's courtyard, in In a Balcony, 164, 191. 
 Magnum et terribile, the, now no more, says Sludge, 283. 
 Mainwaring, one of Strafford's adherents, 109, 110, 112, 115, 116. 
 Mandeville, accused of conspiracy with the Scots, in Strafford, 108. 
 Manes, followers of, defined, 227. 
 
ANALYTICAL INDEX bl 
 
 Manichee, an epithet of opprobrium, used in Soliloquy of the Span- 
 ish Cloister, 227, 229. 
 
 Mars' Hill, mentioned in Cleon, 254. 
 
 Martagon, the turban-flower in Pippa's window, 3, 18. 
 
 Mary, Queen of Scots, her spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Maxwell, Usher of the Black Rod, struck by Strafford, 112; sup- 
 ported by the Presbyterians and assailed by Strafford's follow- 
 ers, 113-114; arrests Strafford, 115; ushers Strafford from the 
 Hall after the trial, 129. 
 
 Mental suggestion, power of, in Pippa Passes, 20. 
 
 Mertoun, Henry, Earl of, in A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, 23-26, 28- 
 30, 38-43; sues for Mildred's hand, 24-26; clandestine meeting 
 of, with Mildred, 29-32; Gerard a witness of, 32-34; last tryst 
 and death of, 39-43. 
 
 Methodist Hymnal, quoted apropos of Caliban's theology, 299. 
 
 Metre, and rhyme, a natural expression of emotion, xii-xiii. 
 
 Michael's foot on the dragon, a symbol of faith triumphant, in 
 Bishop Blougrams Apology, 267. 
 
 Middle Age, the, customs of, copied by the Duke, in The Flight of 
 the Duchess, 210, 212; the fleshly artist of, in Fra Lippo Lippi, 
 243; the pure faith of, ridiculed by Bishop Blougram, 267. 
 
 Midianite, the, mentioned in Strafford, 57. 
 
 Mildred. See Tresham. 
 
 Milton, episodical similes of, 17; his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Miracles, John explains the value of, 306. 
 
 Miranda, Prosper's daughter, in Caliban upon Setebos, 294, 296. 
 
 Moldavia, liquor drunk by the huntsman, in The Flight of the 
 Duchess, 208. 
 
 Monologue, the technique of the dramatic, 309-310. 
 
 Monsignor the Bishop, in Pippa Passes, 3, 4, 10-13, 15, 16. 
 
 MoreUo, mountain near Fiesole, 233, 236. 
 
 Napoleon, ideal imputed to Gigadibs by Bishop Blougram, 265. 
 
 Natalia, procuress, in Pippa Passes, 7, 8. 
 
 Nature, Fra Lippo's teaching about, and Art, 245. 
 
 Nazarene physician, the, in An Epistle, 287, 289, 290, 291. 
 
 Nemesis, Pym assumes the r6le of, in Strafford, 89, and completes 
 it, 161-162; Vane tells the story of, 55-56. See also Fate. 
 
 New York, journalism in, in time of Bishop Blougram, 259. 
 
 Noodledom, the Middle Age an age of, 267. 
 
 Norbert, a brilliant young diplomat in love with Constance, in In a 
 Balcony, 164-178, 180-194. 
 
 Northumberland, Percy, Lord, Lady Carlisle's brother, in Straf- 
 ford, 83, 90, 124. 
 
 Notes, containing incriminating evidence at Strafford's trial, 122, 
 129, 132, 135. 
 
332 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Oak-galls, mentioned in Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 228. 
 
 Ore, a sea mammal known to Caliban, 295, 298. 
 
 Orcanai valley of, through which Pippa passes from Ottima's house 
 
 at Asolo to Jules's house at Possagno, 4, 6, 8. 
 Ormond, one of Strafford's lieutenants in Ireland, 85, 110. 
 Orsay, Count d', in Bishop Blougram's day, 259. 
 Orson the wood-knight, alluded to in The Flight of the Duchess, 
 
 218. 
 Othello, sequence of incidents in, 15; motivation of group-action 
 
 in, 16. 
 Ottima, wife of Luca Gaddi and mistress of Sebald, in Pippa Passes, 
 
 3-6, 12-13, 15, 19. 
 Outward-bound, The, title suggested by Gigadibs, 261, 269. 
 
 Padua, seen from Asolo, in Pippa Passes, 5. 
 
 Paine, Tom, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Pamphylax, dictator of the manuscript account of John's death in 
 the desert, 303, 308, 309; ministers to John, 303; goes to fight 
 the beasts, 308; becomes incorporate with Christ, 308. 
 
 Pandolf, Fra, painter of the Duchess's portrait, in My Last Duch- 
 ess, 223-225. 
 
 Paris, King Francis in, in Andrea del Sarto, 233, 234; the young 
 Duke in, in The Flight of the Duchess, 210. 
 
 Parliament, at Westminster, in Strafford, 50, 53, 59, 65, 73, 74, 
 76-81, 84, 97-100, 102-103, 106, 109-110, 116, 123-124, 129, 
 134, 140, 142, 154; in Ireland, 73, 80, 83; Scots', 55, 56, 57, 62. 
 
 Parma marble, mentioned in Bishop Blougram's Apology, 262. 
 
 Patmos, island where John composed his gospel, 303, 304. 
 
 Paul, Saint, opposed to Strauss, in Bishop Blougram's Apology, 
 266; Sludge the Medium compares himself with, 278. 
 
 Paulus, inquired about by Protus in a letter to Cleon, 254, 255; 
 subject of Cleon's reply, 258, 
 
 Peter and James, spoken of by John at the time of his death, 304. 
 
 Petition of Right. See Bill of Rights. 
 
 Petraja, in the Apennines, a visit proposed to, in The Statue and 
 the Bust, 205. 
 
 Phene, beloved of Jules, in Pippa Passes, 3, 4, 6-8, 13, 15, 16. 
 
 Phidias, compared with Cleon, 256. 
 
 Phoebas, the account of John's death dictated to, 303, 308. 
 
 Phoebus, the sculptor of, 257. 
 
 Pippa Passes: intellectual content of, xiv, 20; significance of title of , 
 xiv, 12, 13; central idea of, xiv, 13; dramatic element in, xiv, 13; 
 in part a lyrical soliloquy, 13; emotional values of, xiv, 14; veri- 
 similitude in, xiv, 15; plotof, xiv, 14, 16, 17, 18; organic pictures 
 and similes in, 17, 18; pathetic fallacy in, 17, 18; power of men- 
 tal suggestion portrayed in, 1, 20. 
 
ANALYTICAL INDEX 333 
 
 Plena gratia, Ave, Virgo ! prayer at Vespers, in Soliloquy of the 
 Spanish Cloister, 229. 
 
 Poecile, covered with storied paintings, in Cleon, 255. 
 
 Poetry, aesthetic elements of, 14, 20; distinguished from prose xi; , 
 emotional and intellectual elements of, xi, xii-xiv, 14, 20; how 
 to read, xii-xiv; moral values of, 20. 
 
 Pompey, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Pope, the, and Gigadibs, 259. 
 
 Possagno, scene of marriage of Jules andPhene, inPippaPasses, 4, 6. 
 
 Presbyterian Hymnal, the, quoted apropos of Caliban's natural 
 theology, 299. 
 
 Presbyterian Party, the, in Strafford, 50, 112, 113, 115, 116. 134. 
 
 Presidency of the North, the, oflBce held by Wentworthin Strafford, 
 51, 60, 62, 66, 100. 
 
 Prior, the, bids Lippo daub away, 241; niece of, painted, 242; bids 
 Lippo paint men's souls, 242; tells how to paint the soul, 244; 
 on the function of art, 244; pulpit-place of, taken by Lippo, 246; 
 censures Lippo for not instigating to prayer, 246. 
 
 Privy Council, in Strafford, 57, 63, 66, 68, 75, 76, 80, 82. 
 
 Prometheus, the fire brought by, compared to Christ's good to 
 men, 305. 
 
 Prometheus Unbound, Shelley's, compared with Caliban upon 
 Setebos, 301. 
 
 Prose, intellectual content of, xi. 
 
 Prosper, Caliban's master, 294, 296, 297. 
 
 Protus, King, addressed in a letter by Cleon, 254. 
 
 Providence, seen at first only in catastrophes, says Sludge the 
 Medium, 283; the need of, asserted by Sludge, 282. 
 
 Prynne, his steeple hat, in Strafford, 150. 
 
 Puritan complexion of the League, in Strafford, 57, 58, 78, 113, 
 114, 150. 
 
 Pym, John, leader of the League and of the movement against 
 Strafford, 52; defends Wentworth before the League, 57-62; 
 forced at Greenwich to forego Wentworth's friendship, 56, 60; 
 seeks Wentworth at Whitehall, 62; Wentworth's concern for, 
 65-66; beseeches Wentworth to return to the League, 67-71; 
 Wentworth twitted for being seen with, 73; announces that 
 Wentworth will return to the League, 78; supported by Hollis, 
 79; again defends] Wentworth, 80-81; persuades the [League to 
 welcome Wentworth at Whitehall, 82; repulsed by Strafford, 87- 
 89; assumes the part of avenging Fate, 89; feared by Strafford, 
 90, 93, 95; ejects the Court Cabal from Parliament, 96, 98; 
 feared by the Queen, 99,100, 102; his power to frighten Strafford, 
 denied by Lady Carlisle, 103; the Queen's view of, pitted against 
 Strafford in Parliament, 104; accused by Strafford of con- 
 spiracy with the Scots, 108; to be subjected to the ordeal of 
 arrest by Strafford, 111; partisans of, wish him to prevent the 
 threatened coming of Strafford's army, 112; downfall of, ex- 
 
334 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 pected by one of Strafford's followers, 112; derisively called 
 " King Pym," 113; assails Strafford as traitor in the House of 
 Lords, 114; feared by Strafford, 116; stands at the bar where 
 Strafford kneels, accepting trial, 117; moves a Bill of Attainder 
 against the Earl, 117, 127-128; champion of the League, 118; 
 charged by Charles with the intent of killing Strafford, 119; 
 charged by Hollis with engrossing the King's attention at the 
 trial, 120; indictment of Strafford by, based on worn-out law, 
 121, 134, 136; aided in the prosecution by Charles, 122; styled 
 patriot by Hollis, 122; arraigns Strafford in a speech of pro- 
 phetic fire, 127; sends for Haselrig, 128-129; laccused of quailing 
 under Strafford's eye, and of unfitness as Eliot's successor, 130, 
 131; has imprisoned the best witness of the defense, 131; him- 
 self to be impeached, 131; Strafford accepts trial by, from 
 patriotic motives, 131-132; provided by Vane with important 
 notes against Strafford, 132-133, 135; declared a truer friend 
 to Strafford than the King, 133; abjured by Strafford forever, 
 133; besought by the League to revoke the Bill of Attainder, but 
 declines, 133-137; intimidates the King into signing Strafford's 
 attainder, 138-141; not to be outwitted by Lady Carlisle, 142; 
 ** Patriot," Strafford's query in the Tower, 147; to be reconciled 
 to Strafford, 147-148; suspected by Strafford of willingness to 
 offer the latter freedom at the price of renouncing the King, 152; 
 thwarts Lady Carlisle's scheme of effecting Strafford's escape, 
 159; aflSrms his old love for Strafford and his hope of soon meet- 
 ing him " gloriously renewed " in the other world, 159-160; 
 entrusted by Strafford with the King's safety, 161; declares he 
 will sacrifice the King if need be, 161-162. 
 
 Queen, the, in In a Balcony, in love with Norbert, 164-182, 184-194. 
 Qmet, the, Caliban's god above Setebos, 296, 297, 298. 
 Quitch, a weed of the desert, 304, 309. 
 
 Radcliffe, a witness in Strafford's trial, ISl, 153. 
 Rafael, mentioned in Andrea del Sarto, 233, 236. 
 Rationalism in Europe, by W. E. H. Lecky, quoted apropos of 
 
 Andrea del Sarto and Fra Lippo Lippi, 243-244. 
 Rhyme, the significance of, xii-xiv. 
 Ribbon, as for a, the Queen has worn: Constance to Norbert in 
 
 In a Balcony, 172-174, 178. 
 Riccardi, the husband, in The Statue and the Bust, 204, 205. 
 Richelieu, term used ironically in Strafford to designate one of 
 
 Charles's imagined advisers, 148. 
 Ripen, mentioned in Strafford, 108. 
 
 Robbia, sculptor of the lady, in The Statue and the Bust, 206. 
 Roman persecution, the, at the time of John's death, 305, 309. 
 Roman spy, a, Lazarus declared, 288. 
 Rome, mentioned in Bishop Blougram's Apology, 262; on the 
 
 march to stamp out Bethany* 289. 
 
ANALYTICAL INDEX 335 
 
 Romish church, the, Blougram a bishop of, 259. 
 
 Rose, a, Constance hands Norbert, in In a Balcony, 167; as the 
 
 symbol of Constance's self, 173. 
 Rubens, paintings by, in In a Balcony, 165, 168, 185. 
 Rudyard, Benjamin, one of the League, in Strafford, 50, 52, 54, 55, 
 
 57, 59, 60, 77-81, 113, 133, 134, 136. 
 Runnymede, mentioned in Strafford, 54. 
 Russia, dream of, in Bishop Blougrarns Apology, 268. 
 Russian Hymn, and Caliban's natural theology, 299. 
 
 Saint Ambrose, in a painting by Fra Lippo Lippi, 247. 
 
 St. Antholin's, mentioned in Strafford, 155. 
 
 St. Gothard, crossed by Bishop Blougram, 259-260. 
 
 Saint Jerome, painted by Fra Lippo Lippi, 240. 
 
 Saint John, in a painting by Fra Lippo Lippi, 247, 248. 
 
 St. John, enemy to Strafford, 113; Solicitor- General at the trial, 133. 
 
 Saint Laiirence, church mentioned in Fra Lippo Lippi, 240. 
 
 Saint Mark's, seen from Asolo, in Pippa Passes, 5. 
 
 Samuel, appearing to Saul, cited by Sludge the Medium, 280, 
 
 Sanchicha, a beauty seen from the cloister in Soliloquy of ike 
 
 Spanish Cloister, 226, 228. 
 Sant' Ambrogio, Fra Lippo's painting in, 247-248. 
 Santa Claus, as true to grown-ups as to children, says Sludge, 281. 
 Satan, compact with, in Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 227, 229. 
 Saul, a dramatic lyric or monologue, 13; imagery of, 316-317; its 
 
 unity of impression, 318. 
 Saul, appearance of Samuel's ghost to, cited by Sludge, 280; his 
 
 spirit responsive to Sludge, 273; stirred by David, 311-318. 
 Savile, Lord, one of the Cabal, in Strafford, 63, 64, 66, 69, 72, 92, 
 
 96-99, 101, 102, 105-109, 118. 
 Saye, accused of conspiracy with the Scots, in Strafford, 108. 
 Schramm, a German student, in Pippa Passes, 6. 
 Scotland, Commissioners from, to the League, in Strafford, 50, 54, 
 
 56, 57, 61; Parliament in, 55, 57, 62; representatives from, in the 
 
 Parliament that tries Strafford, 117, 120; war with, in Strafford, 
 
 60, 61, 63, 66, 68, 70, 72, 75-78, 81-83, 85-88, 90, 93, 94, 96, 97, 
 
 99, 103, 105, 109, 116. 
 Sebald, paramour to Ottima, in Pippa Passes, 3-5, 12, 13, 15, 19. 
 Sejanus, term used, ironically in Strafford to designate one of 
 
 Charles's imagined advisers, 148. 
 Setebos, a god in Caliban's theology, 296-300. 
 Shakespeare, and Caliban's theology, 300; career of, compared by 
 
 Bishop Blougram to his own, 265-266; his spirit resp>onsive to 
 
 Sludge, 273; able to create a Bishop, but not to be one, 271. 
 Shelley, his Prometheus Unbound compared with Caliban upon 
 
 Setebos, 301. 
 
336 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Ship-money, mentioned in Strafford, 62, 79, 80, 103. 
 
 Slingsby, one of Strafford's adherents, 116; Strafford's secretary 
 at the trial, 129, 130. 
 
 Slum and Cellar, The, or Whitechapel Life Limned after Dark, title 
 of Gigadibs's literary best, 260. 
 
 Sobbing, a natural rhyming, xiii. 
 
 Spain, dream of, in Bishop Blougram's Apology, 268. 
 
 Spenser, episodical similes of, 17. 
 
 Star Chamber, the, in Strafford, 79. 
 
 Stedman, Edmmid Clarence, quoted, 15, 318. 
 
 Strafford, Earl of, hero of drama by that name, 50-163, as Vis- 
 count Wentworth, 50-74; as Lord Deputy of Ireland, 50-51, 67, 
 69, 76, 82; as. President of the North, 51, 60, 62, 66, 100; created 
 Earl, 73-74; having resumed work in Ireland, returns again, 
 76, 82; denounced by League for calling Parliament, 78, 79, 80; 
 defended by Pym, 81, 82; received by King and finds plans for 
 war with Scotland frustrated, 82, 83; affirms loyalty to Charles, 
 83, 84; warns King of impending ruin, 85; accuses King of per- 
 fidy, 86, 87; rejects the advances of Pym, 87-89; reaffirms loy- 
 alty to the King, 88, 111, 154; abandoned by Pym, 89; besought 
 by Lady Carlisle to relinquish his command against Scotland, 
 89-94; repulsed in the North, 96; threatened with impeachment, 
 99; summoned by the King, 99; present at Whitehall, 104-107; 
 informs Lady Carlisle of his disobedience to the King at Dur- 
 ham, and his intention of arresting the leaders of the Cabal and 
 the League, for conspiracy with the Scots, 108-110; goes to 
 Westminster to make the arrest, 112; encounters Maxwell, the 
 Usher, 112; is ejected from Parliament and resists arrest, 114- 
 115; would apprise the King, 115-116; demands first that his 
 followers, then that the Presbyterians, slay him, 116; suspects 
 the King of perfidy, 116-117; is tried, 117-133; Hollis and Lady 
 Carlisle intercede for, before the King, 118-124; rejects the 
 King's offer of liberation presented by Lady Carlisle, 130; plans 
 a counter-charge of treason, 131; his admiration for Lady Car- 
 lisle, 131; his supreme faith in Charles, 132-133; members of the 
 League beseech Pym to show mercy to, 133-137; his Attainder 
 sanctioned by Charles, 138-141; championed by Lady Carlisle, 
 140-141; imprisoned in the Tower, 142; Lady Carlisle's plan to 
 rescue, 142-144; Hollis to apprise, of his doom, 141-142; com- 
 forted in prison by his children, 144-145; visited by the King in 
 disguise, with Hollis, 147; demands the expected order of re- 
 lease, 149-150; informed of his doom, 151; besought by Charles 
 for pardon, 152; expresses concern for his children, 152-153; 
 Charles's grief for, 154; implored by Lady Carlisle to flee, 
 155-158; confronted at the river door by Pym and associates, 
 159-160; is resigned to his death, 160; horrified at a prophetic 
 vision of Charles on the scaffold, 161; pleads in vain in the King's 
 behalf, 162; goes to the scaffold, 163. 
 
 Stratford, Shakespeare's house in, cited by Bishop Blougram, 265. 
 
ANALYTICAL INDEX 337 
 
 Strauss, advent of, said by Bishop Blougram to have proved 
 
 Luther's failure, 266. 
 Subsidies, mentioned in Strafford, 77, 79, 81, 85, 99. 
 Swedenborg, Sludge compares himself with, 278. 
 Sycorax, Caliban's mother, 294. 
 Syrian, a, the messenger to whom Karshish entrusts his letter, 287. 
 
 Taxes, mentioned in Strafford, 65, 80. 
 
 Tempest, The, Browning's source for his own Caliban, 294. 
 
 Tennyson, and Caliban's theology, 299. 
 
 Terpander, compared with Cleon, 256. 
 
 Teuton land, scene of The Flight of the Duchess, 209. 
 
 Theobald's, the manor of Charles I in Hertfordshire, in Strafford, 
 100, 101, 149. 
 
 Theotypas, the gloss of, on the manuscript of A Death in the Desert, 
 309, 310. 
 
 Timbuctoo, dream of, in Bishop Blougram's Apology, 268. 
 
 Tragedy, compared with other forms of literature, xii. 
 
 Tresham, Austin, brother to Thorold and Mildred Tresham and 
 cousin to Guendolen Tresham, to whom betrothed, in A Blot in 
 the 'Scutcheon, 23-26, 36-38, 42-43, 48-49. 
 
 Tresham, Guendolen, cousin to Earl Tresham, and betrothed to 
 his brother Austin, in A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, 23-29, 34-38, 42, 
 44, 47-49. 
 
 Tresham, Mildred, young sister of Earl Tresham, in A Blot in the 
 'Scutcheon, 23-35, 37-39, 44-48; Mertoun sues for hand of, 24- 
 26; clandestine meeting of, with Mertoun, 29-32; sin of, 30-32; 
 Gerard a witness to, 32-34; confronted by Thorold, 35-37; last 
 tryst and death of, 44-48. 
 
 Tresham, Thorold, Earl, in A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, 23-30, 32, 34- 
 40, 43-49; receives Henry, Earl of Mertoun, as suitor for Mil- 
 dred's hand, 24-26; learns of Mildred's tryst with Mertoun, 32- 
 34; confronts Mildred, 35-37; witnesses Mertoun's tryst, and 
 kills Mertoun, 39-43; takes poison and dies, 43-49. 
 
 Trinity, illustrated, in Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 227, 229. 
 
 Triton, the fountain in the courtyard, in In a Balcony, 179. 
 
 Troy, the romance of, never was, says Sludge, the Medium, 286. 
 
 Turban-flower, the martagon in Pippa's window, 3, 18. 
 
 Tussis, the Grammarian attacked by, 252. 
 
 Tyne, the, passes of, mentioned in Strafford, 85, 103. 
 
 Urganda, one of Tresham's horses, in A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, 27. 
 Utopia, Sludge considers himself helpful in bringing about, 285. 
 Uz, the man of, in a painting by Fra Lippo Lippi, 247. 
 
 Valens, one of the four who minister to John at his death, 303. 
 
338 ANALYTICAL INDEX 
 
 Vane, Henry, Sir, Secretary to the King and member of the Cabal, 
 or Court Faction, in Strafford; 63, 64, 66, 69, 85, 86, 90-93, 96, 
 98-103, 105-107, 118, 122, 124, 125, 126, 129, 132, 133, 157. 
 
 Vane, Harry, the younger, in the League, leader of the party 
 opposed to Wentworth, in Strafford: 50-57, 59-62, 71, 77-82, 87, 
 88, 97, 113, 133-136, 159, 162. 
 
 Venice, mentioned in Pippa Passes, 6, 8; in Strafford, 145. 
 
 Via Larga, square in Florence where stands the statue of the Great- 
 Duke Ferdinand, 204, 206. 
 
 Vicenza, seen from Asolo, in Pippa Passes, 5. 
 
 Vienna, mentioned in Pippa Passes, 9. 
 
 Virgin, the, painted in the Middle Ages, 243. 
 
 Wanderford, death of, mentioned in Strafford, 153. 
 
 Warwick, accused of conspiracy with the Scots, in Strafford, 108. 
 
 Wentworth, Viscount, 50-57, 59-65, 67, 68-76, 78; created Earl of 
 Strafford, 73-74; Lord Deputy of Ireland, 50, 51, 67, 69, 75, 76, 
 82; President of the North, 51, 60, 62, 66, 100; denounced in the 
 League, 50, 51, 54, 59; threatened by Pym, 56, 89; brother-in- 
 law to Denzil Hollis, 50, 52; a framer of the Bill of Rights, 51; 
 returns from Ireland, 57, 63,66,82; rule of, in Ireland, 60,64,65, 
 69, 73, 75, 77, 79, 85; received at Whitehall by Lady Carlisle, 
 62-66; meets Pym, 67-71; received by the King, 71; the prey 
 of intrigue, 63-67, 72; urges calling of Parliament, 73; name used 
 by Pym and Strafford in farewell 160, 162. See also Strafford. 
 
 Wentworth, Strafford's estate, 148. 
 
 Wesley, his spirit responsive to Sludge, 273. 
 
 Westminster Hall, in Strafford, 96, 98, 112, 126, 132, 133, 137. 
 142. 
 
 Weston, Treasurer for Charles I, in Strafford, 67. 
 
 Whitehall, Palace of Charles I, mentioned in Strafford, 50, 53, 57, 
 63, 76, 82, 95, 98, 99, 102, 112, 113, 117, 118, 128, 137, 141, 148. 
 
 William, Strafford's son, sings Italian boat-song in the Tower, 144, 
 seg; present during Hollis's visit to Strafford, 148, 149; sings in 
 a room adjoining the cell, 152; protection for, implored of the 
 King, 153; entrusted to Hollis, 153. 
 
 Wilmot, cavalry officer, in Strafford, 85. 
 
 Windebank, of the royalist party, in Strafford, 102. 
 
 Xanthus, ministers to John at the latter's death; afterwards burned 
 at the stake, in A Death in the Desert, 303, 309. 
 
 York, Strafford's headquarters in the Scot's war, 102, 103, 104, 110, 
 116. 
 
 Zeus, no future state revealed to Cleon by, 257. 
 
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