The Poems and Prose Remains of Arthur Hugh Clough/Volume 2/Dipsychus/Part 2
(Redirected from Dipsychus/Part II)
Part II.—Scene I.
The interior Arcade of the Doge's Palace.
Sp.Thunder and rain! O dear, O dear!But see, a noble shelter here,This grand arcade where our VenetianHas formed of Gothic and of GrecianA combination strange, but striking,And singularly to my liking!Let moderns reap where ancients sowed,I at least make it my abode.And now let's hear your famous Ode:
'Through the great sinful'—how. did it go on?For principles of Art and so onI care perhaps about three curses,But hold myself a judge of verses.
Di.'My brain was lightened when my tongue had said,"Christ is not risen."'******Sp.Well, now it's anything but clearWhat is the tone that's taken here:What is your logic? what 's your theology?Is it, or is it not, neology?That's a great fault; you're this and that,And here and there, and nothing flat;Yet writing's golden word what is it,But the three syllables 'explicit?'Say, if you cannot help it, less,But what you do put, put express.I fear that rule won't meet your feeling:You think half showing, half concealing,Is God's own method of revealing.
Di.To please my own poor mind! to find repose:To physic the sick soul; to furnish ventTo diseased humours in the moral frame!
Sp.A sort of seton, I suppose,A moral bleeding at the noseH'm;—and the tone too after all,Something of the ironical?Sarcastic, say; or were it fitterTo style it the religious bitter?
Di.Interpret it I cannot, I but wrote it.
Sp.Perhaps; but none that read can doubt it,There is a strong Strauss-smell about it.Heavens! at your years your time to fritterUpon a critical hair-splitter!Take larger views (and quit your Germans)From the Analogy and sermons;I fancied—you must doubtless know—Butler had proved an age ago,That in religious as profane things'Twas useless trying to explain things;Men's business-wits, the only sane things,These and compliance are the main things.God, Revelation, and the rest of it,Bad at the best, we make the best of it.Like a good subject and wise man,Believe whatever things you can.Take your religion as 'twas found you,And say no more of it, confound you!And now I think the rain has ended;And the less said, the soonest mended.Scene II.—In a Gondola.
Sp.Per ora. To the Grand Canal.Afterwards e'en as fancy shall.
Di.Afloat; we move. Delicious! Ah,What else is like the gondola?This level floor of liquid glassBegins beneath us swift to pass.It goes as though it went aloneBy some impulsion of its own.(How light it moves, how softly! Ah,Were all things like the gondola!) How light it moves, how softly! Ah,Could life, as does our gondola,Unvexed with quarrels, aims and cares,And moral duties and affairs,Unswaying, noiseless, swift and strong,For ever thus—thus glide along!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)
With no more motion than should bearA freshness to the languid air;With no more effort than exprestThe need and naturalness of rest,Which we beneath a grateful shadeShould take on peaceful pillows laid!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)
In one unbroken passage borneTo closing night from opening morn,Uplift at whiles slow eyes to markSome palace front, some passing bark;Through windows catch the varying shore,And hear the soft turns of the oar!(How light we move, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)
So live, nor need to call to mindOur slaving brother here behind!
Sp.Pooh! Nature meant him for no betterThan our most humble menial debtor;Who thanks us for his day's employmentAs we our purse for our enjoyment.
Di.To make one's fellow-man an instrument—
Sp.Is just the thing that makes him most content.
Di. Our gaieties, our luxuries, Our pleasures and our glee, Mere insolence and wantonness, Alas! they feel to me.
How shall I laugh and sing and dance! My very heart recoils, While here to give my mirth a chance A hungry brother toils.
The joy that does not spring from joy Which I in others see, How can I venture to employ, Or find it joy for me?
Sp.Oh come, come, come! By Him that sent us here,Who's to enjoy at all, pray let us hear?You won't; he can't! Oh, no more fuss!What's it to him, or he to us?Sing, sing away, be glad and gay,And don't forget that we shall pay.
Di.Yes, it is beautiful ever, let foolish men rail at it never.Yes, it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly.Wise are ye others that choose it, and happy ye all that can use it.Life it is beautiful wholly, and could we eliminate only'This interfering, enslaving, o'ermastering demon of craving,This wicked tempter inside us to ruin still eager to guide us,Life were beatitude, action a possible pure satisfaction.
Sp.(Hexameters, by all that's odious,Beshod with rhyme to run melodious!)
Di.All as I go on my way I behold them consorting and coupling;Faithful it seemeth, and fond; very fond, very possibly faithful;All as I go on my way with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.Life it is beautiful truly, my brothers, I grant it you duly;But for perfection attaining is one method only, abstaining;Let us abstain, for we should so, if only we thought that we could so.
Sp.Bravo, bravissimo! this time thoughYou rather were run short for rhyme though;Not that on that account your verseCould be much better or much worse.
This world is very odd we see, We do not comprehend it;But in one fact we all agree, God won't, and we can't mend it.Being common sense, it can't be sin To take it as I find it;The pleasure to take pleasure in; The pain, try not to mind it.
Di.O let me love my love unto myself alone,And know my knowledge to the world unknown;No witness to the vision call,Beholding, unbeheld of all;And worship thee, with thee withdrawn, apart,Whoe'er, whate'er thou art,Within the closest veil of mine own inmost heart.
Better it were, thou sayest, to consent,Feast while we may, and live ere life be spent;Close up clear eyes, and call the unstable sure,The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure;In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll,And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the soul.
Nay, better far to mark off thus much air,And call it heaven; place bliss and glory there;Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial sky,And say, what is not, will be by-and-by;What here exists not must exist elsewhere.But play no tricks upon thy soul, O man;Let fact be fact, and life the thing it can.
Sp.To these remarks so sage and clerkly,Worthy of Malebranche or Berkeley,I trust it won't be deemed a sinIf I too answer 'with a grin.'
These juicy meats, this flashing wine, Maybe an unreal mere appearance;Only—for my inside, in fine, They have a singular coherence.
Oh yes, my pensive youth, abstain; And any empty sick sensation,Remember, anything like pain Is only your imagination.
Trust me, I've read your German sage To far more purpose e'er than you did;You find it in his wisest page, Whom God deludes is well deluded.
Di.Where are the great, whom thou would'st wisl to praise thee?Where are the pure, whom thou would'st choose to love thee?Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee,Whose high commands would cheer, whose chiding, raise thee?Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to findIn the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind.
(Written in London, standing in the Park,One evening in July, just before dark.)
Sp.As I sat at the café, I said to myself,They may talk as they please about what they call pelfThey may sneer as they like about eating and drinkingBut help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.
I sit at my table en grand seigneur,And when I have done, throw a crust to the poor;Not only the pleasure, one's self, of good living,But also the pleasure of now and then giving.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.
It was but last winter I came up to town,But already I'm getting a little renown;I make new acquaintance where'er I appear;I am not too shy, and have nothing to fear.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.
I drive through the streets, and I care not a d—n;The people they stare, and they ask who I am;And if I should chance to run over a cad,I can pay for the damage if ever so bad.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.
We stroll to our box and look down on the pit,And if it weren't low should be tempted to spit;We loll and we talk until people look up,And when it's half over we go out to sup.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.
The best of the tables and the best of the fare—And as for the others, the devil may care;It isn't our fault if they dare not affordTo sup like a prince and be drunk as a lord.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.
We sit at our tables and tipple champagne;Ere one bottle goes, comes another again;The waiters they skip and they scuttle about,And the landlord attends us so civilly out.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.
It was but last winter I came up to town,But already I'm getting a little renown;I get to good houses without much ado,Am beginning to see the nobility too.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.
O dear! what a pity they ever should lose it!For they are the gentry that know how to use it;So grand and so graceful, such manners, such dinners,But yet, after all, it is we are the winners.So pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!So pleasant it is to have money.
Thus I sat at my table en grand seigneur,And when I had done threw a crust to the poor;Not only the pleasure, one's self, of good eating.But also the pleasure of now and then treating,So pleasant it is to have money, heigh hoSo pleasant it is to have money.
They may talk as they please about what they call pelf,And how one ought never to think of one's self,And how pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking—My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinkingHow pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.
(Written in Venice, but for all parts true,'Twas not a crust I gave him, but a sous.)
A gondola here, and a gondola there,'Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air.To right and to left; stop, turn, and go yonder,And let us repeat, o'er the tide as we wander,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.
Come, leave your Gothic, worn-out story,San Giorgio and the Redentore; I from no building, gay or solemn,Can spare the shapely Grecian column.'Tis not, these centuries four, for noughtOur European world of thoughtHath made familiar to its homeThe classic mind of Greece and Rome;In all new work that would look forthTo more than antiquarian worth,Palladio's pediments and bases,Or something such, will find their places:Maturer optics don't delightIn childish dim religious light,In evanescent vague effectsThat shirk, not face one's intellects;They love not fancies just betrayed,And artful tricks of light and shade,But pure form nakedly displayed,And all things absolutely made.The Doge's palace though, from hence,In spite of doctrinaire pretence,The tide now level with the quay,Is certainly a thing to see.We'll turn to the Rialto soon;One's told to see it by the moon.
A gondola here, and a gondola there,'Tis the pleasantest fashion of taking the air.To right and to left; stop, turn, and go yonder,And let us reflect, o'er the flood as we wander,How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho!How pleasant it is to have money.
Di.How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in moonlight seems to swim! The south side rises o'er our bark,A wall impenetrably dark;The north is seen profusely bright;The water, is it shade or light?Say, gentle moon, which conquers nowThe flood, those massy hulls, or thou?(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Were life but as the gondola!)
How light we go, how soft we skim!And all in moonlight seem to swim.In moonlight is it now, or shade?In planes of sure division made,By angles sharp of palace wallsThe clear light and the shadow falls;O sight of glory, sight of wonder!Seen, a pictorial portent, under,O great Rialto, the vast roundOf thy thrice-solid arch profound!(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Life should be as the gondola!)
How light we go, how softly—
Sp.Nay;'Fore heaven, enough of that to-dayI'm deadly weary of your tune,And half-ennuyé with the moon;The shadows lie, the glories fall,And are but moonshine after all.It goes against my conscience reallyTo let myself feel so ideally.Come, for the Piazzetta steer;'Tis nine o'clock or very near. These airy blisses, skiey joysOf vague romantic girls and boys,Which melt the heart and the brain soften,When not affected, as too oftenThey are, remind me, I protest,Of nothing better at the bestThan Timon's feast to his ancient lovers,Warm water under silver covers;'Lap, dogs!' I think I hear him say;And lap who will, so I'm away.
Di.How light we go, how soft we skim!And all in moonlight seem to swim;Against bright clouds projected dark,The white dome now, reclined I mark,And, by o'er-brilliant lamps displayed,The Doge's columns and arcade;Over still waters mildly comeThe distant waters and the hum.(How light we go, how softly! Ah,Life should be as the gondola!)
How light we go, how soft we skim,And all in open moonlight swimAh, gondolier, slow, slow, more slowWe go; but wherefore thus should go?Ah, let not muscle all too strongBeguile, betray thee to our wrong!On to the landing, onward. Nay,Sweet dream, a little longer stay!On to the landing; here. And, ah!Life is not as the gondola.
Sp.Tre ore. So. The ParthenoneIs it? you haunt for your limone. Let me induce you to join me,In gramolate persiche.Scene III.—The Academy at Venice.
Di.A modern daub it was, perchance,I know not: but the connoisseurFrom Titian's hues, I dare be sure,Had never turned one kindly glance,
Where Byron, somewhat drest-up, drawsHis sword, impatient long, and speaksUnto a tribe of motley GreeksHis fealty to their good cause.
Not far, assumed to mystic bliss,Behold the ecstatic Virgin rise!Ah, wherefore vainly, to fond eyesThat melted into tears for this?
Yet if we must live, as would seem,These peremptory heats to claim,Ah, not for profit, not for fame,And not for pleasure's giddy dream,
And not for piping empty reeds,And not for colouring idle dust;If live we positively must,God's name be blest for noble deeds.
Verses! well, they are made, so let them go;No more if I can help. This is one wayThe procreant heat and fervour of our youth Escapes, in puff, in smoke, and shapeless wordsOf mere ejaculation, nothing worth,Unless to make maturer years contentTo slave in base compliance to the world.
I have scarce spoken yet to this strange followerWhom I picked up—ye great gods, tell me where!And when! for I remember such long years,And yet he seems new come. I commune with myself;He speaks, I hear him, and resume to myself;Whate'er I think, he adds his comments to;Which yet not interrupts me. Scarce I knowIf ever once directly I addressed him:Let me essay it now; for I have strength.Yet what he wants, and what he fain would have,Oh, I know all too surely; not in vainAlthough unnoticed, has he dogged my ear.Come, we'll be definite, explicit, plain;I can resist, I know; and 'twill be wellFor colloquy to have used this manlier mood,Which is to last, ye chances say how long?How shall I call him? Mephistophiles?
Sp.I come, I come.
Di.So quick, so eager; ha!Like an eaves-dropping menial on my thought,With something of an exultation too, methinks,Out-peeping in that springy, jaunty gait.I doubt about it. Shall I do it? Oh! oh!Shame on me! come! Shall I, my follower,Should I conceive (not that at all I do,'Tis curiosity that prompts my speech)—But should I form, a thing to be supposed, A wish to bargain for your merchandise,Say what were your demands? what were your termsWhat should I do? what should I cease to do?What incense on what altars must I burn?And what abandon? what unlearn, or learn?Religion goes, I take it.
Sp.Oh,You'll go to church of course, you know;Or at the least will take a pewTo send your wife and servants to.Trust me, I make a point of that;No infidelity, that's flat.
Di.Religion is not in a pew, say some;Cucullus, you hold, facit monachum.
Sp.Why, as to feelings of devotion,I interdict all vague emotion;But if you will, for once and allCompound with ancient Juvenal—Orandum est, one perfect prayerFor savoir-vivre and savoir-faire.Theology—don't recommend you,Unless, turned lawyer, heaven should send youIn your profession's way a caseOf Baptism and prevenient grace;But that 's not likely. I'm inclined,All circumstances borne in mind,To think (to keep you in due borders)You'd better enter holy orders.
Di.On that, my friend, you'd better not insist.
Sp.Well, well, 'tis but a good thing miss'd.The item's optional, no doubt;But how to get you bread without?You'll marry; I shall find the lady.Make your proposal, and be steady.
Di.Marry, ill spirit! and at your sole choice?
Sp.De rigueur! can't give you a voice.What matter? Oh, trust one who knows you,You'll make an admirable sposo.
Di.Enough. But action—look to that well, mind me;See that some not unworthy work you find me;If man I be, then give the man expression.
Sp.Of course you'll enter a profession;If not the Church, why then the Law.By Jove, we'll teach you how to draw!Besides, the best of the concern isI'm hand and glove with the attorneys.With them and me to help, don't doubtBut in due season you'll come out;Leave Kelly, Cockburn, in the lurch.But yet, do think about the Church.
Di.'Tis well, ill spirit, I admire your wit;As for your wisdom, I shall think of it.And now farewell.Scene IV.—In St. Mark's. Dipsychus alone.
The Law! 'twere honester, if 'twere genteel,To say the dung-cart. What! shall I go about,And like the walking shoeblack roam the flagsTo see whose boots are dirtiest? Oh the luckTo stoop and clean a pair! Religion, if indeed it be in vainTo expect to find in this more modern timeThat which the old world styled, in old-world phrase,Walking with God. It seems His newer willWe should not think of Him at all, but trudge it,And of the world He has assigned us makeWhat best we can.
Then love: I scarce can thinkThat these be-maddening discords of the mindTo pure melodious sequence could be changed,And all the vext conundrums of our lifeSolved to all time by this old pastoralOf a new Adam and a second EveSet in a garden which no serpent seeks.And yet I hold heart can beat true to heart:And to hew down the tree which bears this fruit,To do a thing which cuts me off from hope,To falsify the movement of Love's mind,To seat some alien trifler on the throneA queen may come to claim—that were ill done.What! to the close hand of the clutching JewHand up that rich reversion! and for what?This would be hard, did I indeed believe'Twould ever fall. That love, the large reposeRestorative, not to mere outside needsSkin-deep, but throughly to the total man,Exists, I will believe, but so, so rare,So doubtful, so exceptional, hard to guess;When guessed, so often counterfeit; in brief,A thing not possibly to be conceivedAn item in the reckonings of the wise.
Action, that staggers me. For I had hoped,'Midst weakness, indolence, frivolity, Irresolution, still had hoped; and thisSeems sacrificing hope. Better to wait:The wise men wait; it is the foolish haste,And ere the scenes are in the slides would play,And while the instruments are tuning, dance.I see Napoleon on the heights intentTo arrest that one brief unit of loose timeWhich hands high Victory's thread; his marshals fret,His soldiers clamour low: the very gunsSeem going off of themselves; the cannon strainLike hell-dogs in the leash. But he, he waits;And lesser chances and inferior hopesMeantime go pouring past. Men gnash their teeth;The very faithful have begun to doubt;But they molest not the calm eye that seeks'Midst all this' huddling silver little worthThe one thin piece that comes, pure gold; he waits.O me, when the great deed e'en now has brokeLike a man's hand the horizon's level line,So soon to fill the zenith with rich clouds;O, in this narrow interspace, this marge,This list and salvage of a glorious time,To despair of the great and sell unto the mean!O thou of little faith, what hast thou done?
Yet if the occasion coming. should find usUndexterous, incapable? In light thingsProve thou the arms thou long'st to glorify,Nor fear to work up from the lowest ranksWhence come great Nature's Captains. And high deedsHaunt not the fringy edges of the fight,But the pell-mell of men. Oh, what and ifE'en now by lingering here I let them slip,Like an unpractised spyer through a glass, Still pointing to the blank, too high. And yet,In dead details to smother vital endsWhich would give life to them; in the deft trickOf prentice-handling to forget great art,To base mechanical adroitness yieldThe Inspiration and the Hope a slave!Oh, and to blast that Innocence which, thoughHere it may seem a dull unopening bud,May yet bloom freely in celestial clime!
Were it not better done, then, to keep offAnd see, not share, the strife; stand out the waltzWhich fools whirl dizzy in? Is it possible?Contamination taints the idler first;And without base compliance, e'en that sameWhich buys bold hearts free course, Earth lends not theseTheir pent and miserable standing-room.Life loves no lookers-on at his great game,And with boy's malice still delights to turnThe tide of sport upon the sitters-by,And set observers scampering with their notes.Oh, it is great to do and know not what,Nor let it e'er be known. The dashing streamStays not to pick his steps among the rocks,Or let his water-breaks be chronicled.And though the hunter looks before he leap,'Tis instinct rather than a shaped-out thoughtThat lifts him his bold way. Then, instinct, hail;And farewell hesitation. If I stay,I am not innocent; nor if I go—E'en should I fall—beyond redemption lost.
Ah, if I had a course like a full stream,If life were as the field of chase! No, no; The life of instinct has, it seems, gone by,And will not be forced back. And to live nowI must sluice out myself into canals,And lose all force in ducts. The modern HotspurShrills not his trumpet of 'To Horse, To Horse!'But consults columns in a Railway Guide;A demigod of figures; an AchillesOf computation;A verier Mercury, express come downTo do the world with swift arithmetic.Well, one could bear with that, were the end ours,One's choice and the correlative of the soul;To drudge were then sweet service. But indeedThe earth moves slowly, if it move at all,And by the general, not the single forceOf the link'd members of the vast machine.In all these crowded rooms of industry.No individual soul has loftier leaveThan fiddling with a piston or a valve.Well, one could bear that also: one would drudgeAnd do one's petty part, and be contentIn base manipulation, solaced stillBy thinking of the leagued fraternity,And of co-operation, and the effectOf the great engine. If indeed it work,And is not a mere treadmill! which it may be.Who can confirm it is not? We ask action,And dream of arms and conflict; and string upAll self-devotion's muscles; and are setTo fold up papers. To what end I we know not.Other folks do so; it is always done;And it perhaps is right. And we are paid for it,For nothing else we can be. He that eatsMust serve; and serve as other servants do: And don the lacquey's livery of the house.Oh, could I shoot my thought up to the sky,A column of pure shape, for all to observe!But I must slave, a meagre coral-worm,To build beneath the tide with excrementWhat one day will be island, or be reef,And will feed men, or wreck them. Well, well, well.Adieu, ye twisted thinkings. I submit: it must be.
Action is what one must get, it is clear;And one could dream it better than one finds,In its kind personal, in its motive not;Not selfish as it now is, nor as nowMaiming the individual. If we had that,It would cure all indeed. Oh, how would thenThese pitiful rebellions of the flesh,These caterwaulings of the effeminate heart,These hurts of self-imagined dignity,Pass like the seaweed from about the bowsOf a great vessel speeding straight to sea!Yes, if we could have that; but I supposeWe shall not have it, and therefore I submit!
Sp.(from within). Submit, submit!'Tis common sense, and human witCan claim no higher name than it.Submit, submit!
Devotion, and ideas, and love,And beauty claim their place above;But saint and sage and poet's dreamsDivide the light in coloured streams,Which this alone gives all combined,The siccum lumen of the mind Called common sense: and no high witGives better counsel than does it.Submit, submit!
To see things simply as they areHere at our elbows, transcends far.Trying to spy out at middaySome 'bright particular star,' which may,Or not, be visible at night,But clearly is not in daylight;No inspiration vague outweighsThe plain good common sense that says,Submit, submit!'Tis common sense, and human witCan ask no higher name than it.Submit, submit!Scene V.—The Piazza at Eight.
Di.There have been times, not many, but enoughTo quiet all repinings of the heart;There have been times, in which my tranquil soul,No longer nebulous, sparse, errant, seemedUpon its axis solidly to move,Centred and fast: no mere elastic blankFor random rays to traverse unretained,But rounding luminous its fair ellipseAround its central sun. Ay, yet again,As in more faint sensations I detect,With it too, round an Inner, Mightier orb,Maybe with that too—this I dare not say—Around, yet more, more central, more supreme,Whate'er, how numerous soe'er they be, I am and feel myself, where'er I wind,What vagrant chance soe'er I seem to obey,Communicably theirs.
O happy hours!O compensation ample for long daysOf what impatient tongues call wretchedness!O beautiful, beneath the magic moon,To walk the watery way of palaces!O beautiful, o'ervaulted with gemmed blue,This spacious court, with colour and with gold,With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,And crosses multiplex, and tips and balls(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused);Fantastically perfect this low pileOf Oriental glory; these long rangesOf classic chiselling, this gay flickering crowd,And the calm Campanile. Beautiful!O, beautiful! and that seemed more profound,This morning by the pillar when I satUnder the great arcade, at the review,And took, and held, and ordered on my brainThe faces, and the voices, and the whole massO' the motley facts of existence flowing by!O perfect, if 'twere all! But it is not;Hints haunt me ever of a more beyond:I am rebuked by a sense of the incomplete,Of a completion over soon assumed,Of adding up too soon. What we call sin,I could believe a painful opening outOf paths for ampler virtue. The bare field,Scant with lean ears of harvest, long had mockedThe vext laborious farmer; came at length The deep plough in the lazy undersoilDown-driving; with a cry earth's fibres crack,And a few months, and to! the golden leas,And autumn's crowded shocks and loaded wains.Let us look back on life; was any change,Any now blest expansion, but at firstA pang, remorse-like, shot to the inmost seatsOf moral being? To do anything,Distinct on any one thing to decide,To leave the habitual and the old, and quitThe easy-chair of use and wont, seems crimeTo the weak soul, forgetful how at firstSitting down seemed so too. And, oh! this woman's heart,Fain to be forced, incredulous of choice,And waiting a necessity for God.Yet I could think, indeed, the perfect callShould force the perfect answer. If the voiceOught to receive its echo from the soul,Wherefore this silence? If it should rouse my being,Why this reluctance? Have I not thought o'ermuchOf other men, and of the ways of the world?But what they are, or have been, matters not.To thine own self be true, the wise man says.Are then my fears myself? O double self!And I untrue to both? Oh, there are hours,When love, and faith, and dear domestic ties,And converse with old friends, and pleasant walks,Familiar faces, and familiar books,Study, and art, upliftings unto prayer,And admiration of the noblest things,Seem all ignoble only; all is mean,And nought as I would have it. Then at others,My mind is in her rest; my heart at home In all around; my soul secure in place,And the vext needle perfect to her poles.Aimless and hopeless in my life I seemTo thread the winding byways of the town,Bewildered, baffled, hurried hence and thence,All at cross-purpose even with myself,Unknowing whence or whither. Then at once,At a step, I crown the Campanile's top,And view all mapped below; islands, lagoon,A hundred steeples and a million roofs,The fruitful champaign, and the cloud-capt Alps,And the broad Adriatic. Be it enough;If I lose this, how terrible! No, no,I am contented, and will not complain.To the old paths, my soul! Oh, be it so!I bear the workday burden of dull lifeAbout these footsore flags of a weary world,Heaven knows how long it has not been; at once,Lo! I am in the spirit on the Lord's dayWith John in Patmos. Is it not enough,One day in seven? and if this should go,If this pure solace should desert my mind,What were all else? I dare not risk this loss.To the old paths, my soul!
Sp.O yes.To moon about religion; to inhumeYour ripened age in solitary walks,For self-discussion; to debate in lettersVext points with earnest friends; past other menTo cherish natural instincts, yet to fear themAnd less than any use them; oh, no doubt,In a corner sit and mope, and be consoledWith thinking one is clever, while the room Rings through with animation and the dance.Then talk of old examples; to pervertAncient real facts to modern unreal dreams,And build up baseless fabrics of romanceAnd heroism upon historic sand;To burn, forsooth, for action, yet despiseIts merest accidence and alphabet;Cry out for service, and at once rebelAt the application of its plainest rulesThis you call life, my friend, reality;Doing your duty unto God and man—I know not what. Stay at Venice, if you will;Sit musing in its churches hour on hourCross-kneed upon a bench; climb up at whilesThe neighbouring tower, and kill the lingering dayWith old comparisons; when night succeeds,Evading, yet a little seeking, whatYou would and would not, turn your doubtful eyesOn moon and stars to help morality;Once in a fortnight say, by lucky chanceOf happier-tempered coffee, gain (great Heaven!)A pious rapture: is it not enough?
Di.'Tis well: thou cursed spirit, go thy way!I am in higher hands than yours. 'Tis well;Who taught you menaces? Who told you, pray,Because I asked you questions, and made showOf hearing what you answered, therefore—
Sp.Oh,As if I didn't know!
Di.Come, come, my friend,I may have wavered, but I have thought better.We'll say no more of it.
Sp.Oh, I dare say:But as you like; 'tis your own loss; once more,Beware!
Di. (alone).Must it be then? So quick upon my thoughtTo follow the fulfilment and the deed?I counted not on this; I counted everTo hold and turn it over in my handsMuch longer, much I took it up indeed,For speculation rather; to gain thought,New data. Oh, and now to be goaded onBy menaces, entangled among tricks;That I won't suffer. Yet it is the law;'Tis this makes action always. But for thisWe ne'er should act at all; and act we must.Why quarrel with the fashion of a factWhich, one way, must be, one time, why not now?
Sp.Submit, submit!For tell me then, in earth's great lawsHave you found any saving clause,Exemption special granted youFrom doing what the rest must do?Of common sense who made you quit,And told you, you'd no need of it,Nor to submit?
To move on angels' wings were sweet;But who would therefore scorn his feet?It cannot walk up to the sky;It therefore will lie down and die.Rich meats it don't obtain at call;It therefore will not eat at all. Poor babe, and yet a babe of wit!But common sense, not much of it,Or 'twould submit.Submit, submit!
As your good father did before you,And as the mother who first bore you.O yes! a child of heavenly birth!But yet it was born too on earth.Keep your new birth for that far dayWhen in the grave your bones you lay,All with your kindred and connection,In hopes of happy resurrection.But how meantime to live is fit,Ask common sense; and what says it?Submit, submit!Scene VI.—On a Bridge.
Di.'Tis gone, the fierce inordinate desire,The burning thirst for action—utterly;Gone, like a ship that passes in the nightOn the high seas: gone, yet will come againGone, yet expresses something that exists.Is it a thing ordained, then? is it a clueFor my life's conduct? is it a law for meThat opportunity shall breed distrust,Not passing until that pass? Chance and resolve,Like two loose comets wandering wide in space,Crossing each other's orbits time on time,Meet never. Void indifference and doubtLet through the present boon, which ne'er turns backTo await the after sure-arriving wish.How shall I then explain it to myself, That in blank thought my purpose lives?The uncharged cannon mocking still the sparkWhen come, which ere come it had loudly claimed.Am I to let it be so still? For trulyThe need exists, I know; the wish but sleeps(Sleeps, and anon will wake and cry for food);And to put by these unreturning gifts,Because the feeling is not with me now,Seems folly more than merest babyhood's.But must I then do violence to myself,And push on nature, force desire (that's ill),Because of knowledge? which is great, but worksBy rules of large exception; to tell whichNought is more fallible than mere caprice.
What need for action yet? I am happy now,I feel no lack—what cause is there for haste?Am I not happy I is not that enough?Depart!
Sp.O yes! you thought you had escaped, no doubt,This worldly fiend that follows you about,This compound of convention and impiety,This mongrel of uncleanness and propriety.What else were bad enough? but, let me say,I too have my grandes manières in my way;Could speak high sentiment as well as you,And out-blank-verse you without much ado;Have my religion also in my kind,For dreaming unfit, because not designed.What! you know not that I too can be serious,Can speak big words, and use the tone imperious;Can speak, not honiedly, of love and beauty,But sternly of a something much like duty. Oh, do you look surprised? were never told,Perhaps, that all that glitters is not gold.The Devil oft the Holy Scripture uses,But God can act the Devil when He chooses.Farewell! But, verbum sapienti satis—I do not make this revelation gratis.Farewell: beware!
Di.Ill spirits can quote holy books I knew;What will they not say? what not dare to do?
Sp.Beware, beware!
Di.What, loitering still? Still, O foul spirit, there?Go hence, I tell thee, go! I will beware.(Alone). It must be then. I feel it in my soul;The iron enters, sundering flesh and bone,And sharper than the two-edged sword of God.I come into deep waters—help, oh help!The floods run over me.
Therefore, farewell! a long and last farewell,Ye pious sweet simplicities of life,Good books, good friends, and holy moods, and allThat lent rough life sweet Sunday-seeming rests,Making earth heaven like. Welcome, wicked world,The hardening heart, the calculating brainNarrowing its doors to thought, the lying lips,The calm-dissembling eyes; the greedy flesh,The world, the Devil—welcome, welcome, welcome!
Sp. (from within).This stern necessity of thingsOn every side our being rings;Our sallying eager actions fallVainly against that iron wall. Where once her finger points the way,The wise thinks only to obey;Take life as she has ordered it,And come what may of it, submit,Submit, submit!
Who take implicitly her will,For these her vassal chances stillBring store of joys, successes, pleasures;But whoso ponders, weighs, and measures,She calls her torturers up to goadWith spur and scourges on the road;He does at last with pain whate'erHe spurned at first. Of such, beware,Beware, beware!
Di.O God, O God! The great floods of the soulFlow over me! I come into deep watersWhere no ground is!
Sp.Don't be the least afraid;There's not the slightest reason for alarm;I only meant by a perhaps rough shakeTo rouse you from a dreamy, unhealthy sleep.Up, then—up, and be going: the large world,The throng'd life waits us.Come, my pretty boy,You have been making mows to the blank skyQuite long enough for good. We'll put you upInto the higher form. 'Tis time you learnThe Second Reverence, for things around.Up, then, and go amongst them; don't be timid;Look at them quietly a bit; by and by Respect will come, and healthy appetite.So let us go.How now! not yet awake?Oh, you will sleep yet, will you! Oh, you shirk,You try and slink away! You cannot, eh?Nay now, what folly's this? Why will you fool yourself?Why will you walk about thus with your eyes shut?Treating for facts the self-made hues that flashOn tight-pressed pupils, which you know are not facts.To use the undistorted light of the sunIs not a crime; to look straight out uponThe big plain things that stare one in the faceDoes not contaminate; to see pollutes notWhat one must feel if one won't see, what is,And will be too, howe'er we blink, and mustOne way or other make itself observed.Free walking's better than being led about; andWhat will the blind man do, I wonder, ifSome one should cut the string of his dog? Just think!What could you do, if I should go away?Oh, you have paths of your own before you, have you?What shall it take to? literature, no doubt?Novels, reviews? or poems! if you please!The strong fresh gale of life will feel, no doubt,The influx of your mouthful of soft air.Well, make the most of that small stock of knowledgeYou've condescended to receive from me;That's your best chance. Oh, you despise that! Oh,Prate then of passions you have known in dreams,Of huge experience gathered by the eye;Be large of aspiration, pure in hope,Sweet in fond longings, but in all things vague;Breathe out your dreamy scepticism, relievedBy snatches of old songs. People will like that, doubtless. Or will you write about philosophyFor a waste far-off maybe overlookingThe fruitful is close by, live in metaphysic,With transcendental logic fill your stomach,Schematize joy, effigiate meat and drink;Or, let me see, a mighty work, a volume,The Complemental of the inferior Kant,The Critic of Pure Practice, based uponThe Antinomies of the Moral Sense: for, look you,We cannot act without assuming x,And at the same time y, its contradictory;Ergo, to act. People will buy that, doubtless.Or you'll perhaps teach youth (I do not questionSome downward turn you may find, some evasionOf the broad highway's glaring white ascent);Teach youth, in a small way, that is, always,So as to have much time left you for yourself;This you can't sacrifice, your leisure's precious.Heartily you will not take to anything;Whatever happen, don't I see you still,Living no life at all? Even as nowAn o'ergrown baby, sucking at the dugsOf instinct, dry long since. Come, come, you are old enoughFor spoon-meat surely.Will you go on thusUntil death end you? if indeed it does.For what it does, none knows. Yet as for you,You'll hardly have the courage to die outright;You'll somehow halve even it. Methinks I see you,Through everlasting limbos of void time,Twirling and twiddling ineffectively,And indeterminately swaying for ever.Come, come, spoon-meat at any rate. Well, well,I will not persecute you more, my friend.Only do think, as I observed before,What can you do, if I should go away?
Di.Is the hour here, then? Is the minute come—The irreprievable instant of stern time?O for a few, few grains in the running glass,Or for some power to hold them! O for a fewOf all that went so wastefully before!It must be then, e'en now.
Sp. (from within).It must, it must.'Tis common sense! and human witCan claim no higher name than it.Submit, submit!
Necessity! and who shall dareBring to her feet excuse or prayer?Beware, beware!We must, we must.Howe'er we turn, and pause and tremble—Howe'er we shrink, deceive, dissemble—Whate'er our doubting, grief, disgust,The hand is on us, and we must,We must, we must.'Tis common sense, and human witCan find no better name than it.Submit, submit!
Scene VII.—At Torcello. Dipsychus alone.
Di.I had a vision; was it in my sleep?And if it were, what then? But sleep or wake,I saw a great light open o'er my head;And sleep or wake, uplifted to that light,Out of that light proceeding heard a voiceUttering high words, which, whether sleep or wake,In me were fixed, and in me must abide.
When the enemy is near thee,Call on us!In our hands we will upbear thee,He shall neither scathe nor scare thee,He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee.Call on us!Call when all good friends have left thee,Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee;Call when hope and heart are sinking,And the brain is sick with thinking,Help, O help!Call, and following close behind theeThere shall haste, and there shall find thee,Help, sure help.
When the panic comes upon thee,When necessity seems on thee,Hope and choice have all foregone thee,Fate and force are closing o'er thee,And but one way stands before thee—Call on us! O, and if thou dost not call,Be but faithful, that is all.Go right on, and close behind theeThere shall follow still and find thee,Help, sure help.Scene VIII.—In the Piazza.
Di.Not for thy service, thou imperious fiendNot to do thy work, or the like of thine;Not to please thee, O base and fallen spirit!But One Most High, Most True, whom without theeIt seems I cannot.O the miseryThat one must truck and pactise with the worldTo gain the 'vantage-ground to assail it from;To set upon the Giant one must first,O perfidy! have eat the Giant's bread.If I submit, it is but to gain timeAnd arms and stature: 'tis but to lie safeUntil the hour strike to arise and slay;'Tis the old story of the adder's broodFeeding and nestling till the fangs be grown.Were it not nobler done, then, to act fair,To accept the service with the wages, doFrankly the devil's work for the devil's pay?O, but another my allegiance holdsInalienably his. How much soe'erI might submit, it must be to rebel.Submit then sullenly, that's no dishonour.Yet I could deem it better too to starveAnd die untraitored. O, who sent me, though?Sent me, and to do something—O hard master'— To do a treachery. But indeed 'tis done;I have already taken of the payAnd curst the payer; take I must, curse too.Alas! the little strength that I possessDerives, I think, of him. So still it is,The timid child that clung unto her skirts,A boy, will slight his mother, and, grown a man,His father too. There's Scripture too for that!Do we owe fathers nothing—mothers nought?Is filial duty folly? Yet He says,'He that loves father, mother, more than me;'Yea, and 'the man his parents shall desert,'The Ordinance says, 'and cleave unto his wife.'O man, behold thy wife, the hard naked world;Adam, accept thy Eve.So still it is,The tree exhausts the soil; creepers kill it,Their insects them: the lever finds its fulcrumOn what it then o'erthrows; the homely spadeIn labour's hand unscrupulously seeksIts first momentum on the very clodWhich next will be upturned. It seems a law.And am not I, though I but ill recallMy happier age, a kidnapped child of heaven,Whom these uncircumcised PhilistinesHave by foul play shorn, blinded, maimed, and keptFor what more glorious than to make them sport?Wait, then, wait, O my soul! grow, grow, ye locks!Then perish they, and if need is, I too.
Sp. (aside).A truly admirable proceeding!Could there be finer special pleadingWhen scruples would be interceding?There's no occasion I should stay; He is working out, his own queer way.The sum I set him; and this dayWill bring it, neither less nor bigger,Exact to my predestined figure.Scene IX.—In the Public Garden.
Di.Twenty-one past—twenty-five coming on;One-third of life departed, nothing done.Out of the mammon of unrighteousnessThat we make friends, the Scripture is express,My Spirit, come, we will agree;Content, you'll take a moiety.
Sp.A moiety, ye gods, he, he!
Di.Three-quarters then? O griping beast!Leave me a decimal at least.
Sp.Oh, one of ten! to infect the nineAnd make the devil a one be mine!Oh, one! to jib all day, God wot,When all the rest would go full trot!One very little one, eh? to doubt with,Just to pause, think, and look about with?In course! you counted on no less—You thought it likely I'd say yes!
Di.Be it then thus—since that it must, it seems.Welcome, O world, henceforth; and farewell dreamsYet know, Mephisto, know, nor you nor ICan in this matter either sell or buy;For the fee simple of this trifling lotTo you or me, trust me, pertaineth not. I can but render what is of my will,And behind it somewhat remaineth still.O, your sole chance was in the childish mindWhose darkness dreamed that vows like this could bind;Thinking all lost, it made all lost, and broughtIn fact the ruin which had been but thought.Thank Heaven (or you) that's past these many years,And we have knowledge wiser than our fears.So your poor bargain take, my man,And make the best of it you can.
Sp.With reservations! oh, how treasonable!When I had let you off so reasonable.However, I don't fear; be it so!Brutus is honourable, I know;So mindful of the dues of others,So thoughtful for his poor dear brothers,So scrupulous, considerate, kind—He wouldn't leave the devil behindIf he assured him he had claimsFor his good company to hell-flames!No matter, no matter, the bargain 's made;And I for my part will not be afraid.With reservations! oh! ho, ho!But time, my friend, has yet to showWhich of us two will closest fitThe proverb of the Biter Bit.
Di.Tell me thy name, now it is over.
Sp.Oh!Why, Mephistophiles, you know—At least you've lately called me so.Belial it was some days ago. But take your pick; I've got a score—Never a royal baby more.For a brass plate upon a doorWhat think you of Cosmocrator?
Di.Τοὺς κοσμοκράτορας τοῦ αἰῶνος τούτου.And that you are indeed, I do not doubt you.
Sp.Ephesians, ain't it? near the endYou dropt a word to spare your friend.What follows, too, in applicationWould be absurd exaggeration.
Di.The Power of this World! hateful unto God.
Sp.Cosmarchon's shorter, but sounds odd:One wouldn't like, even if a true devil,To be taken for a vulgar Jew devil.
Di.Yet in all these things we—'tis Scripture too—Are more than conquerors, even over you.
Sp.Come, come, don't maunder any longer.Time tests the weaker and the stronger;And we, without procrastination,Must set, you know, to our vocation.O goodness! won't you find it pleasantTo own the positive and present;To see yourself like people round,And feel your feet upon the ground! (Exeunt.)
END OF DIPSYCHUS.