Chapter VI: Epilogue: To Fifine

1872

THE HOUSEHOLDER

I

Savage I was sitting in my house, late, lone:
Dreary, weary with the long day's work:
Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a stone:
Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming like a Turk;
When, in a moment, just a knock, call, cry,
Half a pang and all a rapture, there again were we!--
"What, and is it really you again?" quoth I:
"I again, what else did you expect?" quoth She.

II

"Never mind, hie away from this old house--
Every crumbling brick embrowned with sin and shame!
Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes arouse!
Let them--every devil of the night--lay claim,
Make and mend, or rap and rend, for me! Good-bye!
God be their guard from disturbance at their glee,
Till, crash, comes down the carcass in a heap!" quoth I:
"Nay, but there's a decency required!" quoth She.

III

"Ah, but if you knew how time has dragged, days, nights!
All the neighbour-talk with man and maid--such men!
All the fuss and trouble of street-sounds, window-sights;
All the worry of flapping door and echoing roof; and then,
All the fancies ... Who were they had leave, dared try
Darker arts that almost struck despair in me?
If you knew but how I dwelt down here!" quoth I:
"And was I so better off up there?" quoth She,

IV

"Help and get it over! _Re-united to his wife_
(How draw up the paper lets the parish-people know?)
_Lies M., or N., departed from this life,
Day the this or that, month and year the so and so_.
What i' the way of final flourish? Prose, verse? Try!
_Affliction sore long time he bore_, or, what is it to be?
_Till God did please to grant him ease_. Do end!" quoth I:
"I end with--Love is all and Death is nought!" quoth She.

The same thought--the dramatic contrast between the free spirit and its prison-house--is the basis of the two lyrics that serve as prologues to _Pacchiarotto_ and to _La Saisiaz_. As Dryden's prefaces are far better than his plays, so Browning's _Prologues_ to _Pacchiarotto_, to _La Saisiaz_, to _The Two Poets of Croisic_, to _Jocoseria_ are decidedly superior in poetic art and beauty to the volumes they introduce. Indeed the prologue to _The Two Poets of Croisic_ is one of the most beautiful and perfect lyrics in the English language.

PROLOGUE

1878

I

Such a starved bank of moss
Till that May-morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
Violets were born!

II

Sky--what a scowl of cloud
Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud.
Splendid, a star!

III

World--how it walled about
Life with disgrace
Till God's own smile came out:
That was thy face!