Browning's England Part 44

The advantage of making belief instead of unbelief the starting point is, Blougram contends, that he lives by what he finds the most to his taste; giving him as it does, power, distinction and beauty in life as well as hope in the life to come.

Well, now, there's one great form of Christian faith I happened to be born in--which to teach Was given me as I grew up, on all hands, As best and readiest means of living by; The same on examination being proved The most p.r.o.nounced moreover, fixed, precise And absolute form of faith in the whole world-- Accordingly, most potent of all forms For working on the world. Observe, my friend!

Such as you know me, I am free to say, In these hard latter days which hamper one, Myself--by no immoderate exercise Of intellect and learning, but the tact To let external forces work for me, --Bid the street's stones be bread and they are bread; Bid Peter's creed, or rather, Hildebrand's, Exalt me o'er my fellows in the world And make my life an ease and joy and pride; It does so,--which for me's a great point gained, Who have a soul and body that exact A comfortable care in many ways.

There's power in me and will to dominate Which I must exercise, they hurt me else: In many ways I need mankind's respect, Obedience, and the love that's born of fear: While at the same time, there's a taste I have, A toy of soul, a t.i.tillating thing, Refuses to digest these dainties crude.

The naked life is gross till clothed upon: I must take what men offer, with a grace As though I would not, could I help it, take!

An uniform I wear though over-rich-- Something imposed on me, no choice of mine; No fancy-dress worn for pure fancy's sake And despicable therefore! now folk kneel And kiss my hand--of course the Church's hand.

Thus I am made, thus life is best for me, And thus that it should be I have procured; And thus it could not be another way, I venture to imagine.

You'll reply, So far my choice, no doubt, is a success; But were I made of better elements, with n.o.bler instincts, purer tastes, like you, I hardly would account the thing success Though it did all for me I say.

But, friend, We speak of what is; not of what might be, And how 'twere better if 'twere otherwise.

I am the man you see here plain enough: Grant I'm a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts' lives!

Suppose I own at once to tail and claws; The tailless man exceeds me: but being tailed I'll lash out lion fashion, and leave apes To dock their stump and dress their haunches up.

My business is not to remake myself, But make the absolute best of what G.o.d made.

But, friend, I don't acknowledge quite so fast I fail of all your manhood's lofty tastes Enumerated so complacently, On the mere ground that you forsooth can find In this particular life I choose to lead No fit provision for them. Can you not?

Say you, my fault is I address myself To grosser estimators than should judge?

And that's no way of holding up the soul, Which, n.o.bler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knows One wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools'-- Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that.

I pine among my million imbeciles (You think) aware some dozen men of sense Eye me and know me, whether I believe In the last winking Virgin, as I vow, And am a fool, or disbelieve in her And am a knave,--approve in neither case, Withhold their voices though I look their way: Like Verdi when, at his worst opera's end (The thing they gave at Florence,--what's its name?) While the mad houseful's plaudits near outbang His orchestra of salt-box, tongs and bones, He looks through all the roaring and the wreaths Where sits Rossini patient in his stall.

Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here-- That even your prime men who appraise their kind Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, See more in a truth than the truth's simple self, Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the street Sixty the minute; what's to note in that?

You see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack; Him you must watch--he's sure to fall, yet stands!

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things.

The honest thief, the tender murderer, The superst.i.tious atheist, demirep That loves and saves her soul in new French books-- We watch while these in equilibrium keep The giddy line midway: one step aside, They're cla.s.sed and done with. I, then, keep the line Before your sages,--just the men to shrink From the gross weights, coa.r.s.e scales and labels broad You offer their refinement. Fool or knave?

Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave When there's a thousand diamond weights between?

So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve, you'll find, Profess themselves indignant, scandalized At thus being held unable to explain How a superior man who disbelieves May not believe as well: that's Sch.e.l.ling's way!

It's through my coming in the tail of time, Nicking the minute with a happy tact.

Had I been born three hundred years ago They'd say, "what's strange? Blougram of course believes;"

And, seventy years since, "disbelieves of course."

But now, "He may believe; and yet, and yet How can he?" All eyes turn with interest.

Whereas, step off the line on either side-- You, for example, clever to a fault, The rough and ready man who write apace, Read somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less-- You disbelieve! Who wonders and who cares?

Lord So-and-so--his coat bedropped with wax, All Peter's chains about his waist, his back Brave with the needlework of Noodledom-- Believes! Again, who wonders and who cares?

But I, the man of sense and learning too, The able to think yet act, the this, the that, I, to believe at this late time of day!

Enough; you see, I need not fear contempt.

"Ay, but since really you lack faith," you cry, "You run the same risk really on all sides, In cool indifference as bold unbelief.

As well be Strauss as swing 'twixt Paul and him.

It's not worth having, such imperfect faith, No more available to do faith's work Than unbelief like mine. Whole faith, or none!"

Softly, my friend! I must dispute that point.

Once own the use of faith, I'll find you faith.

We're back on Christian ground. You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists.

The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o'ercomes doubt. How I know it does?

By life and man's free will, G.o.d gave for that!

To mould life as we choose it, shows our choice: That's our one act, the previous work's his own.

You criticize the soul? it reared this tree-- This broad life and whatever fruit it bears!

What matter though I doubt at every pore, Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my finger's ends, Doubts in the trivial work of every day, Doubts at the very bases of my soul In the grand moments when she probes herself-- If finally I have a life to show, The thing I did, brought out in evidence Against the thing done to me underground By h.e.l.l and all its brood, for aught I know?

I say, whence sprang this? shows it faith or doubt?

All's doubt in me; where's break of faith in this?

It is the idea, the feeling and the love, G.o.d means mankind should strive for and show forth Whatever be the process to that end,-- And not historic knowledge, logic sound, And metaphysical ac.u.men, sure!

"What think ye of Christ," friend? when all's done and said, Like you this Christianity or not?

It may be false, but will you wish it true?

Has it your vote to be so if it can?

Trust you an instinct silenced long ago That will break silence and enjoin you love What mortified philosophy is hoa.r.s.e, And all in vain, with bidding you despise?

If you desire faith--then you've faith enough: What else seeks G.o.d--nay, what else seek ourselves?

You form a notion of me, we'll suppose, On hearsay; it's a favourable one: "But still" (you add), "there was no such good man, Because of contradiction in the facts.

One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, This Blougram; yet throughout the tales of him I see he figures as an Englishman."

Well, the two things are reconcilable.

But would I rather you discovered that, Subjoining--"Still, what matter though they be?

Blougram concerns me nought, born here or there."

Pure faith indeed--you know not what you ask!

Naked belief in G.o.d the Omnipotent, Omniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much The sense of conscious creatures to be borne.

It were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare.

Some think, Creation's meant to show him forth: I say it's meant to hide him all it can, And that's what all the blessed evil's for.

Its use in Time is to environ us, Our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough Against that sight till we can bear its stress.

Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain And lidless eye and disemprisoned heart Less certainly would wither up at once Than mind, confronted with the truth of him.

But time and earth case-harden us to live; The feeblest sense is trusted most; the child Feels G.o.d a moment, ichors o'er the place, Plays on and grows to be a man like us.

With me, faith means perpetual unbelief Kept quiet like the snake 'neath Michael's foot Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe.

The sum of all is--yes, my doubt is great, My faith's still greater, then my faith's enough.

I have read much, thought much, experienced much, Yet would die rather than avow my fear The Naples' liquefaction may be false, When set to happen by the palace-clock According to the clouds or dinner-time.

I hear you recommend, I might at least Eliminate, decra.s.sify my faith Since I adopt it; keeping what I must And leaving what I can--such points as this.

I won't--that is, I can't throw one away.

Supposing there's no truth in what I hold About the need of trial to man's faith, Still, when you bid me purify the same, To such a process I discern no end.

Clearing off one excrescence to see two, There's ever a next in size, now grown as big, That meets the knife: I cut and cut again!

First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last But Fichte's clever cut at G.o.d himself?

Experimentalize on sacred things!

I trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brain To stop betimes: they all get drunk alike.

The first step, I am master not to take.

You'd find the cutting-process to your taste As much as leaving growths of lies unpruned, Nor see more danger in it,--you retort.

Your taste's worth mine; but my taste proves more wise When we consider that the steadfast hold On the extreme end of the chain of faith Gives all the advantage, makes the difference With the rough purblind ma.s.s we seek to rule: We are their lords, or they are free of us, Just as we tighten or relax our hold.

So, other matters equal, we'll revert To the first problem--which, if solved my way And thrown into the balance, turns the scale-- How we may lead a comfortable life, How suit our luggage to the cabin's size.

Of course you are remarking all this time How narrowly and grossly I view life, Respect the creature-comforts, care to rule The ma.s.ses, and regard complacently "The cabin," in our old phrase. Well, I do.

I act for, talk for, live for this world now, As this world prizes action, life and talk: No prejudice to what next world may prove, Whose new laws and requirements, my best pledge To observe then, is that I observe these now, Shall do hereafter what I do meanwhile.

Let us concede (gratuitously though) Next life relieves the soul of body, yields Pure spiritual enjoyment: well, my friend, Why lose this life i' the meantime, since its use May be to make the next life more intense?

Do you know, I have often had a dream (Work it up in your next month's article) Of man's poor spirit in its progress, still Losing true life for ever and a day Through ever trying to be and ever being-- In the evolution of successive spheres-- _Before_ its actual sphere and place of life, Halfway into the next, which having reached, It shoots with corresponding foolery Halfway into the next still, on and off!

As when a traveller, bound from North to South, Scouts fur in Russia: what's its use in France?

In France spurns flannel: where's its need in Spain?

In Spain drops cloth, too c.u.mbrous for Algiers!

Linen goes next, and last the skin itself, A superfluity at Timbuctoo.