Men and Women Part 8

He had the imagination; stick to that!

Let him say, "In the face of my soul's works Your world is worthless and I touch it not Lest I should wrong them"--I'll withdraw my plea. 510 But does he say so? look upon his life!

Himself, who only can, gives judgment there.

He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces To build the trimmest house in Stratford town; Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, Giulio Romano's pictures, Dowland's lute; Enjoys a show, respects the puppets, too, And none more, had he seen its entry once, Than "Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal."

Why then should I who play that personage, 520 The very Pandulph Shakespeare's fancy made, Be told that had the poet chanced to start From where I stand now (some degree like mine Being just the goal he ran his race to reach) He would have run the whole race back, forsooth, And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays?

Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best!

Did Shakespeare live, he could but sit at home And get himself in dreams the Vatican, Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, 530 And English books, none equal to his own, Which I read, bound in gold (he never did).

--Terni's fall, Naples' bay and Gothard's top-- Eh, friend? I could not fancy one of these; But, as I pour this claret, there they are: I've gained them--crossed St. Gothard last July With ten mules to the carriage and a bed Slung inside; is my hap the worse for that?

We want the same things, Shakespeare and myself, And what I want, I have: he, gifted more, 540 Could fancy he too had them when he liked, But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed, He would not have them ...also in my sense.

We play one game; I send the ball aloft No less adroitly that of fifty strokes Scarce five go o'er the wall so wide and high Which sends them back to me: I wish and get.

He struck b.a.l.l.s higher and with better skill, But at a poor fence level with his head, And hit--his Stratford house, a coat of arms, 550 Successful dealings in his grain and wool-- While I receive heaven's incense in my nose And style myself the cousin of Queen Bess.

Ask him, if this life's all, who wins the game?

Believe--and our whole argument breaks up.

Enthusiasm's the best thing, I repeat; Only, we can't command it; fire and life Are all, dead matter's nothing, we agree: And be it a mad dream or G.o.d's very breath, The fact's the same--belief's fire, once in us, 560 Makes of all else mere stuff to show itself; We penetrate our life with such a glow As fire lends wood and iron--this turns steel, That burns to ash--all's one, fire proves its power For good or ill, since men call flare success.

But paint a fire, it will not therefore burn.

Light one in me, I'll find it food enough!

Why, to be Luther--that's a life to lead, Incomparably better than my own.

He comes, reclaims G.o.d's earth for G.o.d, he says, 570 Sets up G.o.d's rule again by simple means, Re-opens a shut book, and all is done.

He flared out in the flaring of mankind; Such Luther's luck was: how shall such be mine?

If he succeeded, nothing's left to do: And if he did not altogether--well, Strauss is the next advance. All Strauss should be I might be also. But to what result?

He looks upon no future: Luther did.

What can I gain on the denying side? 580 Ice makes no conflagration. State the facts, Read the text right, emanc.i.p.ate the world-- The emanc.i.p.ated world enjoys itself With scarce a thank-you: Blougram told it first It could not owe a farthing--not to him More than Saint Paul! 't would press its pay, you think?

Then add there's still that plaguy hundredth chance Strauss may be wrong. And so a risk is run-- For what gain? not for Luther's, who secured A real heaven in his heart throughout his life, 590 Supposing death a little altered things.

"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. 600 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 criticise the soul? it reared this tree-- This broad life and whatever fruit it bears!

What matter though I doubt at every pore, 610 Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' 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? 620 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 630 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 favorable 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, 640 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 naught, born here or there."

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

Naked belief in G.o.d the Omnipotent, 0mniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. 650 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 660 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.

Or, if that's too ambitious--here's my box-- I need the excitation of a pinch 670 Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes.

"Leave it in peace" advise the simple folk: Make it aware of peace by itching-fits, Say I--let doubt occasion still more faith!

You 'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, In that dear middle-age these noodles praise.

How you'd exult if I could put you back Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, Geology, ethnology, what not, 680 (Greek endings, each the little pa.s.sing-bell That signifies some faith's about to die) And set you square with Genesis again-- When such a traveller told you his last news, He saw the ark a-top of Ararat But did not climb there since 'twas getting dusk And robber-bands infest the mountain's foot!

How should you feel, I ask, in such an age, How act? As other people felt and did; With soul more blank than this decanter's k.n.o.b, 690 Believe--and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate Full in belief's face, like the beast you'd be!

No, when the fight begins within himself, A man's worth something. G.o.d stoops o'er his head, Satan looks up between his feet--both tug-- He's left, himself, i' the middle: the soul wakes And grows. Prolong that battle through his life!

Never leave growing till the life to come!

Here, we've got callous to the Virgin's winks That used to puzzle people wholesomely: 700 Men have outgrown the shame of being fools.

What are the laws of nature, not to bend If the Church bid them?--brother Newman asks.

Up with the Immaculate Conception, then-- On to the rack with faith!--is my advice.

Will not that hurry us upon our knees, Knocking our b.r.e.a.s.t.s, "It can't be--yet it shall!

Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope?

Low things confound the high things!" and so forth.

That's better than acquitting G.o.d with grace 710 As some folk do. He's tried--no case is proved, Philosophy is lenient--he may go!

You'll say, the old system's not so obsolete But men believe still: ay, but who and where?

King Bomba's lazzaroni foster yet The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes; But even of these, what ragam.u.f.fin-saint Believes G.o.d watches him continually, As he believes in fire that it will burn, Or rain that it will drench him? Break fire's law, 720 Sin against rain, although the penalty Be just a singe or soaking? "No," he smiles; "Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves."

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. 730 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, 740 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, 750 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, Justas we tighten or relax our hold.

So, other matters equal, we'll revert To the first problem--which, if solved my way 760 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: 770 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 780 (Work it up in your next month's article) Of man's poor spirit in its progress, still Losing true life forever 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, 790 Scouts far 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.

When, through his journey, was the fool at ease?