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3.4: The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed’s Church

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    Robert Browning

    Rome[1] 15–

    Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity![2]
    Draw round my bed: is Anselm[3] keeping back?
    Nephews — sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well —
    She, men would have to be your mother once,
    Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
    What’s done is done, and she is dead beside,
    Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
    And as she died so must we die ourselves,
    And thence ye may perceive the world’s a dream.
    Life, how and what is it? As here I lie 10
    In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
    Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
    “Do I live, am I dead?” Peace, peace seems all.
    Saint Praxed’s ever was the church for peace;
    And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
    With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
    — Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
    Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
    He graced his carrion with. God curse the same!
    Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 20
    One sees the pulpit o’ the epistle-side[4],
    And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
    And up into the aery dome where live
    The angels, and a sunbeam’s sure to lurk;
    And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,
    And ‘neath my tabernacle[5] take my rest,
    With those nine columns round me, two and two,
    The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands:
    Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe
    As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. 30
    — Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone[6],
    Put me where I may look at him! True peach,
    Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!
    Draw close: that conflagration of my church
    — What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!
    My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig
    The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood,
    Drop water gently till the surface sink,
    And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! . . .
    Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 40
    And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
    Some lump, ah God, of , lapis lazuli[7],
    Big as a Jew’s head cut off at the nape,
    Blue as a vein o’er the Madonna’s breast . . .
    Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,
    That brave Frascati[8] villa with its bath,
    So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,
    Like God the Father’s globe on both his hands
    Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,
    For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! 50
    Swift as a weaver’s shuttle[9] fleet our years:
    Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?
    Did I say basalt[10] for my slab, sons? Black —
    ‘T was ever antique-black[11] I meant! How else
    Shall ye contrast my frieze[12] to come beneath?
    The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
    Those Pans and Nymphs[13] ye wot of, and perchance
    Some tripod, thyrsus[14], with a vase or so,
    The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,
    Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 60
    Ready to twitch the Nymph’s last garment off,
    And Moses with the tables . . . but I know
    Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,
    Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope
    To revel down my villas while I gasp
    Bricked o’er with beggar’s mouldy travertine[15]
    Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!
    Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper[16], then!
    ‘T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve.
    My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 70
    One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
    There’s plenty jasper somewhere in the world —
    And have I not Saint Praxed’s ear to pray
    Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
    And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?
    — That’s if ye carve my epitaph aright,
    Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully’s[17] every word,
    No gaudy ware like Gandolf’s second line —
    Tully, my masters? Ulpian[18] serves his need!
    And then how I shall lie through centuries, 80
    And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
    And see God made and eaten[19] all day long,
    And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
    Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
    For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
    Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
    I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,
    And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point[20],
    And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop
    Into great laps and folds of sculptor’s-work: 90
    And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts
    Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
    About the life before I lived this life,
    And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests,
    Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount[21],
    Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes,
    And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,
    And marble’s language, Latin pure, discreet,
    — Aha, ELUCESCEBAT[22] quoth our friend?
    No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! 100
    Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.[23]
    All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope
    My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?
    Ever your eyes were as a lizard’s quick,
    They glitter like your mother’s for my soul,
    Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,
    Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase
    With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term[24],
    And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx
    That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, 110
    To comfort me on my entablature[25]
    Whereon I am to lie till I must ask
    “Do I live, am I dead?” There, leave me, there!
    For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude
    To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it! Stone —
    Gritstone[26], a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat
    As if the corpse they keep were oozing through —
    And no more lapis to delight the world!
    Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,
    But in a row: and, going, turn your backs 120
    — Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
    And leave me in my church, the church for peace,
    That I may watch at leisure if he leers —
    Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,
    As still he envied me, so fair she was!


    Contributors and Attributions

    1. The Basilica of Santa Prassede, commemorating a virgin saint who gave her wealth to the poor, is in Rome. It has no tomb such as that imagined by Browning’s Bishop. ↵
    2. cf. Ecclesiastes 1.2: “Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher...all is vanity.” ↵
    3. One of the bishop’s illegitimate sons, euphemistically referred to as “nephews.” ↵
    4. The people’s right side of the altar from which the Epistle is read during Mass. ↵
    5. Canopy over a tomb. ↵
    6. Cheap marble. ↵
    7. Semi-precious blue stone. ↵
    8. A resort town near Rome. ↵
    9. cf. Job 7.9: “My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and are spent without hope.” ↵
    10. Greenish or brown-black rock often used for tombstones. ↵
    11. Black stone, costlier than basalt. ↵
    12. A band of painted or sculpted decoration. ↵
    13. Pan, Greek god of the forest, often associated with sexual license. Nymphs are beautiful maidens. Here the bishop confuses the worldly with the spiritual, the pagan with the Christian, in his ideas for the bas-relief sculptures. ↵
    14. Ornamented staff of Bacchus. ↵
    15. Limestone. ↵
    16. Translucent green quartz. ↵
    17. Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC) Great Roman philosopher, linguist, and orator. ↵
    18. Domitius Ulpianus (AD 170-228). A Roman jurist whose style was considered inferior to that of Cicero. ↵
    19. Slurring allusion to the doctrine of transubstantiation. ↵
    20. The tomb would be surmounted by a recumbent effigy of the occupant. ↵
    21. The bishop confuses St. Praxed, a woman, with Christ, who gave the Sermon on the Mount. ↵
    22. “He was illustrious,” the Ulpian Latin chosen for Gandolf’s tomb by the bishop. Ciceronian Latin would be “elucebat.” ↵
    23. cf. Genesis 47.9. ↵
    24. A vizor is the mask of a helmet; “Term” refers to a bust on a pedestal, erected to honour Terminus, the Roman god of boundaries. ↵
    25. Platform.
    26. Cheap sandstone.

    3.4: The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed’s Church is shared under a CC BY license and was authored, remixed, and/or curated by LibreTexts.

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