Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society/IV

So, at his advent, such discomfiture Taking its true shape of beneficence, Hohenstiel-Schwangau, half-sad and part-wise, Sat: if with wistful eye reverting oft To each pet weapon rusty on its peg, Yet, with a sigh of satisfaction too That, peacefulness become the law, herself Got the due share of godsends in its train, Cried shame and took advantage quietly. Still, so the dry-rot had been nursed into Blood, bones and marrow, that, from worst to best, All, — clearest brains and soundest hearts, save here, — All had this lie acceptable for law Plain as the sun at noonday — "War is best, Peace is worst; peace we only tolerate As needful preparation for new war: War may be for whatever end we will — Peace only as the proper help thereto. Such is the law of right and wrong for us Hohenstiel-Schwangau: for the other world, As naturally, quite another law. Are we content? The world is satisfied. Discontent? Then the world must give us leave Strike right and left to exercise our arm Torpid of late through overmuch repose, And show its strength is still superlative At somebody's expense in life or limb: Which done, — let peace succeed and last a year!" Such devil's-doctrine was so judged God's law, We say, when this man stepped upon the stage, That it had seemed a venial fault at most Had he once more obeyed Sagacity. "You come i' the happy interval of peace, The favourable weariness from war: Prolong it! — artfully, as if intent On ending peace as soon as possible. Quietly so increase the sweets of ease And safety, so employ the multitude. Put hod and trowel so in idle hands. So stuff and stop the wagging jaws with bread. That selfishness shall surreptitiously Do wisdom's office, whisper in the ear Of Hohenstiel-Schwangau, there's a pleasant feel In being gently forced down, pinioned fast To the easy arm-chair by the pleading arms O' the world beseeching her to there abide Content with all the harm done hitherto, And let herself be petted in return, Free to re-wage, in speech and prose and verse, The old unjust wars, nay — in verse and prose And speech, — to vaunt new victories, as vile A plague o' the future, — so that words suffice For present comfort, and no deeds denote That, — tired of illimitable line on line Of boulevard-building, tired o' the theatre With the tuneful thousand in their thrones above. For glory of the male intelligence. And Nakedness in her due niche below, For illustration of the female use — She, 'twixt a yawn and sigh, prepares to slip Out of the arm-chair, wants some blood again From over the boundary, to colour-up The sheeny sameness, keep the world aware Hohenstiel-Schwangau must have exercise Despite the petting of the universe! Come, you're a city-builder: what's the way Wisdom takes when time needs that she entice Some fierce tribe, castled on the mountain-peak, Into the quiet and amenity O' the meadow-land below? By crying 'Done With fight now, down with fortress?' Rather — 'Dare On, dare ever, not a stone displaced!' Cries Wisdom, 'Cradle of our ancestors. Be bulwark, give our children safety still! Who of our children please, may stoop and taste O' the valley-fatness, unafraid, — for why? At first alarm, they have thy mother-ribs To run upon for refuge; foes forget Scarcely what Terror on her vantage-coigne, Couchant supreme among the powers of air, Watches — prepared to pounce — the country wide! Meanwhile the encouraged valley holds its own, From the first hut's adventure in descent. Half home, half hiding place, — to dome and spire Befitting the assured metropolis: Nor means offence to the fort which caps the crag, All undismantled of a turret-stone, And bears the banner-pole that creaks at times Embarrassed by the old emblazonment, When festal days are to commemorate. Otherwise left untenanted, no doubt, Since, never fear, our myriads from below Would rush, if needs were, man the walls once more. Renew the exploits of the earlier time At moment's notice! But till notice sound, Inhabit we in ease and opulence!' And so, till one day thus a notice sounds, Not trumpeted, but in a whisper-gust Fitfully playing through mute city streets At midnight weary of day's feast and game — 'Friends, your famed fort's a ruin past repair! Its use is — to proclaim it had a use Stolen away long since. Climb to study there How to paint barbican and battlement I' the scenes of our new theatre! We fight Now — by forbidding neighbours to sell steel Or buy wine, not by blowing out their brains! Moreover, while we let time sap the strength O' the walls omnipotent in menace once, Neighbours would seem to have prepared surprise — Run up defences in a mushroom-growth, For all the world like what we boasted: brief — Hohenstiel-Schwangau's policy is peace!' "

Ay, so Sagacity advised him filch Folly from fools: handsomely substitute The dagger o' lath, while gay they sang and danced For that long dangerous sword they liked to feel, Even at feast-time, clink and make friends start. No! he said "Hear the truth, and bear the truth, And bring the truth to bear on all you are And do, assured that only good comes thence Whate'er the shape good take! While I have rule. Understand! — war for war's sake, war for the sake O' the good war gets you as war's sole excuse, Is damnable and damned shall be. You want Glory? Why so do I, and so does God. Where is it found, — in this paraded shame, — One particle of glory? Once you warred For liberty against the world, and won: There was the glory. Now, you fain would war Because the neighbour prospers overmuch, — Because there has been silence half-an-hour, Like Heaven on earth, without a cannon-shot Announcing Hohenstielers-Schwangauese Are minded to disturb the jubilee, — Because the loud tradition echoes faint, And who knows but posterity may doubt If the great deeds were ever done at all, Much less believe, were such to do again, So the event would follow: therefore, prove The old power, at the expense of somebody! Oh, Glory, — gilded bubble, bard and sage So nickname rightly, — would thy dance endure One moment, would thy mocking make believe Only one upturned eye thy ball was gold, Had'st thou less breath to buoy thy vacancy Than a whole multitude expends in praise, Less range for roaming than from head to head Of a whole people? Flit, fall, fly again, Only, fix never where the resolute hand May prick thee, prove the lie thou art, at once! Give me real intellect to reason with, No multitude, no entity that apes One wise man, being but a million fools! How and whence wishest glory, thou wise one? Would'st get it, — did'st thyself guide Providence, — By stinting of his due each neighbour round In strength and knowledge and dexterity So as to have thy littleness grow large By all those somethings, once, turned nothings, now, As children make a molehill mountainous By scooping out the plain into a trench And saving so their favourite from approach? Quite otherwise the cheery game of life. True yet mimetic warfare, whereby man Does his best with his utmost, and so ends The victor most of all in fair defeat. Who thinks, — would he have no one think beside? Who knows, who does, — must other learning die And action perish? Why, our giant proves No better than a dwarf, with rivalry Prostrate around him. 'Let the whole race stand And try conclusions fairly!' he cries first. Show me the great man would engage his peer Rather by grinning 'Cheat, thy gold is brass!' Than granting 'Perfect piece of purest ore! Still, is it less good mintage, this of mine?' Well, and these right and sound results of soul I' the strong and healthy one wise man, — shall such Be vainly sought for, scornfully renounced I' the multitude that make the entity — The people? — to what purpose, if no less. In power and purity of soul, below The reach of the unit than, in multiplied Might of the body, vulgarized the more, Above, in thick and threefold brutishness? See! you accept such one wise man, myself: Wiser or less wise, still I operate From my own stock of wisdom, nor exact Of other sort of natures you admire. That whoso rhymes a sonnet pays a tax, Who paints a landscape dips brush at his cost, Who scores a septett true for strings and wind Mulcted must be — else how should I impose Properly, attitudinize aright, Did such conflicting claims as these divert Hohenstiel-Schwangau from observing me? Therefore, what I find facile, you be sure, With effort or without it, you shall dare — You, I aspire to make my better self And truly the Great Nation. No more war For war's sake, then! and, — seeing, wickedness Springs out of folly, — no more foolish dread O' the neighbour waxing too inordinate A rival, through his gain of wealth and ease! What? — keep me patient, Powers! — the people here, Earth presses to her heart, nor owns a pride Above her pride i' the race all flame and air And aspiration to the boundless Great, The incommensurably Beautiful — Whose very faulterings groundward come of flight Urged by a pinion all too passionate For heaven and what it holds of gloom and glow: Bravest of thinkers, bravest of the brave Doers, exalt in Science, rapturous In Art, the — more than all — magnetic race To fascinate their fellows, mould mankind Hohenstiel-Schwangau-fashion, — these, what? — these Will have to abdicate their primacy Should such a nation sell them steel untaxed, And such another take itself, on hire For the natural sen'night, somebody for lord Unpatronized by me whose back was turned? Or such another yet would fain build bridge, Lay rail, drive tunnel, busy its poor self With its appropriate fancy: so there's — flash — Hohenstiel-Schwangau up in arms at once! Genius has somewhat of the infantine: But of the childish, not a touch nor taint Except through self-will, which, being foolishness, Is certain, soon or late, of punishment. Which Providence avert! — and that it may Avert what both of us would so deserve. No foolish dread o' the neighbour, I enjoin! By consequence, no wicked war with him, While I rule!

Does that mean — no war at all When just the wickedness I here proscribe Comes, haply, from the neighbour? Does my speech Precede the praying that you beat the sword To plough-share, and the spear to pruning-hook. And sit down henceforth under your own vine And fig-tree through the sleepy summer month, Letting what hurly-burly please explode On the other side the mountain-frontier? No, Beloved! I foresee and I announce Necessity of warfare in one case, For one cause: one way, I bid broach the blood O' the world. For truth and right, and only right And truth, — right, truth, on the absolute scale of God, No pettiness of man's admeasurement, — In such case only, and for such one cause, Fight your hearts out, whatever fate betide Hands energetic to the uttermost! Lie not! Endure no lie which needs your heart And hand to push it out of mankind's path — No lie that lets the natural forces work Too long ere lay it plain and pulverized — Seeing man's life lasts only twenty years! And such a lie, before both man and God, Being, at this time present, Austria's rule O'er Italy, — for Austria's sake the first, Italy's next, and our sake last of all. Come with me and deliver Italy! Smite hip and thigh until the oppressor leave Free from the Adriatic to the Alps The oppressed one! We were they who laid her low In the old bad day when Villany braved Truth And Right, and laughed 'Henceforward, God deposed, The Devil is to rule for evermore I' the world!' — whereof to stop the consequence, And for atonement of false glory there Gaped at and gabbled over by the world, We purpose to get God enthroned again For what the world will gird at as sheer shame I' the cost of blood and treasure. 'All for naught — Not even, say, some patch of province, splice O' the frontier? — some snug honorarium-fee Shut into glove and pocketed apace?' (Questions Sagacity) 'in deference To the natural susceptibility Of folks at home, unwitting of that pitch You soar to, and misdoubting if Truth, Right And the other such augustnesses repay Expenditure in coin o' the realm, — but prompt To recognize the cession of Savoy And Nice as marketable value!' No, Sagacity, go preach to Metternich, And, sermon ended, stay where he resides I Hohenstiel-Schwangau, you and I must march The other road! war for the hate of war, Not love, this once!" So Italy was free.

What else noteworthy and commendable I' the man's career? — that he was resolute No trepidation, much less treachery On his part, should imperil from its poise The ball o' the world, heaved up at such expense Of pains so far, and ready to rebound, Let but a finger maladroitly fall, Under pretence of making fast and sure The inch gained by late volubility, And run itself back to the ancient rest At foot o' the mountain. Thus he ruled, gave proof The world had gained a point, progressive so, By choice, this time, as will and power concurred, 0' the fittest man to rule; not chance of birth, Or such-like dice-throw. Oft Sagacity Was at his ear: "Confirm this clear advance, Support this wise procedure! You, elect O' the people, mean to justify their choice And out-king all the kingly imbeciles; But that's just half the enterprise: remains You find them a successor like yourself, In head and heart and eye and hand and aim, Or all done's undone; and whom hope to mould So like you as the pupil Nature sends, The son and heir's completeness which you lack? Lack it no longer! Wed the pick o' the world, Where'er you think you find it. Should she be A queen, — tell Hohenstielers-Schwangauese 'So do the old enthroned decrepitudes Acknowledge, in the rotten hearts of them, Their knell is knolled, they hasten to make peace With the new order, recognize in me Your right to constitute what king you will. Cringe therefore crown in hand and bride on arm, To both of us: we triumph, I suppose!' Is it the other sort of rank? — bright eye, Soft smile, and so forth, all her queenly boast? Undaunted the exordium — 'I, the man O' the people, with the people mate myself: So stand, so fall. Kings, keep your crowns and brides! Our progeny (if Providence agree) Shall live to tread the baubles underfoot And bid the scarecrows consort with their kin. For son, as for his sire, be the free wife In the free state!' "

That is. Sagacity Would prop up one more lie, the most of all Pernicious fancy that the son and heir Receives the genius from the sire, himself Transmits as surely, — ask experience else! Which answers, — never was so plain a truth As that God drops his seed of heavenly flame Just where He wills on earth: sometimes where man Seems to tempt — such the accumulated store Of faculties — one spark to fire the heap; Sometimes where, fire-ball-like, it falls upon The naked unpreparedness of rock, Burns, beaconing the nations through their night. Faculties, fuel for the flame? All helps Come, ought to come, or come not, crossed by chance, From culture and transmission. What's your want I' the son and heir? Sympathy, aptitude. Teachableness, the fuel for the flame? You'll have them for your pains: but the flame's self, The novel thought of God shall light the world? No, poet, though your offspring rhyme and chime I' the cradle, — painter, no, for all your pet Draws his first eye, beats Salvatore's boy, — And thrice no, statesman, should your progeny Tie bib and tucker with no tape but red, And make a foolscap-kite of protocols! Critic and copyist and bureaucrat To heart's content! The seed o' the apple-tree Brings forth another tree which bears a crab: 'T is the great gardener grafts the excellence On wildings where he will.

"How plain I view, Across those misty years 'twixt me and Rome " — (Such the man's answer to Sagacity) The little wayside temple, halfway down To a mild river that makes oxen white Miraculously, un-mouse-colours hide, Or so the Roman country people dream! I view that sweet small shrub-embedded shrine On the declivity, was sacred once To a transmuting Genius of the land, Could touch and turn its dunnest natures bright, — Since Italy means the Land of the Ox, we know. Well, how was it the due succession fell From priest to priest who ministered i' the cool Calm fane o' the Clitumnian god? The sire Brought forth a son and sacerdotal sprout, Endowed instinctively with good and grace To suit the gliding gentleness below — Did he? Tradition tells another tale. Each priest obtained his predecessor's staff,

Robe, fillet and insignia, blamelessly. By springing out of ambush, soon or late. And slaying him: the initiative rite Simply was murder, save that murder took, I' the case, another and religious name. So it was once, is now, shall ever be With genius and its priesthood in this world: The new power slays the old — but handsomely. There he lies, not diminished by an inch Of stature that he graced the altar with. Though somebody of other bulk and build Cries 'What a goodly personage lies here Reddening the water where the bulrush roots! May I conduct the service in his place. Decently and in order, as did he, And, as he did not, keep a wary watch When meditating 'neath a willow shade!' Find out your best man, sure the son of him, Will prove best man again, and, better still Somehow than best, the grandson-prodigy! You think the world would last another day Did we so make us masters of the trick Whereby the works go, we could pre-arrange Their play and reach perfection when we please? Depend on it, the change and the surprise Are part o' the plan: 't is we wish steadiness; Nature prefers a motion by unrest, Advancement through this force that jostles that. And so, since much remains i' the world to see. Here is it still, affording God the sight." Thus did the man refute Sagacity, Ever at this one whisper in his ear: "Here are you picked out, by a miracle, And placed conspicuously enough, folks say And you believe, by Providence outright Taking a new way — nor without success — To put the world upon its mettle: good! But Fortune alternates with Providence; Resource is soon exhausted. Never count On such a happy hit occurring twice! Try the old method next time!"

"Old enough," (At whisper in his ear, the laugh outbroke) "And most discredited of all the modes By just the men and women who make boast They are kings and queens thereby! Mere self-defence Should teach them, on one chapter of the law Must be no sort of trifling — chastity: They stand or fall, as their progenitors Were chaste or unchaste. Now, run eye around My crowned acquaintance, give each life its look And no more, — why, you'd think each life was led Purposely for example of what pains Who leads it took to cure the prejudice. And prove there's nothing so unproveable As who is who, what son of what a sire, And, — inferentially, — how faint the chance That the next generation needs to fear Another fool o' the selfsame type as he Happily regnant now by right divine And luck o' the pillow! No: select your lord By the direct employment of your brains As best you may, — bad as the blunder prove, A far worse evil stank beneath the sun When some legitimate blockhead managed so Matters that high time was to interfere, Though interference came from hell itself And not the blind mad miserable mob Happily ruled so long by pillow-luck And divine right, — by lies in short, not truth. And meanwhile use the allotted minute. . . "

One, — Two, three, four, five — yes, five the pendule warns! Eh? Why, this wild work wanders past all bound And bearing! Exile, Leicester-square, the life I' the old gay miserable time, rehearsed, Tried on again like cast clothes, still to serve At a pinch, perhaps? "Who's who?" was aptly asked, Since certainly I am not I! since when? Where is the bud-mouthed arbitress? A nod Out-Homering Homer! Stay — there flits the clue I fain would find the end of! Yes, — "Meanwhile, Use the allotted minute!" Well, you see, (Veracious and imaginary Thiers, Who map out thus the life I might have led, But did not, — all the worse for earth and me — Doff spectacles, wipe pen, shut book, decamp!) You see 't is easy in heroics! Plain Pedestrian speech shall help me perorate. Ah, if one had no need to use the tongue! How obvious and how easy 't is to talk Inside the soul, a ghostly dialogue — Instincts with guesses, — instinct, guess, again With dubious knowledge, half-experience: each And all the interlocutors alike Subordinating, — as decorum bids, Oh, never fear! but still decisively, — Claims from without that take too high a tone, — ("God wills this, man wants that, the dignity Prescribed a prince would wish the other thing") — Putting them back to insignificance Beside one intimatest fact — myself Am first to be considered, since I live Twenty years longer and then end, perhaps! But, where one ceases to soliloquize, Somehow the motives, that did well enough I' the darkness, when you bring them into light Are found, like those famed cave-fish, to lack eye And organ for the upper magnitudes. The other common creatures, of less fine Existence, that acknowledge earth and heaven, Have it their own way in the argument. Yes, forced to speak, one stoops to say — one's aim Was — what it peradventure should have been; — To renovate a people, mend or end That bane come of a blessing meant the world — Inordinate culture of the sense made quick By soul, — the lust o' the flesh, lust of the eye, And pride of life, — and, consequent on these, The worship of that prince o' the power o' the air Who paints the cloud and fills the emptiness And bids his votaries, famishing for truth. Feed on a lie.

Alack, one lies oneself Even in the stating that one's end was truth, Truth only, if one states as much in words! Give me the inner chamber of the soul For obvious easy argument! 't is there One pits the silent truth against a lie — Truth which breaks shell a careless simple bird, Nor wants a gorget nor a beak filed fine, Steel spurs and the whole armoury o' the tongue, To equalize the odds. But, do your best, Words have to come: and somehow words deflect As the best cannon ever rifled will.

"Deflect" indeed! nor merely words from thoughts But names from facts: "Clitumnus" did I say? As if it had been his ox-whitening wave Whereby folk practised that grim cult of old — The murder of their temple's priest by who Would qualify for his succession. Sure — Nemi was the true lake's style. Dream had need Of the ox-whitening piece of prettiness And so confused names, well known once awake.

So, i' the Residenz yet, not Leicester-square, Alone, — no such congenial intercourse! — My reverie concludes, as dreaming should, With daybreak: nothing done and over yet, Except cigars! The adventure thus may be, Or never needs to be at all: who knows? My Cousin-Duke, perhaps, at whose hard head — Is it, now — is this letter to be launched, The sight of whose grey oblong, whose grim seal, Set all these fancies floating for an hour?

Twenty years are good gain, come what come will! Double or quits! The letter goes! Or stays?