THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT ST. PRAXED'S CHURCH

Robert Browning was an English poet and playwright whose mastery of the dramatic monologue made him one of the foremost Victorian poets. Robert Browning was born on May 7, 1812, in Camberwell, England. He was the first son of Robert and Sarah Anna Browning. His father was a well-paid clerk for the Bank of England. He had one sister, Sarianna. Robert's father amassed a library of around 6,000 books, many of them rare. Thus, Robert was raised in a household of significant literary resources. His mother, to whom he was very close, was a devout nonconformist as well as a talented musician. His father encourages his interest in literature and the arts. His rare book collection of more than 6,000 volumes included works in Greek, Hebrew, Latin, French, Italian, and Spanish. Much of Browning’s education came from his well-read father. It is believed that he was already proficient at reading and writing by the age of five. A bright and anxious student, Browning learned Latin, Greek, and French by the time he was fourteen. From fourteen to sixteen he was educated at home, attended to by various tutors in music, drawing, dancing, and horsemanship. He died at his son's home Ca'Rezzonico in Venice on 12 December 1889.

TEXT 

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!

Draw round my bed: is Anselm 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

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.

St 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

One sees the pulpit o’ the epistle-side,

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 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.

- Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,

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 sinks,

And if ye find...ah God, I know not, I!...

Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,

And corded up in a tight olive-frail,

Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,

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 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!

Swift as a weaver’s shuttle fleet our years:

Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?

Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black -

’Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else

Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?

The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,

Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance

Some tripon, thyrsus, with a vase or so,

The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,

St Praxed in a glory, and one Pan

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

Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!

Nay, boys, ye love me -all of jasper, then!

’Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve.

My bath must needs be left behind, alas!

One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,

There’s plenty jasper somewhere in the world -

And have I not St 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 every word,

No gaudy ware like Gandolf’s second line -

Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!

And then how I shall lie through centuries,

And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,

And see God made and eaten 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,

And let the bedclothes for a mort-cloth drop

Into great laps and folds of sculptor’s-work:

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,

St Praxed at his sermon on the mount,

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 quoth our friend?

No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!

Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.

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,

And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx

That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,

To comfort me on my entablature

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 -

Gritsone, 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

- 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!

Summary and Analysis of The Bishop Orders His Tomb At St. Praxed's Church

This 1845 dramatic monologue, one of Browning's most accomplished in the form, is notable both for its command of voice and for its contemplation of religious, psychological, and historical matters. In other words, the dramatic irony is that he believes himself worthy of great remembrance even while his requests reveal him to be a petty and misguided man, one whose sentiments do not make him fit to be a leader of men. The way he speaks of his son Anselm – he at one point notes how Anselm will stand at the foot of his tomb in piety – is counteracted by the apparent disinterest and maliciousness he later realizes the men feel for his death. In addition, his motivation is largely provided by his rivalry with Old Gandolf, suggesting that the impulse towards religion for this bishop is rooted in power and ambition rather than in true piety. Considering that he brandishes a former relationship with a woman – one whom he likely considers a temptress, since he says at one point that her eyes glittered "for [his] soul" – as a virtue even as he is by default a celibate priest, it is clear that the man is full of hypocrisy. He mentions nothing in the long poem about his accomplishments as a bishop, only his wealth.

In the most obvious sense, the poem uses dramatic irony to criticize the hypocrisy of materialism in religion. The bishop, presumably accomplished in his field considering his great wealth, confronts the mystery of death, one of the primary reasons people seek religion in the first place, and yet is concerned almost exclusively with how magnificently adorned his tomb will be. The way he speaks to the younger men suggests that he spent his life speaking from a place of unquestioned authority; he is self-conscious to now give orders while no longer having such firm authority. He gives meticulous orders about how his tomb will be dressed, how they must fetch a stone he in fact stole from a burning church and buried away as booty, and notes how a great tomb will equate him with "the airy dome where live/the angels." He believes the lapis luzuli between his knees is equitable with "God the Father's globe," as though he is only aware of the material side of his vocation as priest, while totally oblivious to the humility and deference that is so integral to Christian doctrine.

Browning wrote this poem while in a period of study of the transitional early Renaissance period, in which the church was cementing its place as a political organization and a surplus of new wealth had to be accounted for. While there is no known historical corollary for this incident, St. Praxed's Church is a real place. In addition, it is fairly clear that such greed and hunger for power was integral to the early Renaissance church, suggesting that Browning is contemplating the all-too-human contradictions within piety and materialism. The fact that this bishop, a top symbol of his church, is unable to realize how easily he equates God and material wealth (when in fact they ought to be diametrically opposed) is equally a comment on the religious situation of the Renaissance and contemporary issues of religion.

A fictional Renaissance (The period of European history at the close of the Middle Ages and the rise of the modern world ; a cultural rebirth from the 14th through the middle of the 17th centuries) bishop lies on his deathbed giving orders for the tomb that is to be built for him. He instructs his “nephews”—perhaps a group of younger priests—on the materials and the design, motivated by a desire to outshine his predecessor Gandolf, whose final resting place he denounces as coarse and inferior. The poem hints that at least one of the “nephews” may be his son; in his ramblings he mentions a possible mistress, long since dead. The Bishop catalogues possible themes for his tomb, only to end with the realization that his instructions are probably futile: he will not live to ensure their realization, and his tomb will probably prove to be as much of a disappointment as Gandolf’s.

Although the poem’s narrator is a fictional creation, Saint Praxed’s Church refers to an actual place in Rome. It is dedicated to martyred Roman virgin. The poem is narrated by a fictional bishop on his deathbed. In his address, he falls in and out of lucidity (sanety/logic), often trailing  (behind) off. The bishop addresses a group of young men whom he calls "nephews," but there is implication one or more might be his sons; particularly one named Anselm. He mentions a woman he once had as a lover, and how "Old Gandolf," his predecessor (forefather) and rival in the Church, envied (admired) him for having the woman. 

As he contemplates (look at/view) the inevitability of death, he reminds the men that they need to make sure his tomb is built in St. Praxed's church as he plans. Old Gandolf died before him and thus stole the "niche" (place) where he planned to be buried, and so he intends now to have a magnificent tomb built, both to bathe his corpse in luxury and to outshine Gandolf's modest tomb of "onion-stone."

He describes how he wants the men to dig up some lapus lazuli, a precious stone that he rescued from a burning church and then hid away in a secret place that he describes to the men. He wants the stone placed between his knees so that Gandolf will be jealous. He continues to describe how magnificently he wants the tomb adorned (decorated), but notices the men whispering to each other and worries they are plotting against him. He accuses them of waiting for his death so they can sell off his villas (country house) and bury him in a plain tomb. He grows maudlin (emotional) and begs them to at least decorate the tomb in jasper (opaque gem), a green stone, and to choose an epitaph (inscription/lettering) worthy of his legacy.

The bishop works himself up again as he contemplates the fading of his life, but then falls to accusing the men of ingratitude (lack of gratitude). He finally accepts that they will act dishonorably against him and blesses them anyway. As they leave, he again remembers how Gandolf envied (admire) his relationship with the woman he had mentioned earlier.

Form

This poem, which appears in the 1845 volume Dramatic Romances and Lyrics,represents a stylistic departure for Browning. The Bishop speaks in iambic pentameter unrhymed lines—blank verse. Traditionally, blank verse was the favored form for dramatists, and many consider it the poetic form that best mimics natural speech in English. Gone are the subtle yet powerful rhyme schemes of “Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister” or “My Last Duchess.” The Bishop, an earthly, businesslike man, does not try to aestheticize his speech. The new form owes not only to the speaker’s earthy personality, but also his situation: he is also dying, and momentary aesthetic considerations have given way to a fervent desire to create a more lasting aesthetic monument.

Commentary

Poetry has always concerned itself with immortality and posterity. Shakespeare’s sonnets, for example, repeatedly discuss the possibility of immortalizing one’s beloved by writing a poem about him or her. Here, the Bishop shares the poet’s drive to ensure his own life after death by creating a work of art that will continue to capture the attention of those still living. He has been contemplating the issue for some time, as shown by his discussion of Gandolf’s usurpation of his chosen burial spot. His preparation has spanned years: he reveals that he has secreted away various treasures to be used in the monument’s construction, including a lump of lapis lazuli he has buried in a vineyard. The discussion as a whole reveals a fascinating attitude toward life and death: we come to see that the Bishop has spent so much of his time on earth preparing not for his salvation and afterlife, but for the construction of an earthly reminder of his existence. This suggests that the Bishop lacks religious conviction: if he were a true Christian, the thought of an eternal life in Heaven after his death would preclude his tomb-building efforts. Obviously, too, the Bishop does not expect to be remembered for his leadership or good deeds. And yet the monument he plans will be a work of magnificent art. Thus, as a whole, the poem reminds us that often the most beautiful art results from the most corrupt motives. Again, coming to this conclusion, Browning prefigures writers like Oscar Wilde, who made more explicit claims for the separation of art and morality.

Despite the Bishop’s rough speech and dying gasps, this poem achieves great beauty. Part of this beauty lies in its attention to detail and the cataloguing of the various semiprecious stones that are to line the tomb. Natural history provided endless fascination for the Victorians, and the psyche of the period gave special prominence to the notion of collecting. Collecting offers a way to gather together objects of beauty without necessarily having to involve oneself in the act of creation. Instead, the collector can just gather bits of nature’s—or God’s—handiwork. Indeed, this notion of collecting provides an analog for Browning’s employment of dramatic monologues like this one: in their way, they resemble found objects, the speeches of characters he has just “stumbled across.” The poems are thus neither moral nor immoral; they just are. By taking such an attitude Browning may be trying to move beyond speculations on the moral dangers of modern, city-centered life, focusing more on anthropological than philosophical or religious aspects of existence.

The poem ends with the Bishop’s vision of his corpse’s decay. The image hints at an underlying commonality of experience, a commonality more fundamental than any social power structures or aesthetic ambitions. While the notion of death as an equalizer may seem nihilistic, it can also prove liberating; for indeed, it relieves the Bishop, and implicitly Browning, of the burden of posterity.