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diff --git a/old/14316.txt b/old/14316.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fbfd67 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14316.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13488 @@ +Project Gutenberg's The Poetry Of Robert Browning, by Stopford A. Brooke + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Poetry Of Robert Browning + +Author: Stopford A. Brooke + +Release Date: December 10, 2004 [EBook #14316] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POETRY OF ROBERT BROWNING *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed Proofreading +Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + +THE POETRY + +OF + +ROBERT BROWNING + +BY + +STOPFORD A. BROOKE + +AUTHOR OF "TENNYSON: HIS ART AND RELATION TO MODERN LIFE" + + * * * * * + +LONDON + +ISBISTER AND COMPANY LIMITED + +1903 + + * * * * * + +Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. London & Edinburgh + +_First Edition, September 1902_ +_Reprinted, October 1902_ +_Reprinted, January 1903_ + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. BROWNING AND TENNYSON + +II. THE TREATMENT OF NATURE + +III. THE TREATMENT OF NATURE + +IV. BROWNING'S THEORY OF HUMAN LIFE--PAULINE AND PARACELSUS + +V. THE POET OF ART + +VI. SORDELLO + +VII. BROWNING AND SORDELLO + +VIII. THE DRAMAS + +IX. POEMS OF THE PASSION OF LOVE + +X. THE PASSIONS OTHER THAN LOVE + +XI. IMAGINATIVE REPRESENTATIONS + +XII. IMAGINATIVE REPRESENTATIONS--RENAISSANCE + +XIII. WOMANHOOD IN BROWNING + +XIV. WOMANHOOD IN BROWNING--(THE DRAMATIC LYRICS AND POMPILIA) + +XV. BALAUSTION + +XVI. THE RING AND THE BOOK + +XVII. LATER POEMS + +XVIII. THE LAST POEMS + + * * * * * + + The publishers are indebted to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. on behalf + of the owner of the copyright for their permission to make extracts + from copyright poems for use in this volume + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER I + +_BROWNING AND TENNYSON_ + + +Parnassus, Apollo's mount, has two peaks, and on these, for sixty years, +from 1830 to 1890,[1] two poets sat, till their right to these lofty +peaks became unchallenged. Beneath them, during these years, on the +lower knolls of the mount of song, many new poets sang; with diverse +instruments, on various subjects, and in manifold ways. They had their +listeners; the Muses were also their visitants; but none of them +ventured seriously to dispute the royal summits where Browning and +Tennyson sat, and smiled at one another across the vale between. + +Both began together; and the impulses which came to them from the new +and excited world which opened its fountains in and about 1832 continued +to impel them till the close of their lives. While the poetic world +altered around them, while two generations of poets made new schools of +poetry, they remained, for the most part, unaffected by these schools. +There is nothing of Arnold and Clough, of Swinburne, Rossetti or Morris, +or of any of the others, in Browning or Tennyson. There is nothing even +of Mrs. Browning in Browning. What changes took place in them were +wrought, first, by the natural growth of their own character; secondly, +by the natural development of their art-power; and thirdly, by the slow +decaying of that power. They were, in comparison with the rest, +curiously uninfluenced by the changes of the world around them. The main +themes, with which they began, they retained to the end. Their methods, +their instruments, their way of feeling into the world of man and of +nature, their relation to the doctrines of God and of Man, did not, +though on all these matters they held diverse views, alter with the +alteration of the world. But this is more true of Browning than of +Tennyson. The political and social events of those years touched +Tennyson, as we see from _Maud_ and the _Princess_, but his way of +looking at them was not the way of a contemporary. It might have been +predicted from his previous career and work. Then the new movements of +Science and Criticism which disturbed Clough and Arnold so deeply, also +troubled Tennyson, but not half so seriously. He staggered for a time +under the attack on his old conceptions, but he never yielded to it. He +was angry with himself for every doubt that beset him, and angry with +the Science and Criticism which disturbed the ancient ideas he was +determined not to change. Finally, he rested where he had been when he +wrote _In Memoriam_, nay more, where he had been when he began to write. + +There were no such intervals in Browning's thought. One could scarcely +say from his poetry, except in a very few places, that he was aware of +the social changes of his time, or of the scientific and critical +movement which, while he lived, so profoundly modified both theology and +religion.[2] _Asolando_, in 1890, strikes the same chords, but more +feebly, which _Paracelsus_ struck in 1835. + +But though, in this lofty apartness and self-unity, Browning and +Tennyson may fairly be said to be at one, in themselves and in their +song they were different. There could scarcely be two characters, two +musics, two minds, two methods in art, two imaginations, more distinct +and contrasted than those which lodged in these men--and the object of +this introduction is to bring out this contrast, with the purpose of +placing in a clearer light some of the peculiar elements in the poetry +of Browning, and in his position as a poet. + +1. Their public fate was singularly different. In 1842 Tennyson, with +his two volumes of Collected Poems, made his position. The _Princess_, +in 1847, increased his reputation. In 1850, _In Memoriam_ raised him, +it was said, above all the poets of his time, and the book was +appreciated, read and loved by the greater part of the English-speaking +world. The success and popular fame which now followed were well +deserved and wisely borne. They have endured and will endure. A host of +imitators, who caught his music and his manner, filled the groves and +ledges which led up to the peak on which he lived. His side of Parnassus +was thronged. + +It was quite otherwise with his brother-poet. Only a few clear-eyed +persons cared to read _Paracelsus_, which appeared in 1835. _Strafford_, +Browning's first drama, had a little more vogue; it was acted for a +while. When _Sordello_, that strange child of genius, was born in 1840, +those who tried to read its first pages declared they were +incomprehensible. It seems that critics in those days had either less +intelligence than we have, or were more impatient and less attentive, +for not only _Sordello_ but even _In Memoriam_ was said to be +exceedingly obscure. + +Then, from 1841 to 1846, Browning published at intervals a series of +varied poems and dramas, under the title of _Bells and Pomegranates_. +These, one might imagine, would have grasped the heart of any public +which had a care for poetry. Among them were such diverse poems as +_Pippa Passes_; _A Blot in the 'Scutcheon_; _Saul_; _The Pied Piper of +Hamelin_; _My Last Duchess_; _Waring_. I only mention a few (all different +in note, subject and manner from one another), in order to mark the +variety and range of imaginative power displayed in this wonderful set +of little books. The Bells of poetry's music, hung side by side with +the golden Pomegranates of thought, made the fringe of the robe of this +high priest of song. Rarely have imagination and intellect, ideal faith +and the sense which handles daily life, passion and quietude, the +impulse and self-mastery of an artist, the joy of nature and the fates +of men, grave tragedy and noble grotesque, been mingled together more +fully--bells for the pleasure and fruit for the food of man. + +Yet, on the whole, they fell dead on the public. A few, however, loved +them, and all the poems were collected in 1849. _In Memoriam_ and this +Collected Edition of Browning issued almost together; but with how +different a fate and fame we see most plainly in the fact that Browning +can scarcely be said to have had any imitators. The groves and ledges of +his side of Apollo's mountain were empty, save for a few enchanted +listeners, who said: "This is our music, and here we build our tent." + +As the years went on, these readers increased in number, but even when +the volumes entitled _Men and Women_ were published in 1855, and the +_Dramatis Personae_ in 1864, his followers were but a little company. For +all this neglect Browning cared as a bird cares who sings for the love +of singing, and who never muses in himself whether the wood is full or +not of listeners. Being always a true artist, he could not stop versing +and playing; and not one grain of villain envy touched his happy heart +when he looked across the valley to Tennyson. He loved his mistress Art, +and his love made him always joyful in creating. + +At last his time came, but it was not till nearly twenty years after +the Collected Poems of 1849 that _The Ring and the Book_ astonished the +reading public so much by its intellectual _tour de force_ that it was +felt to be unwise to ignore Browning any longer. His past work was now +discovered, read and praised. It was not great success or worldwide fame +that he attained, but it was pleasant to him, and those who already +loved his poems rejoiced with him. Before he died he was widely read, +never so much as Tennyson, but far more than he had ever expected. It +had become clear to all the world that he sat on a rival height with +Tennyson, above the rest of his fellow-poets. + +Their public fate, then, was very different. Tennyson had fifty years of +recognition, Browning barely ten. And to us who now know Browning this +seems a strange thing. Had he been one of the smaller men, a modern +specialist like Arnold or Rossetti, we could better understand it. But +Browning's work was not limited to any particular or temporary phase of +human nature. He set himself to represent, as far as he could, all types +of human nature; and, more audacious still, types taken from many +diverse ages, nations and climates. He told us of times and folk as far +apart as Caliban and Cleon, as Karshish and Waring, as Balaustion and +Fifine, as St. John and Bishop Blougram. The range and the contrasts of +his subjects are equally great. And he did this work with a searching +analysis, a humorous keenness, a joyous boldness, and an opulent +imagination at once penetrative and passionate. When, then, we realise +this as we realise it now, we are the more astonished that appreciation +of him lingered so long. Why did it not come at first, and why did it +come in the end? + +The first answer to that question is a general one. During the years +between 1860 and 1890, and especially during the latter half of these +years, science and criticism were predominant. Their determination to +penetrate to the roots of things made a change in the general direction +of thought and feeling on the main subjects of life. Analysis became +dearer to men than synthesis, reasoning than imagination. Doubtful +questions were submitted to intellectual decision alone. The +Understanding, to its great surprise, was employed on the investigation +of the emotions, and even the artists were drawn in this direction. +They, too, began to dissect the human heart. Poets and writers of +fiction, students of human nature, were keenly interested, not so much +in our thoughts and feelings as in exposing how and why we thought or +felt in this or that fashion. In such analysis they seemed to touch the +primal sources of life. They desired to dig about the tree of humanity +and to describe all the windings of its roots and fibres--not much +caring whether they withered the tree for a time--rather than to +describe and sing its outward beauty, its varied foliage, and its ruddy +fruit. And this liking to investigate the hidden inwardness of +motives--which many persons, weary of self-contemplation, wisely prefer +to keep hidden--ran through the practice of all the arts. They became, +on the whole, less emotional, more intellectual. The close marriage +between passion and thought, without whose cohabitation no work of +genius is born in the arts, was dissolved; and the intellect of the +artist often worked by itself, and his emotion by itself. Some of the +parthenogenetic children of these divorced powers were curious products, +freaks, even monsters of literature, in which the dry, cynical, or +vivisecting temper had full play, or the naked, lustful, or cruel +exposure of the emotions in ugly, unnatural, or morbid forms was +glorified. They made an impudent claim to the name of Art, but they were +nothing better than disagreeable Science. But this was an extreme +deviation of the tendency. The main line it took was not so detestable. +It was towards the ruthless analysis of life, and of the soul of man; a +part, in fact, of the general scientific movement. The outward forms of +things charmed writers less than the motives which led to their making. +The description of the tangled emotions and thoughts of the inner life, +before any action took place, was more pleasurable to the writer, and +easier, than any description of their final result in act. This was +borne to a wearisome extreme in fiction, and in these last days a +comfortable reaction from it has arisen. In poetry it did not last so +long. Morris carried us out of it. But long before it began, long before +its entrance into the arts, Browning, who on another side of his genius +delighted in the representation of action, anticipated in poetry, and +from the beginning of his career, twenty, even thirty years before it +became pronounced in literature, this tendency to the intellectual +analysis of human nature. When he began it, no one cared for it; and +_Paracelsus, Sordello_ and the soul-dissecting poems in _Bells and +Pomegranates_ fell on an unheeding world. But Browning did not heed the +unheeding of the world. He had the courage of his aims in art, and while +he frequently shaped in his verse the vigorous movement of life, even to +its moments of fierce activity, he went on quietly, amid the silence of +the world, to paint also the slowly interwoven and complex pattern of +the inner life of men. And then, when the tendency of which I speak had +collared the interest of society, society, with great and ludicrous +amazement, found him out. "Here is a man," it said, "who has been doing +in poetry for the last thirty years the very thing of which we are so +fond, and who is doing it with delightful and varied subtlety. We will +read him now." So Browning, anticipating by thirty years the drift of +the world, was not read at first; but, afterwards, the world having +reached him, he became a favoured poet. + +However, fond as he was of metaphysical analysis, he did not fall into +the extremes into which other writers carried it, _Paracelsus_ is, +indeed, entirely concerned with the inner history of a soul, but +_Sordello_ combines with a similar history a tale of political and +warlike action in which men and women, like Salinguerra and Palma, who +live in outward work rather than in inward thought, are described; while +in poems like _Pippa Passes_ and some of the Dramas, emotion and +thought, intimately interwoven, are seen blazing, as it were, into a +lightning of swift deeds. Nor are other poems wanting, in which, not +long analysis, but short passion, fiery outbursts of thought, taking +immediate form, are represented with astonishing intensity. + +2. This second remarkable power of his touches the transition which has +begun to carry us, in the last few years, from the subjective to the +objective in art. The time came, and quite lately, when art, weary of +intellectual and minute investigation, turned to realise, not the long +inward life of a soul with all its motives laid bare, but sudden moments +of human passion, swift and unoutlined impressions on the senses, the +moody aspects of things, flared-out concentrations of critical hours of +thought and feeling which years perhaps of action and emotion had +brought to the point of eruption. Impressionism was born in painting, +poetry, sculpture and music. + +It was curious that, when we sought for a master who had done this in +the art of poetry, we found that Browning--who had in long poems done +the very opposite of impressionism--had also, in a number of short +poems, anticipated impressionist art by nearly forty years. _Porphyria's +Lover_, many a scene in _Sordello_, _My Last Duchess_, _The Laboratory_, +_Home Thoughts from Abroad_, are only a few out of many. It is pleasant +to think of the ultimate appearance of Waring, flashed out for a moment +on the sea, only to disappear. In method, swiftness and colour, but done +in verse, it is an impressionist picture, as vivid in transient scenery +as in colour. He did the same sort of work in poems of nature, of human +life, of moments of passion, of states of the soul. That is another +reason why he was not read at first, and why he is read now. He was +impressionist long before Impressionism arrived. When it arrived he was +found out. And he stood alone, for Tennyson is never impressionist, and +never could have been. Neither was Swinburne nor Arnold, Morris nor +Rossetti. + +3. Again, in the leisured upper ranges of thought and emotion, and in +the extraordinary complexity of human life which arose, first, out of +the more intimate admixture of all classes in our society; and secondly, +out of the wider and more varied world-life which increased means of +travel and knowledge afforded to men, Tennyson's smooth, melodious, +simple development of art-subjects did not represent the clashing +complexity of human life, whether inward in the passions, the intellect +or the soul, or in the active movement of the world. And the other poets +were equally incapable of representing this complexity of which the +world became clearly conscious. Arnold tried to express its beginnings, +and failed, because he tried to explain instead of representing them. He +wrote about them; he did not write them down. Nor did he really belong +to this novel, quick, variegated, involved world which was so pleased +with its own excitement and entanglement. He was the child of a world +which was then passing away, out of which life was fading, which was +tired like Obermann, and sought peace in reflective solitudes. Sometimes +he felt, as in _The New Age_, the pleasure of the coming life of the +world, but he was too weary to share in it, and he claimed quiet. But +chiefly he saw the disturbance, the unregulated life; and, unable to +realise that it was the trouble and wildness of youth, he mistook it for +the trouble of decay. He painted it as such. But it was really young, +and out of it broke all kinds of experiments in social, religious, +philosophical and political thought, such as we have seen and read of +for the last thirty years. Art joined in the experiments of this +youthful time. It opened a new fountain and sent forth from it another +stream, to echo this attempting, clanging and complicated society; and +this stream did not flow like a full river, making large or sweet +melody, but like a mountain torrent thick with rocks, the thunderous +whirlpools of whose surface were white with foam. Changing and +sensational scenery haunted its lower banks where it became dangerously +navigable. Strange boats, filled with outlandish figures, who played on +unknown instruments, and sang of deeds and passions remote from common +life, sailed by on its stormy waters. Few were the concords, many the +discords, and some of the discords were never resolved. But in one case +at least--in the case of Browning's poetry, and in very many cases in +the art of music--out of the discords emerged at last a full melody of +steady thought and controlled emotion as (to recapture my original +metaphor) the rude, interrupted music of the mountain stream reaches +full and concordant harmony when it flows in peace through the meadows +of the valley. + +These complex and intercleaving conditions of thought and passion into +which society had grown Browning represented from almost the beginning +of his work. When society became conscious of them--there it found him. +And, amazed, it said, "Here is a man who forty years ago lived in the +midst of our present life and wrote about it." They saw the wild, loud +complexity of their world expressed in his verse; and yet were dimly +conscious, to their consolation, that he was aware of a central peace +where the noise was quieted and the tangle unravelled. + +For Browning not only represented this discordant, varied hurly-burly of +life, but also, out of all the discords which he described, and which, +when he chose, even his rhythms and word-arrangements realised in sound, +he drew a concordant melody at last, and gave to a world, troubled with +itself, the hope of a great concent into which all the discords ran, and +where they were resolved. And this hope for the individual and the race +was one of the deepest elements in Browning's religion. It was also the +hope of Tennyson, but Tennyson was often uncertain of it, and bewailed +the uncertainty. Browning was certain of his hope, and for the most part +resolved his discords. Even when he did not resolve them, he firmly +believed that they would be resolved. This, his essential difference +from the other poets of the last fifty years, marks not only his +apartness from the self-ignorance of English society, and the +self-sceptical scepticism which arises from that self-ignorance, but +also how steadily assured was the foundation of his spiritual life. In +the midst of the shifting storms of doubt and trouble, of mockery, +contradiction, and assertion on religious matters, he stood unremoved. +Whatever men may think of his faith and his certainties, they reveal the +strength of his character, the enduring courage of his soul, and the +inspiring joyousness that, born of his strength, characterised him to +the last poem he wrote. While the other poets were tossing on the sea of +unresolved Question, he rested, musing and creating, on a green island +whose rocks were rooted on the ocean-bed, and wondered, with the smiling +tolerance of his life-long charity, how his fellows were of so little +faith, and why the sceptics made so much noise. He would have reversed +the Psalmist's cry. He would have said, "Thou art not cast down, O my +soul; thou art not disquieted within me. Thou hast hoped in God, who is +the light of thy countenance, and thy God." + +At first the world, enamoured of its own complex discords, and pleased, +like boys in the street, with the alarms it made, only cared for that +part of Browning which represented the tangle and the clash, and ignored +his final melody. But of late it has begun, tired of the restless +clatter of intellectual atoms, to desire to hear, if possible, the +majestic harmonies in which the discords are resolved. And at this point +many at present and many more in the future will find their poetic and +religious satisfaction in Browning. At the very end, then, of the +nineteenth century, in a movement which had only just begun, men said to +themselves, "Browning felt beforehand what we are beginning to hope for, +and wrote of it fifty, even sixty years ago. No one cared then for him, +but we care now." + +Again, though he thus anticipated the movements of the world, he did +not, like the other poets, change his view about Nature, Man and God. He +conceived that view when he was young, and he did not alter it. Hence, +he did not follow or reflect from year to year the opinions of his time +on these great matters. When _Paracelsus_ was published in 1835 Browning +had fully thought out, and in that poem fully expressed, his theory of +God's relation to man, and of man's relation to the universe around him, +to his fellow men, and to the world beyond. It was a theory which was +original, if any theory can be so called. At least, its form, as he +expressed it, was clearly original. Roughly sketched in _Pauline_, fully +rounded in _Paracelsus_, it held and satisfied his mind till the day of +his death. But Tennyson had no clear theory about Man or Nature or God +when he began, nor was he afterwards, save perhaps when he wrote the +last stanzas of _In Memoriam_, a fully satisfied citizen of the city +that has foundations. He believed in that city, but he could not always +live in it. He grew into this or that opinion about the relations of God +and man, and then grew out of it. He held now this, now that view of +nature, and of man in contact with nature. There was always battle in +his soul; although he won his brittle in the end, he had sixty years of +war. Browning was at peace, firm-fixed. It is true the inward struggle +of Tennyson enabled him to image from year to year his own time better +than Browning did. It is true this struggle enabled him to have great +variety in his art-work when it was engaged with the emotions which +belong to doubt and faith; but it also made him unable to give to his +readers that sense of things which cannot be shaken, of faith in God and +in humanity wholly independent, in its depths, of storms on the surface +of this mortal life, which was one of Browning's noblest legacies to +that wavering, faithless, pessimistic, analysis-tormented world through +which we have fought our way, and out of which we are emerging. + +4. The danger in art, or for an artist, of so settled a theory is that +in expression it tends to monotony; and sometimes, when we find almost +every poem of Browning's running up into his theory, we arrive at the +borders of the Land of Weary-men. But he seems to have been aware of +this danger, and to have conquered it. He meets it by the immense +variety of the subjects he chooses, and of the scenery in which he +places them. I do not think he ever repeats any one of his examples, +though he always repeats his theory. And the pleasant result is that we +can either ignore the theory if we like, or rejoice over its universal +application, or, beyond it altogether, be charmed and excited by the +fresh examples alone. And they are likely to charm, at least by variety, +for they are taken from all ages of history; from as many diverse phases +of human act, character and passion as there are poems which concern +them; from many periods of the arts; from most of the countries of +Europe, from France, Germany, Spain, Italy, (rarely from England,) with +their specialised types of race and of landscape; and from almost every +class of educated modern society. Moreover, he had a guard within his +own nature against the danger of this monotony. It was the youthful +freshness with which, even in advanced age, he followed his rapid +impulses to art-creation. No one was a greater child than he in the +quickness with which he received a sudden call to poetry from passing +events or scenes, and in the eagerness with which he seized them as +subjects. He took the big subjects now and then which the world expects +to be taken, and treated them with elaborate thought and steadfast +feeling, but he was more often like the girl in his half-dramatic poem, +whom the transient occurrences and sights of the day touched into song. +He picked up his subjects as a man culls flowers in a mountain walk, +moved by an ever-recurring joy and fancy in them--a book on a stall, a +bust in an Italian garden, a face seen at the opera, the market chatter +of a Tuscan town, a story told by the roadside in Brittany, a picture in +some Accademia--so that, though the ground-thought might incur the +danger of dulness through repetition, the joy of the artist so filled +the illustration, and his freshness of invention was so delighted with +itself, that even to the reader the theory seemed like a new star. + +In this way he kept the use of having an unwavering basis of thought +which gave unity to his sixty years of work, and yet avoided the peril +of monotony. An immense diversity animated his unity, filled it with +gaiety and brightness, and secured impulsiveness of fancy. This also +differentiates him from Tennyson, who often wanted freshness; who very +rarely wrote on a sudden impulse, but after long and careful thought; to +whose seriousness we cannot always climb with pleasure; who played so +little with the world. These defects in Tennyson had the excellences +which belong to them in art, just as these excellences in Browning had, +in art, their own defects. We should be grateful for the excellences, +and not trouble ourselves about the defects. However, neither the +excellences nor the defects concern us in the present discussion. It is +the contrast between the two men on which we dwell. + +5. The next point of contrast, which will further illustrate why +Browning was not read of old but is now read, has to do with historical +criticism. There arose, some time ago, as part of the scientific and +critical movement of the last forty years, a desire to know and record +accurately the early life of peoples, pastoral, agricultural and in +towns, and the beginning of their arts and knowledges; and not only +their origins, but the whole history of their development. A close, +critical investigation was made of the origins of each people; accurate +knowledge, derived from contemporary documents, of their life, laws, +customs and language was attained; the facts of their history were +separated from their mythical and legendary elements; the dress, the +looks of men, the climate of the time, the physical aspects of their +country--all the skeleton of things was fitted together, bone to bone. +And for a good while this merely critical school held the field. It did +admirable and necessary work. + +But when it was done, art claimed its place in this work. The desire +sprang up among historians to conceive all this history in the +imagination, to shape vividly its scenery, to animate and individualise +its men and women, to paint the life of the human soul in it, to clothe +it in flesh and blood, to make its feet move and its eyes flash--but to +do all these things within the limits of the accurate knowledge which +historical criticism had defined. "Let us saturate ourselves," said the +historians, "with clear knowledge of the needful facts, and then, +without violation of our knowledge, imagine the human life, the +landscape, the thinking and feeling of a primaeval man, of his early +religion, of his passions; of Athens when the Persian came, of Rome when +the Republic was passing into the Empire, of a Provincial in Spain or +Britain, of a German town in the woods by the river. Let us see in +imagination as well as in knowledge an English settlement on the Welsh +border, an Italian mediaeval town when its art was being born, a Jewish +village when Christ wandered into its streets, a musician or a painter's +life at a time when Greek art was decaying, or when a new impulse like +the Renaissance or the French Revolution came upon the world." When that +effort of the historians had established itself, and we have seen it +from blossoming to fruitage, people began to wonder that no poet had +ever tried to do this kind of work. It seemed eminently fitted for a +poet's hand, full of subjects alluring to the penetrative imagination. +It needed, of course, some scholarship, for it demanded accuracy in its +grasp of the main ideas of the time to be represented; but that being +given, immense opportunities remained for pictures of human life, full +of colour, thought and passions; for subtle and brilliant +representations of the eternal desires and thinkings of human nature as +they were governed by the special circumstances of the time in which the +poem was placed; and for the concentration into a single poem, gathered +round one person, of the ideas whose new arrival formed a crisis in the +history of art. + +Men looked for this in Tennyson and did not find it. His Greek and +mediaeval poems were modernised. Their imaginative work was uncritical. +But when the historians and the critics of art and of religious +movements happened at last to look into Browning, they discovered, to +their delight and wonder, that he had been doing, with a curious +knowledge, this kind of work for many years. He had anticipated the +results of that movement of the imagination in historical work which did +not exist when he began to write; he had worked that mine, and the +discovery of this made another host of people readers of his poetry. + +We need scarcely give examples of this. _Sordello_, in 1840 (long before +the effort of which we speak began), was such a poem--the history of a +specialised soul, with all its scenery and history vividly mediaeval. +Think of the _Spanish Cloister_, _The Laboratory_, _A Grammarian's +Funeral_, the _Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church_, poems, +each of which paints an historical period or a vivid piece of its life. +Think of _The Ring and the Book_, with all the world of Rome painted to +the life, and all the soul of the time! + +The same kind of work was done for phases and periods of the arts from +Greek times to the Renaissance, I may even say, from the Renaissance to +the present day. _Balaustion's Prologue_ concentrates the passage of +dramatic poetry from Sophocles to Euripides. _Aristophanes' Apology_ +realises the wild licence in which art and freedom died in Athens--their +greatness in their ruin--and the passionate sorrow of those who loved +what had been so beautiful. _Cleon_ takes us into a later time when men +had ceased to be original, and life and art had become darkened by the +pain of the soul. We pass on to two different periods of the +Renaissance in _Fra Lippo Lippi_ and in _Andrea del Sarto_, and are +carried further through the centuries of art when we read _Abt Vogler_ +and _A Toccata of Galuppi's_. Each of these poems is a concentrated, +accurate piece of art-history, with the addition to it of the human +soul. + +Periods and phases of religious history are equally realised. _Caliban +upon Setebos_ begins the record--that philosophic savage who makes his +God out of himself. Then follows study after study, from _A Death in the +Desert_ to _Bishop Blougram's Apology_. Some carry us from early +Christianity through the mediaeval faith; others lead us through the +Paganism of the Renaissance and strange shows of Judaism to Browning's +own conception of religion in the present day contrasted with those of +the popular religion in _Christmas-Day and Easter-Day_. + +Never, in poetry, was the desire of the historical critic for accuracy +of fact and portraiture, combined with vivid presentation of life, so +fully satisfied. No wonder Browning was not read of old; but it is no +wonder, when the new History was made, when he was once found out, that +he passed from a few to a multitude of readers. + +6. Another contrast appears at the very beginning of their career. +Tennyson, in his two earliest books in 1830 and 1833, though clearly +original in some poems, had clinging round his singing robes some of the +rags of the past. He wrote partly in the weak and sentimental strain of +the poets between 1822 and 1832. Browning, on the contrary, sprang at +once into an original poetic life of his own. _Pauline_ was unfinished, +irregular in form, harsh, abrupt, and overloaded, but it was also +entirely fresh and distinct. The influence of Shelley echoes in it, but +much more in admiration than in imitation of him. The matter, the spirit +of the poem were his own, and the verse-movement was his own. Had +Browning been an imitator, the first thing he would have imitated would +have been the sweet and rippling movement of Shelley's melodies. But the +form of his verse, such as it was, arose directly out of his own nature +and was as original as his matter. Tennyson grew into originality, +Browning leaped into it; born, not of other poets, but of his own will. +He begat himself. It had been better for his art, so far as technical +excellence is concerned, had he studied and imitated at first the +previous masters. But he did not; and his dominant individuality, whole +in itself and creating its own powers, separates him at the very +beginning from Tennyson. + +7. Tennyson became fully original, but he always admitted, and sometimes +encouraged in himself, a certain vein of conventionality. He kept the +opinions of the past in the matter of caste. He clung to certain +political and social maxims, and could not see beyond them. He sometimes +expressed them as if they were freshly discovered truths or direct +emanations from the Deity of England. He belonged to a certain type of +English society, and he rarely got out of it in his poetry. He inhabited +a certain Park of morals, and he had no sympathy with any self-ethical +life beyond its palings. What had been, what was proper and recognised, +somewhat enslaved in Tennyson that distinctiveness and freedom of +personality which is of so much importance in poetry, and which, had it +had more liberty in Tennyson, would have made him a still greater poet +than he was. + +Browning, on the other hand--much more a person in society than +Tennyson, much more a man of the world, and obeying in society its +social conventions more than Tennyson--never allowed this to touch his +poems. As the artist, he was quite free from the opinions, maxims, and +class conventions of the past or the present. His poetry belongs to no +special type of society, to no special nationality, to no separate creed +or church, to no settled standard of social morality. What his own +thought and emotion urged him to say, he said with an absolute +carelessness of what the world would say. And in this freedom he +preceded and prophesied the reaction of the last years of the nineteenth +century against the tyranny of maxims and conventions in society, in +morals, and in religion. That reaction has in many ways been carried +beyond the proper limits of what is just and beautiful. But these +excesses had to be, and the world is beginning to avoid them. What +remains is the blessing of life set free, not altogether from the use of +conventions, but from their tyranny and oppression, and lifted to a +higher level, where the test of what is right and fitting in act, and +just in thought, is not the opinion of society, but that Law of Love +which gives us full liberty to develop our own nature and lead our own +life in the way we think best independent of all conventions, provided +we do not injure the life of others, or violate any of the great moral +and spiritual truths by obedience to which the progress of mankind is +promoted and secured. Into that high and free region of thought and +action Browning brought us long ago. Tennyson did not, save at intervals +when the poet over-rode the man. This differentiates the men. But it +also tells us why Browning was not read fifty years ago, when social +conventions were tyrannous and respectability a despot, and why he has +been read for the last fifteen years and is read now. + +8. There is another contrast between these poets. It is quite clear that +Tennyson was a distinctively English poet and a patriotic poet; at times +too much of a patriot to judge tolerantly, or to write fairly, about +other countries. He had, at least, a touch of national contempts, even +of national hatreds. His position towards France was much that of the +British sailor of Nelson's time. His position towards Ireland was that +of the bishop, who has been a schoolmaster, to the naughty curate who +has a will of his own. His position towards Scotland was that of one who +was aware that it had a geographical existence, and that a regiment in +the English army which had a genius for fighting was drawn from its +Highlands. He condescends to write a poem at Edinburgh, but then +Edinburgh was of English origin and name. Even with that help he cannot +be patient of the place. The poem is a recollection of an Italian +journey, and he forgets in memories of the South--though surely +Edinburgh might have awakened some romantic associations-- + + the clouded Forth, + The gloom which saddens Heaven and Earth, + The bitter East, the misty summer + And gray metropolis of the North. + +Edinburgh is English in origin, but Tennyson did not feel England beyond +the Border. There the Celt intruded, and he looked askance upon the +Celt. The Celtic spirit smiled, and took its vengeance on him in its own +way. It imposed on him, as his chief subject, a Celtic tale and a Celtic +hero; and though he did his best to de-celticise the story, the +vengeance lasts, for the more he did this the more he injured his work. +However, being always a noble artist, he made a good fight for his +insularity, and the expression of it harmonised with the pride of +England in herself, alike with that which is just and noble in it, and +with that which is neither the one nor the other. + +Then, too, his scenery (with some exceptions, and those invented) was of +his own land, and chiefly of the places where he lived. It was quite +excellent, but it was limited. But, within the limit of England, it was +steeped in the love of England; and so sweet and full is this love, and +so lovely are its results in song, that every Englishman has, for this +reason if for no other, a deep and just affection for Tennyson. +Nevertheless, in that point also his poetry was insular. A fault in the +poet, not in the poetry. Perhaps, from this passionate concentration, +the poetry was all the lovelier. + +Again, when Tennyson took a great gest of war as his subject, he took it +exclusively from the history of his own land. No one would know from his +writings that high deeds of sacrifice in battle had been done by other +nations. He knew of them, but he did not care to write about them. Nor +can we trace in his work any care for national struggles or national +life beyond this island--except in a few sonnets and short pieces +concerning Poland and Montenegro--an isolation of interests which cannot +be imputed to any other great poet of the first part of the nineteenth +century, excepting Keats, who had no British or foreign interests. Keats +had no country save the country of Beauty. + +At all these points Browning differed from Tennyson. He never displayed +a special patriotism. On the contrary, he is more Italian than English, +and he is more quick to see and sympathise with the national +characteristics of Spain or France or Germany, than he is with those of +England. No insular feeling prevented him from being just to foreigners, +or from having a keen pleasure in writing about them. _Strafford_ is the +only play he wrote on an English subject, and it is rather a study of a +character which might find its place in any aristocracy than of an +English character. Even Pym and Hampden fail to be truly English, and it +would have been difficult for any one but Browning to take their eminent +English elements out of them. _Paracelsus_ and _Sordello_ belong to +Germany and Italy, and there are scarcely three poems in the whole of +the seven numbers of the _Bells and Pomegranates_ which even refer to +England. Italy is there, and chiefly Italy. In _De Gustibus_ he +contrasts himself with his friend who loves England: + + Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, + (If our loves remain) + In an English lane + By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. + + * * * + + What I love best in all the world + Is a castle, precipice-encurled, + In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. + +"Look for me, old fellow of mine, if I get out of the grave, in a +seaside house in South Italy," and he describes the place and folk he +loves, and ends: + + Open my heart and you will see + Graved inside of it, "Italy." + Such lovers old are I and she: + So it always was, so shall ever be! + +It is a poem written out of his very heart. + +And then, the scenery? It is not of our country at all. It is of many +lands, but, above all, it is vividly Italian. There is no more minute +and subtly-felt description of the scenery of a piece of village country +between the mountains and the sea, with all its life, than in the poem +called _The Englishman in Italy_. The very title is an outline of +Browning's position in this matter. We find this English poet in France, +in Syria, in Greece, in Spain, but not in England. We find Rome, +Florence, Venice, Mantua, Verona, and forgotten towns among the +Apennines painted with happy love in verse, but not an English town nor +an English village. The flowers, the hills, the ways of the streams, the +talk of the woods, the doings of the sea and the clouds in tempest and +in peace, the aspects of the sky at noon, at sunrise and sunset, are all +foreign, not English. The one little poem which is of English landscape +is written by him in Italy (in a momentary weariness with his daily +adoration), and under a green impulse. Delightful as it is, he would not +have remained faithful to it for a day. Every one knows it, but that we +may realise how quick he was to remember and to touch a corner of early +Spring in England, on a soft and windy day--for all the blossoms are +scattered--I quote it here. It is well to read his sole contribution +(except in _Pauline_ and a few scattered illustrations) to the scenery +of his own country: + + Oh, to be in England + Now that April's there, + And whoever wakes in England + Sees, some morning, unaware, + That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf + Round the elm-tree hole are in tiny leaf, + While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough + In England--now! + + And after April, when May follows, + And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! + Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge + Leans to the field and scatters on the clover + Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- + That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, + Lest you should think he never could recapture + The first fine careless rapture! + And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, + All will be gay, when noontide wakes anew + The buttercups, the little children's dower; + --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! + +So it runs; but it is only a momentary memory; and he knew, when he had +done it, and to his great comfort, that he was far away from England. +But when Tennyson writes of Italy--as, for instance, in _Mariana in the +South_--how apart he is! How great is his joy when he gets back to +England! + +Then, again, when Browning was touched by the impulse to write about a +great deed in war, he does not choose, like Tennyson, English subjects. +The _Cavalier Tunes_ have no importance as patriot songs. They are mere +experiments. The poem, _How They brought the Good News from Ghent to +Aix_, has twice their vigour. His most intense war-incident is taken +from the history of the French wars under Napoleon. The most ringing and +swiftest poem of personal dash and daring--and at sea, as if he was +tired of England's mistress-ship of the waves--a poem one may set side +by side with the fight of _The Revenge_, is _Herve Riel_. It is a tale +of a Breton sailor saving the French fleet from the English, with the +sailor's mockery of England embedded in it; and Browning sent the +hundred pounds he got for it to the French, after the siege of Paris. + +It was not that he did not honour his country, but that, as an artist, +he loved more the foreign lands; and that in his deepest life he +belonged less to England than to the world of man. The great deeds of +England did not prevent him from feeling, with as much keenness as +Tennyson felt those of England, the great deeds of France and Italy. +National self-sacrifice in critical hours, splendid courage in love and +war, belonged, he thought, to all peoples. Perhaps he felt, with +Tennyson's insularity dominating his ears, that it was as well to put +the other side. I think he might have done a little more for England. +There is only one poem, out of all his huge production, which recognises +the great deeds of our Empire in war; and this did not come of a +life-long feeling, such as he had for Italy, but from a sudden impulse +which arose in him, as sailing by, he saw Trafalgar and Gibraltar, +glorified and incarnadined by a battle-sunset: + + Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; + Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; + Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; + In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray; + "Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"--say. + Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, + While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. + +It is a little thing, and when it leaves the sunset it is poor. And +there is twice the fervour of its sunset in the description of the +sunrise at Asolo in _Pippa Passes_. + +Again, there is scarcely a trace in his work of any vital interest in +the changes of thought and feeling in England during the sixty years of +his life, such as appear everywhere in Tennyson. No one would know from +his poetry (at least until the very end of his life, when he wrote +_Francis Furini_) that the science of life and its origins had been +revolutionised in the midst of his career, or, save in _A Death in the +Desert_, that the whole aspect of theology had been altered, or that the +democratic movement had taken so many new forms. He showed to these +English struggles neither attraction nor repulsion. They scarcely +existed for him--transient elements of the world, merely national, not +universal. Nor did the literature or art of his own country engage him +half so much as the literature and art of Italy. He loved both. Few were +better acquainted with English poetry, or reverenced it more; but he +loved it, not because it was English, but of that world of imagination +which has no special country. He cared also for English art, but he gave +all his personal love to the art of Italy. Nor does he write, as +Tennyson loved to do, of the daily life of the English farmer, squire, +miller and sailor, and of English sweet-hearting, nor of the English +park and brook and village-green and their indwellers, but of the +work-girl at Asolo, and the Spanish monk in his garden, and the Arab +riding through the desert, and of the Duchess and her servant flying +through the mountains of Moldavia, and of the poor painters at Fano and +Florence, and of the threadbare poet at Valladolid, and of the +peasant-girl who fed the Tuscan outlaw, and of the poor grammarian who +died somewhere in Germany (as I think Browning meant it), and of the +Jews at Rome, and of the girl at Pornic with the gold hair and the +peasant's hand, and of a hundred others, none of whom are English. All +his common life, all his love-making, sorrow and joy among the poor, are +outside this country, with perhaps two exceptions; and neither of these +has the English note which sounds so soft and clear in Tennyson. This is +curious enough, and it is probably one of the reasons why English people +for a long time would have so little to do with him. All the same, he +was himself woven of England even more than of Italy. The English +elements in his character and work are more than the Italian. His +intellect was English, and had the English faults as well as the English +excellences. His optimism was English; his steadfast fighting quality, +his unyielding energy, his directness, his desire to get to the root of +things, were English. His religion was the excellent English compromise +or rather balance of dogma, practice and spirituality which laymen make +for their own life. His bold sense of personal freedom was English. His +constancy to his theories, whether of faith or art, was English; his +roughness of form was positively early Teutonic. + +Then his wit, his _esprit_,[3] his capacity for induing he skin and the +soul of other persons at remote times of history; his amazing +inventiveness and the ease of it, at which point he beats Tennyson out +of the field; his play, so high fantastical, with his subjects, and the +way in which the pleasure he took in this play overmastered his literary +self-control; his fantastic games with metre and with rhyme, his want of +reverence for the rules of his art; his general lawlessness, belong to +one side, but to one side only, of the Celtic nature. But the ardour +of the man, the pathos of his passion and the passion of his pathos, his +impulse towards the infinite and the constant rush he made into its +indefinite realms; the special set of his imagination towards the +fulfillment of perfection in Love; his vision of Nature as in colour, +rather than in light and shade; his love of beauty and the kind of +beauty that he loved; his extraordinary delight in all kinds of art as +the passionate shaping of part of the unapproachable Beauty--these were +all old Italian. + +Then I do not know whether Browning had any Jewish blood in his body by +descent, but he certainly had Jewish elements in his intellect, spirit +and character. His sense of an ever-victorious Righteousness at the +centre of the universe, whom one might always trust and be untroubled, +was Jewish, but he carried it forward with the New Testament and made +the Righteousness identical with absolute Love. Yet, even in this, the +Old Testament elements were more plainly seen than is usual among +Christians. The appearance of Christ as all-conquering love in +_Easter-Day_ and the scenery which surrounds him are such as Ezekiel +might have conceived and written. Then his intellectual subtlety, the +metaphysical minuteness of his arguments, his fondness for parenthesis, +the way in which he pursued the absolute while he loaded it with a host +of relatives, and conceived the universal through a multitude of +particulars, the love he had for remote and unexpected analogies, the +craft with which his intellect persuaded him that he could insert into +his poems thoughts, illustrations, legends, and twisted knots of +reasoning which a fine artistic sense would have omitted, were all as +Jewish as the Talmud. There was also a Jewish quality in his natural +description, in the way he invented diverse phrases to express different +aspects of the same phenomenon, a thing for which the Jews were famous; +and in the way in which he peopled what he described with animal life of +all kinds, another remarkable habit of the Jewish poets. Moreover, his +pleasure in intense colour, in splashes and blots of scarlet and crimson +and deep blue and glowing green; in precious stones for the sake of +their colour--sapphire, ruby, emerald, chrysolite, pearl, onyx, +chalcedony (he does not care for the diamond); in the flame of gold, in +the crimson of blood, is Jewish. So also is his love of music, of music +especially as bringing us nearest to what is ineffable in God, of music +with human aspiration in its heart and sounding in its phrases. It was +this Jewish element in Browning, in all its many forms, which caused him +to feel with and to write so much about the Jews in his poetry. The two +poems in which he most fully enshrines his view of human life, as it may +be in the thought of God and as it ought to be conceived by us, are both +in the mouth of Jews, of _Rabbi Ben Ezra_ and _Jochanan Hakkadosh_. In +_Filippo Baldinucci_ the Jew has the best of the battle; his courtesy, +intelligence and physical power are contrasted with the coarseness, +feeble brains and body of the Christians. In _Holy-Cross Day_, the Jew, +forced to listen to a Christian sermon, begins with coarse and angry +mockery, but passes into solemn thought and dignified phrase. No English +poet, save perhaps Shakespeare, whose exquisite sympathy could not leave +even Shylock unpitied, has spoken of the Jew with compassion, knowledge +and admiration, till Browning wrote of him. The Jew lay deep in +Browning. He was a complex creature; and who would understand or rather +feel him rightly, must be able to feel something of the nature of all +these races in himself. But Tennyson was not complex. He was English and +only English. + +But to return from this digression. Browning does not stand alone among +the poets in the apartness from his own land of which I have written. +Byron is partly with him. Where Byron differs from him is, first, in +this--that Byron had no poetic love for any special country as Browning +had for Italy; and, secondly, that his country was, alas, himself, until +at the end, sick of his self-patriotism, he gave himself to Greece. +Keats, on the other hand, had no country except, as I have said, the +country of Loveliness. Wordsworth, Coleridge and Shelley were not +exclusively English. Shelley belonged partly to Italy, but chiefly to +that future of mankind in which separate nationalities and divided +patriotisms are absorbed. Wordsworth and Coleridge, in their early days, +were patriots of humanity; they actually for a time abjured their +country. Even in his later days Wordsworth's sympathies reach far beyond +England. But none of these were so distinctively English as Tennyson, +and none of them were so outside of England as Browning. Interesting as +it is, the _completeness_ of this isolation from England was a +misfortune, not a strength, in his poetry. + +There is another thing to say in this connection. The expansion of the +interests of the English poets beyond England was due in Wordsworth, +Coleridge, Shelley, and partly in Byron, to the great tidal-wave of +feeling for man as man, which, rising long before the French Revolution, +was lifted into twice its height and dashed on the shore of the world +with overwhelming volume, by the earthquake in France of 1789. Special +national sentiments were drowned in its waters. Patriotism was the duty +of man, not to any one nation but to the whole of humanity, conceived of +as the only nation. + +In 1832 there was little left of that influence in England among the +educated classes, and Tennyson's insular patriotism represented their +feeling for many years, and partly represents it now. But the ideas of +the Revolution were at the same time taking a wiser and more practical +form among the English democracy than they even had at their first +outburst in France, and this emerged, on one side of it, in the idea of +internationalism. It grew among the propertied classes from the greater +facilities of travel, from the wide extension of commercial, and +especially of literary, intercommunication. Literature, even more than +commerce, diminishes the oppositions and increases the amalgamation of +nations. On her lofty plane nations breathe an air in which their +quarrels die. The same idea grew up of itself among the working classes, +not only in England, but in Germany, Italy, France, America. They began, +and have continued, to lose their old belief in distinct and warring +nationalities. To denationalise the nations into one nation only--the +nation of mankind--is too vast an idea to grow quickly, but in all +classes, and perhaps most in the working class, there are an increasing +number of thinking men who say to the varied nations, "We are all one; +our interests, duties, rights, nature and aims are one." And, for my +part, I believe that in the full development of that conception the +progress of mankind is most deeply concerned, and will be best secured. + +Now, when all these classes in England, brought to much the same point +by different paths, seek for a poetry which is international rather than +national, and which recognises no special country as its own, they do +not find it in Tennyson, but they do find Browning writing, and quite +naturally, as if he belonged to other peoples as much as to his own, +even more than to his own. And they also find that he had been doing +this for many years before their own international interests had been +awakened. That, then, differentiates him completely from Tennyson, and +is another reason why he was not read in the past but is read in the +present. + +9. Again, with regard to politics and social questions, Tennyson made us +know what his general politics were, and he has always pleased or +displeased men by his political position. The British Constitution +appears throughout his work seated like Zeus on Olympus, with all the +world awaiting its nod. Then, also, social problems raise their +storm-awakening heads in his poetry: the Woman's Question; War; +Competition; the State of the Poor; Education; a State without Religion; +the Marriage Question; where Freedom lies; and others. These are brought +by Tennyson, though tentatively, into the palace of poetry and given +rooms in it. + +At both these points Browning differed from Tennyson. He was not the +politician, not the sociologist, only the poet. No trace of the British +Constitution is to be found in his poetry; no one could tell from it +that he had any social views or politics at all. Sixty years in close +contact with this country and its movements, and not a line about them! + +He records the politics of the place and people of whom or of which he +is for the moment writing, but he takes no side. We know what they +thought at Rome or among the Druses of these matters, but we do not know +what Browning thought. The art-representation, the _Vorstellung_ of the +thing, is all; the personal view of the poet is nothing. It is the same +in social matters. What he says as a poet concerning the ideas which +should rule the temper of the soul and human life in relation to our +fellow men may be applied to our social questions, and usefully; but +Browning is not on that plane. There are no poems directly applied to +them. This means that he kept himself outside the realm of political and +social discussions and in the realm of those high emotions and ideas out +of which imagination in lonely creation draws her work to light. With +steady purpose he refused to make his poetry the servant of the +transient, of the changing elements of the world. He avoided the +contemporary. For this high reserve we and the future of art will owe +him gratitude. + +On the contrast between the theology we find in Tennyson and Browning, +and on the contrast between their ethical positions, it will be wiser +not to speak in this introduction. These two contrasts would lead me too +far afield, and they have little or nothing to do with poetry. Moreover, +Browning's theology and ethics, as they are called, have been discussed +at wearying length for the last ten years, and especially by persons who +use his poetry to illustrate from it their own systems of theology, +philosophy and ethics. + +10. I will pass, therefore, to another contrast--the contrast between +them as Artists. + +A great number of persons who write about the poets think, when they +have said the sort of things I have been saying, that they have said +either enough, or the most important things. The things are, indeed, +useful to say; they enable us to realise the poet and his character, and +the elements of which his poetry is made. They place him in a clear +relation to his time; they distinguish him from other poets, and, taken +all together, they throw light upon his work. But they are not half +enough, nor are they the most important. They leave out the essence of +the whole matter; they leave out the poetry. They illuminate the surface +of his poetry, but they do not penetrate into his interpretation, by +means of his special art, and under the influence of high emotion, of +the beautiful and sublime Matter of thought and feeling which arises out +of Nature and Human Nature, the two great subjects of song; which Matter +the poets represent in a form so noble and so lovely in itself that, +when it is received into a heart prepared for it, it kindles in the +receiver a love of beauty and sublimity similar to that which the poet +felt before he formed, and while he formed, his poem. Such a receiver, +reading the poem, makes the poem, with an individual difference, in +himself. And this is the main thing; the eternal, not the temporary +thing. + +Almost all I have already discussed with regard to Tennyson and Browning +belongs to the temporary; and the varying judgments which their public +have formed of them, chiefly based on their appeal to the tendencies of +the time, do not at all predict what the final judgment on these men as +poets is likely to be. That will depend, not on feelings which belong to +the temporary elements of the passing day, but on how far the eternal +and unchanging elements of art appear in their work. The things which +fitted the poetry of Tennyson to the years between 1840 and 1870 have +already passed away; the things which, as I have explained, fitted the +poetry of Browning to the tendencies of the years after 1870 will also +disappear, and are already disappearing. Indeed, the excessive +transiency of nearly all the interests of cultivated society during the +last ten years is that in them which most deeply impresses any man who +sits somewhat apart from them. And, at any rate, none of these merely +contemporary elements, which often seem to men the most important, will +count a hundred years hence in the estimate of the poetry either of +Tennyson or Browning. They will be of historical interest, and no more. +Matters in their poetry, now the subjects of warm discussion among their +critics, will be laid aside as materials for judgment; and justly, for +they are of quite impermanent value. + +Whenever, then, we try to judge them as poets, we must do our best to +discharge these temporary things, and consider their poetry as it will +seem a hundred years hence to men who will think seriously and feel +sensitively, even passionately, towards great and noble Matter of +imaginative thought and emotion concerning human life and the natural +world, and towards lovely creation of such matter into Form. Their +judgment will be made apart from the natural prejudices that arise from +contemporary movements. They will not be wiser in their judgment of +their own poets than we are about ours, but they will be wiser in their +judgment of our poets, because, though they will have their own +prejudices, they will not have ours. Moreover, the long, growing, and +incessantly corrected judgment of those best fitted to feel what is most +beautiful in shaping and most enduring in thought and feeling +penetrated and made infinite by imagination, will, by that time, have +separated the permanent from the impermanent in the work of Browning and +Tennyson. + +That judgment will partly depend on the answers, slowly, as it were +unconsciously, given by the world to two questions. First, how far does +their poetry represent truly and passionately what is natural and most +widely felt in loving human nature, whether terrible or joyful, simple +or complex, tragic or humorous? Secondly, how far is the representation +beautiful and noble in form, and true to the laws of their art. That +poetry which is nearest to the most natural, the most universal elements +of human life when they are suffused with love--in some at least of its +various moods--and at the same time the most beautiful in form, is the +best. It wins most affection from mankind, for it is about noble matters +of thought which the greater number of men and women desire to +contemplate, and about noble matters of passion which the greater number +love and therefore enjoy. This poetry lasts from generation to +generation, is independent of differences made by climate, by caste, by +nationality, by religion, by politics, by knowledge, custom, tradition +or morals. These universal, natural elements of human nature are, in all +their infinite variety and striving, beloved by men, of undying interest +in action, and of immortal pleasure in thought. The nearer a poet is to +them, especially to what is lovable, and therefore beautiful in them, +the greater and the more enduring is his work. It follows that this +greater work will also be simple, that is, easy to feel with the heart +though it may be difficult to grasp by the intelligence. Were it not +simple in feeling, the general answer of mankind to the call of love, in +all its forms, for sympathy would be unheard. And if it be simple in +feeling, it does not much matter if the deep waters of its thought are +difficult for the understanding to fathom. + +It would be ridiculous to dogmatise on a matter which can only be fully +answered a century hence, but this much is plain. Of these two poets, +taking into consideration the whole of their work, Tennyson is the +closest to human nature in its noble, common and loving forms, as +Browning is the closest to what is complex, subtle and uncommon in human +nature. The representation both of the simple and of the complex is a +good thing, and both poets have their place and honour. But the +representation of the complex is plainly the more limited in range of +influence, and appeals to a special class of minds rather than to +mankind at large. There are some, indeed, who think that the appeal to +the few, to thinkers alone or high-wrought specialists in various forms +of culture, marks out the greater poet. It is the tendency of literary +castes to think that specialised work is the greatest. "This man," they +say, "is our poet, not the mob's. He stands apart, and his apartness +marks his greatness." These are amusing persons, who practically say, +"We alone understand him, therefore he is great." + +Yet a phrase like "apartness makes greatness," when justly applied to a +poet, marks, not his superiority of rank, but his inferiority. It +relegates him at once to a lower place. The greatest poets are loved by +all, and understood by all who think and feel naturally. Homer was +loved by Pericles and by the sausage-seller. Vergil was read with joy by +Maecenas and Augustus, and by the vine-dressers of Mantua. Dante drew +after him the greatest minds in Italy, and yet is sung to-day by the +shepherds and peasants of the hill-villages of Tuscany. Shakespeare +pleases the most selected spirits of the world and the galleries of the +strolling theatres. + +And though Tennyson and Browning are far below these mightier poets, yet +when we apply to them this rule, drawn from what we know to be true of +the greatest, Tennyson answers its demand more closely than Browning. +The highest work which poetry can do is to glorify what is most natural +and simple in the whole of loving human nature, and to show the +excelling beauty, not so much of the stranger and wilder doings of the +natural world, but of its everyday doings and their common changes. In +doing these two things with simplicity, passion and beauty is the finest +work of the arts, the eternal youth, the illimitable material of poetry, +and it will endure while humanity endures in this world, and in that +which is to come. Among all our cultivated love of the uncommon, the +remote, the subtle, the involved, the metaphysical and the terrible--the +representation of which things has its due place, even its necessity--it +is well to think of that quiet truth, and to keep it as a first +principle in the judgment of the arts. Indeed, the recovery of the +natural, simple and universal ways of acting and feeling in men and +women who love as the finest subjects of the arts has always regenerated +them whenever, in pursuit of the unnatural, the complicated, the +analytic, and the sensational, they have fallen into decay. + +Browning did not like this view, being conscious that his poetry did not +answer its demand. Not only in early but also in later poems, he +pictured his critics stating it, and his picture is scornful enough. +There is an entertaining sketch of Naddo, the Philistine critic, in the +second book of _Sordello_; and the view I speak of is expressed by him +among a huddle of criticisms-- + + "Would you have your songs endure? + Build on the human heart!--why, to be sure + Yours is one sort of heart.--But I mean theirs, + Ours, every one's, the healthy heart one cares + To build on! Central peace, mother of strength, + That's father of...." + +This is good fooling, and Naddo is an ass. Nevertheless, though Naddo +makes nonsense of the truth, he was right in the main, and Browning as +well as Sordello suffered when they forgot or ignored that truth. And, +of course, Browning did not forget or ignore it in more than half his +work. Even in _Sordello_ he tells us how he gave himself up to recording +with pity and love the doings of the universal soul. He strove to paint +the whole. It was a bold ambition. Few have fulfilled it so well. None, +since Shakespeare, have had a wider range. His portraiture of life was +so much more varied than that of Tennyson, so much more extensive and +detailed, that on this side he excels Tennyson; but such portraiture is +not necessarily poetic, and when it is fond of the complex, it is always +in danger of tending to prose. And Browning, picturing human life, +deviated too much into the delineation of its more obscure and complex +forms. It was in his nature to do and love this kind of work; and indeed +it has to be done, if human life is to be painted fully. Only, it is not +to be done too much, if one desires to be always the poet. For the +representation of the complex and obscure is chiefly done by the +analysing understanding, and its work and pleasure in it lures the poet +away from art. He loses the poetic turn of the thing of which he writes, +and what he produces is not better than rhythmical prose. Again and +again Browning fell into that misfortune; and it is a strange problem +how a man, who was in one part of his nature a great poet, could, under +the sway of another, cease to be a poet. At this point his inferiority +to Tennyson as a poet is plain. Tennyson scarcely ever wrote a line +which was not unmistakably poetry, while Browning could write pages +which were unmistakably not poetry. + +I do not mean, in saying all this, that Browning did not appeal to that +which is deepest and universal in nature and human nature, but only that +he did not appeal to it as much as Tennyson. Browning is often simple, +lovely and universal. And when he speaks out of that emotional +imagination wherein is the hiding of a poet's power, and which is the +legitimate sovereign of his intellectual work, he will win and keep the +delight and love of the centuries to come. By work of this type he will +be finally judged and finally endure; and, even now, every one who loves +great poetry knows what these master-poems are. As to the others, the +merely subtle, analytic poems in which intellect, not imagination, is +supreme, especially those into which he drifted in his later life when +the ardour of his poetic youth glowed less warmly--they will always +appeal to a certain class of persons who would like to persuade +themselves that they like poetry but to whom its book is sealed; and +who, in finding out what Browning means, imagine to their great surprise +that they find out that they care for poetry. What they really care for +is their own cleverness in discovering riddles, and they are as far away +from poetry as Sirius is from the Sun. + +There are, however, many true lovers of poetry who are enthusiastic +about these poems. And parts of them deserve this enthusiasm, for they +have been conceived and made in a wild borderland between analysis and +imagination. They occupy a place apart, a backwater in the noble stream +of English poetry, filled with strange plants; and the final judgment of +Browning's rank as an artist will not depend on them but on the earlier +poems, which, being more "simple, sensuous and passionate," are nearer +to the common love and life of man. When, then, we apply this test, the +difference of rank between him and Tennyson is not great, but it is +plain. Yet comparison, on this point, is difficult. Both drew mankind. +Tennyson is closer to that which is most universal in the human heart, +Browning to the vast variety within it; and men in the future will find +their poetic wants best satisfied by reading the work of both these +poets. Let us say then that in this matter they are equal. Each has done +a different part of that portraiture of human nature which is the chief +work of a poet. + +But this is not the only test we may apply to these men as poets. The +second question which tries the endurance and greatness of poetic work +is this: "How far is any poet's representation of what is true and +loving in itself lovely?" Their stuff may be equally good. Is their form +equally good? Is it as beautiful as an artist, whose first duty is to be +true to beauty as the shape of love and truth, ought to make it? The +judgment of the future will also be formed on that ground, and +inevitably. + +What we call form in poetry may be said to consist of, or to depend on, +three things: (1) on a noble style; (2) on a harmonious composition, +varied but at unity; (3) on a clear, sweet melody of lawful movement in +verse. These are not everything in poetry, but they are the half of its +whole. The other half is that the "matter"--that is, the deep substance +of amalgamated Thought and Emotion--should be great, vital and fair. But +both halves are necessary, and when the half which regards form is weak +or unbeautiful, the judgment of the future drops the poems which are +faulty in form out of memory, just as it drops out of its affections +poems which are excellent in form, but of ignoble, unimpassioned, feeble +or thoughtless matter. There was, for example, a whole set of poets +towards the end of the Elizabethan period who were close and weighty +thinkers, whose poetry is full of intellectual surprises and +difficulties, who were capable of subtlety of expression and even of +lovely turns and phantasies of feeling; whom students read to-day, but +whom the poetical world does not read at all. And the reason is that +their style, their melody, and their composition do not match in +excellence their matter. Their stuff is good, their form is bad. The +judgment of the future gives them no high rank. They do not answer well +to the test of which I speak. + +I do not mean to apply that analogy altogether, only partly, to +Browning. He rises far above these poets in style, composition and +melody, but he skirts their faults. And if we are asked to compare him +to Tennyson, he is inferior to Tennyson at all these points of Form. + +(1) His composition was rarely sufficiently careful. It was broken up, +overcrowded; minor objects of thought or feeling are made too remarkable +for the whole; there is far too little of poetical perspective; the +variety of the poem does not always grow out of the subject itself, but +out of the external play of Browning's mind upon things remotely +connected with the subject; too many side-issues are introduced; +everything he imagined is cast upon the canvas, too little is laid +aside, so that the poems run to a length which weakens instead of +strengthening the main impression. A number of the poems have, that is, +the faults of a composer whose fancy runs away with him, who does not +ride it as a master; and in whom therefore, for a time, imagination has +gone to sleep. Moreover, only too often, they have those faults of +composition which naturally belong to a poet when he writes as if +intellect rather than passion were the ultimate umpire of the work of +his art. Of course, there are many exceptions; and the study of those +exceptions, as exceptions, would make an interesting essay. On the other +hand, Tennyson's composition was for the most part excellent, and +always careful. + +(2) Then as to style. Browning had a style of his own, wholly devoid of +imitation, perfectly individual, and this is one of the marks of a good +artist. It was the outcome of his poetic character, and represented it. +At this point his style is more interesting than Tennyson's. Tennyson's +style was often too much worked, too consciously subjected to the rules +of his art, too worn down to smoothness of texture. Moreover, the +natural surprises of an unchartered individuality do not sufficiently +appear in it (Tennyson repressed the fantastic), though the whole weight +of his character does magnificently appear. But if Tennyson was too +conscious of his style--a great misfortune especially in passionate +song--Browning did not take any deliberate pains with his style, and +that is a greater misfortune. His freedom ran into undue licence; and he +seems to be over-conscious, even proud, of his fantastical way of +writing. His individuality runs riot in his style. He paid little +attention to the well-established rules of his art, in a revulsion, +perhaps, from any imitation of the great models. He had not enough +reverence for his art, and little for the public. He flung his diction +at our heads and said: "This is myself; take it or leave it." + +None of the greater artists of the world have ever done this. They have +not cared for what the world said, but they have cared for their art. +There are certain limits to individual capriciousness in style, long +since laid down, as it were, by Beauty herself; which, transgressed, +lessen, injure or lose beauty; and Browning continually transgressed +those limits. + +Again, clearness is one of the first elements in style, and on poetry +attaining clearness, depends, in great measure, its enduringness in the +future. So far as clearness carries him, Tennyson's poetry is sure to +last. So far as Browning's obscurity goes, his poetry will not last like +Tennyson's. It is all very well for his students to say that he is not +obscure; he is. Nor is it by any exceptional depth of thought or by any +specially profound analysis of the soul that Browning is obscure. It is +by his style. By that he makes what is easy difficult. The reader does +not get at what he means as he gets at what Homer, Dante, and +Shakespeare mean. Dante and Shakespeare are often difficult through the +depth and difficulty of their matter; they are not difficult, except +Shakespeare when he was learning his art, by obscurity or carelessness +of style. But Browning is difficult not by his thoughts, but by his +expression of them. A poet has no right to be so indifferent, so +careless of clearness in his art, I might almost say, so lazy. Browning +is negligent to a fault, almost to impertinence. The great poets put the +right words in the right places, and Tennyson is with them in that. +Browning continually puts his words into the wrong places. He leaves out +words necessary for the easy understanding of the passage, and for no +reason except his fancy. He leaves his sentences half-finished and his +meaning half-expressed. He begins a sentence, and having begun it, three +or four thoughts connected with it slide into his mind, and instead of +putting them aside or using them in another place, he jerks them into +the middle of his sentence in a series of parentheses, and then inserts +the end of the original sentence, or does not insert it at all. This is +irritating except to folk who like discovery of the twisted rather than +poetry; and it is quite needless. It is worse than needless, for it +lowers the charm and the dignity of the poetry. + +Yet, there is something to say on the other side. It is said, and with a +certain justice, that "the style is the man. Strip his style away, and +where is the man? Where is the real Browning if we get him to change a +way of writing in which he naturally shaped his thought?" Well, no one +would ask him to impose on himself a style which did not fit his nature. +That would be fatal. When he has sometimes tried to do so, as in a few +of the dramas, we scarcely recognise our poet, and we lose half of his +intellectual and poetic charm. Just as Carlyle when he wrote away from +his natural style, as in the life of Sterling and Schiller, is not the +great writer he is elsewhere, so was it with Browning. Were we savage +satirists, blinded by our savagery, we might then say both of Browning +and Carlyle that half their power lay in their fantastic, rocky style. +We should be quite wrong. Their style was the exact clothing of their +thought. They wrote exactly as they thought; and when they put their +thought into other clothing, when they doctored their style, they did +not represent what they really thought. No sensible person then would +have asked Browning to change his style, but would have asked him not to +exaggerate it into its defects. It is plain he could have kept it within +bounds. He has done so frequently. But as frequently he has allowed it +to leap about as wildly as a young colt. He should have submitted it to +the _manege_, and ridden it then where he pleased. A very little +trouble on his part, a very little sacrifice of his unbridled +fancifulness, would have spared us a great deal of unnecessary trouble, +and made his poetry better and more enduring. + +Another excuse may be made for his faults of style. It may be said that +in one sense the faults are excellences. When a poet has to represent +excessively subtle phases of thought and feeling, with a crowd of +side-thoughts and side-feelings intruding on them; when he has to +describe the excessive oddities, the curious turns of human emotion in +strange inward conditions or outward circumstances or when he has to +deal with rugged or even savage characters under the sway of the +passions; he cannot, we are told, do it otherwise than Browning did it, +and, instead of being lazy, he used these quips and cranks of style +deliberately. + +The excuse has something in it. But, all the same, an artist should have +managed it otherwise. Shakespeare was far more subtle in thought than +Browning, and he had to deal with every kind of strange circumstance and +characters; but his composition and his style illuminate the characters, +order the circumstances, and render clear, as, for example, in the +Sonnets, the subtleties of his thought. A great artist, by his +comprehensive grasp of the main issue of his work, even in a short lyric +or a small picture, and by his luminous representation of it, suggests, +without direct expression of them, all the strange psychology, and the +play of character in the situations. And such an artist does this +excellent thing by his noble composition, and by his lofty, clear, and +melodious style. The excuse is, then, of some weight, but it does not +relieve Browning of the charge. Had he been a greater artist, he would +have been a greater master of the right way of saying things and a +greater pleasurer of the future. Had he taken more pains with his style, +but without losing its individual elements, he might have had as high a +poetic place as Tennyson in the judgment of posterity. + +(3) In one thing more--in this matter of form--the beauty of poetry +lies. It is in sweetness of melody and its charm; in exquisite fitness +of its music to its thought and its emotion; in lawful change of harmony +making enchanting variety to the ear; in the obedience of the melodies +to the laws of the different kinds of poetry; and in the lovely conduct +of the harmonies, through all their changes, to that finished close +which throws back its own beauty on all that has preceded it. This part +of the loveliness of form in poetry, along with composition and +style--for without these and without noble matter of thought poetry is +nothing but pleasant noise--secures also the continuous delight of men +and the approving judgment of the future; and in this also Tennyson, who +gave to it the steady work of a lifetime, stands above his brother-poet. +Browning was far too careless of his melody. He frequently sacrificed +it, and needlessly, to his thought. He may have imagined that he +strengthened the thing he thought by breaking the melody. He did not, he +injured it. He injured the melody also by casting into the middle of it, +like stones into a clear water, rough parenthetic sounds to suit his +parenthetic phrases. He breaks it sometimes into two with violent +clanging words, with discords which he does not resolve, but forgets. +And in the pleasure he took in quaint oddities of sound, in jarring +tricks with his metre, in fantastic and difficult arrangements of rhyme, +in scientific displays of double rhymes, he, only too often, immolates +melody on the altar of his own cleverness. + +A great many of the poems in which the natural loveliness of melody is +thus sacrificed or maimed will last, on account of the closely-woven +work of the intellect in them, and on account of their vivid +presentation of the travail of the soul; that is, they will last for +qualities which might belong to prose; but they will not last as poetry. +And other poems, in which the melody is only interrupted here and there, +will lose a great deal of the continuity of pleasure they would have +given to man had they been more careful to obey those laws of fine +melody which Tennyson never disobeys. + +It is fortunate that neither of these injuries can be attributed to the +whole of his work; and I am equally far from saying that his faults of +style and composition belong to all his poetry. + +There are a number of poems the melody of which is beautiful, in which, +if there are discords, they are resolved into a happy concord at their +close. There are others the melody of which is so strange, brilliant, +and capturing that their sound is never forgotten. There are others the +subtle, minor harmonies of which belong to and represent remote pathetic +phases of human passion, and they, too, are heard by us in lonely hours +of pitiful feeling, and enchant the ear and heart. And these will endure +for the noble pleasure of man. + +There are also poems the style of which is fitted most happily to the +subject, like the Letter of Karshish to his Friend, in which Browning +has been so seized by his subject, and yet has so mastered it, that he +has forgotten to intercalate his own fancies; and in which, if the style +is broken, it is broken in full harmony with the situation, and in +obedience to the unity of impression he desired to make. There are +others, like _Abt Vogler_, in which the style is extraordinarily noble, +clear, and uplifted; and there are long passages in the more important +poems, like _Paracelsus_, where the joy and glory of the thought and +passion of Browning inform the verse with dignity, and make its march +stately with solemn and beautiful music. Where the style and melody are +thus fine the composition is also good. The parts, in their variety, +belong to one another and to the unity of the whole. Style, melody and +composition are always in the closest relation. And this nobleness of +composition, style, and melody is chiefly found in those poems of his +which have to do with the great matter of poetry--the representation of +the universal and simple passions of human nature with their attendant +and necessary thoughts. And there, in that part of his work, not in that +other part for which he is unduly praised, and which belongs to the +over-subtilised and over-intellectual time in which our self-conscious +culture now is striving to resist its decay, and to prove that its +disease is health, is the lasting power of Browning. + +And then, beyond all these matters of form, there is the poet himself, +alone among his fellows in his unique and individual power, who has +fastened himself into our hearts, added a new world to our perceptions, +developed our lives and enlarged our interests. And there are the +separate and distinguished excellences of his work--the virtues which +have no defects, the virtues, too, of his defects, all the new wonders +of his realm--the many originalities which have justly earned for him +that high and lonely seat on Parnassus on which his noble Shadow sits +to-day, unchallenged in our time save by that other Shadow with whom, in +reverence and love, we have been perhaps too bold to contrast him. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] I state it roughly. The _Poems of Two Brothers_ appeared in 1826, +Tennyson's first single volume in 1830, his second in 1833, his last in +1892. Browning's first poem was issued in 1833, his last in 1890. +_Paracelsus_, in which his genius clearly disclosed itself, was +published in 1835, while Tennyson, seven years later, proved his +mastership in the two volumes of 1842. + +[2] _A Death in the Desert_ touches on the doubts which, when it was +written, had gathered from historical criticism round the subject matter +of the Gospels, but the prophetic answer of St. John is not critical. It +is Browning's personal reply to the critics, and is based on his own +religious philosophy. The critical part of the argument is left +untouched, and the answer is given from the poet's plane. It is the same +when in the _Parleyings with Certain People_ Furini is made to embody +Browning's belief in a personal God in contradistinction with the mere +evolutionist. He does not argue the points. He places one doctrine over +against the other and bids the reader choose. Moreover, he claims his +view as his own alone. He seeks to impose it on no one. + +[3] Much has been said of the humour of Browning. But it is rather wit +than humour which we perceive. The gentle pathos which belongs to +humour, the pitiful turn of the humourist upon himself, his smile at his +own follies and those of mankind, the half light, like that of evening, +in which humour dwells, are wanting in Browning. It is true he has the +charity of humour, though not its pathetic power. But, all the same, he +is too keen, too brilliant, too fierce at times for a humourist. The +light in which we see the foolish, fantastic, amusing or contemptible +things of life is too bright for humour. He is a Wit--with charity--not +a humourist. As for Tennyson, save in his Lincolnshire poems and _Will +Waterproof's Soliloquy_, he was strangely devoid either of humour or of +wit. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER II + +_THE TREATMENT OF NATURE_ + + +It is a difficult task to explain or analyse the treatment of Nature by +Browning. It is easy enough to point out his remarkable love of her +colour, his vivid painting of brief landscapes, his minute observation, +his flashing way of description, his feeling for the breadth and +freshness of Nature, his love of flowers and animals, and the way he has +of hitting and emphasising the central point or light of a landscape. +This is easy work, but it is not so easy to capture and define the way +in which his soul, when he was alone, felt with regard to the heavens, +and the earth and all that therein is. Others, like Wordsworth, have +stated this plainly: Browning has nowhere defined his way. What his +intellect held the Natural World to be, in itself; what it meant for +man; the relation in which it stood to God and God to it--these things +are partly plain. They have their attraction for us. It is always +interesting to know what an imaginative genius thinks about such +matters. But it is only a biographical or a half-scientific interest. +But what we want to discover is how Browning, as a poet, felt the world +of Nature. We have to try and catch the unconscious attitude of his soul +when the Universe was at work around him, and he was for the time its +centre--and this is the real difficulty. + +Sometimes we imagine we have caught and fixed this elusive thing, but we +finally give up the quest. The best we can do is to try to find the two +or three general thoughts, the most frequently recurring emotions +Browning had when Nature at sundry hours and in diverse manners +displayed before him her beauty, splendour and fire, and seemed to ask +his worship; or again, when she stood apart from him, with the mocking +smile she often wears, and whispered in his ear, "Thou shall pursue me +always, but never find my secret, never grasp my streaming hair." And +both these experiences are to be found in Browning. Nature and he are +sometimes at one, and sometimes at two; but seldom the first, and +generally the second. + +The natural world Tennyson describes is for the greater part of it a +reflection of man, or used to heighten man's feeling, or to illustrate +his action, or sentimentalised by memorial associations of humanity, or, +finally, invented as a background for a human subject, and with a +distinct direction towards that subject. Browning, with a few +exceptions, does the exact opposite. His natural world is not made by +our thought, nor does it reflect our passions. His illustrations, drawn +from it, of our actions, break down at certain points, as if the +illustrating material were alien from our nature. Nature, it is true, he +thinks, leads up to man, and therefore has elements in her which are dim +prophecies and prognostics of us; but she is only connected with us as +the road is with the goal it reaches in the end. She exists +independently of us, but yet she exists to suggest to us what we may +become, to awaken in us dim longings and desires, to surprise us into +confession of our inadequacy, to startle us with perceptions of an +infinitude we do not possess as yet but may possess; to make us feel our +ignorance, weakness, want of finish; and by partly exhibiting the +variety, knowledge, love, power and finish of God, to urge us forward in +humble pursuit to the infinite in him. The day Browning climbs Mont +Saleve, at the beginning of his poem _La Saisiaz_, after a description +of his climb in which he notes a host of minute quaintnesses in rock and +flower, and especially little flares of colour, all of them +unsentimentalised, he suddenly stands on the mountain-top, and is +smitten with the glory of the view. What does he see? Himself in Nature? +or Nature herself, like a living being? Not at all. He sees what he +thinks Nature is there to teach us--not herself, but what is beyond +herself. "I was stationed," he cries, deliberately making this point, +"face to face with--Nature?--rather with Infinitude." We are not in +Nature: a part of God aspiring to the whole is there, but not the all of +God. And Nature shows forth her glory, not to keep us with herself, but +to send us on to her Source, of whom the universe is but a shred. + +The universe of what we call matter in all its forms, which is the +definition of Nature as I speak of it here, is one form to Browning of +the creative joy of God: we are another form of the same joy. Nor does +Browning conceive, as Wordsworth conceived, of any pre-established +harmony between us and the natural world, so that Humanity and Nature +can easily converse and live together; so that we can express our +thoughts and emotions in terms of Nature; or so that Nature can have, as +it were, a human soul. This is not Browning's conception. If he had such +a conception he would frequently use in his descriptions what Ruskin +calls the "pathetic fallacy," the use of which is excessively common in +Tennyson. I can scarcely recall more than a very few instances of this +in all the poetry of Browning. Even where it seems to occur, where +Nature is spoken of in human terms, it does not really occur. Take this +passage from _James Lee's Wife_: + + Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, + This autumn morning! How he sets his bones + To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet + For the ripple to run over in its mirth; + Listening the while, where on the heap of stones + The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. + +The smile, the mirth, the listening, might be said to impute humanity to +Nature: but the Earth and the Sea are plainly quite distinct from us. +These are great giant creatures who are not ourselves: Titans who live +with one another and not with us; and the terms of our humanity are used +to make us aware of their separate existence from us, not of their being +images only of our mind. + +Another passage will illustrate the same habit of Browning's mind with +nature. He describes, for the purpose of his general thought, in _Fifine +at the Fair_, the course of a stormy sunset. The clouds, the sun, the +night, act like men, and are written of in terms of humanity. But this +is only to explain matters to us; the mighty creatures themselves have +nothing to do with us. They live their own vast, indifferent life; and +we see, like spectators, what they are doing, and do not understand what +we see. The sunset seems to him the last act of an ever-recurring drama, +in which the clouds barricade the Sun against his rest, and he plays +with their opposition like the huge giant he is; till Night, with her +terrific mace, angry with them for preventing the Sun from repose, +repose which will make her Queen of the world, beats them into ruin. +This is the passage: + + For as on edifice of cloud i' the grey and green + Of evening,--built about some glory of the west, + To barricade the sun's departure,--manifest, + He plays, pre-eminently gold, gilds vapour, crag and crest + Which bend in rapt suspense above the act and deed + They cluster round and keep their very own, nor heed + The world at watch; while we, breathlessly at the base + O' the castellated bulk, note momently the mace + Of night fall here, fall there, bring change with every blow, + Alike to sharpened shaft and broadened portico + I' the structure; heights and depths, beneath the leaden stress + Crumble and melt and mix together, coalesce, + Reform, but sadder still, subdued yet more and more + By every fresh defeat, till wearied eyes need pore + No longer on the dull impoverished decadence + Of all that pomp of pile in towering evidence + So lately. + + _Fifine, cvi_. + +It is plain that Browning separates us altogether from the elemental +life of these gigantic beings. And what is true of these passages is +true, with one or two exceptions, of all the natural descriptions of +Browning in which the pathetic fallacy seems to be used by him. I need +not say how extraordinarily apart this method of his is from that of +Tennyson. Then Tennyson, like Coleridge--only Tennyson is as vague and +wavering in this belief as Coleridge is firm and clear in it--sometimes +speaks as if Nature did not exist at all apart from our thought: + + Her life the eddying of our living soul-- + +a possible, even a probable explanation. But it is not Browning's view. +There is a celebrated passage in _Paracelsus_ which is quite +inconsistent with it. All Nature, from the beginning, is made to issue +forth from the joy God has in making, in embodying his thought in form; +and when one form has been made and rejoiced in, in making another still +more lovely on the foundation of the last. So, joy after joy, the world +was built, till, in the life of all he has made, God sees his ancient +rapture of movement and power, and feels his delight renewed. I will not +quote it here, but only mark that we and the "eddying of our living +soul" have nothing to do with the making of this Nature. It is not even +the thoughts of God in us. God and Nature are alone, and were alone +together countless years before we were born. But man was the close of +all. Nature was built up, through every stage, that man might know +himself to be its close--its seal--but not it. It is a separate, unhuman +form of God. Existing thus apart, it does a certain work on us, +impressing us from without. The God in it speaks to the God in us. It +may sometimes be said to be interested in us, but not like a man in a +man. He even goes so far as to impute to Nature, but rarely, such an +interest in us; but in reality he rather thinks that we, being Nature's +end, have at such times touched for a moment some of those elements in +her which have come down to us--elements apart from the soul. And +Browning takes care, even when he represents Nature as suddenly at one +with us, to keep up the separateness. The interest spoken of is not a +human interest, nor resembles it. It is like the interest Ariel takes in +Prospero and Miranda--an elemental interest, that of a creature whose +nature knows its radical difference from human nature. If Nature sees us +in sorrow or in joy, she knows, in these few passages of Browning's +poetry, or seems to know, that we mourn or rejoice, and if she could +feel with us she would; but she cannot quite do so. Like Ariel, she +would be grieved with the grief of Gonzalo, were her affections human. +She has then a wild, unhuman, unmoral, unspiritual interest in us, like +a being who has an elemental life, but no soul. But sometimes she is +made to go farther, and has the same kind of interest in us which Oberon +has in the loves of Helena and Hermia. When we are loving, and on the +verge of such untroubled joy as Nature has always in her being, then she +seems able, in Browning's poetry, actually to work for us, and help us +into the fulness of our joy. In his poem, _By the Fireside_, he tells +how he and the woman he loved were brought to know their love. It is a +passage full of his peculiar view of Nature. The place where the two +lovers stay their footsteps on the hill knows all about them. "It is +silent and aware." But it is apart from them also: + + It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, + But that is its own affair. + +And its silence also is its own. Those who linger there think that the +place longs to speak; its bosom seems to heave with all it knows; but +the desire is its own, not ours transferred to it. But when the two +lovers were there, Nature, of her own accord, made up a spell for them +and troubled them into speech: + + A moment after, and hands unseen + Were hanging the night around us fast; + But we knew that a bar was broken between + Life and life: we were mixed at last + In spite of the mortal screen. + + The forests had done it; there they stood; + We caught for a moment the powers at play: + They had mingled us so, for once and good, + Their work was done--we might go or stay, + They relapsed to their ancient mood. + +Not one of the poets of this century would have thought in that fashion +concerning Nature. Only for a second, man happened to be in harmony with +the Powers at play in Nature. They took the two lovers up for a moment, +made them one, and dropped them. "They relapsed to their ancient mood." +The line is a whole lesson in Browning's view of Nature. But this +special interest in us is rare, for we are seldom in the blessed mood of +unselfconscious joy and love. When we are, on the other hand, +self-conscious, or in doubt, or out of harmony with love and joy, or +anxious for the transient things of the world--Nature, unsympathetic +wholly, mocks and plays with us like a faun. When Sordello climbs the +ravine, thinking of himself as Apollo, the wood, "proud of its +observer," a mocking phrase, "tried surprises on him, stratagems and +games." + +Or, our life is too small for her greatness. When we are unworthy our +high lineage, noisy or mean, then we + + quail before a quiet sky + Or sea, too little for their quietude. + +That is a phrase which might fall in with Wordsworth's theory of Nature, +but this which follows from _The Englishman in Italy_, is only +Browning's. The man has climbed to the top of Calvano, + + And God's own profound + Was above me, and round me the mountains, + And under, the sea, + And within me, my heart to bear witness + What was and shall be. + +He is worthy of the glorious sight; full of eternal thoughts. Wordsworth +would then have made the soul of Nature sympathise with his soul. But +Browning makes Nature manifest her apartness from the man. The mountains +know nothing of his soul: they amuse themselves with him; they are even +half angry with him for his intrusion--a foreigner who dares an entrance +into their untrespassed world. Tennyson could not have thought that way. +It is true the mountains are alive in the poet's thought, but not with +the poet's life: nor does he touch them with his sentiment. + + Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement + Still moving with you; + For, ever some new head and heart of them + Thrusts into view + To observe the intruder; you see it + If quickly you turn + And, before they escape you surprise them. + They grudge you should learn + How the soft plains they look on, lean over + And love (they pretend)-- + Cower beneath them. + +Total apartness from us! Nature mocking, surprising us; watching us +from a distance, even pleased to see us going to our destruction. We may +remember how the hills look grimly on Childe Roland when he comes to the +tower. The very sunset comes back to see him die: + + before it left, + The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: + The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, + Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay.-- + +Then, as if they loved to see the death of their quarry, cried, without +one touch of sympathy: + + "Now stab and end the creature--to the heft!" + +And once, so divided from our life is her life, she pities her own case +and refuses our pity. Man cannot help her. The starved, ignoble country +in _Childe Roland_, one of the finest pieces of description in Browning, +wicked, waste and leprous land, makes Nature herself sick with peevish +wrath. "I cannot help my case," she cries. "Nothing but the Judgment's +fire can cure the place." + +On the whole, then, for these instances might be supported by many more, +Nature is alive in Browning, but she is not humanised at all, nor at all +at one with us. Tennyson does not make her alive, but he does humanise +her. The other poets of the century do make her alive, but they +harmonise her in one way or another with us. Browning is distinct from +them all in keeping her quite divided from man. + +But then he has observed that Nature is expressed in terms of man, and +he naturally, for this conflicts with his general view, desires to +explain this. He does explain it in a passage in _Paracelsus_. Man once +descried, imprints for ever + + His presence on all lifeless things; the winds + Are henceforth voices, wailing or a shout, + A querulous mutter or a quick gay laugh, + Never a senseless gust now man is born. + The herded pines commune and have deep thoughts + A secret they assemble to discuss + When the sun drops behind their trunks which glare + Like grates of hell: the peerless cup afloat + Of the lake-lily is an urn, some nymph + Swims bearing high above her head: no bird + Whistles unseen, but through the gaps above + That let light in upon the gloomy woods, + A shape peeps from the breezy forest-top, + Arch with small puckered mouth and mocking eye. + The morn has enterprise, deep quiet droops + With evening, triumph takes the sunset hour. + Voluptuous transport ripens with the corn + Beneath a warm moon like a happy face: + --And this to fill us with regard for Man. + +He does not say, as the other poets do, that the pines really commune, +or that the morn has enterprise, or that nymphs and satyrs live in the +woods, but that this _seems_ to be, because man, as the crown of the +natural world, throws back his soul and his soul's life on all the +grades of inferior life which preceded him. It is Browning's +contradiction of any one who thinks that the pathetic fallacy exists in +his poetry. + +Nature has then a life of her own, her own joys and sorrows, or rather, +only joy. Browning, indeed, with his intensity of imagination and his +ineradicable desire of life, was not the man to conceive Nature as dead, +as having no conscious being of any kind. He did not impute a +personality like ours to Nature, but he saw joy and rapture and play, +even love, moving in everything; and sometimes headded to this delight +she has in herself--and just because the creature was not human--a touch +of elemental unmoral malice, a tricksome sportiveness like that of Puck +in _Midsummer Night's Dream_. The life, then, of Nature had no relation +of its own to our life; but we had some relation to it because we were +conscious that we were its close and its completion. + +It follows from this idea of Browning's that he was capable of +describing Nature as she is, without adding any deceiving mist of human +sentiment to his descriptions; and of describing her as accurately and +as vividly as Tennyson, even more vividly, because of his extraordinary +eye for colour. And Nature, so described, is of great interest in +Browning's poetry. + +But, then, in any description of Nature, we desire the entrance into +such description of some human feeling so that it may be a more complete +theme for poetry. Browning does this in a different way from Tennyson, +who gives human feelings and thoughts to Nature, or steeps it in human +memories. Browning catches Nature up into himself, and the human element +is not in Nature but in him, in what _he_ thinks and feels, in all that +Nature, quite apart from him, awakens in him. Sometimes he even goes so +far as to toss Nature aside altogether, as unworthy to be thought of in +comparison with humanity. That joy in Nature herself, for her own sake, +which was so distinguishing a mark of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, +Byron and Keats, is rarely, if ever, found in Browning. This places him +apart. What he loved was man; and save at those times of which I have +spoken, when he conceives Nature as the life and play and wrath and +fancy of huge elemental powers like gods and goddesses, he uses her as a +background only for human life. She is of little importance unless man +be present, and then she is no more than the scenery in a drama. Take +the first two verses of _A Lovers' Quarrel_, + + Oh, what a dawn of day! + How the March sun feels like May! + All is blue again + After last night's rain, + And the South dries the hawthorn-spray. + +That is well done--he has liked what he saw. But what is it all, he +thinks; what do I care about it? And he ends the verse: + + Only, my Love's away! + I'd as lief that the blue were grey. + +Then take the next verse: + + Runnels, which rillets swell. + Must be dancing down the dell, + With a foaming head + On the beryl bed + Paven smooth as a hermit's cell. + +It is excellent description, but it is only scenery for the real passion +in Browning's mind. + + Each with a tale to tell-- + Could my Love but attend as well. + +_By the Fireside_ illustrates the same point. No description can be +better, more close, more observed, than of the whole walk over the hill; +but it is mere scenery for the lovers. The real passion lies in their +hearts. + +We have then direct description of Nature; direct description of man +sometimes as influenced by Nature; sometimes Nature used as the scenery +of human passion; but no intermingling of them both. Each is for ever +distinct. The only thing that unites them in idea, and in the end, is +that both have proceeded from the creative joy of God. + +Of course this way of thinking permits of the things of Nature being +used to illustrate the doings, thinkings and character of man; and in +none of his poems is such illustration better used than in _Sordello_. +There is a famous passage, in itself a noble description of the opulent +generativeness of a warm land like Italy, in which he compares the rich, +poetic soul of Sordello to such a land, and the lovely line in it, + + And still more labyrinthine buds the rose, + +holds in its symbolism the whole essence of a great artist's nature. I +quote the passage. It describes Sordello, and it could not better +describe Italy: + + Sordello foremost in the regal class + Nature has broadly severed from the mass + Of men, and framed for pleasure, as she frames + Some happy lands, that have luxurious names, + For loose fertility; a footfall there + Suffices to upturn to the warm air + Half-germinating spices; mere decay + Produces richer life; and day by day + New pollen on the lily-petal grows, + And still more labyrinthine buds the rose. + +That compares to the character of a whole country the character of a +whole type of humanity. I take another of such comparisons, and it is as +minute as this is broad, and done with as great skill and charm. +Sordello is full of poetic fancies, touched and glimmering with the dew +of youth, and he has woven them around the old castle where he lives. +Browning compares the young man's imaginative play to the airy and +audacious labour of the spider. He, that is, Sordello, + + O'er-festooning every interval, + As the adventurous spider, making light + Of distance, shoots her threads from depth to height, + From barbican to battlement: so flung + Fantasies forth and in their centre swung + Our architect,--the breezy morning fresh + Above, and merry,--all his waving mesh + Laughing with lucid dew-drops rainbow-edged. + +It could not be better done. The description might stand alone, but +better than it is the image it gives of the joy, fancifulness and +creativeness of a young poet, making his web of thoughts and +imaginations, swinging in their centre like the spider; all of them +subtle as the spider's threads, obeying every passing wind of impulse, +and gemmed with the dew and sunlight of youth. + +Again, in _A Bean-stripe: also Apple-Eating_, Ferishtah is asked--Is +life a good or bad thing, white or black? "Good," says Ferishtah, "if +one keeps moving. I only move. When I stop, I may stop in a black place +or a white. But everything around me is motionless as regards me, and is +nothing more than stuff which tests my power of throwing light and +colour on them as I move. It is I who make life good or bad, black or +white. I am like the moon going through vapour"--and this is the +illustration: + + Mark the flying orb + Think'st thou the halo, painted still afresh + At each new cloud-fleece pierced and passaged through + This was and is and will be evermore + Coloured in permanence? The glory swims + Girdling the glory-giver, swallowed straight + By night's abysmal gloom, unglorified + Behind as erst before the advancer: gloom? + Faced by the onward-faring, see, succeeds + From the abandoned heaven a next surprise. + And where's the gloom now?--silver-smitten straight, + One glow and variegation! So, with me, + Who move and make,--myself,--the black, the white. + The good, the bad, of life's environment. + +Fine as these illustrations are, intimate and minute, they are only a +few out of a multitude of those comparisons which in Browning image what +is in man from that which is within Nature--hints, prognostics, +prophecies, as he would call them, of humanity, but not human. + +There is, however, one human passion which Browning conceives as +existing in Nature--the passion of joy. But it is a different joy from +ours. It is not dashed by any sorrow, and it is very rarely that we are +so freed from pain or from self-contemplation as to be able to enter +even for a brief hour into the rapture of Nature. That rapture, in +Browning's thought, was derived from the creative thought of God +exercising itself with delight in the incessant making of Nature. And +its manifestation was life, that joyful rush of life in all things into +fuller and fuller being. No poet felt this ecstasy of mere living in +Nature more deeply than Browning. His own rapture (the word is not too +strong) in it appears again and again in his poetry, and when it does, +Browning is not a man sympathising from without with Nature. He is then +a part of Nature herself, a living piece of the great organism, having +his own rejoicing life in the mightier life which includes him; and +feeling, with the rest, the abounding pleasure of continuous life +reaching upwards through growth to higher forms of being, swifter powers +of living. I might give many examples, but one will suffice, and it is +the more important because it belongs not to his ardent youth, but to +his mature manhood. It is part of the song of Thamyris in _Aristophanes' +Apology_. Thamyris, going to meet the Muses in rivalry, sings as he +walks in the splendid morning the song of the rapture of the life of +Earth, and is himself part of the rejoicing movement. + + Thamuris, marching, laughed "Each flake of foam" + (As sparklingly the ripple raced him by) + "Mocks slower clouds adrift in the blue dome!" + + For Autumn was the season; red the sky + Held morn's conclusive signet of the sun + To break the mists up, bid them blaze and die. + + Morn had the mastery as, one by one + All pomps produced themselves along the tract + From earth's far ending to near heaven begun. + + Was there a ravaged tree? it laughed compact + With gold, a leaf-ball crisp, high brandished now, + Tempting to onset frost which late attacked. + + Was there a wizened shrub, a starveling bough, + A fleecy thistle filched from by the wind, + A weed, Pan's trampling hoof would disallow? + + Each, with a glory and a rapture twined + About it, joined the rush of air and light + And force: the world was of one joyous mind. + + Say not the birds flew! they forebore their right-- + Swam, revelling onward in the roll of things. + Say not the beasts' mirth bounded! that was flight-- + + How could the creatures leap, no lift of wings? + Such earth's community of purpose, such + The ease of earth's fulfilled imaginings,-- + + So did the near and far appear to touch + I' the moment's transport,--that an interchange + Of function, far with near, seemed scarce too much; + + And had the rooted plant aspired to range + With the snake's licence, while the insect yearned + To glow fixed as the flower, it were not strange-- + + No more than if the fluttery tree-top turned + To actual music, sang itself aloft; + Or if the wind, impassioned chantress, earned + + The right to soar embodied in some soft + Fine form all fit for cloud companionship, + And, blissful, once touch beauty chased so oft. + + Thamuris, marching, let no fancy slip + Born of the fiery transport; lyre and song + Were his, to smite with hand and launch from lip-- + +The next thing to touch on is his drawing of landscape, not now of +separate pieces of Nature, but of the whole view of a land seen under a +certain aspect of the heavens. All the poets ought to be able to do this +well, and I drew attention to the brief, condensed, yet fan-opening +fashion in which Tennyson has done it. Sometimes the poets describe what +they see before them, or have seen; drawing directly from Nature. +Sometimes they invent a wide or varied landscape as a background for a +human subject, and arrange and tone it for that purpose. Shelley did +this with great stateliness and subtlety. Browning does not do it, +except, perhaps, in _Christmas-Eve_, when he prepares the night for the +appearance of Christ. Nevertheless, even in _Christmas-Eve_, the +description of the lunar rainbow is of a thing he has seen, of a +not-invented thing, and it is as clear, vivid and natural as it can be; +only it is heightened and thrilled through by the expectancy and the +thrill in Browning's soul which the reader feels and which the poet, +through his emotion, makes the reader comprehend. But there is no +suggestion that any of this feeling exists in Nature. The rainbow has no +consciousness of the vision to come or of the passion in the poet (as it +would have had in Wordsworth), and therefore is painted with an accuracy +undimmed by any transference to Nature of the soul of the poet. + +I quote the piece; it is a noble specimen of his landscape work: + + But lo, what think you? suddenly + The rain and the wind ceased, and the sky + Received at once the full fruition + Of the moon's consummate apparition. + The black cloud barricade was riven, + Ruined beneath her feet, and driven + Deep in the West; while, bare and breathless, + North and South and East lay ready + For a glorious thing that, dauntless, deathless, + Sprang across them and stood steady. + + 'Twas a moon-rainbow, vast and perfect, + From heaven to heaven extending, perfect + As the mother-moon's self, full in face. + It rose, distinctly at the base + With its severe proper colours chorded + Which still, in the rising, were compressed, + Until at last they coalesced, + And supreme the spectral creature lorded + In a triumph of whitest white,-- + Above which intervened the night. + But above night too, like only the next, + The second of a wondrous sequence, + Reaching in rare and rarer frequence, + Till the heaven of heavens were circumflexed, + Another rainbow rose, a mightier, + Fainter, flushier and flightier,-- + Rapture dying along its verge. + Oh, whose foot shall I see emerge, + Whose, from the straining topmost dark, + On to the key-stone of that arc? + +This is only a piece of sky, though I have called it landscape work. But +then the sky is frequently treated alone by Browning; and is always +present in power over his landscapes--it, and the winds in it. This is +natural enough for one who lived so much in Italy, where the scenery of +the sky is more superb than that of the earth--so various, noble and +surprising that when Nature plays there, as a poet, her tragedy and +comedy, one scarcely takes the trouble of considering the earth. + +However, we find an abundance of true landscapes in Browning. They are, +with a few exceptions, Italian; and they have that grandeur and breadth, +that intensity given by blazing colour, that peculiar tint either of +labyrinthine or of tragic sentiment which belong to Italy. I select a +few of them: + + The morn when first it thunders in March + The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say; + As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch + Of the villa gate this warm March day, + No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled + In the valley beneath where, white and wide + Washed by the morning water-gold, + Florence lay out on the mountain side + River and bridge and street and square + Lay mine, as much at my beck and call, + Through the live translucent bath of air, + As the sights in a magic crystal ball. + +Here is the Roman Campagna and its very sentiment: + + The champaign with its endless fleece + Of feathery grasses everywhere! + Silence and passion, joy and peace, + An everlasting wash of air-- + Rome's ghost since her decease. + +And this might be in the same place: + + Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, + Miles and miles + On the solitary pastures where our sheep + Half-asleep + Tinkle homeward through the twilight-- + +This is a crimson sunset over dark and distant woods in autumn: + + That autumn eve was stilled: + A last remains of sunset dimly burned + O'er the far forests, like a torch-flame turned + By the wind back upon its bearer's hand + In one long flare of crimson; as a brand + The woods beneath lay black. A single eye + From all Verona cared for the soft sky. + +And if we desire a sunrise, there is the triumphant beginning of _Pippa +Passes_--a glorious outburst of light, colour and splendour, impassioned +and rushing, the very upsoaring of Apollo's head behind his furious +steeds. It begins with one word, like a single stroke on the gong of +Nature: it continues till the whole of the overarching vault, and the +world below, in vast disclosure, is flooded with an ocean of gold. + + Day! + Faster and more fast, + O'er night's brim, day boils at last; + Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim + Where spurting and suppressed it lay. + For not a froth-flake touched the rim + Of yonder gap in the solid gray + Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; + But forth one wavelet, then another, curled. + Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, + Rose, reddened, and its seething breast + Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world. + +This is chiefly of the sky, but the description in that gipsy-hearted +poem, _The Flight of the Duchess_, brings before us, at great length, +league after league of wide-spreading landscape. It is, first, of the +great wild country, cornfield, vineyards, sheep-ranges, open chase, till +we arrive at last at the mountains; and climbing up among their pines, +dip down into a yet vaster and wilder country, a red, drear, burnt-up +plain, over which we are carried for miles: + + Till at the last, for a bounding belt, + Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore. + +Or we may read the _Grammarian's Funeral_, where we leave the city walls +and climb the peak on whose topmost ledge he is to be buried. As we +ascend the landscape widens; we see it expanding in the verse. Moreover, +with a wonderful power, Browning makes us feel the air grow keener, +fresher, brighter, more soundless and lonelier. That, too, is given by +the verse; it is a triumph in Nature-poetry. + +Nor is he less effective in narrow landscape, in the description of +small shut-in spaces of Nature. There is the garden at the beginning of +_Paracelsus_; the ravine, step by step, in _Pauline_; the sea-beach, and +its little cabinet landscapes, in _James Lee's Wife_; the exquisite +pictures of the path over the Col di Colma in _By the Fireside_--for +though the whole of the landscape is given, yet each verse almost might +stand as a small picture by itself. It is one of Browning's favourite +ways of description, to walk slowly through the landscape, describing +step by step those parts of it which strike him, and leaving to us to +combine the parts into the whole. But _his_ way of combination is to +touch the last thing he describes with human love, and to throw back +this atmosphere of feeling over all the pictures he has made. The verses +I quote do this. + + Oh moment, one and infinite! + The water slips o'er stock and stone; + The West is tender, hardly bright; + How grey at once is the evening grown-- + One star, its chrysolite! + + We two stood there with never a third, + But each by each, as each knew well: + The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, + The lights and the shades made up a spell + Till the trouble grew and stirred. + + Oh, the little more, and how much it is! + And the little less, and what worlds away! + How a sound shall quicken content to bliss, + Or a breath suspend the blood's best play, + And life be a proof of this! + +There are many such miniatures of Nature in Browning's poetry. +Sometimes, however, the pictures are larger and nobler, when the natural +thing described is in itself charged with power, terror or dignity. I +give one instance of this, where the fierce Italian thunderstorm is +enhanced by being the messenger of God's vengeance on guilt. It is from +_Pippa Passes_. The heaven's pillars are over-bowed with heat. The +black-blue canopy descends close on Ottima and Sebald. + + Buried in woods we lay, you recollect; + Swift ran the searching tempest overhead; + And ever and anon some bright white shaft + Burned thro' the pine-tree roof, here burned and there, + As if God's messenger thro' the close wood-screen + Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture, + Feeling for guilty thee and me; then broke + The thunder like a whole sea overhead-- + +That is as splendid as the thing itself. + +Again, no one can help observing in all these quotations the +extraordinary love of colour, a love Tennyson has in far fainter +measure, but which Browning seems to possess more than any other English +poet. Only Sir Walter Scott approaches him in this. Scott, knowing the +Highlands, knew dark magnificence of colour. But Browning's love of +colour arose from his having lived so long in Italy, where the light is +so pure, clear, and brilliant that colour is more intense, and at dawn +and sunset more deep, delicate, and various than it is in our land. +Sometimes, as Ruskin says, "it is not colour, it is conflagration"; but +wherever it is, in the bell of a flower, on the edge of a cloud, on the +back of a lizard, on the veins of a lichen, it strikes in Browning's +verse at our eyes, and he only, in English poetry, has joy enough in it +to be its full interpreter. + +He sees the wild tulip blow out its great red bell; he sees the thin +clear bubble of blood at its tip; he sees the spike of gold which burns +deep in the bluebell's womb; the corals that, like lamps, disperse thick +red flame through the dusk green universe of the ocean; the lakes which, +when the morn breaks, + + Blaze like a wyvern flying round the sun; + +the woodland brake whose withered fern Dawn feeds with gold; the moon +carried oft at sunrise in purple fire; the larch-blooms crisp and pink; +the sanguine heart of the pomegranate; the filberts russet-sheathed and +velvet-capped; the poppies crimson to blackness; the red fans of the +butterfly falling on the rock like a drop of fire from a brandished +torch; the star-fish, rose-jacynth to the finger-tips; and a hundred +other passionate seizures of colour. And, for the last of these colour +remembrances, in quieter tints--almost in black and white--I quote this +lovely verse from _James Lee's Wife_: + + The swallow has set her six young on the rail, + And looks seaward: + The water's in stripes like a snake, olive pale + To the leeward,-- + On the weather-side, black, spotted white with the wind. + "Good fortune departs, and disaster's behind"-- + Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite wail! + +So, not only do we possess all these landscapes but we possess them in +colour. They are painted as well as drawn. It is his love of colour +which made at least half of the impulse that drove him at times into +Impressionism. Good drawing is little to the impressionist painters. It +is the sudden glow, splash or flicker of colour that moves them, which +makes on them the swift, the momentary impression they wish to record. + +And colour acted on Browning in the same way. I said he had been +impressionist, when he liked, for forty years before Impressionism was +born in modern art. He was so, because from the beginning he saw things +in colour, more than in light and shade. It is well worth a reader's +while to search him for colour-impressions. I take one, for example, +with the black horse flung in at the end exactly in the way an artist +would do it who loved a flash of black life midst of a dead expanse of +gold and green: + + Fancy the Pampas' sheen! + Miles and miles of gold and green + Where the sunflowers blow + In a solid glow, + And--to break now and then the screen-- + Black neck and eyeballs keen, + Up a wild horse leaps between! + +Having, then, this extraordinary power of sight, needing no carefulness +of observation or study, but capable of catching and holding without +trouble all that his eye rested or glanced upon, it is no wonder that +sometimes it amused him to put into verse the doings of a whole day: the +work done in it by men of all classes and the natural objects that +encompassed them; not cataloguing them dryly, but shooting through them, +like rays of light, either his own fancies and thoughts, or the fancies +and thoughts of some typical character whom he invented. This he has +done specially in two poems: _The Englishman in Italy_, where the vast +shell of the Sorrento plain, its sea and mountains, and all the doings +of the peasantry, are detailed with the most intimate delight and +truth. The second of these poems is _Up at a Villa--Down in the City_, +where a farm of the Casentino with its surroundings is contrasted with +the street-life of Florence; and both are described through the +delightful character whom he invents to see them. These poems are +astonishing pieces of intimate, joyful observation of scenery. + +Again, there is no poet whose love of animals is greater than +Browning's, and none who has so frequently, so carefully, so vividly +described them. It is amazing, as we go through his work, to realise the +largeness of his range in this matter, from the river-horse to the +lizard, from the eagle to the wren, from the loud singing bee to the +filmy insect in the sunshine. I give a few examples. Mortal man could +not see a lynx more clearly than Karshish-- + + A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear; + Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls. + +And the very soul of the Eagle is in this question-- + + Ask the geier-eagle why she stoops at once + Into the vast and unexplored abyss, + What full-grown power informs her from the first, + Why she not marvels, strenuously beating + The silent boundless regions of the sky! + +He has watched the heavy-winged osprey in its haunts, fain to fly, + + but forced the earth his couch to make + Far inland, till his friend the tempest wake, + +on whose fiercer wings he can flap his own into activity. + +In _Caliban upon Setebos_, as would naturally be the case, animal life +is everywhere; and how close to truth, how keenly observed it is, how +the right points for description are chosen to make us feel the beast +and bird in a single line; how full of colour, how flashed into words +which seem like colours, the descriptions are, any animal-lover may hear +in the few lines I quote: + + Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; + Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, + That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown + He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye. + By moonlight. + +That is enough to prove his power. And the animals are seen, not as a +cultured person sees them, but as a savage, with his eyes untroubled by +thoughts, sees them; for Browning, with his curious self-transmuting +power, has put himself into the skin of Caliban. Then again, in that +lovely lyric in _Paracelsus_, + + Thus the Mayne glideth, + +the banks and waves are full of all the bird and beast life of a river. +Elsewhere, he sees the falcon spread his wings like a banner, the stork +clapping his bill in the marsh, the coot dipping his blue breast in the +water, the swallow flying to Venice--"that stout sea-farer"--the lark +shivering for joy, and a hundred other birds; and lastly, even the great +bird of the Imagination, the Phoenix, flying home; and in a splendid +verse records the sight: + + As the King-bird with ages on his plumes + Travels to die in his ancestral glooms. + +Not less wonderful, and more unique in English poetry, is his painting +of insects. He describes the hermit-bee, the soft, small, unfrighted +thing, lighting on the dead vine-leaf, and twirling and filing all day. +He strikes out the grasshopper at a touch-- + + Chirrups the contumacious grasshopper. + +He has a swift vision of the azure damsel-fly flittering in the wood: + + Child of the simmering quiet, there to die. + +He sees all the insect population of an old green wall; fancies the +fancies of the crickets and the flies, and the carousing of the cicala +in the trees, and the bee swinging in the chalice of the campanula, and +the wasps pricking the papers round the peaches, and the gnats and early +moths craving their food from God when dawn awakes them, and the +fireflies crawling like lamps through the moss, and the spider, +sprinkled with mottles on an ash-grey back, and building his web on the +edge of tombs. These are but a few things out of this treasure-house of +animal observation and love. It is a love which animates and populates +with life his landscapes. + +Many of the points I have attempted here to make are illustrated in +_Saul_. In verse v. the sheep are pictured, with all a shepherd's +delightful affection, coming back at evening to the folding; and, with +David's poetic imagination, compared to the stars following one another +into the meadows of night-- + + And now one after one seeks his lodging, as star follows star + Into eve and the blue far above us,--so blue and so far!-- + +In verse vi. the quails, and the crickets, and the jerboa at the door +of his sand house, are thrilled into quicker life by David's music. In +verse ix. the full joy of living in beasts and men is painted in the +midst of landscape after landscape, struck out in single lines,--till +all nature seems crowded and simmering with the intense life whose +rapture Browning loved so well. These fully reveal his poetic communion +with animals. Then, there is a fine passage in verse x. where he +describes the loosening of a thick bed of snow from the +mountain-side[4]--an occurrence which also drew the interest on Shelley +in the _Prometheus_--which illustrates what I have said of Browning's +conception of the separate life, as of giant Titans, of the vaster +things in Nature. The mountain is alive and lives his life with his own +grim joy, and wears his snow like a breastplate, and discharges it when +it pleases him. It is only David who thinks that the great creature +lives to guard us from the tempests. And Hebron, high on its crested +hill, lifts itself out of the morning mist in the same giant fashion, + + For I wake in the grey dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves + The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves + Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. + +Then, at the end of the poem, Browning represents all Nature as full of +emotion, as gathered into a fuller life, by David's prophecy of the +coming of immortal Love in Christ to man. This sympathy of Nature with +humanity is so rare a thought in Browning, and so apart from his view of +her, that I think he felt its strangeness here; so that he has taken +some pains to make us understand that it is not Nature herself who does +this, but David, in his uplifted inspiration, who imputes it to her. If +that is not the case, it is at least interesting to find the poet, +impassioned by his imagination of the situation, driven beyond his usual +view into another land of thought. + +There is one more thing to say in closing this chapter. Browning, unlike +Tennyson, did not invent his landscapes. He drew directly from nature. +The landscapes in _Pauline_ and _Sordello_, and in the lyrical poems are +plainly recollections of what he has seen and noted in his memory, from +the sweep of the mountainous or oceanic horizon to the lichen on the +rock and the painted shell on the seashore. Even the imaginative +landscape of _Childe Roland_ is a memory, not an invention. I do not say +he would have been incapable of such invented landscape as we find in +_Oenone_ and the _Lotos-Eaters_, but it was not his way to do this. +However, he does it once; but he takes care to show that it is not real +landscape he is drawing, but landscape in a picture. In _Gerard de +Lairesse_, one of the poems in _Parleyings with Certain People_, he sets +himself to rival the "Walk" in Lairesse's _Art of Painting_, and he +invents as a background to mythological or historic scenes, five +landscapes, of dawn, morning, and noon, evening and falling night. They +may be compared with the walk in _Pauline_, and indeed one of them with +its deep pool watched over by the trees recalls his description of a +similar pool in _Pauline_--a lasting impression of his youth, for it is +again used in _Sordello_. These landscapes are some of his most careful +natural description. They begin with the great thunderstorm of dawn in +which Prometheus is seen riveted to his rock and the eagle-hound of Zeus +beside him. Then the morning is described and the awakening of the earth +and Artemis going forth, the huntress-queen and the queen of death; then +noon with Lyda and the Satyr--that sad story; then evening charged with +the fate of empires; and then the night, and in it a vast ghost, the +ghost of departing glory and beauty. The descriptions are too long to +quote, but far too short to read. I would that Browning had done more of +this excellent work; but that these were created when he was an old man +proves that the fire of imagination burnt in him to the end. They are +full of those keen picture-words in which he smites into expression the +central point of a landscape. They realise the glory of light, the +force, fierceness, even the quiet of Nature, but they have lost a great +deal of the colour of which once he was so lavish. Nevertheless, the +whole scheme of colour in these pictures, with their figures, recalls +the pictures of Tintoret. They have his _furia_, his black, gold, and +sombre purple, his white mist and barred clouds and the thunder-roar in +his skies. Nor are Prometheus and Artemis, and Lyda on her heap of skins +in the deep woods, unworthy of the daring hand of the great Venetian. +They seem to stand forth from his canvas. + +The poem closes with a charming lyric, half-sad, half-joyful, in which +he hails the spring, and which in itself is full of his heart when it +was close to the hopefulness he drew from natural beauty. I quote it to +close this chapter: + + Dance, yellows and whites and reds, + Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, heads + Astir with the wind in the tulip-beds. + + There's sunshine; scarcely a wind at all + Disturbs starved grass and daisies small + On a certain mound by a churchyard wall. + + Daisies and grass be my heart's bed-fellows, + On the mound wind spares and sunshine mellows: + Dance you, reds and whites and yellows. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[4] David could only have seen this on the upper slopes of Hermon. But +at the time of the poem, when he is the shepherd-youth, he could +scarcely have visited the north of Palestine. Indeed, he does not seem +all his life long to have been near Hermon. Browning has transferred to +David what he himself had seen in Switzerland. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER III + +_THE TREATMENT OF NATURE_ + + +In the previous chapter, some of the statements made on Browning as a +poet of Nature were not sufficiently illustrated; and there are other +elements in his natural description which demand attention. The best way +to repair these deficiencies will be to take chronologically the natural +descriptions in his poems and to comment upon them, leaving out those on +which we have already touched. New points of interest will thus arise; +and, moreover, taking his natural description as it occurs from volume +to volume, we may be able--within this phase of his poetic nature--to +place his poetic development in a clearer light. + +I begin, therefore, with _Pauline_. The descriptions of nature in that +poem are more deliberate, more for their own sake, than elsewhere in +Browning's poetry. The first of them faintly recalls the manner of +Shelley in the _Alastor_, and I have no doubt was influenced by him. The +two others, and the more finished, have already escaped from Shelley, +and are almost pre-Raphaelite, as much so as Keats, in their detail. Yet +all the three are original, not imitative. They suggest Shelley and +Keats, and no more, and it is only the manner and not the matter of +these poets that they suggest. Browning became instantly original in +this as in other modes of poetry. It was characteristic of him from the +beginning to the end of his career, to possess within himself his own +methods, to draw out of himself new matter and new shapings. + +From one point of view this was full of treasureable matter for us. It +is not often the gods give us so opulent an originality. From another +point of view it was unfortunate. If he had begun by imitating a little; +if he had studied the excellences of his predecessors more; if he had +curbed his individuality sufficiently to mark, learn and inwardly digest +the noble style of others in natural description, and in all other +matters of poetry as well, his work would have been much better than it +is; his original excellences would have found fitter and finer +expression; his faults would have been enfeebled instead of being +developed; his style would have been more concise on one side, less +abrupt on another, and we should not have been wrongly disturbed by +obscurities of diction and angularities of expression. He would have +reached more continuously the splendid level he often attained. This is +plentifully illustrated by his work on external nature, but less perhaps +than by his work on humanity. + +The first natural description he published is in the beginning of +_Pauline_: + + Thou wilt remember one warm morn when winter + Crept aged from the earth, and spring's first breath + Blew soft from the moist hills; the blackthorn boughs, + So dark in the bare wood, when glistening + In the sunshine were white with coming buds, + Like the bright side of a sorrow, and the banks + Had violets opening from sleep like eyes. + +That is fairly good; he describes what he has seen; but it might have +been better. We know what he means, but his words do not accurately or +imaginatively convey this meaning. The best lines are the first three, +but the peculiar note of Shelley sighs so fully in them that they do not +represent Browning. What is special in them is his peculiar delight not +only in the morning which here he celebrates, but in the spring. It was +in his nature, even in old age, to love with passion the beginnings of +things; dawn, morning, spring and youth, and their quick blood; their +changes, impulses, their unpremeditated rush into fresh experiment. +Unlike Tennyson, who was old when he was old, Browning was young when he +was old. Only once in _Asolando_, in one poem, can we trace that he felt +winter in his heart. And the lines in _Pauline_ which I now quote, +spoken by a young man who had dramatised himself into momentary age, are +no ill description of his temper at times when he was really old: + + As life wanes, all its care and strife and toil + Seem strangely valueless, while the old trees + Which grew by our youth's home, the waving mass + Of climbing plants heavy with bloom and dew, + The morning swallows with their songs like words. + All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts: + So, aught connected with my early life, + My rude songs or my wild imaginings, + How I look on them--most distinct amid + The fever and the stir of after years! + +The next description in _Pauline_ is that in which he describes--to +illustrate what Shelley was to him--the woodland spring which became a +mighty river. Shelley, as first conceived by Browning, seemed to him +like a sacred spring: + + Scarce worth a moth's flitting, which long grasses cross, + And one small tree embowers droopingly-- + Joying to see some wandering insect won + To live in its few rushes, or some locust + To pasture on its boughs, or some wild bird + Stoop for its freshness from the trackless air. + +A piece of careful detail, close to nature, but not close enough; +needing to be more detailed or less detailed, but the first instance in +his work of his deliberate use of Nature, not for love of herself only, +(Wordsworth, Coleridge or Byron would have described the spring in the +woods for its own sake), but for illustration of humanity. It is +Shelley--Shelley in his lonely withdrawn character, Shelley hidden in +the wood of his own thoughts, and, like a spring in that wood, bubbling +upwards into personal poetry--of whom Browning is now thinking. The +image is good, but a better poet would have dwelt more on the fountain +and left the insects and birds alone. It is Shelley also of whom he +thinks--Shelley breaking away from personal poetry to write of the fates +of men, of liberty and love and overthrow of wrong, of the future of +mankind--when he expands his tree-shaded fountain into the river and +follows it to the sea: + + And then should find it but the fountain head, + Long lost, of some great river washing towns + And towers, and seeing old woods which will live + But by its banks untrod of human foot. + Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quivering + In light as some thing lieth half of life + Before God's foot, waiting a wondrous change; + Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stay + Its course in vain, for it does ever spread + Like a sea's arm as it goes rolling on, + Being the pulse of some great country--so + Wast thou to me, and art thou to the world! + +How good some of that is; how bad it is elsewhere! How much it needs +thought, concentration, and yet how vivid also and original! And the +faults of it, of grammar, of want of clearness, of irritating +parenthesis, of broken threads of thought, of inability to leave out the +needless, are faults of which Browning never quite cleared his work. I +do not think he ever cared to rid himself of them. + +The next description is not an illustration of man by means of Nature. +It is almost the only set description of Nature, without reference to +man, which occurs in the whole of Browning's work. It is introduced by +his declaration (for in this I think he speaks from himself) of his +power of living in the life of all living things. He does not think of +himself as living in the whole Being of Nature, as Wordsworth or Shelley +might have done. There was a certain matter of factness in him which +prevented his belief in any theory of that kind. But he does transfer +himself into the rejoicing life of the animals and plants, a life which +he knows is akin to his own. And this distinction is true of all his +poetry of Nature. "I can mount with the bird," he says, + + Leaping airily his pyramid of leaves + And twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree, + Or like a fish breathe deep the morning air + In the misty sun-warm water. + +This introduces the description of a walk of twenty-four hours through +various scenes of natural beauty. It is long and elaborate--the scenery +he conceives round the home where he and Pauline are to live. And it is +so close, and so much of it is repeated in other forms in his later +poetry, that I think it is drawn direct from Nature; that it is here +done of set purpose to show his hand in natural description. It begins +with night, but soon leaves night for the morning and the noon. Here is +a piece of it: + + Morning, the rocks and valleys and old woods. + How the sun brightens in the mist, and here, + Half in the air, like[5] creatures of the place, + Trusting the elements, living on high boughs + That sway in the wind--look at the silver spray + Flung from the foam-sheet of the cataract + Amid the broken rocks! Shall we stay here + With the wild hawks? No, ere the hot noon come + Dive we down--safe! See, this is our new retreat + Walled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs, + Dark, tangled, old and green, still sloping down + To a small pool whose waters lie asleep, + Amid the trailing boughs turned water-plants: + And tall trees overarch to keep us in, + Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts, + And in the dreamy water one small group + Of two or three strange trees are got together + Wondering at all around-- + +This is nerveless work, tentative, talkative, no clear expression of the +whole; and as he tries to expand it further in lines we may study with +interest, for the very failures of genius are interesting, he becomes +even more feeble. Yet the feebleness is traversed by verses of power, +like lightning flashing through a mist upon the sea. The chief thing to +say about this direct, detailed work is that he got out of its manner as +fast as he could. He never tried it again, but passed on to suggest the +landscape by a few sharp, high-coloured words; choosing out one or two +of its elements and flashing them into prominence. The rest was left to +the imagination of the reader. + +He is better when he comes forth from the shadowy woodland-pool into the +clear air and open landscape: + + Up for the glowing day, leave the old woods! + See, they part like a ruined arch: the sky! + Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats laden + With light, like a dead whale that white birds pick, + Floating away in the sun in some north sea. + Air, air, fresh life-blood, thin and searching air, + The clear, dear breath of God that loveth us, + Where small birds reel and winds take their delight! + +The last three lines are excellent, but nothing could be worse than the +sensational image of the dead whale. It does not fit the thing he +desires to illustrate, and it violates the sentiment of the scene he is +describing, but its strangeness pleased his imagination, and he put it +in without a question. Alas, in after times, he only too often, both in +the poetry of nature and of the human soul, hurried into his verse +illustrations which had no natural relation to the matter in hand, just +because it amused him to indulge his fancy. The finished artist could +not do this; he would hear, as it were, the false note, and reject it. +But Browning, a natural artist, never became a perfect one. +Nevertheless, as his poetry went on, he reached, by natural power, +splendid description, as indeed I have fully confessed; but, on the +other hand, one is never sure of him. He is never quite "inevitable." + +The attempt at deliberate natural description in _Pauline_, of which I +have now spoken, is not renewed in _Paracelsus_. By the time he wrote +that poem the movement and problem of the spirit of man had all but +quenched his interest in natural scenery. Nature is only introduced as a +background, almost a scenic background for the players, who are the +passions, thoughts, and aspirations of the intellectual life of +Paracelsus. It is only at the beginning of Part II. that we touch a +landscape: + + Over the waters in the vaporous West + The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold + Behind the arm of the city, which between; + With all the length of domes and minarets, + Athwart the splendour, black and crooked runs + Like a Turk verse along a scimitar. + +That is all; nothing but an introduction. Paracelsus turns in a moment +from the sight, and absorbs himself in himself, just as Browning was +then doing in his own soul. Nearly two thousand lines are then written +before Nature is again touched upon, and then Festus and Paracelsus are +looking at the dawn; and it is worth saying how in this description +Browning's work on Nature has so greatly improved that one can scarcely +believe he is the same poet who wrote the wavering descriptions of +_Pauline_. This is close and clear: + + Morn must be near. + + FESTUS. Best ope the casement: see, + The night, late strewn with clouds and flying stars, + Is blank and motionless: how peaceful sleep + The tree-tops all together! Like an asp[6] + The wind slips whispering from bough to bough. + + * * * + + PARACELSUS. See, morn at length. The heavy darkness seems + Diluted, grey and clear without the stars; + The shrubs bestir and rouse themselves as if + Some snake, that weighed them down all night, let go + His hold; and from the East, fuller and fuller, + Day, like a mighty river, flowing in; + But clouded, wintry, desolate and cold. + +That is good, clear, and sufficient; and there the description should +end. But Browning, driven by some small demon, adds to it three lines of +mere observant fancy. + + Yet see how that broad prickly star-shaped plant, + Half-down in the crevice, spreads its woolly leaves, + All thick and glistening with diamond dew. + +What is that for? To give local colour or reality? It does neither. It +is mere childish artistry. Tennyson could not have done it. He knew when +to stay his hand.[7] + +The finest piece of natural description in _Paracelsus_ is of the +coming of Spring. It is full of the joy of life; it is inspired by a +passionate thought, lying behind it, concerning man. It is still more +inspired by his belief that God himself was eternal joy and filled the +universe with rapture. Nowhere did Browning reach a greater height in +his Nature poetry than in these lines, yet they are more a description, +as usual, of animal life than of the beauty of the earth and sea: + + Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: + But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes + Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure + Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between + The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, + Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; + The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms + Like chrysalids impatient for the air, + The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run + Along the furrows, ants make their ado; + Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark + Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; + Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls + Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe + Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek + Their loves in wood and plain--and God renews + His ancient rapture. + +Once more, in _Paracelsus_, there is the lovely lyric about the flowing +of the Mayne. I have driven through that gracious country of low hill +and dale and wide water-meadows, where under flowered banks only a foot +high the slow river winds in gentleness; and this poem is steeped in the +sentiment of the scenery. But, as before, Browning quickly slides away +from the beauty of inanimate nature into a record of the animals that +haunt the stream. He could not get on long with mountains and rivers +alone. He must people them with breathing, feeling things; anything for +life! + + Thus the Mayne glideth + Where my Love abideth. + Sleep's no softer; it proceeds + On through lawns, on through meads, + On and on, whate'er befall, + Meandering and musical, + Though the niggard pasturage + Bears not on its shaven ledge + Aught but weeds and waving grasses + To view the river as it passes, + Save here and there a scanty patch + Of primroses too faint to catch + A weary bee. + And scarce it pushes + Its gentle way through strangling rushes + Where the glossy kingfisher + Flutters when noon-heats are near, + Glad the shelving banks to shun + Red and steaming in the sun, + Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat + Burrows, and the speckled stoat; + Where the quick sandpipers flit + In and out the marl and grit + That seems to breed them, brown as they: + Naught disturbs its quiet way, + Save some lazy stork that springs, + Trailing it with legs and wings, + Whom the shy fox from the hill + Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. + +"My heart, they loose my heart, those simple words," cries Paracelsus, +and he was right. They tell of that which to see and love is better, +wiser, than to probe and know all the problems of knowledge. But that is +a truth not understood, not believed. And few there be who find it. And +if Browning had found the secret of how to live more outside of his +understanding than he did, or having found it, had not forgotten it, he +would not perhaps have spoken more wisely for the good of man, but he +would have more continuously written better poetry. + +The next poem in which he may be said to touch Nature is _Sordello_. +_Strafford_ does not count, save for the charming song of the boat in +music and moonlight, which the children sing. In _Sordello_, the problem +of life, as in _Paracelsus_, is still the chief matter, but outward +life, as not in _Paracelsus_, takes an equal place with inward life. And +naturally, Nature, its changes and beauty, being outward, are more fully +treated than in _Paracelsus_. But it is never treated for itself alone. +It is made to image or reflect the sentiment of the man who sees it, or +to illustrate a phase of his passion or his thought. But there is a +closer grip upon it than before, a clearer definition, a greater power +of concentrated expression of it, and especially, a fuller use of +colour. Browning paints Nature now like a Venetian; the very shadows of +objects are in colour. This new power was a kind of revelation to him, +and he frequently uses it with a personal joy in its exercise. Things in +Nature blaze in his poetry now and afterwards in gold, purple, the +crimson of blood, in sunlit green and topaz, in radiant blue, in dyes of +earthquake and eclipse. Then, when he has done his landscape thus in +colour, he adds more; he places in its foreground one drop, one eye of +still more flaming colour, to vivify and inflame the whole. + +The main landscape of _Sordello_ is the plain and the low pine-clad +hills around Mantua; the half-circle of the deep lagoon which enarms the +battlemented town; and the river Mincio, seen by Sordello when he comes +out of the forest on the hill, as it enters and leaves the lagoon, and +winds, a silver ribbon, through the plain. It is the landscape Vergil +must have loved. A long bridge of more than a hundred arches, with +towers of defence, crosses the marsh from the towered gateway of the +walls to the mainland, and in the midst of the lagoon the deep river +flows fresh and clear with a steady swiftness. Scarcely anywhere in +North Italy is the upper sky more pure at dawn and even, and there is no +view now so mystic in its desolation. Over the lagoon, and puffing from +it, the mists, daily encrimsoned by sunrise and sunset, continually rise +and disperse. + +The character and the peculiarities of this landscape Browning has +seized and enshrined in verse. But his descriptions are so arranged as +to reflect certain moments of crisis in the soul of Sordello. He does +not describe this striking landscape for its own sake, but for the sake +of his human subject. The lines I quote below describe noon-day on the +lagoon, seen from the golden woods and black pines; and the vision of +the plain, city and river, suddenly opening out from the wood, +symbolises the soul of Sordello opening out from solitude "into the +veritable business of mankind." + + Then wide + Opened the great morass, shot every side + With flashing water through and through; a-shine, + Thick-steaming, all-alive. Whose shape divine + Quivered i' the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced + Athwart the flying herons? He advanced, + But warily; though Mincio leaped no more, + Each footfall burst up in the marish-floor + A diamond jet. + +And then he somewhat spoils this excellent thing by a piece of detail +too minute for the largeness of the impression. But how clear and how +full of true sentiment it is; and how the image of Palma rainbowed in +the mist, and of Sordello seeing her, fills the landscape with youthful +passion! + +Here is the same view in the morning, when Mincio has come down in flood +and filled the marsh: + + Mincio, in its place, + Laughed, a broad water, in next morning's face, + And, where the mists broke up immense and white + I' the steady wind, burned like a spilth of light + Out of the crashing of a million stars. + +It were well to compare that brilliant piece of light with the grey +water-sunset at Ferrara in the beginning of Book VI. + + While eve slow sank + Down the near terrace to the farther bank, + And only one spot left from out the night + Glimmered upon the river opposite-- + breadth of watery heaven like a bay, + A sky-like space of water, ray for ray, + And star for star, one richness where they mixed + As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, + Tumultuary splendours folded in + To die. + +As usual, Spring enchants him. The second book begins with her coming, +and predicates the coming change in Sordello's soul. + + The woods were long austere with snow; at last + Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast + Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes, + Brightened, as in the slumbrous heart of the woods + Our buried year, a witch, grew young again + To placid incantations, and that stain + About were from her cauldron, green smoke blent + With those black pines. + +Nor does he omit in _Sordello_ to recall two other favourite aspects of +nature, long since recorded in _Pauline_, the ravine and the woodland +spring. Just as Turner repeated in many pictures of the same place what +he had first observed in it, so Browning recalled in various poems the +first impressions of his youth. He had a curious love for a ravine with +overhanging trees and a thin thread of water, looping itself round +rocks. It occurs in the _Fireside_, it is taken up in his later poems, +and up such a ravine Sordello climbs among the pines of Goito: + + He climbed with (June at deep) some close ravine + Mid clatter of its million pebbles sheen, + Over which, singing soft, the runnel slipped + Elate with rains. + +Then, in _Sordello_, we come again across the fountain in the grove he +draws in _Pauline_, now greatly improved in clearness and +word-brightness--a real vision. Fate has given him here a fount + + Of pure loquacious pearl, the soft tree-tent + Guards, with its face of reate and sedge, nor fail + The silver globules and gold-sparkling grail + At bottom-- + +where the impulse of the water sends up the sand in a cone--a solitary +loveliness of Nature that Coleridge and Tennyson have both drawn with a +finer pencil than Browning. The other examples of natural description in +_Sordello_, as well as those in _Balaustion_ I shall reserve till I +speak of those poems. As to the dramas, they are wholly employed with +humanity. In them man's soul has so overmastered Browning that they are +scarcely diversified half a dozen times by any illustrations derived +from Nature. + +We now come, with _The Ring and the Book_, to a clear division in his +poetry of Nature. From this time forth Nature decays in his verse. Man +masters it and drives it out. In _The Ring and the Book_, huge as it is, +Nature rarely intrudes; the human passion of the matter is so great that +it swallows up all Browning's interest. There is a little forky flashing +description of the entrance to the Val d'Ema in Guido's first statement. +Caponsacchi is too intensely gathered round the tragedy to use a single +illustration from Nature. The only person who does use illustrations +from Nature is the only one who is by age, by his life, by the apartness +of his high place, capable of sufficient quiet and contemplation to +think of Nature at all. This is the Pope. + +He illustrates with great vigour the way in which Guido destroyed all +the home life which clung about him and himself remained dark and vile, +by the burning of a nest-like hut in the Campagna, with all its vines +and ivy and flowers; till nothing remains but the blackened walls of the +malicious tower round which the hut had been built. + +He illustrates the sudden event which, breaking in on Caponsacchi's +life, drew out of him his latent power and his inward good, by this +vigorous description: + + As when a thundrous midnight, with black air + That burns, rain-drops that blister, breaks a spell, + Draws out the excessive virtue of some sheathed + Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides + Immensity of sweetness. + +And the last illustration, in which the Pope hopes that Guido's soul may +yet be saved by the suddenness of his death, is one of the finest +pieces of natural description in Browning, and reads like one of his own +memories: + + I stood at Naples once, a night so dark + I could have scarce conjectured there was earth + Anywhere, sky or sea or world at all: + But the night's black was burst through by a blaze-- + Thunder struck blow on blow, earth groaned and bore, + Through her whole length of mountain visible: + There lay the city thick and plain with spires, + And, like a ghost disshrouded, white the sea. + So may the truth be flashed out by one blow, + And Guido see, one instant, and be saved. + +After _The Ring and the Book_, poor Nature, as one of Browning's +mistresses, was somewhat neglected for a time, and he gave himself up to +ugly representations of what was odd or twisted in humanity, to its +smaller problems, like that contained in _Fifine at the Fair_, to its +fantastic impulses, its strange madnesses, its basenesses, even its +commonplace crimes. These subjects were redeemed by his steady effort to +show that underneath these evil developments of human nature lay +immortal good; and that a wise tolerance, based on this underlying +godlikeness in man, was the true attitude of the soul towards the false +and the stupid in mankind. This had been his attitude from the +beginning. It differentiates him from Tennyson, who did not maintain +that view; and at that point he is a nobler poet than Tennyson. + +But he became too much absorbed in the intellectual treatment of these +side-issues in human nature. And I think that he was left unprotected +from this or not held back from it by his having almost given up Nature +in her relation to man as a subject for his poetry. To love that great, +solemn and beautiful Creature, who even when she seems most merciless +retains her glory and loveliness, keeps us from thinking too much on the +lower problems of humanity, on its ignobler movements; holds before us +infinite grandeur, infinite beauty, infinite order, and suggests and +confirms within us eternal aspiration. Those intimations of the ideal +and endless perfectness which are dimmed within us by the meaner aspects +of human life, or by the sordid difficulties of thought which a sensual +and wealth-seeking society present to us, are restored to us by her +quiet, order and beauty. When he wrote _Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Red +Cotton Nightcap Country_, and _The Inn Album_, Nature had ceased to +awaken the poetic passion in him, and his poetry suffered from the loss. +Its interest lies in the narrow realm of intellectual analysis, not in +the large realm of tragic or joyous passion. He became the dissector of +corrupt bodies, not the creator of living beings. + +Nevertheless, in _Fifine at the Fair_ there are several intercalated +illustrations from Nature, all of which are interesting and some +beautiful. The sunset over Sainte-Marie and the lie Noirmoutier, with +the birds who sing to the dead, and the coming of the nightwind and the +tide, is as largely wrought as the description of the mountain rill--the +"infant of mist and dew," and its voyage to the sea is minute and +delicate. There is also that magnificent description of a sunset which I +have already quoted. It is drawn to illustrate some remote point in the +argument, and is far too magnificent for the thing it illustrates. Yet +how few in this long poem, how remote from Browning's heart, are these +touches of Nature. + +Again, in _The Inn Album_ there is a description of an English elm-tree, +as an image of a woman who makes marriage life seem perfect, which is +interesting because it is the third, and only the third, reference to +English scenery in the multitude of Browning's verses. The first is in +_Pauline_, the second in that poem, "Oh, to be in England," and this is +the third. The woman has never ceased to gaze + + On the great elm-tree in the open, posed + Placidly full in front, smooth hole, broad branch, + And leafage, one green plenitude of May. + ... bosomful + Of lights and shades, murmurs and silences, + Sun-warmth, dew-coolness, squirrel, bee, bird, + High, higher, highest, till the blue proclaims + "Leave Earth, there's nothing better till next step + Heavenward!" + +This, save in one line, is not felt or expressed with any of that +passion which makes what a poet says completely right. + +Browning could not stay altogether in this condition, in which, +moreover, his humour was also in abeyance; and in his next book, +_Pacchiarotto, &c._, he broke away from these morbid subjects, and, with +that recovery, recovered also some of his old love of Nature. The +prologue to that book is poetry; and Nature (though he only describes an +old stone wall in Italy covered with straying plants) is interwoven with +his sorrow and his love. Then, all through the book, even in its most +fantastic humour, Nature is not altogether neglected for humanity; and +the poetry, which Browning seemed to have lost the power to create, has +partly returned to him. That is also the case in _La Saisiaz_, and I +have already spoken of the peculiar elements of the nature-poetry in +that work. In the _Dramatic Idyls_, of which he was himself fond; and in +_Jocoseria_, there is very little natural description. The subjects did +not allow of it, but yet Nature sometimes glides in, and when she does, +thrills the verse into a higher humanity. In _Ferishtah's Fancies_, a +book full of flying charm, Nature has her proper place, and in the +lyrics which close the stories she is not forgotten; but still there is +not the care for her which once ran like a full river of delight through +his landscape of human nature. He loved, indeed, that landscape of +mankind the most, the plains and hills and woods of human life; but when +he watered it with the great river of Nature his best work was done. +Now, as life grew to a close, that river had too much dried up in his +poetry. + +It was not that he had not the power to describe Nature if he cared. But +he did not care. I have spoken of the invented descriptions of morn and +noon and sunset in Gerard de Lairesse in the book which preceded +_Asolando_. They have his trenchant power, words that beat out the scene +like strokes on an anvil, but, curiously enough, they are quite +unsuffused with human feeling; as if, having once divorced Nature from +humanity, he never could bring them together again. Nor is this a mere +theory. The Prologue to _Asolando_ supports it. + +That sorrowful poem, written, it seems, in the year he died (1889), +reveals his position towards Nature when he had lost the power of youth +to pour fire on the world. It is full of his last thinking. "The poet's +age is sad," he says. "In youth his eye lent to everything in the +natural world the colours of his own soul, the rainbow glory of +imagination: + + And now a flower is just a flower: + Man, bird, beast are but beast, bird, man-- + Simply themselves, uncinct by dower + Of dyes which, when life's day began, + Round each in glory ran." + +"Ah! what would you have?" he says. "What is the best: things draped in +colour, as by a lens, or the naked things themselves? truth ablaze, or +falsehood's fancy haze? I choose the first." + +It is an old man's effort to make the best of age. For my part, I do not +see that the things are the better for losing the colour the soul gives +them. The things themselves are indifferent. But as seen by the soul, +they are seen in God, and the colour and light which imagination gives +them are themselves divine. Nor is their colour or light only in our +imagination, but in themselves also, part of the glory and beauty of +God. A flower is never only a flower, or a beast a beast. And so +Browning would have said in the days when he was still a lover of Nature +as well as of man, when he was still a faithful soldier in the army of +imagination, a poet more than a philosopher at play. It is a sad +business. He has not lost his eagerness to advance, to climb beyond the +flaming walls, to find God in his heaven. He has not lost the great +hopes with which he began, nor the ideals he nursed of old. He has not +lost his fighting power, nor his cheerful cry that life is before him in +the fulness of the world to come. The _Reverie_ and the _Epilogue_ to +_Asolando_ are noble statements of his courage, faith, and joy. There is +nothing sad there, nothing to make us beat the breast. But there is +sadness in this abandonment of the imaginative glory with which once he +clothed the world of Nature; and he ought to have retained it. He would +have done so had he not forgotten Nature in anatomising man. + +However, he goes on with his undying effort to make the best of things, +and though he has lost his rapture in Nature, he has not lost his main +theory of man's life and of the use of the universe. The end of this +_Prologue_ puts it as clearly as it was put in _Paracelsus_. Nothing is +changed in that. + +"At Asolo," he continues, "my Asolo, when I was young, all natural +objects were palpably clothed with fire. They mastered me, not I them. +Terror was in their beauty. I was like Moses before the Bush that +burned. I adored the splendour I saw. Then I was in danger of being +content with it; of mistaking the finite for the infinite beauty. To be +satisfied--that was the peril. Now I see the natural world as it is, +without the rainbow hues the soul bestowed upon it. Is that well? In one +sense yes. + + And now? The lambent flame is--where? + Lost from the naked world: earth, sky, + Hill, vale, tree, flower--Italia's rare + O'er-running beauty crowds the eye-- + But flame?--The Bush is bare. + +All is distinct, naked, clear, Nature and nothing else. Have I lost +anything in getting down to fact instead of to fancy? Have I shut my +eyes in pain--pain for disillusion? No--now I know that my home is not +in Nature; there is no awe and splendour in her which can keep me with +her. Oh, far beyond is the true splendour, the infinite source of awe +and love which transcends her: + + No, for the purged ear apprehends + Earth's import, not the eye late dazed: + The Voice said "Call my works thy friends! + At Nature dost thou shrink amazed? + God is it who transcends." + +All Browning is in that way of seeing the matter; but he forgets that he +could see it in the same fashion while he still retained the imaginative +outlook on the world of Nature. And the fact is that he did do so in +_Paracelsus_, in _Easter-Day_, in a host of other poems. There was then +no need for him to reduce to naked fact the glory with which young +imagination clothed the world, in order to realise that God transcended +Nature. He had conceived that truth and believed it long ago. And this +explanation, placed here, only tells us that he had lost his ancient +love of Nature, and it is sorrowful to understand it of him. + +Finally, the main contentions of this chapter, which are drawn from a +chronological view of Browning's treatment of Nature, are perhaps worth +a summary. The first is that, though the love of Nature was always less +in him than his love of human nature, yet for the first half of his work +it was so interwoven with his human poetry that Nature suggested to him +humanity and humanity Nature. And these two, as subjects for thought and +feeling, were each uplifted and impassioned, illustrated and developed, +by this intercommunion. That was a true and high position. Humanity was +first, Nature second in Browning's poetry, but both were linked together +in a noble marriage; and at that time he wrote his best poetry. + +The second thing this chronological treatment of his Nature-poetry +shows, is that his interest in human nature pushed out his love of +Nature, gradually at first, but afterwards more swiftly, till Nature +became almost non-existent in his poetry. With that his work sank down +into intellectual or ethical exercises, in which poetry decayed. + +It shows, thirdly, how the love of Nature, returning, but returning with +diminished power, entered again into his love of human nature, and +renewed the passion of his poetry, its singing, and its health. But +reconciliations of this kind do not bring back all the ancient affection +and happiness. Nature and humanity never lived together in his poetry in +as vital a harmony as before, nor was the work done on them as good as +it was of old. A broken marriage is not repaired by an apparent +condonation. Nature and humanity, though both now dwelt in him, kept +separate rooms. Their home-life was destroyed. Browning had been drawn +away by a Fifine of humanity. He never succeeded in living happily again +with Elvire; and while our intellectual interest in his work remained, +our poetic interest in it lessened. We read it for mental and ethical +entertainment, not for ideal joy. + +No; if poetry is to _be_ perfectly written; if the art is to be brought +to its noblest height; if it is to continue to lift the hearts of men +into the realm where perfection lives; if it is to glow, an unwearied +fire, in the world; the love of Nature must be justly mingled in it +with the love of humanity. The love of humanity must be first, the love +of Nature second, but they must not be divorced. When they are, when the +love of Nature forms the only subject, or when the love of Man forms the +only subject, poetry decays and dies. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[5] Creatures accordant with the place? + +[6] Browning, even more than Shelley, was fond of using the snake in his +poetry. Italy is in that habit. + +[7] There is a fine picture of the passing of a hurricane in +_Paracelsus_ (p. 67, vol i.) which illustrates this inability to stop +when he has done all he needs. Paracelsus speaks: + + The hurricane is spent, + And the good boat speeds through the brightening weather; + But is it earth or sea that heaves below? + The gulf rolls like a meadow-swell, o'erstrewn + With ravaged boughs and remnants of the shore; + And now, some islet, loosened from the land, + Swims past with all its trees, sailing to ocean: + _And now the air is full of uptorn canes._ + _Light strippings from the fan-trees, tamarisks_ + _Unrooted, with their birds still clinging to them,_ + _All high in the wind_. Even so my varied life + Drifts by me. + +I think that the lines I have italicised should have been left out. They +weaken what he has well done. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +_BROWNING'S THEORY OF HUMAN LIFE_ + +_PAULINE AND PARACELSUS_ + + +To isolate Browning's view of Nature, and to leave it behind us, seemed +advisable before speaking of his work as a poet of mankind. We can now +enter freely on that which is most distinctive, most excellent in his +work--his human poetry; and the first thing that meets us and in his +very first poems, is his special view of human nature, and of human +life, and of the relation of both to God. It marks his originality that +this view was entirely his own. Ancient thoughts of course are to be +found in it, but his combination of them is original amongst the English +poets. It marks his genius that he wrought out this conception while he +was yet so young. It is partly shaped in _Pauline_; it is fully set +forth in _Paracelsus_. And it marks his consistency of mind that he +never changed it. I do not think he ever added to it or developed it. It +satisfied him when he was a youth, and when he was an old man. We have +already seen it clearly expressed in the _Prologue_ to _Asolando_. + +That theory needs to be outlined, for till it is understood Browning's +poetry cannot be understood or loved as fully as we should desire to +love it. It exists in _Pauline_, but all its elements are in solution; +uncombined, but waiting the electric flash which will mix them, in due +proportions, into a composite substance, having a lucid form, and +capable of being used. That flash was sent through the confused elements +of _Pauline_, and the result was _Paracelsus_. + +I will state the theory first, and then, lightly passing through +_Pauline_ and _Paracelsus_, re-tell it. It is fitting to apologise for +the repetition which this method of treatment will naturally cause; but, +considering that the theory underlies every drama and poem that he wrote +during sixty years, such repetition does not seem unnecessary. There are +many who do not easily grasp it, or do not grasp it at all, and they may +be grateful. As to those who do understand it, they will be happy in +their anger with any explanation of what they know so well. + +He asks what is the secret of the world: "of man and man's true purpose, +path and fate." He proposes to understand "God-and his works and all +God's intercourse with the human soul." + +We are here, he thinks, to grow enough to be able to take our part in +another life or lives. But we are surrounded by limitations which baffle +and retard our growth. That is miserable, but not so much as we think; +for the failures these limitations cause prevent us--and this is a main +point in Browning's view--from being content with our condition on the +earth. There is that within us which is always endeavouring to transcend +those limitations, and which believes in their final dispersal. This +aspiration rises to something higher than any possible actual on earth. +It is never worn out; it is the divine in us; and when it seems to +decay, God renews it by spiritual influences from without and within, +coming to us from nature as seen by us, from humanity as felt by us, and +from himself who dwells in us. + +But then, unless we find out and submit to those limitations, and work +within them, life is useless, so far as any life is useless. But while +we work within them, we see beyond them an illimitable land, and thirst +for it. This battle between the dire necessity of working in chains and +longing for freedom, between the infinite destiny of the soul and the +baffling of its effort to realise its infinitude on earth, makes the +storm and misery of life. We may try to escape that tempest and sorrow +by determining to think, feel, and act only within our limitations, to +be content with them as Goethe said; but if we do, we are worse off than +before. We have thrown away our divine destiny. If we take this world +and are satisfied with it, cease to aspire, beyond our limits, to full +perfection in God; if our soul should ever say, "I want no more; what I +have here--the pleasure, fame, knowledge, beauty or love of this +world--is all I need or care for," then we are indeed lost. That is the +last damnation. The worst failure, the deepest misery, is better than +contentment with the success of earth; and seen in this light, the +failures and misery of earth are actually good things, the cause of a +chastened joy. They open to us the larger light. They suggest, and in +Browning's belief they proved, that this life is but the threshold of an +infinite life, that our true life is beyond, that there is an infinite +of happiness, of knowledge, of love, of beauty which we shall attain. +Our failures are prophecies of eternal successes. To choose the finite +life is to miss the infinite Life! O fool, to claim the little cup of +water earth's knowledge offers to thy thirst, or the beauty or love of +earth, when the immeasurable waters of the Knowledge, Beauty and Love of +the Eternal Paradise are thine beyond the earth. + +Two things are then clear: (1) The attainment of our desires for +perfection, the satisfaction of our passion for the infinite, is +forbidden to us on earth by the limitations of life. We are made +imperfect; we are kept imperfect here; and we must do all our work +within the limits this natural imperfection makes. (2) We must, +nevertheless, not cease to strive towards the perfection unattainable on +earth, but which shall be attained hereafter. Our destiny, the God +within us, demands that. And we lose it, if we are content with our +earthly life, even with its highest things, with knowledge, beauty, or +with love. + +Hence, the foundation of Browning's theory is a kind of Original Sin in +us, a natural defectiveness deliberately imposed on us by God, which +prevents us attaining any absolute success on earth. And this +defectiveness of nature is met by the truth, which, while we aspire, we +know--that God will fulfil all noble desire in a life to come. + +We must aspire then, but at the same time all aspiring is to be +conterminous with steady work within our limits. Aspiration to the +perfect is not to make us idle, indifferent to the present, but to drive +us on. Its passion teaches us, as it urges into action all our powers, +what we can and what we cannot do. That is, it teaches us, through the +action it engenders, what our limits are; and when we know them, the +main duties of life rise clear. The first of these is, to work patiently +within our limits; and the second is the apparent contradiction of the +first, never to be satisfied with our limits, or with the results we +attain within them. Then, having worked within them, but always looked +beyond them, we, as life closes, learn the secret. The failures of earth +prove the victory beyond: "For-- + + what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence + For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonised? + Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? + Why rushed the discords in but that harmony should be prized? + Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear. + Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and the woe: + But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; + The rest may reason, and welcome: 'tis we musicians know." + + _Abt Vogler_. + +Finally, the root and flower of this patient but uncontented work is +Love for man because of his being in God, because of his high and +immortal destiny. All that we do, whether failure or not, builds up the +perfect humanity to come, and flows into the perfection of God in whom +is the perfection of man. This love, grounded on this faith, brings joy +into life; and, in this joy of love, we enter into the eternal temple of +the Life to come. Love opens Heaven while Earth closes us round. At last +limitations cease to trouble us. They are lost in the vision, they +bring no more sorrow, doubt or baffling. Therefore, in this confused +chaotic time on earth-- + + Earn the means first. God surely will contrive + Use for our earning. + Others mistrust, and say: "But time escapes; + Live now or never!" + He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! + Man has Forever." + + _A Grammarian's Funeral_. + +This is a sketch of his explanation of life. The expression of it began +in _Pauline_. Had that poem been as imitative, as poor as the first +efforts of poets usually are, we might leave it aside. But though, as he +said, "good draughtsmanship and right handling were far beyond the +artist at that time," though "with repugnance and purely of necessity" +he republished it, he did republish it; and he was right. It was crude +and confused, but the stuff in it was original and poetic; wonderful +stuff for a young man. + +The first design of it was huge. _Pauline_ is but a fragment of a poem +which was to represent, not one but various types of human life. It +became only the presentation of the type of the poet, the first sketch +of the youth of Sordello. The other types conceived were worked up into +other poems. + +The hero in _Pauline_ hides in his love for Pauline from a past he +longed to forget. He had aspired to the absolute beauty and goodness, +and the end was vanity and vexation. The shame of this failure beset him +from the past, and the failure was caused because he had not been true +to the aspirations which took him beyond himself. When he returned to +self, the glory departed. And a fine simile of his soul as a young witch +whose blue eyes, + + As she stood naked by the river springs, + Drew down a God, + +who, as he sat in the sunshine on her knees singing of heaven, saw the +mockery in her eyes and vanished, tells of how the early ravishment +departed, slain by self-scorn that followed on self-worship. But one +love and reverence remained--that for Shelley, the Sun-treader, and kept +him from being "wholly lost." To strengthen this one self-forgetful +element, the love of Pauline enters in, and the new impulse brings back +something of the ancient joy. "Let me take it," he cries, "and sing on +again + + fast as fancies come; + Rudely, the verse being as the mood it paints,"-- + +a line which tells us how Browning wished his metrical movement to be +judged. This is the exordium, and it is already full of his theory of +life--the soul forced from within to aspire to the perfect whole, the +necessary failure, the despair, the new impulse to love arising out of +the despair; failure making fresh growth, fresh uncontentment. God has +sent a new impulse from without; let me begin again. + +Then, in the new light, he strips his mind bare. What am I? What have I +done? Where am I going? + +The first element in his soul, he thinks, is a living personality, +linked to a principle of restlessness, + + Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all. + +And this would plunge him into the depths of self were it not for that +Imagination in him whose power never fails to bear him beyond himself; +and is finally in him a need, a trust, a yearning after God; whom, even +when he is most lost, he feels is always acting on him, and at every +point of life transcending him. + +And Imagination began to create, and made him at one with all men and +women of whom he had read (the same motive is repeated in _Sordello_), +but especially at one with those out of the Greek world he loved--"a God +wandering after Beauty"--a high-crested chief + + Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos. + +Never was anything more clear than these lives he lived beyond himself; +and the lines in which he records the vision have all the sharpness and +beauty of his after-work-- + + I had not seen a work of lofty art. + Nor woman's beauty nor sweet Nature's face, + Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those + On the dim-clustered isles in the blue sea, + The deep groves and white temples and wet caves: + And nothing ever will surprise me now-- + Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed, + Who bound my forehead with Proserpine's hair. + +Yet, having this infinite world of beauty, he aimed low; lost in +immediate wants, striving only for the mortal and the possible, while +all the time there lived in him, breathing with keen desire, powers +which, developed, would make him at one with the infinite Life of God. + +But having thus been untrue to his early aspiration, he fell into the +sensual life, like Paracelsus, and then, remorseful, sought peace in +self-restraint; but no rest, no contentment was gained that way. It is +one of Browning's root-ideas that peace is not won by repression of the +noble passions, but by letting them loose in full freedom to pursue +after their highest aims. Not in restraint, but in the conscious +impetuosity of the soul towards the divine realities, is the wisdom of +life. Many poems are consecrated to this idea. + +So, cleansing his soul by ennobling desire, he sought to realise his +dreams in the arts, in the creation and expression of pure Beauty. And +he followed Poetry and Music and Painting, and chiefly explored passion +and mind in the great poets. Fed at these deep springs, his soul rose +into keen life; his powers burst forth, and gazing on all systems and +schemes of philosophy and government, he heard ineffable things +unguessed by man. All Plato entered into him; he vowed himself to +liberty and the new world where "men were to be as gods and earth us +heaven." Thus, yet here on earth, not only beyond the earth, he would +attain the Perfect. Man also shall attain it; and so thinking, he +turned, like Sordello, to look at and learn mankind, pondering "how best +life's end might be attained--an end comprising every joy." + +And even as he believed, the glory vanished; everything he had hoped for +broke to pieces: + + First went my hopes of perfecting mankind, + Next--faith in them, and then in freedom's self + And virtue's self, then my own motives, ends + And aims and loves, and human love went last. + +And then, with the loss of all these things of the soul which bear a +man's desires into the invisible and unreachable, he gained the world, +and success in it. All the powers of the mere Intellect, that +grey-haired deceiver whose name is Archimago, were his;--wit, mockery, +analytic force, keen reasoning on the visible, the Understanding's +absolute belief in itself; its close grasp on what it called facts, and +its clear application of knowledge for clear ends. God, too, had +vanished in this intellectual satisfaction; and in the temple of his +soul, where He had been worshipped, troops of shadows now knelt to the +man whose intellect, having grasped all knowledge, was content; and +hailed him as king. + +The position he describes is like that Wordsworth states in the +_Prelude_ to have been his, when, after the vanishing of his aspirations +for man which followed the imperialistic fiasco of the French +Revolution, he found himself without love or hope, but with full power +to make an intellectual analysis of nature and of human nature, and was +destroyed thereby. It is the same position which Paracelsus attains and +which is followed by the same ruin. It is also, so far as its results +are concerned, the position of the Soul described by Tennyson in _The +Palace of Art_. + +Love, emotion, God are shut out. Intellect and knowledge of the world's +work take their place. And the result is the slow corrosion of the soul +by pride. "I have nursed up energies," says Browning, "they will prey on +me." He feels this and breaks away from its death. "My heart must +worship," he cries. The "shadows" know this feeling is against them, and +they shout in answer: + + "Thyself, thou art our king!" + +But the end of that is misery. Therefore he begins to aspire again, but +still, not for the infinite of perfection beyond, but for a finite +perfection on, the earth. + +"I will make every joy here my own," he cries, "and then I will die." "I +will have one rapture to fill all the soul." "All knowledge shall be +mine." It is the aspiration of Paracelsus. "I will live in the whole of +Beauty, and here it shall be mine." It is the aspiration of Aprile. +"Then, having this perfect human soul, master of all powers, I shall +break forth, at some great crisis in history, and lead the world." It is +the very aspiration of Sordello. + +But when he tries for this, he finds failure at every point. Everywhere +he is limited; his soul demands what his body refuses to fulfil; he is +always baffled, falling short, chained down and maddened by +restrictions; unable to use what he conceives, to grasp as a tool what +he can reach in Thought; hating himself; imagining what might be, and +driven back from it in despair. + +Even in his love for Pauline, in which he has skirted the infinite and +known that his soul cannot accept finality--he finds that in him which +is still unsatisfied. + +What does this puzzle mean? "It means," he answers, "that this earth's +life is not my only sphere, + + Can I so narrow sense but that in life + Soul still exceeds it?" + +Yet, he will try again. He has lived in all human life, and his craving +is still athirst. He has not yet tried Nature herself. She seems to +have undying beauty, and his feeling for her is now, of course, doubled +by his love for Pauline. "Come with me," he cries to her, "come out of +the world into natural beauty"; and there follows a noble description of +a lovely country into which he passes from a mountain glen--morning, +noon, afternoon and evening all described--and the emotion of the whole +rises till it reaches the topmost height of eagerness and joy, when, +suddenly, the whole fire is extinguished-- + + I am concentrated--I feel; + But my soul saddens when it looks beyond: + I cannot be immortal, taste all joy. + + O God, where do they tend--these struggling aims? + What would I have? What is this "sleep" which seems + To bound all? Can there be a "waking" point + Of crowning life? + + * * * + + And what is that I hunger for but God? + +So, having worked towards perfection, having realised that he cannot +have it here, he sees at last that the failures of earth are a prophecy +of a perfection to come. He claims the infinite beyond. "I believe," he +cries, "in God and truth and love. Know my last state is happy, free +from doubt or touch of fear." + +That is Browning all over. These are the motives of a crowd of poems, +varied through a crowd of examples; never better shaped than in the +trenchant and magnificent end of _Easter-Day_, where the questions and +answers are like the flashing and clashing of sharp scimitars. Out of +the same quarry from which _Pauline_ was hewn the rest were hewn. They +are polished, richly sculptured, hammered into fair form, but the stone +is the same. Few have been so consistent as Browning, few so true to +their early inspiration. He is among those happy warriors + + Who, when brought + Among the tasks of real life, have wrought + Upon the plan that pleased their boyish thought. + +This, then, is _Pauline_; I pass on to _Paracelsus_. _Paracelsus_, in +order to give the poem a little local colour, opens at Wuerzburg in a +garden, and in the year 1512. But it is not a poem which has to do with +any place or any time. It belongs only to the country of the human soul. +The young student Paracelsus is sitting with his friends Festus and +Michal, on the eve of his departure to conquer the whole world by +knowledge. They make a last effort to retain him, but even as he listens +to their arguments his eyes are far away-- + + As if where'er he gazed there stood a star, + +so strong, so deep is desire to attain his aim. + +For Paracelsus aims to know the whole of knowledge. Quiet and its +charms, this homelike garden of still work, make their appeal in vain. +"God has called me," he cries; "these burning desires to know all are +his voice in me; and if I stay and plod on here, I reject his call who +has marked me from mankind. I must reach pure knowledge. That is my only +aim, my only reward." + +Then Festus replies: "In this solitariness of aim, all other interests +of humanity are left out. Will knowledge, alone, give you enough for +life? You, a man!" And again: "You discern your purpose clearly; have +you any security of attaining it? Is it not more than mortal power is +capable of winning?" Or again: "Have you any knowledge of the path to +knowledge?" Or, once more, "Is anything in your mind so clear as this, +your own desire to be singly famous?" + +"All this is nothing," Paracelsus answers; "the restless force within me +will overcome all difficulties. God does not give that fierce energy +without giving also that which it desires. And, I am chosen out of all +the world to win this glory." + +"Why not then," says Festus, "make use of knowledge already gained? Work +here; what knowledge will you gain in deserts?" + +"I have tried all the knowledge of the past," Paracelsus replies, "and +found it a contemptible failure. Others were content with the scraps +they won. Not I! I want the whole; the source and sum of divine and +human knowledge, and though I craze as even one truth expands its +infinitude before me, I go forth alone, rejecting all that others have +done, to prove my own soul. I shall arrive at last. And as to mankind, +in winning perfect knowledge I shall serve them; but then, all +intercourse ends between them and me. I will not be served by those I +serve." + +"Oh," answers Festus, "is that cause safe which produces carelessness of +human love? You have thrown aside all the helps of human knowledge; now +you reject all sympathy. No man can thrive who dares to claim to serve +the race, while he is bound by no single tie to the race. You would be a +being knowing not what Love is--a monstrous spectacle!" + +"That may be true," Paracelsus replies, "but for the time I will have +nothing to do with feeling. My affections shall remain at rest, and +then, _when_ I have attained my single aim, when knowledge is all mine, +my affections will awaken purified and chastened by my knowledge. Let +me, unhampered by sympathy, win my victory. And I go forth certain of +victory." + + Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Michal, + Two points in the adventure of the diver: + One--when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge; + One--when, a prince, he rises with his pearl? + Festus, I plunge! + + FESTUS. We wait you when you rise. + +So ends the first part, and the second opens ten years afterwards in a +Greek Conjurer's house in Constantinople, with Paracelsus writing down +the result of his work. And the result is this: + +"I have made a few discoveries, but I could not stay to use them. Nought +remains but a ceaseless, hungry pressing forward, a vision now and then +of truth; and I--I am old before my hour: the adage is true-- + + Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream; + +and now I would give a world to rest, even in failure! + +"This is all my gain. Was it for this," he cries, "I subdued my life, +lost my youth, rooted out love; for the sake of this wolfish thirst of +knowledge?" No dog, said Faust, in Goethe's poem, driven to the same +point by the weariness of knowledge, no dog would longer live this life. +My tyrant aim has brought me into a desert; worse still, the purity of +my aim is lost. Can I truly say that I have worked for man alone? Sadder +still, if I had found that which I sought, should I have had power to +use it? O God, Thou who art pure mind, spare my mind. Thus far, I have +been a man. Let me conclude, a man! Give me back one hour of my young +energy, that I may use and finish what I know. + +"And God is good: I started sure of that; and he may still renew my +heart. + + True, I am worn; + But who clothes summer, who is life itself? + God, that created all things, can renew!" + +At this moment the voice of Aprile is heard singing the song of the +poets, who, having great gifts, refused to use them, or abused them, or +were too weak; and who therefore live apart from God, mourning for ever; +who gaze on life, but live no more. He breaks in on Paracelsus, and, in +a long passage of overlapping thoughts, Aprile--who would love +infinitely and be loved, aspiring to realise every form of love, as +Paracelsus has aspired to realise the whole of knowledge--makes +Paracelsus feel that love is what he wants. And then, when Paracelsus +realises this, Aprile in turn realises that he wants knowledge. Each +recognises that he is the complement of the other, that knowledge is +worthless without love, and love incapable of realising its aspirations +without knowledge--as if love did not contain the sum of knowledge +necessary for fine being. Both have failed; and it seems, at first, that +they failed because they did not combine their aims. But the chief +reason of their failure--and this is, indeed, Browning's main point--is +that each of them tried to do more than our limits on earth permit. +Paracelsus would have the whole sum of knowledge, Aprile nothing less +than the whole of love, and, in this world. It is impossible; yet, were +it possible, could they have attained the sum of knowledge and of love +on earth and been satisfied therewith, they would have shut out the +infinite of knowledge and love beyond them in the divine land, and been, +in their satisfaction, more hopelessly lost than they are in their +present wretchedness. Failure that leaves an unreached ideal before the +soul is in reality a greater boon than success which thinks perfect +satisfaction has been reached. Their aim at perfection is right: what is +wrong is their view that failure is ruin, and not a prophecy of a +greater glory to come. Could they have thought perfection were attained +on earth--were they satisfied with anything this world can give, no +longer stung with hunger for the infinite--all Paradise, with the +illimitable glories, were closed to them! + +Few passages are more beautiful in English poetry than that in which +Aprile narrates his youthful aspiration: how, loving all things +infinitely, he wished to throw them into absolute beauty of form by +means of all the arts, for the love of men, and receive from men love +for having revealed beauty, and merge at last in God, the Eternal Love. +This was his huge aim, his full desire. + +Few passages are more pathetic than that in which he tells his failure +and its cause. "Time is short; the means of life are limited; we have +no means answering to our desires. Now I am wrecked; for the +multitudinous images of beauty which filled my mind forbade my seizing +upon one which I could have shaped. I often wished to give one to the +world, but the others came round and baffled me; and, moreover, I could +not leave the multitude of beauty for the sake of one beauty. Unless I +could embody all I would embody none. + +"And, afterwards, when a cry came from man, 'Give one ray even of your +hoarded light to us,' and I tried for man's sake to select one, why, +then, mists came--old memories of a thousand sweetnesses, a storm of +images--till it was impossible to choose; and so I failed, and life is +ended. + +"But could I live I would do otherwise. I would give a trifle out of +beauty, as an example by which men could guess the rest and love it all; +one strain from an angel's song; one flower from the distant land, that +men might know that such things were. Then, too, I would put common life +into loveliness, so that the lowest hind would find me beside him to put +his weakest hope and fear into noble language. And as I thus lived with +men, and for them, I should win from them thoughts fitted for their +progress, the very commonest of which would come forth in beauty, for +they would have been born in a soul filled full of love. This should now +be my aim: no longer that desire to embrace the whole of beauty which +isolates a man from his fellows; but to realise enough of loveliness to +give pleasure to men who desire to love. Therefore, I should live, still +aspiring to the whole, still uncontent, but waiting for another life to +gain the whole; but at the same time content, for man's sake, to work +within the limitations of life; not grieving either for failure, because +love given and received makes failure pleasure. In truth, the failure to +grasp all on earth makes, if we love, the certainty of a success beyond +the earth." + +And Paracelsus listening and applying what Aprile says to his old desire +to grasp, apart from men, the whole of knowledge as Aprile had desired +to grasp the whole of love, learns the truth at last, and confesses it: + + Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn + To love; and, merciful God, forgive us both! + We wake at length from weary dreams; but both + Have slept in fairy-land: though dark and drear + Appears the world before us, we no less + Wake with our wrists and ankles jewelled still. + I too have sought to KNOW as thou to LOVE-- + Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge. + +We are halves of a dissevered world, and we must never part till the +Knower love, and thou, the Lover, know, and both are saved. + +"No, no; that is not all," Aprile answers, and dies. "Our perfection is +not in ourselves but in God. Not our strength, but our weakness is our +glory. Not in union with me, with earthly love alone, will you find the +perfect life. I am not that you seek. It is God the King of Love, his +world beyond, and the infinite creations Love makes in it." + +But Paracelsus does not grasp that last conclusion. He only understands +that he has left out love in his aim, and therefore failed. He does not +give up the notion of attainment upon earth. He cannot lose the first +imprint of his idea of himself--his lonely grasp of the whole of +Knowledge. + +The next two parts of the poem do not strengthen much the main +thoughts. Paracelsus tries to work out the lesson learnt from Aprile--to +add love to knowledge, to aspire to that fulness in God. But he does not +love enough. He despises those who follow him for the sake of his +miracles, yet he desires their worship. Moreover, the pride of knowledge +still clings to him; he cannot help thinking it higher than love; and +the two together drive him into the thought that this world must give +him satisfaction. So, he puts aside the ideal aim. But here also he is +baffled. Those who follow him as the great teacher ask of him signs. He +gives these; and he finds at Basel that he has sunk into the desire of +vulgar fame, and prostituted his knowledge; and, sick of this, beaten +back from his noble ambitions, he determines to have something at least +out of earth, and chooses at Colmar the life of sensual pleasure. "I +still aspire," he cries. "I will give the night to study, but I will +keep the day for the enjoyment of the senses. Thus, intellect and sense +woven together, I shall at least have attained something. If I do not +gain knowledge I shall have gained sensual pleasure. Man I despise and +hate, and God has deceived me. I take the world." But, even while he +says this, his ancient aspiration lives so much in him that he scorns +himself for his fall as much as he scorns the crowd. + +Then comes the last scene, when, at Salzburg, he returns to find his +friend Festus, and to die. In the hour of his death he reviews his whole +life, his aims, their failure and the reason of it, and yet dies +triumphant for he has found the truth. + +I pass over the pathetic delirium in which Paracelsus thinks that +Aprile is present, and cries for his hand and sympathy while Festus is +watching by the couch. At last he wakes, and knows his friend, and that +he is dying. "I am happy," he cries; "my foot is on the threshold of +boundless life; I see the whole whirl and hurricane of life behind me; +all my life passes by, and I know its purpose, to what end it has +brought me, and whither I am going. I will tell you all the meaning of +life. Festus, my friend, tell it to the world. + +"There was a time when I was happy; the secret of life was in that +happiness." "When, when was that?" answers Festus, "all I hope that +answer will decide." + + PAR. When, but the time I vowed myself to man? + + FEST. Great God, thy judgments are inscrutable! + +Then he explains. "There are men, so majestical is our nature, who, +hungry for joy and truth, win more and more of both, and know that life +is infinite progress in God. This they win by long and slow battle. But +there are those, of whom I was one"--and here Browning draws the man of +genius--"who are born at the very point to which these others, the men +of talent, have painfully attained. By intuition genius knows, and I +knew at once, what God is, what we are, what life is. Alas! I could not +use the knowledge aright. There is an answer to the passionate longings +of the heart for fulness, and I knew it. And the answer is this: Live in +all things outside of yourself by love and you will have joy. That is +the life of God; it ought to be our life. In him it is accomplished and +perfect; but in all created things it is a lesson learned slowly +against difficulty. + +"Thus I knew the truth, but I was led away from it. I broke down from +thinking of myself, my fame, and of this world. I had not love enough, +and I lost the truth for a time. But whatever my failures were, I never +lost sight of it altogether. I never was content with myself or with the +earth. Out of my misery I cried for the joy God has in living outside of +himself in love of all things." + +Then, thrilled with this thought, he breaks forth into a most noble +description--new in English poetry, new in feeling and in thought, +enough of itself to lift Browning on to his lofty peak--first of the joy +of God in the Universe he makes incessantly by pouring out of himself +his life, and, secondly, of the joy of all things in God. "Where dwells +enjoyment there is He." But every realised enjoyment looks forward, even +in God, to a new and higher sphere of distant glory, and when that is +reached, to another sphere beyond-- + + thus climbs + Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever. + +Creation is God's joyous self-giving. The building of the frame of earth +was God's first joy in Earth. That made him conceive a greater joy--the +joy of clothing the earth, of making life therein--of the love which in +animals, and last in man, multiplies life for ever. + +So there is progress of all things to man, and all created things before +his coming have--in beauty, in power, in knowledge, in dim shapes of +love and trust in the animals--had prophecies of him which man has +realised, hints and previsions, dimly picturing the higher race, till +man appeared at last, and one stage of being was complete. But the law +of progress does not cease now man has come. None of his faculties are +perfect. They also by their imperfection suggest a further life, in +which as all that was unfinished in the animals suggested man, so also +that which is unfinished in us suggests ourselves in higher place and +form. Man's self is not yet Man. + +We learn this not only from our own boundless desires for higher life, +and from our sense of imperfection. We learn it also when we look back +on the whole of nature that was before we were. We illustrate and +illuminate all that has been. Nature is humanised, spiritualised by us. +We have imprinted ourselves on all things; and this, as we realise it, +as we give thought and passion to lifeless nature, makes us understand +how great we are, and how much greater we are bound to be. We are the +end of nature but not the end of ourselves. We learn the same truth when +among us the few men of genius appear; stars in the darkness. We do not +say--These stand alone; we never can become as they. On the contrary, we +cry: All are to be what these are, and more. They longed for more, and +we and they shall have it. All shall be perfected; and then, and not +till then, begins the new age and the new life, new progress and new +joy. This is the ultimate truth. + +"And as in inferior creatures there were prognostics of man--and here +Browning repeats himself--so in man there are prognostics of the future +and loftier humanity. + + August anticipations, symbols, types + Of a dim splendour ever on before + In that eternal cycle life pursues. + For men begin to pass their nature's bound-- + +ceaselessly outgrowing themselves in history, and in the individual +life--and some, passionately aspiring, run ahead of even the general +tendency, and conceive the very highest, and live to reveal it, and in +revealing it lift and save those who do not conceive it. + +"I, Paracelsus," he cries--and now Browning repeats the whole argument +of the poem--"was one of these. To do this I vowed myself, soul and +limb. + +"But I mistook my means, I took the wrong path, led away by pride. I +gazed on power alone, and on power won by knowledge alone. This I +thought was the only note and aim of man, and it was to be won, at once +and in the present, without any care for all that man had already done. +I rejected all the past. I despised it as a record of weakness and +disgrace. Man should be all-sufficient now; a single day should bring +him to maturity. He has power to reach the whole of knowledge at one +leap. + +"In that, I mistook the conditions of life. I did not see our barriers; +nor that progress is slow; nor that every step of the past is necessary +to know and to remember; nor that, in the shade of the past, the present +stands forth bright; nor that the future is not to be all at once, but +to dawn on us, in zone after zone of quiet progress. I strove to laugh +down all the limits of our life, and then the smallest things broke me +down--me, who tried to realise the impossible on earth. At last I knew +that the power I sought was only God's, and then I prayed to die. All my +life was failure. + +"At this crisis I met Aprile, and learned my deep mistake. I had left +love out; and love and knowledge, and power through knowledge, must go +together. And Aprile had also failed, for he had sought love and +rejected knowledge. Life can only move when both are hand in hand: + + love preceding + Power, and with much power, always much more love: + Love still too straitened in its present means, + And earnest for new power to set love free. + I learned this, and supposed the whole was learned. + +"But to learn it, and to fulfil it, are two different things. I taught +the simple truth, but men would not have it. They sought the complex, +the sensational, the knowledge which amazed them. And for this knowledge +they praised me. I loathed and despised their praise; and when I would +not give them more of the signs and wonders I first gave them, they +avenged themselves by casting shame on my real knowledge. Then I was +tempted, and became the charlatan; and yet despised myself for seeking +man's praise for that which was most contemptible in me. Then I sought +for wild pleasure in the senses, and I hated myself still more. And +hating myself I came to hate men; and then all that Aprile taught to me +was lost. + +"But now I know that I did not love enough to trace beneath the hate of +men their love. I did not love enough to see in their follies the grain +of divine wisdom. + + To see a good in evil, and a hope + In ill-success; to sympathise, be proud + Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim + Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies, + Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; + All with a touch of nobleness, despite + Their error, upward tending all though weak. + +"I did not see this, I did not love enough to see this, and I failed. + +"Therefore let men regard me, who rashly longed to know all for power's +sake; and regard Aprile, the poet, who rashly longed for the whole of +love for beauty's sake--and regarding both, shape forth a third and +better-tempered spirit, in whom beauty and knowledge, love and power, +shall mingle into one, and lead Man up to God, in whom all these four +are One. In God alone is the goal. + +"Meanwhile I die in peace, secure of attainment. What I have failed in +here I shall attain there. I have never, in my basest hours, ceased to +aspire; God will fulfil my aspiration: + + If I stoop + Into a dark tremendous sea of cloud. + It is but for a time; I press God's lamp + Close to my breast; its splendour, soon or late, + Will pierce the gloom: I shall emerge one day. + You understand me? I have said enough? + + Aprile! Hand in hand with you, Aprile!" + +And so he dies. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER V + +_THE POET OF ART_ + + +The theory of human life which Browning conceived, and which I attempted +in the last chapter to explain out of _Pauline_ and _Paracelsus_, +underlies the poems which have to do with the arts. Browning as the poet +of Art is as fascinating a subject as Browning the poet of Nature; even +more so, for he directed of set purpose a great deal of his poetry to +the various arts, especially to music and painting. Nor has he neglected +to write about his own art. The lover in Pauline is a poet. Paracelsus +and Aprile have both touched that art. Sordello is a poet, and so are +many others in the poems. Moreover, he treats continually of himself as +a poet, and of the many criticisms on his work. + +All through this work on the arts, the theory of which we have written +appears continuously. It emerges fully in the close of _Easter-Day_. It +is carefully wrought into poems like _Abt Vogler_ and _A Grammarian's +Funeral_, in which the pursuit of grammar is conceived of as the pursuit +of an art. It is introduced by the way in the midst of subjects +belonging to the art of painting, as in _Old Pictures in Florence_ and +_Andrea del Sarto_. Finally, in those poems which represent in vivid +colour and selected personalities special times and forms of art, the +theory still appears, but momentarily, as a dryad might show her face in +a wood to a poet passing by. I shall be obliged then to touch again and +again on this theory of his in discussing Browning as the poet of the +arts. This is a repetition which cannot be helped, but for which I +request the pardon of my readers. + +The subject of the arts, from the time when Caliban "fell to make +something" to the re-birth of naturalism in Florence, from the earliest +music and poetry to the latest, interested Browning profoundly; and he +speaks of them, not as a critic from the outside, but out of the soul of +them, as an artist. He is, for example, the only poet of the nineteenth +century till we come to Rossetti, who has celebrated painting and +sculpture by the art of poetry; and Rossetti did not link these arts to +human life and character with as much force and penetration as Browning. +Morris, when he wrote poetry, did not care to write about the other +arts, their schools or history. He liked to describe in verse the +beautiful things of the past, but not to argue on their how and why. Nor +did he ever turn in on himself as artist, and ask how he wrote poetry or +how he built up a pattern. What he did as artist was to _make_, and when +he had made one thing to make another. He ran along like Pheidippides to +his goal, without halting for one instant to consider the methods of his +running. And all his life long this was his way. + +Rossetti described a picture in a sonnet with admirable skill, so +admirable that we say to ourselves--"Give me the picture or the sonnet, +not both. They blot out one another." But to describe a picture is not +to write about art. The one place where he does go down to its means and +soul is in his little prose masterpiece, _Hand and Soul_, in which we +see the path, the goal, the passion, but not the power of art. But he +never, in thought, got, like Browning, to the bottom-joy of it. He does +not seem to see, as clearly as Browning saw, that the source of all art +was love; and that the expression of love in beautiful form was or ought +to be accomplished with that exulting joy which is the natural child of +self-forgetfulness. This story of Rossetti's was in prose. In poetry, +Rossetti, save in description from the outside, left art alone; and +Browning's special work on art, and particularly his poetic studies of +it, are isolated in English poetry, and separate him from other poets. + +I cannot wish that he had thought less and written less about other arts +than poetry. But I do wish he had given more time and trouble to his own +art, that we might have had clearer and lovelier poetry. Perhaps, if he +had developed himself with more care as an artist in his own art, he +would not have troubled himself or his art by so much devotion to +abstract thinking and intellectual analysis. A strange preference also +for naked facts sometimes beset him, as if men wanted these from a poet. +It was as if some scientific demon entered into him for a time and +turned poetry out, till Browning got weary of his guest and threw him +out of the window. These reversions to some far off Browning in the +past, who was deceived into thinking the intellect the king of life, +enfeebled and sometimes destroyed the artist in him; and though he +escaped for the best part of his poetry from this position, it was not +seldom in his later years as a brand plucked from the burning. Moreover, +he recognised this tendency in himself; and protested against it, +sometimes humorously, sometimes seriously. At least so I read what he +means in a number of poems, when he turns, after an over-wrought piece +of analysis, upon himself, and bursts out of his cobwebs into a solution +of the question by passion and imagination. Nevertheless the charm of +this merely intellectual play pulled at him continually, and as he could +always embroider it with fancy it seemed to him close to imagination; +and this belief grew upon him as he got farther away from the warmth and +natural truth of youth. It is the melancholy tendency of some artists, +as they feel the weakness of decay, to become scientific; and a fatal +temptation it is. There is one poem of his in which he puts the whole +matter clearly and happily, with a curious and suggestive title, +"_Transcendentalism_: A Poem in Twelve Books." + +He speaks to a young poet who will give to men "naked thought, good, +true, treasurable stuff, solid matter, without imaginative imagery, +without emotion." + + Thought's what they mean by verse, and seek in verse. + Boys seek for images and melody, + Men must have reason--so, you aim at men. + +It is "quite otherwise," Browning tells him, and he illustrates the +matter by a story. + +Jacob Boehme did not care for plants. All he cared for was his mysticism. +But one day, as if the magic of poetry had slipped into his soul, he +heard all the plants talking, and talking to him; and behold, he loved +them and knew what they meant. Imagination had done more for him than +all his metaphysics. So we give up our days to collating theory with +theory, criticising, philosophising, till, one morning, we wake "and +find life's summer past." + +What remedy? What hope? Why, a brace of rhymes! And then, in life, that +miracle takes place which John of Halberstadt did by his magic. We feel +like a child; the world is new; every bit of life is run over and +enchanted by the wild rose. + + And in there breaks the sudden rose herself, + Over us, under, round us every side, + Nay, in and out the tables and the chairs + And musty volumes, Boehme's book and all--Buries + us with a glory, young once more, + Pouring heaven into this shut house of life. + + So come, the harp back to your heart again! + +I return, after this introduction, to Browning's doctrine of life as it +is connected with the arts. It appears with great clearness in +_Easter-Day_. He tells of an experience he had when, one night, musing +on life, and wondering how it would be with him were he to die and be +judged in a moment, he walked on the wild common outside the little +Dissenting Chapel he had previously visited on Christmas-Eve and thought +of the Judgment. And Common-sense said: "You have done your best; do not +be dismayed; you will only be surprised, and when the shock is over you +will smile at your fear." And as he thought thus the whole sky became a +sea of fire. A fierce and vindictive scribble of red quick flame ran +across it, and the universe was burned away. "And I knew," thought +Browning, "now that Judgment had come, that I had chosen this world, its +beauty, its knowledge, its good--that, though I often looked above, yet +to renounce utterly the beauty of this earth and man was too hard for +me." And a voice came: "Eternity is here, and thou art judged." And then +Christ stood before him and said: "Thou hast preferred the finite when +the infinite was in thy power. Earthly joys were palpable and tainted. +The heavenly joys flitted before thee, faint, and rare, and taintless. +Thou hast chosen those of this world. They are thine." + +"O rapture! is this the Judgment? Earth's exquisite treasures of wonder +and delight for me!" + +"So soon made happy," said the voice. "The loveliness of earth is but +like one rose flung from the Eden whence thy choice has excluded thee. +The wonders of earth are but the tapestry of the ante-chamber in the +royal house thou hast abandoned. + + All partial beauty was a pledge + Of beauty in its plenitude: + But since the pledge sufficed thy mood, + Retain it! plenitude be theirs + Who looked above! + +"O sharp despair! but since the joys of earth fail me, I take art. Art +gives worth to nature; it stamps it with man. I'll take the Greek +sculpture, the perfect painting of Italy--that world is mine!" + +"Then obtain it," said the voice: "the one abstract form, the one face +with its one look--all they could manage. Shall I, the illimitable +beauty, be judged by these single forms? What of that perfection in +their souls these artists were conscious of, inconceivably exceeding all +they did? What of their failure which told them an illimitable beauty +was before them? What of Michael Angelo now, who did not choose the +world's success or earth's perfection, and who now is on the breast of +the Divine? All the beauty of art is but furniture for life's first +stage. Take it then. But there are those, my saints, who were not +content, like thee, with earth's scrap of beauty, but desired the whole. +They are now filled with it. Take thy one jewel of beauty on the beach; +lose all I had for thee in the boundless ocean." + +"Then I take mind; earth's knowledge carries me beyond the finite. +Through circling sciences, philosophies and histories I will spin with +rapture; and if these fail to inspire, I will fly to verse, and in its +dew and fire break the chain which binds me to the earth;--Nay, answer +me not, I know what Thou wilt say: What is highest in knowledge, even +those fine intuitions which lead the finite into the infinite, and which +are best put in noble verse, are but gleams of a light beyond them, +sparks from the sum of the whole. I give that world up also, and I take +Love. All I ask is leave to love." + +"Ah," said the voice, "is this thy final choice? Love is the best; 'tis +somewhat late. Yet all the power and beauty, nature and art and +knowledge of this earth were only worth because of love. Through them +infinite love called to thee; and even now thou clingest to earth's love +as all. It is precious, but it exists to bear thee beyond the love of +earth into the boundless love of God in me." At last, beaten to his +last fortress, all broken down, he cries: + + Thou Love of God! Or let me die, + Or grant what shall seem heaven almost. + Let me not know that all is lost, + Though lost it be--leave me not tied + To this despair--this corpse-like bride! + Let that old life seem mine--no more-- + With limitation as before, + With darkness, hunger, toil, distress: + Be all the earth a wilderness! + Only let me go on, go on, + Still hoping ever and anon + To reach one eve the Better Land! + +This is put more strongly, as in the line: "Be all the earth a +wilderness!" than Browning himself would have put it. But he is in the +passion of the man who speaks, and heightens the main truth into an +extreme. But the theory is there, and it is especially applied to the +love of beauty and therefore to the arts. The illustrations are taken +from music and painting, from sculpture and poetry. Only in dwelling too +exclusively, as perhaps the situation demands, on the renunciation of +this world's successes, he has left out that part of his theory which +demands that we should, accepting our limits, work within them for the +love of man, but learn from their pressure and pain to transcend them +always in the desire of infinite perfection. In _Rabbi Ben Ezra_, a +masterpiece of argumentative and imaginative passion--such a poem as +only Browning could have written, who, more than other poets, equalised, +when most inspired, reasoning, emotions and intuitions into one material +for poetry--he applies this view of his to the whole of man's life here +and in the world to come, when the Rabbi in the quiet of old age +considers what his life has been, and how God has wrought him through it +for eternity. But I leave that poem, which has nothing to do with art, +for _Abt Vogler_, which is dedicated to music. + +"When Solomon pronounced the Name of God, all the spirits, good and bad, +assembled to do his will and build his palace. And when I, Abt Vogler, +touched the keys, I called the Spirits of Sound to me, and they have +built my palace of music; and to inhabit it all the Great Dead came +back, till in the vision I made a perfect music. Nay, for a moment, I +touched in it the infinite perfection; but now it is gone; I cannot +bring it back. Had I painted it, had I written it, I might have +explained it. But in music, out of the sounds something emerges which is +above the sounds, and that ineffable thing I touched and lost. I took +the well-known sounds of earth, and out of them came a fourth sound, +nay, not a sound--but a star. This was a flash of God's will which +opened the Eternal to me for a moment; and I shall find it again in the +eternal life. Therefore, from the achievement of earth and the failure +of it, I turn to God, and in him I see that every image, thought, +impulse, and dream of knowledge or of beauty--which, coming whence we +know not, flit before us in human life, breathe for a moment, and then +depart; which, like my music, build a sudden palace in imagination; +which abide for an instant and dissolve, but which memory and hope +retain as a ground of aspiration--are not lost to us though they seem to +die in their immediate passage. Their music has its home in the Will of +God and we shall find them completed there. + + All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; + Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power + Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist + When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. + The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, + The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, + Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; + Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by-and-by. + + * * * + + Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: + I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. + Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, + Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor,--yes, + And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, + Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; + Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, + The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep." + +With that he returns to human life, content to labour in its limits--the +common chord is his. But he has been where he shall be, and he is not +likely to be satisfied with the C major of life. This, in Browning's +thought, is the true comfort and strength of the life of the artist, to +whom these fallings from us, vanishings, these transient visits of the +infinite Divine, like swallows that pass in full flight, are more common +than to other men. They tell him of the unspeakable beauty; they let +loose his spirit to fly into the third heaven. + +So much for the theory in this poem. As to the artist and his art in it, +that is quite a different matter; and as there are few of Browning's +poems which reach a higher level than this both in form, thought, and +spiritual passion, it may be worth while, for once, to examine a poem of +his at large. + +Browning's imagination conceived in a moment the musician's experience +from end to end; and the form of the experience arose along with the +conception. He saw Abt Vogler in the silent church, playing to himself +before the golden towers of the organ, and slipping with sudden surprise +into a strain which is less his than God's. He saw the vision which +accompanied the music, and the man's heart set face to face with the +palace of music he had built. He saw him live in it and then pass to +heaven with it and lose it. And he saw the close of the experience, with +all its scenery in the church and in Abt Vogler's heart, at the same +time, in one vision. In this unconscious shaping of his thought into a +human incident, with its soul and scenery, is the imagination creating, +like a god, a thing unknown, unseen before. + +Having thus shaped the form, the imagination passed on to make the +ornament. It creates that far-off image of Solomon and his spirits +building their palace for the Queen of Sheba which exalts the whole +conception and enlarges the reader's imagination through all the legends +of the great King--and then it makes, for fresh adornment, the splendid +piling up of the sounds into walls of gold, pinnacles, splendours and +meteor moons; and lastly, with upward sweeping of its wings, bids the +sky to fall in love with the glory of the palace, and the mighty forms +of the noble Dead to walk in it. This is the imagination at play with +its conception, adorning, glorifying, heightening the full impression, +but keeping every imaged ornament misty, impalpable, as in a dream--for +so the conception demanded. + +And then, to fill the conception with the spirit of humanity, the +personal passion of the poet rises and falls through the description, as +the music rises and falls. We feel his breast beating against ours; +till the time comes when, like a sudden change in a great song, his +emotion changes into ecstasy in the outburst of the 9th verse: + + Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name? + +It almost brings tears into the eyes. This is art-creation--this is what +imagination, intense emotion, and individuality have made of the +material of thought--poetry, not prose. + +Even at the close, the conception, the imagination, and the personal +passion keep their art. The rush upwards of the imaginative feeling dies +slowly away; it is as evanescent as the Vision of the Palace, but it +dies into another picture of humanity which even more deeply engages the +human heart. Browning sees the organ-loft now silent and dark, and the +silent figure in it, alone and bowed over the keys. The church is still, +but aware of what has been. The golden pipes of the organ are lost in +the twilight and the music is over--all the double vision of the third +heaven into which he has been caught has vanished away. The form of the +thing rightly fits the idea. Then, when the form is shaped, the poet +fills it with the deep emotion of the musician's soul, and then with his +own emotion; and close as the air to the earth are the sorrow and +exultation of Abt Vogler and Browning to the human heart--sorrow for the +vanishing and the failure, exultant joy because what has been is but an +image of the infinite beauty they will have in God. In the joy they do +not sorrow for the failure. It is nothing but an omen of success. Their +soul, greater than the vision, takes up common life with patience and +silent hope. We hear them sigh and strike the chord of C. + +This is lyric imagination at work in lyric poetry. There are two kinds +of lyrics among many others. One is where the strong emotion of the +poet, fusing all his materials into one creation, comes to a height and +then breaks off suddenly. It is like a thunderstorm, which, doubling and +redoubling its flash and roar, ends in the zenith with the brightest +flash and loudest clang of thunder. There is another kind. It is when +the storm of emotion reaches, like the first, its climax, but does not +end with it. The lyric passion dies slowly away from the zenith to the +horizon, and ends in quietude and beauty, attended by soft colour and +gentle sounds; like the thunderstorm which faints with the sunset and +gathers its clouds to be adorned with beauty. This lyric of Browning's +is a noble example of the second type. + +I take another poem, the _Grammarian's Funeral_, to illustrate his art. +The main matter of thought in it is the same as that of _Abt Vogler_, +with the variation that the central figure is not a musician but a +grammarian; that what he pursued was critical knowledge, not beauty, and +that he is not a modern, like Abt Vogler, but one of the Renaissance +folk, and seized, as men were seized then, with that insatiable +curiosity which characterised the outbreak of the New Learning. The +matter of thought in it is of less interest to us than the poetic +creation wrought out of it, or than the art with which it is done. We +see the form into which the imaginative conception is thrown--the group +of sorrowing students carrying their master's corpse to the high +platform of the mountain, singing what he was, in admiration and honour +and delight that he had mastered life and won eternity; a conception +full of humanity, as full of the life of the dead master's soul as of +the students' enthusiasm. This thrills us into creation, with the poet, +as we read. Then the imagination which has made the conception into form +adorns it. It creates the plain, the encircling mountains, one cloudy +peak higher than the rest; as we mount we look on the plain below; we +reach the city on the hill, pass it, and climb the hill-top; there are +all the high-flying birds, the meteors, the lightnings, the thickest +dew. And we lay our dead on the peak, above the plain. This is the +scenery, the imaginative ornament, and all through it we are made to +hear the chant of the students; and so lifting is the melody of the +verse we seem to taste the air, fresher and fresher as we climb. Then, +finally, into the midst of this flows for us the eager intensity of the +scholar. Dead as he is, we feel him to be alive; never resting, pushing +on incessantly, beating failure beneath his feet, making it the step for +further search for the infinite, resolute to live in the dull limits of +the present work, but never content save in waiting for that eternity +which will fulfil the failure of earth; which, missing earth's success, +throws itself on God, dying to gain the highest. This is the passion of +the poem, and Browning is in it like a fire. It was his own, his very +life. He pours it into the students who rejoice in the death of their +master, and he gives it to us as we read the poem. And then, because +conception, imagination, and intensity of thought and emotion all here +work together, as in _Abt Vogler_, the melody of the poem is lovely, +save in one verse which ought to be out of the poem. As to the +conclusion, it is priceless. Such a conclusion can only emerge when all +that precedes it finely contains it, and I have often thought that it +pictures Browning himself. I wish he had been buried on a mountain top, +all Italy below him. + + Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: + Hail to your purlieus, + All ye high-flyers of the feathered race, + Swallows and curlews! + Here's the top-peak; the multitude below + Live, for they can, there: + This man decided not to Live but Know-- + Bury this man there? + + Here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, + Lightenings are loosened. + Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, + Peace let the dew send! + Lofty designs must close in like effects: + Loftily lying, + Leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, + Living and dying. + +This is the artist at work, and I doubt whether all the laborious prose +written, in history and criticism, on the revival of learning, will ever +express better than this short poem the inexhaustible thirst of the +Renaissance in its pursuit of knowledge, or the enthusiasm of the pupils +of a New Scholar for his desperate strife to know in a short life the +very centre of the Universe. + +Another poem on the arts which is mixed up with Browning's theory of +life is _Andrea del Sarto_. Into it the theory slips, like an uninvited +guest into a dinner-party of whom it is felt that he has some relation +to some one of the guests, but for whom no cover is laid. The faulty +and broken life of Andrea, in its contrast with his flawless drawing, +has been a favourite subject with poets. Alfred de Musset and others +have dramatised it, and it seems strange that none of our soul-wrecking +and vivisecting novelists have taken it up for their amusement. Browning +has not left out a single point of the subject. The only criticism I +should make of this admirable poem is that, when we come to the end, we +dislike the woman and despise the man more than we pity either of them; +and in tragic art-work of a fine quality, pity for human nature with a +far-off tenderness in it should remain as the most lasting impression. +All the greater artists, even while they went to the bottom of sorrow +and wickedness, have done this wise and beautiful thing, and Browning +rarely omits it. + +The first art-matter in the poem is Browning's sketch of the sudden +genesis of a picture. Andrea is sitting with his wife on the window-seat +looking out to Fiesole. As he talks she smiles a weary, lovely, autumn +smile, and, born in that instant and of her smile, he sees his picture, +knows its atmosphere, realises its tone of colour, feels its prevailing +sentiment. How he will execute it is another question, and depends on +other things; but no better sketch could be given of the sudden +spiritual fashion in which great pictures are generated. Here are the +lines, and they also strike the keynote of Andrea's soul--that to which +his life has brought him. + + You smile? why, there's my picture ready made, + There's what we painters call our harmony! + A common greyness silvers everything,-- + All in a twilight, you and I alike--, + You at the point of your first pride in me + (That's gone, you know),--but I, at every point; + My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down + To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. + There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; + That length of convent-wall across the way + Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; + The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, + And autumn grows, autumn in everything. + Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape + As if I saw alike my work and self + And all that I was born to be and do, + A twilight piece. Love, we are in God's hand. + +In God's hand? Yes, but why being free are we so fettered? And here +slips in the unbidden guest of the theory. Andrea has chosen earthly +love; Lucrezia is all in all; and he has reached absolute perfection in +drawing-- + + I do what many dream of, all their lives. + +He can reach out beyond himself no more. He has got the earth, lost the +heaven. He makes no error, and has, therefore, no impassioned desire +which, flaming through the faulty picture, makes it greater art +than his faultless work. "The soul is gone from me, that vext, +suddenly-impassioned, upward-rushing thing, with its play, insight, +broken sorrows, sudden joys, pursuing, uncontented life. These men reach +a heaven shut out from me, though they cannot draw like me. No praise or +blame affects me. I know my handiwork is perfect. But there burns a +truer light of God in them. Lucrezia, I am judged." + + Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, + Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey + Placid and perfect with my art:--the worse + +"Here," he says, "is a piece of Rafael. The arm is out of drawing, and +I could make it right. But the passion, the soul of the thing is not in +me. Had you, my love, but urged me upward, to glory and God, I might +have been uncontent; I might have done it for you. No," and again he +sweeps round on himself, out of his excuses, "perhaps not, 'incentives +come from the soul's self'; and mine is gone. I've chosen the love of +you, Lucrezia, earth's love, and I cannot pass beyond my faultless +drawing into the strife to paint those divine imaginations the soul +conceives." + +That is the meaning of Browning. The faultless, almost mechanical art, +the art which might be born of an adulterous connection between science +and art, is of little value to men. Not in the flawless painter is true +art found, but in those who painted inadequately, yet whose pictures +breathe + + Infinite passion and the pain + Of finite hearts that yearn. + +In this incessant strife to create new worlds, and in their creation, +which, always ending in partial failure, forces fresh effort, lies, +Browning might have said, the excuse for God having deliberately made us +defective. Had we been made good, had we no strife with evil; had we the +power to embody at once the beauty we are capable of seeing; could we +have laid our hand on truth, and grasped her without the desperate +struggle we have to win one fruit from her tree; had we had no strong +crying and tears, no agony against wrong, against our own passions and +their work, against false views of things--we might have been angels; +but we should not have had humanity and all its wild history, and all +its work; we should not have had that which, for all I know, may be +unique in the universe; no, nor any of the great results of the battle +and its misery. Had it not been for the defectiveness, the sin and pain, +we should have had nothing of the interest of the long evolution of +science, law and government, of the charm of discovery, of pursuit, of +the slow upbuilding of moral right, of the vast variety of philosophy. +Above all, we should have had none of the great art men love so well, no +_Odyssey_, _Divine Comedy_ no _Hamlet_, no _Oedipus_, no Handel, no +Beethoven, no painting or sculpture where the love and sorrow of the +soul breathe in canvas, fresco, marble and bronze, no, nor any of the +great and loving lives who suffered and overcame, from Christ to the +poor woman who dies for love in a London lane. All these are made +through the struggle and the sorrow. We should not have had, I repeat, +humanity; and provided no soul perishes for ever but lives to find union +with undying love, the game, with all its terrible sorrow, pays for the +candle. We may find out, some day, that the existence and work of +humanity, crucified as it has been, are of untold interest and use to +the universe--which things the angels desire to look into. If Browning +had listened to that view, he would, I think, have accepted it. + +_Old Pictures in Florence_ touches another side of his theory. +In itself, it is one of Browning's half-humorous poems; a +pleasantly-composed piece, glancing here and glancing there, as a man's +mind does when leaning over a hill-villa's parapet on a sunny morning +in Florence. I have elsewhere quoted its beginning. It is a fine example +of his nature-poetry: it creates the scenery and atmosphere of the poem; +and the four lines with which the fourth verse closes sketch what +Browning thought to be one of his poetic gifts-- + + And mark through the winter afternoons. + By a gift God grants me now and then, + In the mild decline of those suns like moons. + Who walked in Florence, besides her men. + +This, then, is a poem of many moods, beginning with Giotto's Tower; then +wondering why Giotto did not tell the poet who loved him so much that +one of his pictures was lying hidden in a shop where some one else +picked it up; then, thinking of all Giotto's followers, whose ghosts he +imagines are wandering through Florence, sorrowing for the decay of +their pictures. + +"But at least they have escaped, and have their holiday in heaven, and +do not care one straw for our praise or blame. They did their work, they +and the great masters. We call them old Masters, but they were new in +their time; their old Masters were the Greeks. They broke away from the +Greeks and revolutionised art into a new life. In our turn we must break +away from them." + +And now glides in the theory. "When Greek art reached its perfection, +the limbs which infer the soul, and enough of the soul to inform the +limbs, were faultlessly represented. Men said the best had been done, +and aspiration and growth in art ceased. Content with what had been +done, men imitated, but did not create. But man cannot remain without +change in a past perfection; for then he remains in a kind of death. +Even with failure, with faulty work, he desires to make new things, and +in making, to be alive and feel his life. Therefore Giotto and the rest +began to create a fresh aspect of humanity, which, however imperfect in +form, would suggest an infinite perfection. The Greek perfection ties us +down to earth, to a few forms, and the sooner, if it forbid us to go on, +we reject its ideal as the only one, the better for art and for mankind. + + 'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven-- + The better! What's come to perfection perishes. + Things learned on earth, we shall practise in heaven: + Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes. + +"The great Campanile is still unfinished;" so he shapes his thoughts +into his scenery. Shall man be satisfied in art with the crystallised +joy of Apollo, or the petrified grief of Niobe, when there are a million +more expressions of joy and grief to render? In that way felt Giotto and +his crew. "We will paint the whole of man," they cried, "paint his new +hopes and joys and pains, and never pause, because we shall never quite +succeed. We will paint the soul in all its infinite variety--bring the +invisible full into play. Of course we shall miss perfection--who can +get side by side with infinitude?--but we shall grow out of the dead +perfection of the past, and live and move, and have our being. + + Let the visible go to the dogs--what matters?" + +Thus art began again. Its spring-tide came, dim and dewy; and the world +rejoiced. + +And that is what has happened again and again in the history of art. +Browning has painted a universal truth. It was that which took place +when Wordsworth, throwing away the traditions of a century and all the +finished perfection, as men thought, of the Augustan age, determined to +write of man as man, whatever the issue; to live with the infinite +variety of human nature, and in its natural simplicities. What we shall +see, he thought, may be faulty, common, unideal, imperfect. What we +shall write will not have the conventional perfection of Pope and Gray, +which all the cultivated world admires, and in which it rests +content--growth and movement dead--but it will be true, natural, alive, +running onwards to a far-off goal. And we who write--our loins are +accinct, our lights burning, as men waiting for the revelation of the +Bridegroom. Wordsworth brought back the soul to Poetry. She made her +failures, but she was alive. Spring was blossoming around her with dews +and living airs, and the infinite opened before her. + +So, too, it was when Turner recreated landscape art. There was the +perfect Claudesque landscape, with all its parts arranged, its colours +chosen, the composition balanced, the tree here, the river there, the +figures in the foreground, the accurate distribution and gradation of +the masses of light and shade. "There," the critics said, "we have had +perfection. Let us rest in that." And all growth in landscape-art +ceased. Then came Turner, who, when he had followed the old for a time +and got its good, broke away from it, as if in laughter. "What," he +felt, "the infinite of nature is before me; inconceivable change and +variety in earth, and sky, and sea--and shall I be tied down to one form +of painting landscape, one arrangement of artistic properties? Let the +old perfection go." And we had our revolution in landscape art: nothing, +perhaps, so faultless as Claude's composition, but life, love of nature, +and an illimitable range; incessant change, movement, and aspiration +which have never since allowed the landscape artist to think that he has +attained. + +On another side of the art of painting, Rossetti, Millais, Hunt arose; +and they said, "We will paint men as they actually were in the past, in +the moments of their passion, and with their emotions on their faces, +and with the scenery around them as it was; and whatever background of +nature there was behind them, it shall be painted direct from the very +work of nature herself, and in her very colours. In doing this our range +will become infinite. No doubt we shall fail. We cannot grasp the whole +of nature and humanity, but we shall be _in_ their life: aspiring, +alive, and winning more and more of truth." And the world of art howled +at them, as the world of criticism howled at Wordsworth. But a new life +and joy began to move in painting. Its winter was over, its spring had +begun, its summer was imagined. Their drawing was faulty; their colour +was called crude; they seemed to know little or nothing of composition; +but the Spirit of Life was in them, and their faults were worth more +than the best successes of the school that followed Rafael; for their +faults proved that passion, aspiration and originality were again alive: + + Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory + For daring so much, before they well did it. + +If ever the artist should say to himself, "What I desire has been +attained: I can but imitate or follow it"; or if the people who care for +any art should think, "The best has been reached; let us be content to +rest in that perfection"; the death of art has come. + +The next poem belonging to this subject is the second part of _Pippa +Passes_. What concerns us here is that Jules, the French artist, loves +Phene; and on his return from his marriage pours out his soul to her +concerning his art. + +In his work, in his pursuit of beauty through his aspiration to the old +Greek ideal, he has found his full content--his heaven upon earth. But +now, living love of a woman has stolen in. How can he now, he asks, +pursue that old ideal when he has the real? how carve Tydeus, with her +about the room? He is disturbed, thrilled, uncontent A new ideal rises. +How can he now + + Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait, + My hand transfers its lineaments to stone? + Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth-- + The live truth, passing and repassing me, + Sitting beside me? + +Before he had seen her, all the varied stuff of Nature, every material +in her workshop, tended to one form of beauty, to the human archetype. +But now she, Phene, represents the archetype; and though Browning does +not express this, we feel that if Jules continue in that opinion, his +art will die. Then, carried away by his enthusiasm for his art, he +passes, through a statement that nature suggests in all her doings man +and his life and his beauty--a statement Browning himself makes in +_Paracelsus_--to a description of the capabilities of various stuffs in +nature under the sculptor's hand, and especially of marble as having in +it the capabilities of all the other stuffs and also something more a +living spirit in itself which aids the sculptor and even does some of +his work. + +This is a subtle thought peculiarly characteristic of Browning's +thinking about painting, music, poetry, or sculpture. I believe he felt, +and if he did not, it is still true, that the vehicle of any art brought +something out of itself into the work of the artist. Abt Vogler feels +this as he plays on the instrument he made. Any musician who plays on +two instruments knows that the distinct instrument does distinct work, +and loves each instrument for its own spirit; because each makes his +art, expressed in it, different from his art expressed in another. Even +the same art-creation is different in two instruments: the vehicle does +its own part of the work. Any painter will say the same, according as he +works in fresco or on canvas, in water-colour or in oil. Even a material +like charcoal makes him work the same conception in a different way. I +will quote the passage; it goes to the root of the matter; and whenever +I read it, I seem to hear a well-known sculptor as he talked one night +to me of the spiritual way in which marble, so soft and yet so firm, +answered like living material to his tool, sending flame into it, and +then seemed, as with a voice, to welcome the emotion which, flowing from +him through the chisel, passed into the stone. + + But of the stuffs one can be master of, + How I divined their capabilities! + From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk + That yields your outline to the air's embrace, + Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom: + Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure + To cut its one confided thought clean out + Of all the world. But marble!--'neath my tools + More pliable than jelly--as it were + Some clear primordial creature dug from depths + In the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself. + And whence all baser substance may be worked; + Refine it off to air, you may--condense it + Down to the diamond;--is not metal there, + When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips? + --Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach, + Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep? + Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised + By the swift implement sent home at once, + Flushes and glowings radiate and hover + About its track? + +But Jules finds that Phene, whom he has been deceived into believing an +intelligence equal to his own, does not understand one word he has said, +is nothing but an uneducated girl; and his dream of perfection in the +marriage of Art and Love vanishes away, and with the deception the aims +and hopes of his art as it has been. And Browning makes this happen of +set purpose, in order that, having lost satisfaction in his art-ideal, +and then his satisfaction in that ideal realised in a woman--having +failed in Art and Love--he may pass on into a higher aim, with a higher +conception, both of art and love, and make a new world, in the woman and +in the art. He is about to accept the failure, to take only to revenge +on his deceivers, when Pippa sings as she is passing, and the song +touches him into finer issues of thought. He sees that Phene's soul is, +like a butterfly, half-loosed from its chrysalis, and ready for flight. +The sight and song awake a truer love, for as yet he has loved Phene +only through his art. Now he is impassioned with pity for a human soul, +and his first new sculpture will be the creation of her soul. + + Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff + Be Art--and further, to evoke a soul + From form be nothing? This new soul is mine! + +At last, he is borne into self-forgetfulness by love, and finds a man's +salvation. And in that loss of self he drinks of the deep fountain of +art. Aprile found that out. Sordello dies as he discovers it, and Jules, +the moment he has touched its waters with his lip, sees a new realm of +art arise, and loves it with such joy that he knows he will have power +to dwell in its heart, and create from its joy. + + One may do whate'er one likes + In Art; the only thing is, to make sure + That one does like it--which takes pains to know. + +He breaks all his models up. They are paltry, dead things belonging to a +dead past. "I begin," he cries, "art afresh, in a fresh world, + + Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas." + +The ideal that fails means the birth of a new ideal. The very centre of +Browning as an artist is there: + + Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, + Sleep to wake! + +Sordello is another example of his theory, of a different type from +Aprile, or that poet in _Pauline_ who gave Browning the sketch from +which Sordello was conceived. But Browning, who, as I have said, +repeated his theory, never repeated his examples: and Sordello is not +only clearly varied from Aprile and the person in _Pauline_, but the +variations themselves are inventively varied. The complex temperament of +Sordello incessantly alters its form, not only as he grows from youth to +manhood, but as circumstances meet him. They give him a shock, as a +slight blow does to a kaleidoscope, and the whole pattern of his mind +changes. But as with the bits of coloured glass in the kaleidoscope, the +elements of Bordello's mind remain the same. It is only towards the end +of his career, on the forcible introduction into his life of new +elements from the outward world, that his character radically changes, +and his soul is born. He wins that which he has been without from the +beginning. He wins, as we should say, a heart. He not only begins to +love Palma otherwise than in his dreams, but with that love the love of +man arises--for, in characters like Sordello, personal love, once really +stirred, is sure to expand beyond itself--and then, following on the +love of man, conscience is quickened into life, and for the first time +recognises itself and its duties. In this new light of love and +conscience, directed towards humanity, he looks back on his life as an +artist, or rather, Browning means us to do so; and we understand that he +has done nothing worthy in his art; and that even his gift of +imagination has been without the fire of true passion. His aspirations, +his phantasies, his songs, done only for his own sake, have been cold, +and left the world cold. + +He has aspired to a life in the realm of pure imagination, to winning by +imagination alone all knowledge and all love, and the power over men +which flows from these. He is, in this aspiration, Paracelsus and Aprile +in one. But he has neither the sincerity of Paracelsus nor the passion +of Aprile. He lives in himself alone, beyond the world of experience, +and only not conscious of those barriers which limit our life on which +Browning dwells so much, because he does not bring his aspirations or +his imaginative work to the test by shaping them outside of himself. He +fails, that is, to create anything which will please or endure; fails in +the first aim, the first duty of an artist. He comes again and again to +the verge of creating something which may give delight to men, but only +once succeeds, when by chance, in a moment of excited impulse, caused +partly by his own vanity, and partly by the waves of humanity at Palma's +_Court of Love_ beating on his soul, he breaks for a passing hour into +the song which conquers Eglamor. When, at the end, he does try to shape +himself without for the sake of men he is too late for this life. He +dies of the long struggle, of the revelation of his failure and the +reasons of it, of the supreme light which falls on his wasted life; and +yet not wasted, since even in death he has found his soul and all it +means. His imagination, formerly only intellectual, has become emotional +as well; he loves mankind, and sacrifices fame, power, and knowledge to +its welfare. He no longer thinks to avoid, by living only in himself, +the baffling limitations which inevitably trouble human life; but now +desires, working within these limits, to fix his eyes on the ineffable +Love; failing but making every failure a ladder on which to climb to +higher things. This--the true way of life--he finds out as he dies. To +have that spirit, and to work in it, is the very life of art. To pass +for ever out of and beyond one's self is to the artist the lesson of +Bordello's story. + +It is hardly learnt. The self in Sordello, the self of imagination +unwarned by love of men, is driven out of the artist with strange +miseries, battles and despairs, and these Browning describes with such +inventiveness that at the last one is inclined to say, with all the +pitiful irony of Christ, "This kind goeth not forth but with prayer and +fasting." + +The position in the poem is at root the same as that in Tennyson's +_Palace of Art_. These two poets found, about the same time, the same +idea, and, independently, shaped it into poems. Tennyson put it into the +form of a vision, the defect of which was that it was too far removed +from common experience. Browning put it into the story of a man's life. +Tennyson expressed it with extraordinary clearness, simplicity, and with +a wealth of lovely ornament, so rich that it somewhat overwhelmed the +main lines of his conception. Browning expressed it with extraordinary +complexity, subtlety, and obscurity of diction. But when we take the +trouble of getting to the bottom of _Sordello_, we find ourselves where +we do not find ourselves in _The Palace of Art_--we find ourselves in +close touch and friendship with a man, living with him, sympathising +with him, pitying him, blessing him, angry and delighted with him, +amazingly interested in his labyrinthine way of thinking and feeling; we +follow with keen interest his education, we see a soul in progress; we +wonder what he will do next, what strange turn we shall come to in his +mind, what new effort he will make to realise himself; and, loving him +right through from his childhood to his death, we are quite satisfied +when he dies. At the back of this, and complicating it still more--but, +when we arrive at seeing it clearly, increasing the interest of the +poem--is a great to-and-fro of humanity at a time when humanity was +alive and keen and full of attempting; when men were savagely original, +when life was lived to its last drop, and when a new world was dawning. +Of all this outside humanity there is not a trace in Tennyson, and +Browning could not have got on without it. Of course, it made his poetry +difficult. We cannot get excellences without their attendant defects. We +have a great deal to forgive in _Sordello_. But for the sake of the +vivid humanity we forgive it all. + +Sordello begins as a boy, living alone in a castle near Mantua, built in +a gorge of the low hills, and the description of the scenery of the +castle, without and within, is one example of the fine ornament of which +_Sordello_ is so full. There, this rich and fertile nature lives, fit to +receive delight at every sense, fit to shape what is received into +imaginative pictures within, but not without; content with the +contemplation of his own imaginings. At first it is Nature from whom +Sordello receives impressions, and he amuses himself with the fancies he +draws from her. But he never shapes his emotion into actual song. Then +tired of Nature, he dreams himself into the skin and soul of all the +great men of whom he has read. He becomes them in himself, as Pauline's +lover has done before him; but one by one they fade into unreality--for +he knows nothing of men--and the last projection of himself into Apollo, +the Lord of Poetry, is the most unreal of them all: at which fantasy all +the woods and streams and sunshine round Goito are infinitely amused. +Thus, when he wants sympathy, he does not go down to Mantua and make +song for the crowd of men; he invents in dreams a host of sympathisers, +all of whom are but himself in other forms. Even when he aims at +perfection, and, making himself Apollo, longs for a Daphne to double his +life, his soul is still such stuff as dreams are made of, till he wakes +one morning to ask himself: "When will this dream be truth?" + +This is the artist's temperament in youth when he is not possessed of +the greater qualities of genius--his imaginative visions, his +aspirations, his pride in apartness from men, his self-contentment, his +sloth, the presence in him of barren imagination, the absence from it of +the spiritual, nothing in him which as yet desires, through the sorrow +and strife of life, God's infinitude, or man's love; a natural life +indeed, forgiveable, gay, sportive, dowered with happy self-love, good +to pass through and enjoy, but better to leave behind. But Sordello will +not become the actual artist till he lose his self-involvement and find +his soul, not only in love of his Daphne but in love of man. And the +first thing he will have to do is that which Sordello does not care to +do--to embody before men in order to give them pleasure or impulse, to +console or exalt them, some of the imaginations he has enjoyed within +himself. Nor can Sordello's imagination reach true passion, for it +ignores that which chiefly makes the artist; union with the passions of +mankind. Only when near to death does he outgrow the boy of Goito, and +then we find that he has ceased to be the artist. Thus, the poem is the +history of the failure of a man with an artistic temperament to be an +artist. Or rather, that is part of the story of the poem, and, as +Browning was an artist himself, a part which is of the greatest +interest. + +Sordello, at the close of the first book, is wearied of dreams. Even in +his solitude, the limits of life begin to oppress him. Time fleets, fate +is tardy, life will be over before he lives. Then an accident helps +him-- + + Which breaking on Sordello's mixed content + Opened, like any flash that cures the blind, + The veritable business of mankind. + +This accident is the theme of the second book. It belongs to the subject +of this chapter, for it contrasts two types of the artist, Eglamor and +Sordello, and it introduces Naddo, the critic, with a good knowledge of +poetry, with a great deal of common sense, with an inevitable sliding +into the opinion that what society has stamped must be good--a mixed +personage, and a sketch done with Browning's humorous and pitying skill. + +The contrast between Eglamor and Sordello runs through the whole poem. +Sordello recalls Eglamor at the last, and Naddo appears again and again +to give the worldly as well as the common-sense solution of the problems +which Sordello makes for himself. Eglamor is the poet who has no genius, +whom one touch of genius burns into nothing, but who, having a charming +talent, employs it well; and who is so far the artist that what he feels +he is able to shape gracefully, and to please mankind therewith; who, +moreover loves, enjoys, and is wholly possessed with what he shapes in +song. This is good; but then he is quite satisfied with what he does; he +has no aspiration, and all the infinitude of beauty is lost to him. And +when Sordello takes up his incomplete song, finishes it, inspires, +expands what Eglamor thought perfect, he sees at last that he has only a +graceful talent, that he has lived in a vain show, like a gnome in a +cell of the rock of gold. Genius, momentarily realising itself in +Sordello, reveals itself to Eglamor with all its infinities; Heaven and +Earth and the universe open on Eglamor, and the revelation of what he +is, and of the perfection beyond, kills him. That is a fine, true, and +piteous sketch. + +But Sordello, who is the man of possible genius, is not much better off. +There has been one outbreak into reality at Palma's _Court of Love_. +Every one, afterwards, urges him to sing. The critics gather round him. +He makes poems, he becomes the accepted poet of Northern Italy. But he +cannot give continuous delight to the world. His poems are not like his +song before Palma. They have no true passion, being woven like a +spider's web out of his own inside. His case then is more pitiable, his +failure more complete, than Eglamor's. Eglamor could shape something; he +had his own enjoyment, and he gave pleasure to men. Sordello, lured +incessantly towards abstract ideals, lost in their contemplation, is +smitten, like Aprile, into helplessness by the multitudinousness of the +images he sees, refuses to descend into real life and submit to its +limitations, is driven into the slothfulness of that dreaming +imagination which is powerless to embody its images in the actual song. +Sometimes he tries to express himself, longing for reality. When he +tries he fails, and instead of making failure a step to higher effort, +he falls back impatiently on himself, and is lost in himself. Moreover, +he tries always within himself, and with himself for judge. He does not +try the only thing which would help him--the submission of his work to +the sympathy and judgment of men. Out of touch with any love save love +of his own imaginings, he cannot receive those human impressions which +kindle the artist into work, nor answer the cry which comes from +mankind, with such eagerness, to genius--"Express for us in clear form +that which we vaguely feel. Make us see and admire and love." Then he +ceases even to love song, because, though he can imagine everything, he +can do nothing; and deaf to the voices of men, he despises man. Finally +he asks himself, like so many young poets who have followed his way, +What is the judgment of the world worth? Nothing at all, he answers. +With that ultimate folly, the favourite resort of minor poets, Sordello +goes altogether wrong. He pleases nobody, not even himself; spends his +time in arguing inside himself why he has not succeeded; and comes to no +conclusion, except that total failure is the necessity of the world. At +last one day, wandering from Mantua, he finds himself in his old +environment, in the mountain cup where Goito and the castle lie. And the +old dream, awakened by the old associations, that he was Apollo, Lord of +Song, rushed back upon him and enwrapped him wholly. He feels, in the +blessed silence, that he is no longer what he has been of late, + + a pettish minstrel meant + To wear away his soul in discontent, + Brooding on fortune's malice, + +but himself once more, freed from the world of Mantua; alone again, but +in his loneliness really more lost than he was at Mantua, as we soon +find out in the third book. + +I return, in concluding this chapter, to the point which bears most +clearly on Browning as the poet of art. The only time when Sordello +realises what it is to be an artist is when, swept out of himself by the +kindled emotion of the crowd at the _Court of Love_ and inspired also by +the true emotion of Eglamor's song, which has been made because he loved +it--his imagination is impassioned enough to shape for man the thing +within him, outside of himself, and to sing for the joy of +singing--having forgotten himself in mankind, in their joy and in his +own. + +But it was little good to him. When he stole home to Goito in a dream, +he sat down to think over the transport he had felt, why he felt it, how +he was better than Eglamor; and at last, having missed the whole use of +the experience (which was to draw him into the service of man within the +limits of life but to always transcend the limits in aspiration), he +falls away from humanity into his own self again; and perfectly happy +for the moment, but lost as an artist and a man, lies lazy, filleted and +robed on the turf, with a lute beside him, looking over the landscape +below the castle and fancying himself Apollo. This is to have the +capacity to be an artist, but it is not to be an artist. And we leave +Sordello lying on the grass enjoying himself, but not destined on that +account to give any joy to man. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +_SORDELLO_ + + +The period in which the poem of _Sordello_ opens is at the end of the +first quarter of the thirteenth century, at the time when the Guelf +cities allied themselves against the Ghibellines in Northern Italy. They +formed the Lombard League, and took their private quarrels up into one +great quarrel--that between the partisans of the Empire and those of the +Pope. Sordello is then a young man of thirty years. He was born in 1194, +when the fierce fight in the streets of Vicenza took place which +Salinguerra describes, as he looks back on his life, in the fourth canto +of this poem. The child is saved in that battle, and brought from +Vicenza by Adelaide, the second wife of Ezzelino da Romano II.,[8] to +Goito. He is really the son of Salinguerra and Retrude, a connection of +Frederick II., but Adelaide conceals this, and brings him up as her +page, alleging that he is the son of Elcorte, an archer. Palma (or +Cunizza), Ezzelino's daughter by Agnes Este, his first wife, is also at +Goito in attendance on Adelaide. Sordello and she meet as girl and boy, +and she becomes one of the dreams with which his lonely youth at Goito +is adorned. + +At Adelaide's death Palma discovers the real birth of Sordello. She has +heard him sing some time before at a Love-court, where he won the prize; +where she, admiring, began to love him; and this love of hers has been +increased by his poetic fame which has now filled North Italy. She +summons him to her side at Verona, makes him understand that she loves +him, and urges him, as Salinguerra's son, to take the side of the +Ghibellines to whose cause Salinguerra, the strongest military +adventurer in North Italy, has now devoted himself. When the poem +begins, Salinguerra has received from the Emperor the badge which gives +him the leadership of the Ghibelline party in North Italy. + +Then Palma, bringing Sordello to see Salinguerra, reveals to the great +partisan that Sordello is his son, and that she loves him. Salinguerra, +seeing in the union of Palma, daughter of the Lord of Romano, with his +son, a vital source of strength to the Emperor's party, throws the +Emperor's badge on his son's neck, and offers him the leadership of the +Ghibellines. Palma urges him to accept it; but Sordello has been already +convinced that the Guelf side is the right one to take for the sake of +mankind. Rome, he thinks, is the great uniting power; only by Rome can +the cause of peace and the happiness of the people be in the end +secured. That cause--the cause of a happy people--is the one thing for +which, after many dreams centred in self, Sordello has come to care. He +is sorely tempted by the love of Palma and by the power offered him to +give up that cause or to palter with it; yet in the end his soul resists +the temptation. But the part of his life, in which he has neglected his +body, has left him without physical strength; and now the struggle of +his soul to do right in this spiritual crisis gives the last blow to his +weakened frame. His heart breaks, and he dies at the moment when he +dimly sees the true goal of life. This is a masterpiece of the irony of +the Fate-Goddess; and a faint suspicion of this irony, underlying life, +even though Browning turns it round into final good, runs in and out of +the whole poem in a winding thread of thought. + +This is the historical background of the poem, and in front of it are +represented Sordello, his life, his development as an individual soul, +and his death. I have, from one point of view, slightly analysed the +first two books of the poem, but to analyse the whole would be apart +from the purpose of this book. My object in this and the following +chapter is to mark out, with here and there a piece of explanation, +certain characteristics of the poem in relation, first, to the time in +which it is placed; secondly, to the development of Sordello in contact +with that time; and thirdly, to our own time; then to trace the +connection of the poem with the poetic evolution of Browning; and +finally, to dwell throughout the whole discussion on its poetic +qualities. + +1. The time in which the poem's thought and action are placed is the +beginning of the thirteenth century in North Italy, a period in which +the religious basis of life, laid so enthusiastically in the eleventh +century, and gradually weakening through the twelfth, had all but faded +away for the mediaeval noble and burgher, and even for the clergy. +Religion, it is true, was confessed and its dogmas believed in; the +Cistercian revival had restored some of its lost influence, but it did +not any longer restrain the passions, modify the wickedness, control the +ambitions or subdue the world, in the heart of men, as it had done in +the eleventh century. There was in Italy, at least, an unbridled licence +of life, a fierce individuality, which the existence of a number of +small republics encouraged; and, in consequence, a wild confusion of +thought and act in every sphere of human life. Moreover, all through the +twelfth century there had been a reaction among the artistic and +literary men against the theory of life laid down by the monks, and +against the merely saintly aims and practice of the religious, of which +that famous passage in _Aucassin and Nicolete_ is an embodiment. Then, +too, the love poetry (a poetry which tended to throw monkish purity +aside) started in the midst of the twelfth century; then the troubadours +began to sing; and then the love-songs of Germany arose. And Italian +poetry, a poetry which tended to repel the religion of the spirit for +the religion of enjoyment, had begun in Sicily and Siena in 1172-78, and +was nurtured in the Sicilian Court of Frederick II., while Sordello was +a youth. All over Europe, poetry drifted into a secular poetry of love +and war and romance. The religious basis of life had lost its strength. +As to North Italy, where our concern lies, humanity there was weltering +like a sea, tossing up and down, with no direction in its waves. It was +not till Francis of Assisi came that a new foundation for religious +life, a new direction for it, began to be established. As to Law, +Government, Literature, and Art, all their elements were in equal +confusion. Every noble, every warrior who reached ascendency, or was +born to it, made his own laws and governed as he liked. Every little +city had its own fashions and its own aims; and was continually +fighting, driven by jealousy, envy, hatred, or emulation, with its +neighbours. War was the incessant business of life, and was carried on +not only against neighbouring cities, but by each city in its own +streets, from its own towers, where noble fought against noble, citizen +with citizen, and servant with servant. Literature was only trying to +begin, to find its form, to find its own Italian tongue, to understand +what it desired. It took more than a century after Sordello's youth to +shape itself into the poetry of Dante and Petrarch, into their prose and +the prose of Boccaccio. The _Vita Nuova_ was set forth in 1290, 93, the +_Decameron_ in 1350, 53, and Petrarch was crowned at Rome in 1341. And +the arts of sculpture and painting were in the same condition. They were +struggling towards a new utterance, but as yet they could not speak. + +It is during this period of impassioned confusion and struggle towards +form, during this carnival of individuality, that Sordello, as conceived +by Browning, a modern in the midst of mediaevalism, an exceptional +character wholly unfitted for the time, is placed by Browning. And the +clash between himself and his age is too much for him. He dies of it; +dies of the striving to find an anchorage for life, and of his inability +to find it in this chartless sea. But the world of men, incessantly +recruited by new generations, does not die like the individual, and +what Sordello could not do, it did. It emerged from this confusion in +the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, with S. Francis, Dante, +Petrarch and Boccaccio, the Pisani, Giotto, and the Commonwealth of +Florence. Religion, Poetry, Prose, Sculpture, Painting, Government and +Law found new foundations. The Renaissance began to dawn, and during its +dawn kept, among the elect of mankind, all or nearly all the noble +impulses and faith of mediaevalism. + +This dawn of the Renaissance is nearly a hundred years away at the time +of this poem, yet two of its characteristics vitally moved through this +transition period; and, indeed, while they continued even to the end of +the Renaissance, were powers which brought it about. The first of these +was a boundless curiosity about life, and the second was an intense +individuality. No one can read the history of the Italian Republics in +the thirteenth century without incessantly coming into contact with both +these elements working fiercely, confusedly, without apparently either +impulse or aim, but producing a wonderful activity of life, out of +which, by command as it were of the gods, a new-created world might rise +into order. It was as if chaos were stirred, like a cauldron with a +stick, that suns and planets, moving by living law, might emerge in +beauty. Sordello lived in the first whirling of these undigested +elements, and could only dream of what might be; but it was life in +which he moved, disorderly life, it is true, but not the dread disorder +of decay. Browning paints it with delight. + +This unbridled curiosity working in men of unbridled individuality +produced a tumbling confusion in life. Men, full of eagerness, each +determined to fulfil his own will, tried every kind of life, attempted +every kind of pursuit, strove to experience all the passions, indulged +their passing impulses to the full, and when they were wearied of any +experiment in living passed on to the next, not with weariness but with +fresh excitement. Cities, small republics, did the same +collectively--Ferrara, Padua, Verona, Mantua, Milan, Parma, Florence, +Pisa, Siena, Perugia. Both cities and citizens lived in a nervous storm, +and at every impulse passed into furious activity. In five minutes a +whole town was up in the market-place, the bells rang, the town banner +was displayed, and in an hour the citizens were marching out of the +gates to attack the neighbouring city. A single gibe in the streets, or +at the church door, interchanged between one noble and another of +opposite factions, and the gutters of the streets ran red with the blood +of a hundred men. This then was the time of _Sordello_, and splendidly +has Browning represented it. + +2. Sordello is the image of this curiosity and individuality, but only +inwardly. In the midst of this turbulent society Browning creates him +with the temperament of a poet, living in a solitary youth, apart from +arms and the wild movement of the world. His soul is full of the +curiosity of the time. The inquisition of his whole life is, "What is +the life most worth living? How shall I attain it, in what way make it +mine?" and then, "What sort of lives are lived by other men?" and, +finally, "What is the happiest life for the whole?" The curiosity does +not drive him, like the rest of the world, into action in the world. It +expands only in thought and dreaming. But however he may dream, however +wrapt in self he may be, his curiosity about these matters never lessens +for a moment. Even in death it is his ruling passion. + +Along with this he shares fully in the impassioned individuality of the +time. Browning brings that forward continually. All the dreams of his +youth centre in himself; Nature becomes the reflection of himself; all +histories of great men he represents as in himself; finally, he becomes +to himself Apollo, the incarnation of poetry. But he does not seek to +realise his individuality, any more than his curiosity, in action. When +he is drawn out of himself at Mantua and sings for a time to please men, +he finds that the public do not understand him, and flies back to his +solitude, back to his own soul. And Mantua, and love, and adventure all +die within him. "I have all humanity," he says, "within myself--why then +should I seek humanity?" This is the way the age's passion for +individuality shows itself in him. Other men put it into love, war, or +adventure. He does not; he puts it into the lonely building-up of his +own soul. Even when he is brought into the midst of the action of the +time we see that he is apart from it. As he wanders through the turmoil +of the streets of Ferrara in Book iv., he is dreaming still of his own +life, of his own soul. His curiosity, wars and adventures are within. +The various lives he is anxious to live are lived in lonely +imaginations. The individuality he realises is in thought. At this point +then he is apart from his century--an exceptional temperament set in +strong contrast to the world around him--the dreamer face to face with +a mass of men all acting with intensity. And the common result takes +place; the exceptional breaks down against the steady and terrible pull +of the ordinary. It is Hamlet over again, and when Sordello does act it +is just as Hamlet does, by a sudden impulse which lifts him from +dreaming into momentary action, out of which, almost before he has +realised he is acting, he slips back again into dreams. And his action +seems to him the dream, and his dream the activity. That saying of +Hamlet's would be easy on the lips of Sordello, if we take "bad dreams" +to mean for him what they meant for Hamlet the moment he is forced to +action in the real world--"I could be bounded in a nut-shell and think +myself king of infinite space, had I not bad dreams." When he is +surprised into action at the Court of Love at Mantua, and wins the prize +of song, he seems to slip back into a sleepy cloud. But Palma, bending +her beautiful face over him and giving him her scarf, wins him to stay +at Mantua; and for a short time he becomes the famous poet. But he is +disappointed. That which he felt himself to be (the supernal greatness +of his individuality) is not recognised, and at last he feels that to +act and fight his way through a world which appreciates his isolated +greatness so little as to dare to criticise him, is impossible. We have +seen in the last chapter how he slips back to Goito, to his +contemplation of himself in nature, to his self-communion, to the dreams +which do not contradict his opinion of himself. The momentary creator +perishes in the dreamer. He gives up life, adventure, love, war, and he +finally surrenders his art. No more poetry for him. + +It is thus that a character feeble for action, but mystic in +imagination, acts in the petulance of youth when it is pushed into a +clashing, claiming world. In this mood a year passes by in vague +content. Yet a little grain of conscience makes him sour. He is vexed +that his youth is gone with all its promised glow, pleasure and action; +and the vexation is suddenly deepened by seeing a great change in the +aspect of nature. "What," he thinks, when he sees the whole valley +filled with Mincio in flood, "can Nature in this way renew her youth, +and not I? Alas! I cannot so renew myself; youth is over." But if youth +be dead, manhood remains; and the curiosity and individuality of the age +stir in him again. "I must find," he thinks, "the fitting kind of life. +I must make men feel what I am. But how; what do I want for this? I want +some outward power to draw me forth and upward, as the moon draws the +waters; to lead me to a life in which I may know mankind, in order that +I may take out of men all I need to make _myself_ into perfect form--a +full poet, able to impose my genius on mankind, and to lead them where I +will. What force can draw me out of these dreaming solitudes in which I +fail to realise my art? Why, there is none so great as love. Palma who +smiled on me, she shall be my moon." At that moment, when he is again +thrilled with curiosity concerning life, again desirous to realise his +individuality in the world of men, a message comes from Palma. "Come, +there is much for you to do--come to me at Verona." She lays a political +career before him. "Take the Kaiser's cause, you and I together; build a +new Italy under the Emperor." And Sordello is fired by the thought, not +as yet for the sake of doing good to man, but to satisfy his curiosity +in a new life, and to edify his individual soul into a perfection +unattained as yet. "I will go," he thinks, "and be the spirit in this +body of mankind, wield, animate, and shape the people of Italy, make +them the form in which I shall express myself. It is not enough to act, +in imagination, all that man is, as I have done. I will now make men act +by the force of my spirit: North Italy shall be my body, and thus I +shall realise myself"--as if one could, with that self-contemplating +motive, ever realise personality. + +This, then, is the position of Sordello in the period of history I have +pictured, and it carries him to the end of the third book of the poem. +It has embodied the history of his youth--of his first contact with the +world; of his retreat from it into thought over what he has gone +through; and of his reawakening into a fresh questioning--how he shall +realise life, how manifest himself in action. "What shall I do as a +poet, and a man?" + +3. The next thing to be said of _Sordello_ is its vivid realisation of +certain aspects of mediaeval life. Behind this image of the curious +dreamer lost in abstractions, and vividly contrasted with it, is the +fierce activity of mediaeval cities and men in incessant war; each city, +each man eager to make his own individuality supreme; and this is +painted by Browning at the very moment when the two great parties were +formed, and added to personal war the intensifying power of two ideals. +This was a field for imagination in which Browning was sure to revel, +like a wild creature of the woods on a summer day. He had the genius of +places, of portraiture, and of sudden flashes of action and passion; +and the time of which he wrote supplied him with full matter for these +several capacities of genius. + +When we read in _Sordello_ of the fierce outbursts of war in the cities +of North Italy, we know that Browning saw them with his eyes and shared +their fury and delight. Verona is painted in the first book just as the +news arrives that her prince is captive in Ferrara. It is evening, a +still and flaming sunset, and soft sky. In dreadful contrast to this +burning silence of Nature is the wrath and hate which are seething in +the market-place. Group talked with restless group, and not a face + + But wrath made livid, for among them were + Death's staunch purveyors, such as have in care + To feast him. Fear had long since taken root + In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit, + The ripe hate, like a wine; to note the way + It worked while each grew drunk! Men grave and grey + Stood, with shut eyelids, rocking to and fro, + Letting the silent luxury trickle slow + About the hollows where a heart should be; + But the young gulped with a delirious glee + Some foretaste of their first debauch in blood + At the fierce news. + +Step by step the varying passions, varying with the men of the varied +cities of the League assembled at Verona, are smitten out on the anvil +of Browning's imagination. Better still is the continuation of the same +scene in the third book, when the night has come, and the raging of the +people, reaching its height, declares war. Palma and Sordello, who are +in the palace looking on the square, lean out to see and hear. On the +black balcony beneath them, in the still air, amid a gush of +torch-fire, the grey-haired counsellors harangue the people; + + then + Sea-like that people surging to and fro + Shouted, "Hale forth the carroch--trumpets, ho, + A flourish! Run it in the ancient grooves! + Back from the bell! Hammer--that whom behoves + May hear the League is up!" + +Then who will may read the dazzling account of the streets of Ferrara +thick with corpses; of Padua, of Bassano streaming blood; of the wells +chokeful of carrion, of him who catches in his spur, as he is kicking +his feet when he sits on the well and singing, his own mother's face by +the grey hair; of the sack of Vicenza in the fourth book; of the +procession of the envoys of the League through the streets of Ferrara, +with ensigns, war-cars and clanging bells; of the wandering of Sordello +at night through the squares blazing with fires, and the soldiers camped +around them singing and shouting; of his solitary silent thinking +contrasted with their noise and action--and he who reads will know, as +if he lived in them, the fierce Italian towns of the thirteenth century. + +Nor is his power less when he describes the solitary silent places of +mediaeval castles, palaces, and their rooms; of the long, statue-haunted, +cypress-avenued gardens, a waste of flowers and wild undergrowth. We +wander, room by room, through Adelaide's castle at Goito, we see every +beam in the ceiling, every figure on the tapestry; we walk with Browning +through the dark passages into the dim-lighted chambers of the town +palace at Verona, and hang over its balconies; we know the gardens at +Goito, and the lonely woods; and we keep pace with Sordello through +those desolate paths and ilex-groves, past the fountains lost in the +wilderness of foliage, climbing from terrace to terrace where the broken +statues, swarming with wasps, gleam among the leering aloes and the +undergrowth, in the garden that Salinguerra made for his Sicilian wife +at Ferrara. The words seem as it were to flare the ancient places out +before the eyes. + +Mixed up with all this painting of towns, castles and gardens there is +some natural description. Browning endeavours, it is plain, to keep that +within the mediaeval sentiment. But that he should succeed in that was +impossible. The mediaeval folk had little of our specialised sentiment +for landscape, and Browning could not get rid of it. + +The modern philosophies of Nature do not, however, appear in _Sordello_ +as they did in _Pauline_ or _Paracelsus_. Only once in the whole of +_Sordello_ is Nature conceived as in analogy with man, and Browning says +this in a parenthesis. "Life is in the tempest," he cries, "thought + + "Clothes the keen hill-top; mid-day woods are fraught + With fervours": + +but, in spite of the mediaeval environment, the modern way of seeing +Nature enters into all his descriptions. They are none the worse for it, +and do not jar too much with the mediaeval _mise-en-scene_. We expect our +modern sentiment, and Sordello himself, being in many ways a modern, +seems to license these descriptions. Most of them also occur when he is +on the canvas, and are a background to his thought. Moreover, they are +not set descriptions; they are flashed out, as it were, in a few lines, +as if they came by chance, and are not pursued into detail. Indeed, they +are not done so much for the love of Nature herself, as for passing +illustrations of Sordello's ways of thought and feeling upon matters +which are not Nature. As such, even in a mediaeval poem, they are +excusable. And vivid they are in colour, in light, in reality. Some I +have already isolated. Here are a few more, just to show his hand. This +is the castle and its scenery, described in Book i.: + + In Mantua territory half is slough, + Half pine-tree forest: maples, scarlet oaks + Breed o'er the river-beds; even Mincio chokes + With sand the summer through: but 'tis morass + In winter up to Mantua's walls. There was, + Some thirty years before this evening's coil, + One spot reclaimed from the surrounding spoil, + Goito; just a castle built amid + A few low mountains; firs and larches hid + Their main defiles, and rings of vineyard bound + The rest. Some captured creature in a pound, + Whose artless wonder quite precludes distress, + Secure beside in its own loveliness, + So peered, with airy head, below, above + The castle at its toils, the lapwings love + To glean among at grape time. + +And this is the same place from the second book: + + And thus he wandered, dumb + Till evening, when he paused, thoroughly spent + On a blind hill-top: down the gorge he went, + Yielding himself up as to an embrace. + The moon came out; like features of a face, + A querulous fraternity of pines, + Sad blackthorn clumps, leafless and grovelling vines + Also came out, made gradually up + The picture; 'twas Goito's mountain-cup + And castle. + +And here, from Book iii., is Spring when Palma, dreaming of the man she +can love, cries that the waking earth is in a thrill to welcome him-- + + "Waits he not the waking year? + His almond-blossoms must be honey-ripe + By this; to welcome him fresh runnels stripe + The thawed ravines; because of him the wind + Walks like a herald." + +This is May from Book ii.; and afterwards, in the third book, the months +from Spring to Summer-- + + My own month came; + 'Twas a sunrise of blossoming and May. + Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay + Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars + That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars + Dug up at Baiae, when the south wind shed + The ripest, made him happier. + + Not any strollings now at even-close + Down the field path, Sordello! by thorn-rows + Alive with lamp-flies, swimming spots of fire + And dew, outlining the black cypress-spire + She waits you at, Elys, who heard you first + Woo her, the snow month through, but, ere she durst + Answer 'twas April. Linden-flower-time long + Her eyes were on the ground; 'tis July, strong + Now; and, because white dust-clouds overwhelm + The woodside, here, or by the village elm + That holds the moon, she meets you, somewhat pale. + +And here are two pieces of the morning, one of the wide valley of +Naples; another with which the poem ends, pure modern, for it does not +belong to Sordello's time, but to our own century. This is from the +fourth book. + + Broke + Morning o'er earth; he yearned for all it woke-- + From the volcano's vapour-flag, winds hoist + Black o'er the spread of sea,--down to the moist + Dale's silken barley-spikes sullied with rain, + Swayed earthwards, heavily to rise again. + +And this from the last book-- + + Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill + By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill, + Morning just up, higher and higher runs + A child barefoot and rosy. See! the sun's + On the square castle's inner-court's low wall + Like the chine of some extinct animal + Half-turned to earth and flowers; and through the haze, + (Save where some slender patches of grey maize + Are to be over-leaped) that boy has crossed + The whole hill-side of dew and powder-frost + Matting the balm and mountain camomile. + Up and up goes he, singing all the while + Some unintelligible words to beat + The lark, God's poet, swooning at his feet. + +As alive, and even clearer in outline than these natural descriptions, +are the portraits in _Sordello_ of the people of the time. No one can +mistake them for modern folk. I do not speak of the portrait of +Sordello--that is chiefly of the soul, not of the body--but of the +personages who fill the background, the heads of noble houses, the +warriors, priests, soldiers, singers, the women, and chiefly Adelaide +and Palma. These stand before us as Tintoret or Veronese might have +painted them had they lived on into the great portrait-century. Their +dress, their attitudes, their sudden gestures, their eyes, hair, the +trick of their mouths, their armour, how they walked and talked and read +and wrote, are all done in quick touches and jets of colour. Each is +distinct from the others, each a type. A multitude of cabinet sketches +of men are made in the market-places, in castle rooms, on the roads, in +the gardens, on the bastions of the towns. Take as one example the +Pope's Legate: + + With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread, + Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head, + Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while + That owner of the idiotic smile + Serves them! + +Nor does Browning confine himself to personages of Sordello's time. +There are admirable portraits, but somewhat troubled by unnecessary +matter, of Dante, of Charlemagne, of Hildebrand. One elaborate portrait +is continued throughout the poem. It is that of Salinguerra, the man of +action as contrasted with Sordello the dreamer. Much pains are spent on +this by Browning. We see him first in the streets of Ferrara. + + Men understood + Living was pleasant to him as he wore + His careless surcoat, glanced some missive o'er, + Propped on his truncheon in the public way. + +Then at the games at Mantua, when he is told Sordello will not come to +sing a welcome to him. What cares he for poet's whims? + + The easy-natured soldier smiled assent, + Settled his portly person, smoothed his chin, + And nodded that the bull-bait might begin. + +Then mad with fighting frenzy in the sacking of Vicenza, then in his +palace nursing his scheme to make the Emperor predominant, then pacing +like a lion, hot with hope of mastering all Italy, when he finds out +that Sordello is his son: "hands clenched, head erect, pursuing his +discourse--crimson ear, eyeballs suffused, temples full fraught." + +Then in the fourth book there is a long portrait of him which I quote as +a full specimen of the power with which Browning could paint a partisan +of the thirteenth century. Though sixty years old, Salinguerra looked +like a youth-- + + So agile, quick + And graceful turned the head on the broad chest + Encased in pliant steel, his constant vest, + Whence split the sun off in a spray of fire + Across the room; and, loosened of its tire + Of steel, that head let breathe the comely brown + Large massive locks discoloured as if a crown + Encircled them, so frayed the basnet where + A sharp white line divided clean the hair; + Glossy above, glossy below, it swept + Curling and fine about a brow thus kept + Calm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound: + This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found, + Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced, + No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchased + In hollows filled with many a shade and streak + Settling from the bold nose and bearded cheek. + Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformed + A lip supremely perfect else--unwarmed, + Unwidened, less or more; indifferent + Whether on trees or men his thoughts were bent, + Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and train + As now a period was fulfilled again: + Of such, a series made his life, compressed + In each, one story serving for the rest. + +This is one example of a gallery of vivid portraiture in all Browning's +work, such as Carlyle only in the nineteenth century has approached in +England. It is not a national, but an international gallery of +portraits. The greater number of the portraits are Italian, and they +range over all classes of society from the Pope to the peasant. Even +Bishop Blougram has the Italian subtlety, and, like the Monsignore in +_Pippa Passes_, something of the politic morality of Machiavelli. But +Israel, Greece, France, Spain, Germany, and the days before the world +was brought together, furnish him with men drawn as alive. He has +painted their souls, but others have done this kind of painting as well, +if not so minutely. But no others have painted so livingly the outside +of men--their features one by one, their carriage, their gestures, their +clothing, their walk, their body. All the colours of their dress and +eyes and lips are given. We see them live and move and have their being. +It is the same with his women, but I keep these for further treatment. + +4. The next thing I have to say about _Sordello_ concerns what I call +its illustrative episodes. Browning, wishing to illuminate his subject, +sometimes darts off from it into an elaborate simile as Homer does. But +in Homer the simile is carefully set, and explained to be a comparison. +It is not mixed up with the text. It is short, rarely reaching more than +ten lines. In Browning, it is glided into without any preparation, and +at first seems part of the story. Nor are we always given any intimation +of its end. And Browning is led away by his imaginative pleasure in its +invention to work it up with adventitious ornament of colour and +scenery; having, in his excitement of invention, lost all power of +rejecting any additional touch which occurs to him, so that the +illustration, swelling out into a preposterous length, might well be +severed from the book and made into a separate poem. Moreover, these +long illustrations are often but faintly connected with the subject they +are used to illumine; and they delay the movement of the poem while they +confuse the reader. The worst of these, worst as an illustration, but +in itself an excellent fragment to isolate as a picture-poem, is the +illustration of the flying slave who seeks his tribe beyond the +Mountains of the Moon. It is only to throw light on a moment of +Salinguerra's discursive thought, and is far too big for that. It is +more like an episode than an illustration. I quote it not only to show +what I mean, but also for its power. It is in Bk. iv. + + "As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuit + Of all enslavers, dips a shackled foot + Burnt to the blood, into the drowsy black + Enormous watercourse which guides him back + To his own tribe again, where he is king; + And laughs because he guesses, numbering + The yellower poison-wattles on the pouch + Of the first lizard wrested from its couch + Under the slime (whose skin, the while, he strips + To cure his nostril with, and festered lips, + And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast) + That he has reached its boundary, at last + May breathe;--thinks o'er enchantments of the South + Sovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth, + Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments tried + In fancy, puts them soberly aside + For truth, projects a cool return with friends, + The likelihood of winning mere amends + Ere long; thinks that, takes comfort silently, + Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he, + Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soon + Off-striding for the Mountains of the Moon." + +The best of these is where he illustrates the restless desire of a poet +for the renewal of energy, for finding new worlds to sing. The poet +often seems to stop his work, to be satisfied. "Here I will rest," he +says, "and do no more." But he only waits for a fresh impulse. + + 'Tis but a sailor's promise, weather-bound: + "Strike sail, slip cable, here the bark be moored + For once, the awning stretched, the poles assured! + Noontide above; except the wave's crisp dash, + Or buzz of colibri, or tortoise' splash, + The margin's silent: out with every spoil + Made in our tracking, coil by mighty coil, + This serpent of a river to his head + I' the midst! Admire each treasure, as we spread + The bank, to help us tell our history + Aright; give ear, endeavour to descry + The groves of giant rushes, how they grew + Like demons' endlong tresses we sailed through, + What mountains yawned, forests to give us vent + Opened, each doleful side, yet on we went + Till ... may that beetle (shake your cap) attest + The springing of a land-wind from the West!" + --Wherefore? Ah yes, you frolic it to-day! + To-morrow, and the pageant moved away + Down to the poorest tent-pole, we and you + Part company: no other may pursue + Eastward your voyage, be informed what fate + Intends, if triumph or decline await + The tempter of the everlasting steppe! + +This, from Book iii., is the best because it is closer than the rest to +the matter in hand; but how much better it might have been! How +curiously overloaded it is, how difficult what is easy has been made! + +The fault of these illustrations is the fault of the whole poem. +_Sordello_ is obscure, Browning's idolaters say, by concentration of +thought. It is rather obscure by want of that wise rejection of +unnecessary thoughts which is the true concentration. It is obscure by a +reckless misuse of the ordinary rules of language. It is obscure by a +host of parentheses introduced to express thoughts which are only +suggested, half-shaped, and which are frequently interwoven with +parentheses introduced into the original parentheses. It is obscure by +the worst punctuation I ever came across, but this was improved in the +later editions. It is obscure by multitudinous fancies put in whether +they have to do with the subject or not, and by multitudinous deviations +within those fancies. It is obscure by Browning's effort to make words +express more than they are capable of expressing. + +It is no carping criticism to say this of Browning's work in _Sordello_, +because it is the very criticism his after-practice as an artist makes. +He gave up these efforts to force, like Procrustes, language to stretch +itself or to cut itself down into forms it could not naturally take; and +there is no more difficulty in most of his earlier poems than there is +in _Paracelsus_. Only a little of the Sordellian agonies remains in +them, only that which was natural to Browning's genius. The interwoven +parentheses remain, the rushes of invention into double and triple +illustrations, the multiplication of thought on thought; but for these +we may even be grateful. Opulence and plenitude of this kind are not +common; we are not often granted a man who flings imaginations, fancies +and thoughts from him as thick and bright as sparks from a grinder's +wheel. It is not every poet who is unwilling to leave off, who finds +himself too full to stop. "These bountiful wits," as Lamb said, "always +give full measure, pressed down, and running over." + +FOOTNOTES: + +[8] Browning spells this name _Ecelin_, probably for easier use in +verse. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +_BROWNING AND SORDELLO_ + + +There are certain analogies between Browning as a poet and the Sordello +of the poem; between his relation to the world of his time and that of +Sordello to his time; and finally, between Browning's language in this +poem and the change in the Italian language which he imputes to the work +of Sordello. This chapter will discuss these analogies, and close with +an appreciation of Browning's position between the classic and romantic +schools of poetry. + +The analogies of which I write may be denied, but I do not think they +can be disproved. Browning is, no doubt, separate from Sordello in his +own mind, but underneath the young poet he is creating, he is +continually asking himself the same question which Sordello asks--What +shall I do as an artist? To what conclusion shall I come with regard to +my life as a poet? It is no small proof of this underlying personal +element in the first three books of the poem that at the end of the +third book Browning flings himself suddenly out of the mediaeval world +and the men he has created, and waking into 1835-40 at Venice, asks +himself--What am I writing, and why? What is my aim in being a poet? Is +it worth my while to go on with Sordello's story, and why is it worth +the telling? In fact, he allows us to think that he has been describing +in Sordello's story a transitory phase of his own career. And then, +having done this, he tells how he got out of confusion into clearer +light. + +The analogy between Browning's and Sordello's time is not a weak one. +The spirit of the world, between 1830 and 1840 in England, resembled in +many ways the spirit abroad at the beginning of the thirteenth century. +The country had awakened out of a long sleep, and was extraordinarily +curious not only with regard to life and the best way to live it, but +also with regard to government, law, the condition of the people, the +best kind of religion and how best to live it, the true aims of poetry +and how it was to be written, what subjects it should work on, what was +to be the mother-motive of it, that is, what was the mother-motive of +all the arts. And this curiosity deepened from year to year for fifty +years. But even stronger than the curiosity was the eager individualism +of this time, which extended into every sphere of human thought and +action, and only began about 1866 to be balanced by an equally strong +tendency towards collectivism. + +These two elements in the time-spirit did not produce, in a settled +state like England, the outward war and confusion they produced in the +thirteenth century, though they developed after 1840, in '48, into a +European storm--but they did produce a confused welter of mingled +thoughts concerning the sources and ends of human life, the action it +should take, and why it should take it. The poetry of Arnold and Clough +represents with great clearness the further development in the soul of +man of this confusion. I think that Browning has represented in the +first three books of _Sordello_ his passage through this tossing sea of +thought. + +He had put into _Paracelsus_ all that he had worked out with clearness +during his youth; his theory of life is stated with lucidity in that +poem. But when it was finished, and he had entered, like Sordello from +Goito into Mantua, into the crowd and clash of the world; when, having +published _Pauline_ and _Paracelsus_, he had, like Sordello, met +criticism and misunderstanding, his Paracelsian theory did not seem to +explain humanity as clearly as he imagined. It was only a theory; Would +it stand the test of life among mankind, be a saving and healing +prophecy? Life lay before him, now that the silent philosophising of +poetic youth was over, in all its inexplicable, hurried, tormented, +involved, and multitudinously varied movement. He had built up a +transcendental building[9] in _Paracelsus_. Was it all to fall in ruin? +No answer came when he looked forth on humanity over whose landscape the +irony of the gods, a bitter mist, seemed to brood. At what then shall he +aim as a poet? What shall be his subject-matter? How is life to be +lived? + +Then he thought that he would, as a poet, describe his own time and his +own soul under the character of Sordello, and place Sordello in a time +more stormy than his own. And he would make Sordello of an exceptional +temper like himself, and to clash with _his_ time as he was then +clashing with his own. With these thoughts he wrote the first books of +_Sordello_, and Naddo, the critic of Sordello's verses, represents the +critics of Paracelsus and the early poems. I have experienced, he says +of himself in _Sordello_, something of the spite of fate. + +Then, having done this, he leaves Sordello at the end of the third book, +and turns, beset with a thousand questions, to himself and his art in a +personal digression. Reclining on a ruined palace-step at Venice, he +thinks of Eglamor who made a flawless song, the type of those who reach +their own perfection here; and then of Sordello who made a song which +stirred the world far more than Eglamor's, which yet was not flawless, +not perfect; but because of its imperfection looked forward uncontented +to a higher song. Shall he, Browning the poet, choose Eglamor or +Sordello; even though Sordello perish without any achievement? And he +chooses to sail for ever towards the infinite, chooses the imperfection +which looks forward. A sailor who loves voyaging may say, when +weather-bound, "Here rest, unlade the ship, sleep on this grassy bank." +'Tis but a moment on his path; let the wind change, and he is away +again, whether triumph or shipwreck await him, for ever + + The tempter of the everlasting steppe. + +That much is then settled for life and for poetry. And in that choice of +endless aspiration Browning confirms all that he thought, with regard to +half of his theory of life, in _Paracelsus_. This is his first thought +for life, and it is embodied in the whole of Sordello's career. +Sordello is never content with earth, either when he is young, or when +he passes into the world, or when he dies not having attained or been +already perfect--a thought which is as much at the root of romanticism +as of Christianity. Then comes the further question: To whom shall I +dedicate the service of my art? Who shall be my motive, the Queen whom I +shall love and write of; and he thinks of Sordello who asks that +question and who, for the time, answers "Palma," that is, the passion of +love. + +"But now, shall I, Browning, take as my Queen"--and he symbolises his +thought in the girls he sees in the boats from his palace steps--"that +girl from Bassano, or from Asolo, or her from Padua; that is, shall I +write of youth's love, of its tragic or its comedy, of its darkness, joy +and beauty only? No, he answers, not of that stuff shall I make my work, +but of that sad dishevelled ghost of a girl, half in rags, with eyes +inveterately full of tears; of wild, worn, care-bitten, ravishing, +piteous, and pitiful Humanity, who begs of me and offers me her faded +love in the street corners. She shall be my Queen, the subject of my +song, the motive of my poetry. She may be guilty, warped awry from her +birth, and now a tired harlotry; but she shall rest on my shoulder and I +shall comfort her. She is false, mistaken, degraded, ignorant, but she +moves blindly from evil to good, and from lies to truth, and from +ignorance to knowledge, and from all to love; and all her errors prove +that she has another world in which, the errors being worked through, +she will develop into perfectness. Slowly she moves, step by step; but +not a millionth part is here done of what she will do at last. That is +the matter of my poetry, which, in its infinite change and hopes, I +shall express in my work. I shall see it, say what I have seen, and it +may be + + Impart the gift of seeing to the rest. + +Therefore I have made Sordello, thus far, with all his weakness and +wrong-- + + moulded, made anew + A Man, and give him to be turned and tried, + Be angry with or pleased at." + +And then Browning severs himself from Sordello. After this retirement of +thought into himself, described as taking place in Venice during an +hour, but I dare say ranging over half a year in reality, he tells the +rest of Sordello's story from the outside, as a spectator and describer. + +Browning has now resolved to dedicate his art, which is his life, to +love of Humanity, of that pale dishevelled girl, unlovely and lovely, +evil and good; and to tell the story of individual men and women, and of +as many as possible; to paint the good which is always mixed with their +evil; to show that their failures and sins point to a success and +goodness beyond, because they emerged from aspiration and aspiration +from the divinity at the root of human nature. But to do this, a poet +must not live like Sordello, in abstractions, nor shrink from the shock +of men and circumstance, nor refuse to take men and life as they +are--but throw himself into the vital present, with its difficulties, +baffling elements and limitations; take its failures for his own; go +through them while he looks beyond them, and, because he looks beyond +them, never lose hope, or retreat from life, or cease to fight his way +onward. And, to support him in this, there is but one thing--infinite +love, pity, and sympathy for mankind, increased, not lessened by +knowledge of the sins and weakness, the failure and despairs of men. +This is Browning's second thought for life. But this is the very thing +Sordello, as conceived by Browning, did not and could not do. He lived +in abstractions and in himself; he tried to discard his human nature, or +to make it bear more than it could bear. He threw overboard the natural +physical life of the body because it limited, he thought, the outgoings +of the imaginative soul, and only found that in weakening the body he +enfeebled the soul. At every point he resented the limits of human life +and fought against them. Neither would he live in the world allotted to +him, nor among the men of his time, nor in its turmoil; but only in +imagination of his own inner world, among men whom he created for +himself, of which world he was to be sole king. He had no love for men; +they wearied, jarred, and disturbed his ideal world. All he wanted was +their applause or their silence, not their criticism, not their +affection. And of course human love and sympathy for men and insight +into them, departed from him, and with them his art departed. He never +became a true poet. + +It is this failure, passing through several phases of life in which +action is demanded of Sordello, that Browning desired to record in the +last three books of the poem. And he thinks it worth doing because it is +human, and the record of what is human is always of worth to man. He +paints Sordello's passage through phase after phase of thought and act +in the outside world, in all of which he seems for the moment to succeed +or to touch the verge of success, but in which his neglect of the needs +of the body and the uncontentment of his soul produce failure. At last, +at the very moment of death he knows why he failed, and sees, as through +a glass darkly, the failure making the success of the world to come. The +revelation bursts his heart. + +And now what is the end, what is the result for man of this long +striving of Sordello? Nothing! Nothing has been done. Yet no, there is +one result. The imperfect song he made when he was young at Goito, in +the flush of happiness, when he forgot himself in love of nature and of +the young folk who wandered rejoicing through the loveliness of +nature--that song is still alive, not in the great world among the noble +women and warriors of the time, but on the lips of the peasant girls of +Asolo who sing it on dewy mornings when they climb the castle hill. This +is the outcome of Sordello's life, and it sounds like irony on +Browning's lips. It is not so; the irony is elsewhere in the poem, and +is of another kind. Here, the conclusion is,--that the poem, or any work +of art, made in joy, in sympathy with human life, moved by the love of +loveliness in man or in nature, lives and lasts in beauty, heals and +makes happy the world. And it has its divine origin in the artist's loss +of himself in humanity, and his finding of himself, through union with +humanity, in union with God the eternal poet. In this is hidden the life +of an artist's greatness. And here the little song, which gives joy to +a child, and fits in with and enhances its joy, is greater in the eyes +of the immortal judges than all the glory of the world which Sordello +sought so long for himself alone. It is a truth Browning never failed to +record, the greatness and power of the things of love; for, indeed, love +being infinite and omnipotent, gives to its smallest expression the +glory of all its qualities. + +The second of these analogies between Browning and Sordello relates to +Browning's treatment of the English language in the poem of _Sordello_ +and what he pictures Sordello as doing for the Italian language in the +poem. The passage to which I refer is about half-way in the second book. +As there is no real ground for representing Sordello as working any +serious change in the Italian tongue of literature except a slight +phrase in a treatise of Dante's, the representation is manifestly an +invention of Browning's added to the character of Sordello as conceived +by himself. As such it probably comes out of, and belongs to, his own +experience. The Sordello who acts thus with language represents the +action of Browning himself at the time he was writing the poem. If so, +the passage is full of interest. + +All we know about Sordello as a poet is that he wrote some Italian +poems. Those by which he was famous were in Provencal. In Dante's +treatise on the use of his native tongue, he suggests that Sordello was +one of the pioneers of literary Italian. So, at least, Browning seems to +infer from the passage, for he makes it the motive of his little +"excursus" on Sordello's presumed effort to strike out a new form and +method in poetic language. Nothing was more needed than such an effort +if any fine literature were to arise in Italy. In this unformed but +slowly forming thirteenth century the language was in as great a +confusion--and, I may say, as individual (for each poet wrote in his own +dialect) as the life of the century. + +What does Browning make Sordello do? He has brought him to Mantua as the +accepted master of song; and Sordello burns to be fully recognised as +the absolute poet. He has felt for some time that while he cannot act +well he can imagine action well. And he sings his imaginations. But +there is at the root of his singing a love of the applause of the people +more than a love of song for itself. And he fails to please. So Sordello +changes his subject and sings no longer of himself in the action of the +heroes he imagines, but of abstract ideas, philosophic dreams and +problems. The very critics cried that he had left human nature behind +him. Vexed at his failure, and still longing to catch the praise of men, +that he may confirm his belief that he is the loftiest of poets, he +makes another effort to amaze the world. "I'll write no more of +imaginary things," he cries; "I will catch the crowd by reorganising the +language of poetry, by new arrangements of metre and words, by elaborate +phraseology, especially by careful concentration of thought into the +briefest possible frame of words. I will take the stuff of thought--that +is, the common language--beat it on the anvil into new shapes, break +down the easy flow of the popular poetry, and scarcely allow a tithe of +the original words I have written to see the light, + + welding words into the crude + Mass from the new speech round him, till a rude + Armour was hammered out, in time to be + Approved beyond the Roman panoply + Melted to make it." + +That is, he dissolved the Roman dialect to beat out of it an Italian +tongue. And in this new armour of language he clothed his thoughts. But +the language broke away from his thoughts: neither expressed them nor +made them clear. The people failed to understand his thought, and at the +new ways of using language the critics sneered. "Do get back," they +said, "to the simple human heart, and tell its tales in the simple +language of the people." + +I do not think that the analogy can be missed. Browning is really +describing--with, perhaps, a half-scornful reference to his own desire +for public appreciation--what he tried to do in _Sordello_ for the +language in which his poetry was to be written. I have said that when he +came to write _Sordello_ his mind had fallen back from the clear theory +of life laid down in _Paracelsus_ into a tumbled sea of troubled +thoughts; and _Sordello_ is a welter of thoughts tossing up and down, +now appearing, then disappearing, and then appearing again in +conjunction with new matter, like objects in a sea above which a cyclone +is blowing. Or we may say that his mind, before and during the writing +of _Sordello_, was like the thirteenth century, pressing blindly in +vital disturbance towards an unknown goal. That partly accounts for the +confused recklessness of the language of the poem. But a great many of +the tricks Browning now played with his poetic language were +deliberately done. He had tried--like Sordello at the Court of Love--a +love-poem in _Pauline_. It had not succeeded. He had tried in +_Paracelsus_ to expose an abstract theory of life, as Sordello had tried +writing on abstract imaginings. That also had failed. Now he +determined--as he represents Sordello doing--to alter his whole way of +writing. "I will concentrate now," he thought, "since they say I am too +loose and too diffuse; cut away nine-tenths of all I write, and leave +out every word I can possibly omit. I will not express completely what I +think; I shall only suggest it by an illustration. And if anything occur +to me likely to illuminate it, I shall not add it afterwards but insert +it in a parenthesis. I will make a new tongue for my poetry." And the +result was the style and the strange manner in which _Sordello_ was +written. This partly excuses its obscurity, if deliberation can be an +excuse for a bad manner in literature. Malice prepense does not excuse a +murder, though it makes it more interesting. Finally, the manner in +which _Sordello_ was written did not please him. He left it behind him, +and _Pippa Passes_, which followed _Sordello_, is as clear and simple as +its predecessor is obscure in style. + +Thirdly, the language of _Sordello_, and, in a lesser degree, that of +all Browning's poetry, proves--if his whole way of thought and passion +did not also prove it--that Browning was not a classic, that he +deliberately put aside the classic traditions in poetry. In this he +presents a strong contrast to Tennyson. Tennyson was possessed by those +traditions. His masters were Homer, Vergil, Milton and the rest of those +who wrote with measure, purity, and temperance; and from whose poetry +proceeded a spirit of order, of tranquillity, of clearness, of +simplicity; who were reticent in ornament, in illustration, and stern in +rejection of unnecessary material. None of these classic excellences +belong to Browning, nor did he ever try to gain them, and that was, +perhaps, a pity. But, after all, it would have been of no use had he +tried for them. We cannot impose from without on ourselves that which we +have not within; and Browning was, in spirit, a pure romantic, not a +classic. Tennyson never allowed what romanticism he possessed to have +its full swing. It always wore the classic dress, submitted itself to +the classic traditions, used the classic forms. In the _Idylls of the +King_ he took a romantic story; but nothing could be more unromantic +than many of the inventions and the characters; than the temper, the +morality, and the conduct of the poem. The Arthurian poets, Malory +himself, would have jumped out their skin with amazement, even with +indignation, had they read it. And a great deal of this oddity, this +unfitness of the matter to the manner, arose from the romantic story +being expressed in poetry written in accordance with classic traditions. +Of course, there were other sources for these inharmonies in the poem, +but that was one, and not the least of them. + +Browning had none of these classic traditions. He had his own matter, +quite new stuff it was; and he made his own manner. He did not go back +to the old stories, but, being filled with the romantic spirit, embodied +it in new forms, and drenched with it his subjects, whether he took +them from ancient, mediaeval, Renaissance, or modern life. He felt, and +truly, that it is of the essence of romanticism to be always arising +into new shapes, assimilating itself, century by century, to the needs, +the thought and the passions of growing mankind; progressive, a lover of +change; in steady opposition to that dull conservatism the tendency to +which besets the classic literature. + +Browning had the natural faults of the romantic poet; and these are most +remarkable when such a poet is young. The faults are the opposites of +the classic poet's excellences: want of measure, want of proportion, +want of clearness and simplicity, want of temperance, want of that +selective power which knows what to leave out or when to stop. And these +frequently become positive and end in actual disorder of composition, +huddling of the matters treated of into ill-digested masses, violence in +effects and phrase, bewildering obscurity, sought-out even desperate +strangeness of subject and expression, uncompromising individuality, +crude ornament, and fierce colour. Many examples of these faults are to +be found in _Sordello_ and throughout the work of Browning. They are the +extremes into which the Romantic is frequently hurried. + +But, then, Browning has the natural gifts and excellences of the +romantic poet, and these elements make him dearer than the mere Classic +to a multitude of imaginative persons. One of them is endless and +impassioned curiosity, for ever unsatisfied, always finding new worlds +of thought and feeling into which to make dangerous and thrilling +voyages of discovery--voyages that are filled from end to end with +incessantly changing adventure, or delight in that adventure. This +enchants the world. And it is not only in his subjects that the romantic +poet shows his curiosity. He is just as curious of new methods of +tragedy, of lyric work, of every mode of poetry; of new ways of +expressing old thoughts; new ways of treating old metres; of the +invention of new metres and new ways of phrasing; of strange and +startling word-combinations, to clothe fittingly the strange and +startling things discovered in human nature, in one's own soul, or in +the souls of others. In ancient days such a temper produced the many +tales of invention which filled the romantic cycles. + +Again and again, from century to century, this romantic spirit has done +its re-creating work in the development of poetry in France, Germany, +Italy, Spain, and England. And in 1840, and for many years afterwards, +it produced in Browning, and for our pleasure, his dramatic lyrics as he +called them; his psychological studies, which I may well call +excursions, adventures, battles, pursuits, retreats, discoveries of the +soul; for in the soul of man lay, for Browning, the forest of +Broceliande, the wild country of Morgan le Fay, the cliffs and moors of +Lyonnesse. It was there, over that unfooted country, that Childe Roland +rode to the Dark Tower. Nor can anything be more in the temper of old +spiritual romance--though with a strangely modern _mise-en-scene_--than +the great adventure on the dark common with Christ in _Christmas-Eve and +Easter-Day_. + +Another root of the romantic spirit was the sense of, and naturally the +belief in, a world not to be felt of the senses or analysed by the +understanding; which was within the apparent world as its substance or +soul, or beyond it as the power by which it existed; and this mystic +belief took, among poets, philosophers, theologians, warriors and the +common people, a thousand forms, ranging from full-schemed philosophies +to the wildest superstitions. It tended, in its extremes, to make this +world a shadow, a dream; and our life only a real life when it +habitually dwelt in the mystic region mortal eye could not see, whose +voices mortal ear could not receive. Out of this root, which shot its +first fibres into the soul of humanity in the days of the earliest +savage and separated him by an unfathomable gulf from the brute, arose +all the myths and legends and mystic stories which fill romance. Out of +it developed the unquenchable thirst of those of the romantic temper for +communion with the spiritual beings of this mystic world; a thirst +which, however repressed for a time, always arises again; and is even +now arising among the poets of to-day. + +In Browning's view of the natural world some traces of this element of +the romantic spirit may be distinguished, but in his poetry of Man it +scarcely appears. Nor, indeed, is he ever the true mystic. He had too +much of the sense which handles daily life; he saw the facts of life too +clearly, to fall into the vaguer regions of mysticism. But one part of +its region, and of the romantic spirit, so incessantly recurs in +Browning that it may be said to underlie the whole of his work. It is +that into which the thoughts and passions of the romantic poets in all +ages ran up, as into a goal--the conception of a perfect world, beyond +this visible, in which the noble hopes, loves and work of +humanity--baffled, limited, and ruined here--should be fulfilled and +satisfied. The Greeks did not frame this conception as a people, though +Plato outreached towards it; the Romans had it not, though Vergil seems +to have touched it in hours of inspiration. The Teutonic folk did not +possess it till Christianity invaded them. Of course, it was alive like +a beating heart in Christianity, that most romantic of all religions. +But the Celtic peoples did conceive it before Christianity and with a +surprising fulness, and wherever they went through Europe they pushed it +into the thought, passions and action of human life. And out of this +conception, which among the Irish took form as the Land of Eternal +Youth, love and joy, where human trouble ceased, grew that element in +romance which is perhaps the strongest in it--the hunger for eternity, +for infinite perfection of being, and, naturally, for unremitting +pursuit of it; and among Christian folk for a life here which should fit +them for perfect life to come. Christian romance threw itself with +fervour into that ideal, and the pursuit, for example, of the Holy Grail +is only one of the forms of this hunger for eternity and perfection. + +Browning possessed this element of romance with remarkable fulness, and +expressed it with undiminished ardour for sixty years of poetic work. +From _Pauline_ to _Asolando_ it reigns supreme. It is the +fountain-source of _Sordello_--by the pervasiveness of which the poem +consists. Immortal life in God's perfection! Into that cry the +Romantic's hunger for eternity had developed in the soul of Browning. +His heroes, in drama and lyric, in _Paracelsus_ and _Sordello_, pass +into the infinite, there to be completed. + +And if I may here introduce a kind of note, it is at this moment that we +ought to take up the _Purgatorio_, and see Sordello as Dante saw him in +that flowery valley of the Ante-Purgatory when he talked with Dante and +Vergil. He is there a very different person from the wavering creature +Browning drew. He is on the way to that perfect fulfilment in God which +Browning desired for him and all mankind. + +Nevertheless, in order to complete this statement, Browning, in his full +idea of life, was not altogether a romantic. He saw there was a great +danger that the romantic mysticism might lead its pursuers to neglect +the duties of life, or lessen their interest in the drama of mankind. +Therefore he added to his cry for eternity and perfection, his other +cry: "Recognise your limitations, and work within them, while you must +never be content with them. Give yourself in love and patience to the +present labour of mankind; but never imagine for a moment that it ends +on earth." He thus combined with the thirst of the romantic for eternity +the full ethical theory of life, as well as the classic poet's +determination to represent the complete aspect of human life on earth. +At this point, but with many fantastic deviations due to his prevailing +romanticism, he was partly of the classic temper. The poem of _Sordello_ +is not without an image of this temper, set vigorously in contrast with +Sordello himself. This is Salinguerra, who takes the world as it is, and +is only anxious to do what lies before him day by day. His long +soliloquy, in which for the moment he indulges in dreams, ends in the +simple resolution to fight on, hour by hour, as circumstances call on +him. + +Browning's position, then, is a combination of the romantic and +classical, of the Christian and ethical, of the imaginative and +scientific views of human life; of the temper which says, "Here only is +our life, here only our concern," and that which says, "Not here, but +hereafter is our life." "Here, and hereafter," answered Browning. "Live +within earth's limits with all your force; never give in, fight on; but +always transcend your fullest action in aspiration, faith and love." + +It amuses me sometimes the way he is taken by his readers. The romantic +and the Christian folk often claim him as the despiser of this world, as +one who bids us live wholly for the future, or in the mystic ranges of +thought and passion. The scientific, humanitarian, and ethical folk +accept that side of him which agrees with their views of human +life--views which exclude God, immortality, and a world beyond--that +is, they take as the whole of Browning the lesser part of his theory of +life. This is not creditable to their understanding, though it is +natural enough. We may accept it as an innocent example of the power of +a strong bias in human nature. But it is well to remember that the +romantic, Christian, mystic elements of human life are more important in +Browning's eyes than the ethical or scientific; that the latter are +nothing to him without the former; that the best efforts of the latter +for humanity are in his belief not only hopeless, but the stuff that +dreams are made of, without the former. In the combination of both is +Browning's message to mankind. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[9] He makes a simile of this in _Sordello_. See Book iii. before his +waking up in Venice, the lines beginning + + "Rather say + My transcendental platan!" + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +_THE DRAMAS_ + + +Of the great poets who, not being born dramatists, have attempted to +write dramas in poetry, Browning was the most persevering. I suppose +that, being conscious of his remarkable power in the representation of +momentary action and of states of the soul, he thought that he could +harmonise into a whole the continuous action of a number of persons, and +of their passions in sword-play with one another; and then conduct to a +catastrophe their interaction. But a man may be capable of writing +dramatic lyrics and dramatic romances without being capable of writing a +drama. Indeed, so different are the two capabilities that I think the +true dramatist could not write such a lyric or romance as Browning calls +dramatic; his genius would carry one or the other beyond the just limits +of this kind of poetry into his own kind. And the writer of excellent +lyrics and romances of this kind will be almost sure to fail in real +drama. I wish, in order to avoid confusion of thought, that the term +"dramatic" were only used of poetry which belongs to drama itself. I +have heard Chaucer called dramatic. It is a complete misnomer. His +genius would have for ever been unable to produce a good drama. Had he +lived in Elizabeth's time, he would, no doubt, have tried to write one, +but he must have failed. The genius for story-telling is just the genius +which is incapable of being a fine dramatist. And the opposite is also +true. Shakespeare, great as his genius was, would not have been able to +write a single one of the Canterbury Tales. He would have been driven +into dramatising them. + +Neither Tennyson nor Browning had dramatic genius--that is, the power to +conceive, build, co-ordinate and finish a drama. But they thought they +had, and we may pardon them for trying their hand. I can understand the +hunger and thirst which beset great poets, who had, like these two men, +succeeded in so many different kinds of poetry, to succeed also in the +serious drama, written in poetry. It is a legitimate ambition; but poets +should be acquainted with their limitations, and not waste their +energies or our patience on work which they cannot do well. That men +like Tennyson and Browning, who were profoundly capable of understanding +what a great drama means, and is; who had read what the +master-tragedians of Greece have done; who knew their Shakespeare, to +say nothing of the other Elizabethan dramatists; who had seen Moliere on +the stage; who must have felt how the thing ought to be done, composed, +and versed; that they, having written a play like _Harold_ or +_Strafford_, should really wish to stage it, or having heard and seen it +on the stage should go on writing more dramas, would seem +incomprehensible, were it not that power to do one thing very well is so +curiously liable to self-deceit. + +The writing of the first drama is not to be blamed. It would be +unnatural not to try one's hand. It is the writing of the others which +is amazing in men like Tennyson and Browning. They ought to have felt, +being wiser than other men in poetry, that they had no true dramatic +capacity. Other poets who also tried the drama did know themselves +better. Byron wrote several dramas, but he made little effort to have +them represented on the stage. He felt they were not fit for that; and, +moreover, such scenic poems as _Manfred_ and _Cain_ were not intended +for the stage, and do not claim to be dramas in that sense. To write +things of this kind, making no claim to public representation, with the +purpose of painting a situation of the soul, is a legitimate part of a +poet's work, and among them, in Browning's work, might be classed _In a +Balcony_, which I suppose his most devoted worshipper would scarcely +call a drama. + +Walter Scott, than whom none could conduct a conversation better in a +novel, or make more living the clash of various minds in a critical +event, whether in a cottage or a palace; whom one would select as most +likely to write a drama well--had self-knowledge enough to understand, +after his early attempts, that true dramatic work was beyond his power. +Wordsworth also made one effort, and then said good-bye to drama. +Coleridge tried, and staged _Remorse_. It failed and deserved to fail. +To read it is to know that the writer had no sense of an audience in his +mind as he wrote it--a fatal want in a dramatist. Even its purple +patches of fine poetry and its noble melody of verse did not redeem it. +Shelley did better than these brethren of his, and that is curious. One +would say, after reading his previous poems, that he was the least +likely of men to write a true drama. Yet the _Cenci_ approaches that +goal, and the fragment of _Charles the First_ makes so great a grip on +the noble passions and on the intellectual eye, and its few scenes are +so well woven, that it is one of the unfulfilled longings of literature +that it should have been finished. Yet Shelley himself gave it up. He +knew, like the others, that the drama was beyond his power. + +Tennyson and Browning did not so easily recognise their limits. They +went on writing dramas, not for the study, which would have been natural +and legitimate, but for the stage. This is a curious psychological +problem, and there is only one man who could have given us, if he had +chosen, a poetic study of it, and that is Browning himself. I wish, +having in his mature age read _Strafford_ over, and then read his other +dramas--all of them full of the same dramatic weaknesses as +_Strafford_--he had analysed himself as "the poet who would be a +dramatist and could not." Indeed, it is a pity he did not do this. He +was capable of smiling benignly at himself, and sketching himself as if +he were another man; a thing of which Tennyson, who took himself with +awful seriousness, and walked with himself as a Druid might have walked +in the sacred grove of Mona, was quite incapable. + +However, the three important dramas of Tennyson are better, as dramas, +than Browning's. That is natural enough. For Browning's dramas were +written when he was young, when his knowledge of the dramatic art was +small, and when his intellectual powers were not fully developed. +Tennyson wrote his when his knowledge of the Drama was great, and when +his intellect had undergone years of careful training. He studied the +composition and architecture of the best plays; he worked at the stage +situations; he created a blank verse for his plays quite different from +that he used in his poems, and a disagreeable thing it is; he introduced +songs, like Shakespeare, at happy moments; he imitated the old work, and +at the same time strove hard to make his own original. He laboured at +the history, and _Becket_ and _Harold_ are painfully historical. History +should not master a play, but the play the history. The poet who is +betrayed into historical accuracy so as to injure the development of his +conception in accordance with imaginative truth, is lost; and _Harold_ +and _Becket_ both suffer from Tennyson falling into the hands of those +critical historians whom Tennyson consulted. + +Nevertheless, by dint of laborious intellectual work, but not by the +imagination, not by dramatic genius, Tennyson arrived at a relative +success. He did better in these long dramas than Coleridge, Wordsworth, +Scott or Byron. _Queen Mary_, _Harold_, and _Becket_ get along in one's +mind with some swiftness when one reads them in an armchair by the fire. +Some of the characters are interesting and wrought with painful skill. +We cannot forget the pathetic image of Queen Mary, which dwells in the +mind when the play has disappeared; nor the stately representation in +_Becket_ of the mighty and overshadowing power of Rome, claiming as its +own possession the soul of the world. But the minor characters; the +action; the play of the characters, great and small, and of the action +and circumstance together towards the catastrophe--these things were out +of Tennyson's reach, and still more out of Browning's. They could both +build up characters, and Browning better than Tennyson; they could both +set two people to talk together, and by their talk to reveal their +character to us; but to paint action, and the action of many men and +women moving to a plotted end; to paint human life within the limits of +a chosen subject, changing and tossing and unconscious of its fate, in a +town, on a battlefield, in the forum, in a wild wood, in the king's +palace or a shepherd farm; and to image this upon the stage, so that +nothing done or said should be unmotived, unrelated to the end, or +unnatural; of that they were quite incapable, and Browning more +incapable than Tennyson. + +There is another thing to say. The three long dramas of Tennyson are +better as dramas than the long ones of Browning. But the smaller +dramatic pieces of Browning are much better than the smaller ones of +Tennyson. _The Promise of May_ is bad in dialogue, bad in composition, +bad in delineation of character, worst of all in its subject, in its +plot, and in its motives. _The Cup_, and _The Falcon_, a beautiful story +beautifully written by Boccaccio, is strangely dulled, even vulgarised, +by Tennyson. The _Robin Hood_ play has gracious things in it, but as a +drama it is worthless, and it is impossible to forgive Tennyson for his +fairies. All these small plays are dreadful examples of what a great +poet may do when he works in a vehicle--if I may borrow a term from +painting--for which he has no natural capacity, but for which he thinks +he has. He is then like those sailors, and meets justly the same fate, +who think that because they can steer a boat admirably, they can also +drive a coach and four. The love scene in _Becket_ between Rosamund and +Henry illustrates my meaning. It was a subject in itself that Tennyson +ought to have done well, and would probably have done well in another +form of poetry; but, done in a form for which he had no genius, he did +it badly. It is the worst thing in the play. Once, however, he did a +short drama fairly well. _The Cup_ has some dramatic movement, its +construction is clear, its verse imaginative, its scenery well +conceived; and its motives are simple and easily understood. But then, +as in _Becket_, Irving stood at his right hand, and advised him +concerning dramatic changes and situations. Its passion is, however, +cold; it leaves us unimpressed. + +On the contrary, Browning's smaller dramatic pieces--I cannot call them +dramas--are much better than those of Tennyson. _Pippa Passes_, _A Soul's +Tragedy_, _In a Balcony_, stand on a much higher level, aim higher, and +reach their aim more fully than Tennyson's shorter efforts. They have +not the qualities which fit them for representation, but they have those +which fit them for thoughtful and quiet reading. No one thinks much of +the separate personalities; our chief interest is in following +Browning's imagination as it invents new phases of his subject, and +plays like a sword in sunlight, in and out of these phases. As poems of +the soul in severe straits, made under a quasi-dramatic form, they reach +a high excellence, but all that we like best in them, when we follow +them as situations of the soul, we should most dislike when represented +on the stage. + + * * * * * + +_Strafford_ is, naturally, the most immature of the dramas, written +while he was still writing _Paracelsus_, and when he was very young. It +is strange to compare the greater part of its prosaic verse with the +rich poetic verse of _Paracelsus_; and this further illustrates how much +a poet suffers when he writes in a form which is not in his genius. +There are only a very few passages in _Strafford_ which resemble poetry +until we come to the fifth Act, where Browning passes from the jerky, +allusive but rhythmical prose of the previous acts into that talk +between Strafford and his children which has poetic charm, clearness and +grace. The change does not last long, and when Hollis, Charles and Lady +Carlisle, followed by Pym, come in, the whole Act is in confusion. +Nothing is clear, except absence of the clearness required for a drama. +But the previous Acts are even more obscure; not indeed for their +readers, but for hearers in a theatre who--since they are hurried on at +once to new matter--are forced to take in on the instant what the +dramatist means. It would be impossible to tell at first hearing what +the chopped-up sentences, the interrupted phrases, the interjected +"nots" and "buts" and "yets" are intended to convey. The conversation is +mangled. This vice does not prevail in the other dramas to the same +extent as in _Strafford_. Browning had learnt his lesson, I suppose, +when he saw _Strafford_ represented. But it sorely prevails in +_Colombe's Birthday_. + +Strafford is brought before us as a politician, as the leader of the +king's side in an austere crisis of England's history. The first scene +puts the great quarrel forward as the ground on which the drama is to be +wrought. An attempt is made to represent the various elements of the +popular storm in the characters of Pym, Hampden, the younger Vane and +others, and especially in the relations between Pym and Strafford, who +are set over, one against the other, with some literary power. But the +lines on which the action is wrought are not simple. No audience could +follow the elaborate network of intrigue which, in Browning's effort to +represent too much of the history, he has made so confused. Strong +characterisation perishes in this effort to write a history rather than +a drama. What we chiefly see of the crisis is a series of political +intrigues at the Court carried out by base persons, of whom the queen is +the basest, to ruin Strafford; the futility of Strafford's sentimental +love of the king, whom he despises while he loves him; Strafford's +blustering weakness and blindness when he forces his way into the +Parliament House, and the contemptible meanness of Charles. The low +intrigues of the Court leave the strongest impression on the mind, not +the mighty struggle, not the fate of the Monarchy and its dark +supporter. + +Browning tries--as if he had forgotten that which should have been first +in his mind--to lift the main struggle into importance in the last Act, +but he fails. That which ought to be tragic is merely sentimental. +Indeed, sentimentality is the curse of the play. Strafford's love of the +king is almost maudlin. The scenes between Strafford and Pym in which +their ancient friendship is introduced are over-sentimentalised, not +only for their characters, but for the great destinies at stake. Even at +the last, when Pym and Strafford forgive each other and speak of meeting +hereafter, good sense is violated, and the natural dignity of the scene, +and the characters of the men. Strafford is weaker here, if that were +possible, than he is in the rest of the drama. Nothing can be more +unlike the man. + +Pym is intended to be especially strong. He is made a blusterer. He was +a gentleman, but in this last scene he is hateful. As to Charles, he was +always a selfish liar, but he was not a coward, and a coward he becomes +in this play. He, too, is sentimentalised by his uxoriousness. Lady +Carlisle is invented. I wish she had not been. Stratford's misfortunes +were deep enough without having her in love with him. I do not believe, +moreover, that any woman in the whole world from the very beginning was +ever so obscure in her speech to the man she loves as Lady Carlisle was +to Strafford. And the motive of her obscurity--that if she discloses the +King's perfidy she robs Strafford of that which is dearest to him--his +belief in the King's affection for him--is no doubt very fine, but the +woman was either not in love who argued in that way, or a fool; for +Strafford knew, and lets her understand that he knew, the treachery of +the King. But Browning meant her to be in love, and to be clever. + + * * * * * + +The next play Browning wrote, undeterred by the fate of _Strafford_, was +_King Victor and King Charles_. The subject is historical, but it is +modified by Browning, quite legitimately, to suit his own purposes. In +itself the plot is uninteresting. King Victor, having brought the +kingdom to the verge of ruin, abdicates and hands the crown to his son, +believing him to be a weak-minded person whose mistakes will bring +him--Victor--back to the throne, when he can throw upon the young king +the responsibility of the mess he has himself made of the kingdom. +Charles turns out to be a strong character, sets right the foreign +affairs of the kingdom, and repairs his father's misgovernment. Then +Victor, envious and longing for power, conspires to resume the throne, +and taken prisoner, begs back the crown. Charles, touched as a son, and +against his better judgment, restores his father, who immediately and +conveniently dies. It is a play of court intrigue and of politics, and +these are not made interesting by any action, such as we call dramatic, +in the play. From end to end there is no inter-movement of public +passion. There are only four characters. D'Ormea, the minister, is a +mere stick in a prime-minister's robes and serves Victor and Charles +with equal ease, in order to keep his place. He is not even subtle in +his _role_. When we think what Browning would have made of him in a +single poem, and contrast it with what he has made of him here, we are +again impressed with Browning's strange loss of power when he is writing +drama. Victor and Charles are better drawn than any characters in +_Strafford_; and Polyxena is a great advance on Lady Carlisle. But this +piece is not a drama; it is a study of soul-situations, and none of them +are of any vital importance. There is far too great an improbability in +the conception of Charles. A weak man in private becomes a strong man in +public life. To represent him, having known and felt his strength, as +relapsing into his previous weakness when it endangers all his work, is +quite too foolish. He did not do it in history. Browning, with +astonishing want of insight, makes him do it here, and adds to it a +foolish anger with his wife because she advises him against it. And the +reason he does it and is angry with his wife, is a merely sentimental +one--a private, unreasoning, childish love of his father, such a love as +Strafford is supposed to have for Charles I.--the kind of love which +intruded into public affairs ruins them, and which, being feeble and for +an unworthy object, injures him who gives it and him who receives it. +Even as a study of characters, much more as a drama, this piece is a +failure, and the absence of poetry in it is amazing. + + * * * * * + +The Return of the Druses approaches more nearly to a true drama than its +predecessors; it is far better written; it has several fine motives +which are intelligently, but not dramatically, worked out; and it is +with great joy that one emerges at last into a little poetry. Browning, +having more or less invented his subject, is not seduced, by the desire +to be historical, to follow apparent instead of imaginative truth; nor +are we wearied by his unhappy efforts to analyse, in disconnected +conversations, political intrigue. Things are in this play as the logic +of imaginative passion wills, as Browning's conception drove him. But, +unfortunately for its success as a true drama, Browning doubles and +redoubles the motives which impel his characters. Djabal, Anael, Loys, +have all of them, two different and sometimes opposite aims working in +them. They are driven now by one, now by the other, and the changes of +speech and action made by the different motives surging up, alternately +or together, within their will, are so swift and baffling that an +audience would be utterly bewildered. It is amusing to follow the +prestidigitation of Browning's intellect creating this confused battle +in souls as long as one reads the play at home, though even then we +wonder why he cannot, at least in a drama, make a simple situation. If +he loved difficult work, this would be much more difficult to do well +than the confused situation he has not done well. Moreover, the +simplified situation would be effective on the stage; and it would give +a great opportunity for fine poetry. As it is, imaginative work is +replaced by intellectual exercises, poetry is lost in his analysis of +complex states of feeling. However, this involved in-and-out of thought +is entertaining to follow in one's study if not on the stage. It is done +with a loose power no one else in England possessed, and our only regret +is that he did not bridle and master his power. Finally, with regard to +this play, I should like to isolate from it certain imaginative +representations of characters which embody types of the men of the time, +such as the Prefect and the Nuncio. The last interview between Loys and +the Prefect, taken out of the drama, would be a little masterpiece of +characterisation. + + * * * * * + +_The Blot in the Scutcheon_ is the finest of all these dramas. It might +well be represented on the stage as a literary drama before those who +had already read it, and who would listen to it for its passion and +poetry; but its ill-construction and the unnaturalness of its situations +will always prevent, and justly, its public success as a drama. It is +full of pathetic and noble poetry; its main characters are clearly +outlined and of a refreshing simplicity. It has few obtrusive +metaphysical or intellectual subtleties--things which Browning could not +keep out of his dramas, but which only a genius like Shakespeare can +handle on the stage. It has real intensity of feeling, and the various +passions interlock and clash together with some true dramatic +interaction. Their presentation awakens our pity, and wonder for the +blind fates of men. The close leaves us in sorrow, yet in love with +human nature. The pathos of the catastrophe is the most pathetic thing +in Browning. I do not even except the lovely record of Pompilia. The +torture of the human heart, different but equal, of Tresham and Mildred +in the last scene, is exceedingly bitter in its cry--too cruel almost to +hear and know, were it not relieved by the beauty of their tenderness +and forgiveness in the hour of death. They die of their pain, but die +loving, and are glad to die. They have all of them--Mildred, Tresham, +and Mertoun--sinned as it were by error. Death unites them in +righteousness, loveliness and love. A fierce, swift storm sweeps out of +a clear heaven upon them, destroys them, and saves them. It is all over +in three days. They are fortunate; their love deserved that the ruin +should be brief, and the reparation be transferred, in a moment, to the +grave justice of eternity. + +The first two acts bear no comparison with the third. The first scene, +with all the servants, only shows how Browning failed in bringing a +number of characters together, and in making them talk with ease and +connectedly. Then, in two acts, the plot unfolds itself. It is a marvel +of bad construction, grossly improbable, and offends that popular common +sense of what is justly due to the characters concerned and to human +nature itself, to which a dramatist is bound to appeal. + +Mildred and Mertoun have loved and sinned. Mertoun visits her every +night. Gerard, an old gamekeeper, has watched him climbing to her +window, and he resolves to tell this fatal tale to Tresham, Mildred's +brother, whose strongest feeling is pride in the unblemished honour of +his house. Meantime Mertoun has asked Tresham for Mildred's hand in +marriage, and these lovers, receiving his consent, hope that their sin +will be purged. Then Gerard tells his story. Tresham summons Mildred. +She confesses the lover, and Tresham demands his name. To reveal the +name would have saved the situation, as we guess from Tresham's +character. His love would have had time to conquer his pride. But +Mildred will not tell the name, and when Tresham says: "Then what am I +to say to Mertoun?" she answers, "I will marry him." This, and no +wonder, seems the last and crowning dishonour to Tresham, and he curses, +as if she were a harlot, the sister whom he passionately loves. + +This is a horrible situation which Browning had no right to make. The +natural thing would be for Mildred to disclose that her lover and Lord +Mertoun, whom she was to marry, were one and the same. There is no +adequate reason, considering the desperate gravity of the situation, for +her silence; it ought to be accounted for and it is not, nor could it +be. Her refusal to tell her lover's name, her confession of her +dishonour and at the same time her acceptance of Mertoun as a husband at +her brother's hands, are circumstances which shock probability and +common human nature. + +Then it is not only this which irritates a reader; it is also the +stupidity of Tresham. That also is most unnatural. He believes that the +girl whom he has loved and honoured all his life, whose purity was as a +star to him, will accept Mertoun while she was sinning with another! He +should have felt that this was incredible, and immediately understood, +as Guendolen does, that her lover and Mertoun were the same. Dulness and +blindness so improbable are unfitting in a drama, nor does the passion +of his overwhelming pride excuse him. The central situation is a +protracted irritation. Browning was never a good hand at construction, +even in his poems. His construction is at its very worst in this drama. + +But now, when we have, with wrath, accepted this revolting +situation--which, of course, Browning made in order to have his tragic +close, but which a good dramatist would have arranged so differently--we +pass into the third act, the tragic close; and that is simple enough in +its lines, quite naturally wrought out, beautifully felt, and of +exquisite tenderness. Rashness of wrath and pride begin it; Mertoun is +slain by Tresham as he climbs to Mildred's window, though why he should +risk her honour any more when she is affianced to him is another of +Browning's maddening improbabilities. And then wrath and pride pass +away, and sorrow and love and the joy of death are woven together in +beauty. If we must go through the previous acts to get to this, we +forgive, for its sake, their wrongness. It has turns of love made +exquisitely fair by inevitable death, unfathomable depths of feeling. We +touch in these last scenes the sacred love beyond the world in which +forgiveness is forgotten. + + * * * * * + +_Colombe's Birthday_ is of all these plays the nearest to a true drama. +It has been represented in America as well as in England, and its +skilful characterisation of Valence, Colombe, and Berthold has won +deserved praise; but it could not hold the stage. The subject is too +thin. Colombe finds out on her birthday that she is not the rightful +heir to the Duchy; but as there is some doubt, she resolves to fight the +question. In her perplexities she is helped and supported by Valence, an +advocate from one of the cities of the Duchy, who loves her, but whom +she believes to serve her from loyalty alone. Berthold, the true heir, +to avoid a quarrel, offers to marry Colombe, not because he loves her, +but as a good piece of policy. She then finds out that she loves +Valence, and refusing the splendid alliance, leaves the court a private +person, with love and her lover. This slight thing is spun out into five +acts by Browning's metaphysics of love and friendship. There is but +little action, or pressure of the characters into one another. The +intriguing courtiers are dull, and their talk is not knit together. The +only thing alive in them is their universal meanness. That meanness, it +is true, enhances the magnanimity of Valence and Berthold, but its dead +level in so many commonplace persons lowers the dramatic interest of the +piece. The play is rather an interesting conversational poem about the +up-growing of love between two persons of different but equally noble +character; who think love is of more worth than power or wealth, and who +are finally brought together by a bold, rough warrior who despises love +in comparison with policy. Its real action takes place in the hearts of +Valence and Colombe, not in the world of human life; and what takes +place in their hearts is at times so quaintly metaphysical, so curiously +apart from the simplicities of human love, so complicated, even beyond +the complexity of the situation--for Browning loved to pile complexity +on complexity--that it makes the play unfit for public representation +but all the more interesting for private reading. But, even in the quiet +of our room, we ask why Browning put his subject into a form which did +not fit it; why he overloaded the story of two souls with a host of +characters who have no vital relation to it, and, having none, are +extremely wearisome? It might have been far more successfully done in +the form of _In a Balcony_, which Browning himself does not class as a +drama. + + * * * * * + +_Luria_, the last of the dramas in date of composition, may be said to +have no outward action, except in one scene where Tiburzio breaks in +suddenly to defend Luria, who, like a wounded stag, stands at bay among +the dogs and hunters who suspect his fidelity to Florence. It is a drama +of inward action, of changes in the souls of men. The full purification +of Luria is its one aim, and the motive of Luria himself is a single +motive. The play occupies one day only, and passes in one place. + +Luria is a noble Moor who commands the armies of Florence against Pisa, +and conquers Pisa. He is in love with the city of Florence as a man is +with a woman. Its beauty, history, great men, and noble buildings +attract his Eastern nature, by their Northern qualities, as much as they +repel his friend and countryman Husain. He lives for her with unbroken +faithfulness, and he dies for her with piteous tenderness when he finds +out that Florence distrusts him. When he is suspected of treachery, his +heart breaks, and to explain his broken heart, he dies. There is no +other way left to show to Florence that he has always been true to her. +And at the moment of his death, all who spied on him, distrusted and +condemned him, are convinced of his fidelity. Even before he dies, his +devotion to his ideal aim, his absolute unselfishness, have won over and +ennobled all the self-interested characters which surround him--Puccio, +the general who is jealous of him; Domizia, the woman who desires to use +him as an instrument of her hate to Florence; even Braccio, the +Macchiavellian Florentine who thinks his success must be dangerous to +the state. Luria conquers them all. It is the triumph of +self-forgetfulness. And the real aim of the play is not dramatic. It is +too isolated an aim to be dramatic. It is to build up and image the +noble character of Luria, and it reaches that end with dignity. + +The other characters are but foils to enhance the solitary greatness of +Luria. Braccio is a mere voice, a theory who talks, and, at the end, +when he becomes more human, he seems to lose his intelligence. The +Secretaries have no individuality. Domizia causes nothing, and might +with advantage be out of the play. However, when, moved by the nobleness +of Luria, she gives up her revenge on Florence, she speaks well, and her +outburst is poetical. Puccio is a real personage, but a poor fellow. +Tiburzio is a pale reflection of Luria. Husain alone has some +personality, but even his Easternness, which isolates him, is merged in +his love of Luria. All of them only exist to be the scaffolding by means +of which Luria's character is built into magnificence, and they +disappear from our sight, like scaffolding, when the building is +finished. + +There are fine things in the poem: the image of Florence; its men, its +streets, its life as seen by the stranger-eyes of Luria; the contrast +between the Eastern and the Latin nature; the picture of hot war; the +sudden friendship of Luria and Tiburzio, the recognition in a moment of +two high hearts by one another; the picture of Tiburzio fighting at the +ford, of Luria tearing the letter among the shamed conspirators; the +drawing of the rough honest soldier-nature in Puccio, and, chief of all, +the vivid historic painting of the time and the type of Italian +character at the time of the republics. + + * * * * * + +The first part of _A Soul's Tragedy_ is written in poetry and the second +in prose. The first part is dull but the second is very lively and +amusing; so gay and clever that we begin to wish that a good deal of +Browning's dramas had been written in prose. And the prose itself, +unlike his more serious prose in his letters and essays, is good, clear, +and of an excellent style. The time of the play is in the sixteenth +century; but there is nothing in it which is special to that time: no +scenery, no vivid pictures of street life, no distinct atmosphere of the +period. It might just as well be of the eighteenth or nineteenth +century. The character of Chiappino may be found in any provincial town. +This compound of envy, self-conceit, superficial cleverness and real +silliness is one of our universal plagues, and not uncommon among the +demagogues of any country. And he contrasts him with Ogniben, the Pope's +legate, another type, well known in governments, skilled in affairs, +half mocking, half tolerant of the "foolish people," the alluring +destroyer of all self-seeking leaders of the people. He also is as +common as Chiappino, as modern as he is ancient. Both are representative +types, and admirably drawn. They are done at too great length, but +Browning could not manage them as well in Drama as he would have done in +a short piece such as he placed in _Men and Women_. Why this little +thing is called _A Soul's Tragedy_ I cannot quite understand. That title +supposes that Chiappino loses his soul at the end of the play. But it is +plain from his mean and envious talk at the beginning with Eulalia that +his soul is already lost. He is not worse at the end, but perhaps on the +way to betterment. The tragedy is then in the discovery by the people +that he who was thought to be a great soul is a fraud. But that +conclusion was not Browning's intention. Finally, if this be a tragedy +it is clothed with comedy. Browning's humour was never more wise, +kindly, worldly and biting than in the second act, and Ogniben may well +be set beside Bishop Blougram. It would be a privilege to dine with +either of them. + +Every one is in love with _Pippa Passes_, which appeared immediately +after _Sordello_. It may have been a refreshment to Browning after the +complexities and metaphysics of _Sordello_, to live for a time with the +soft simplicity of Pippa, with the clear motives of the separate +occurrences at Asolo, with the outside picturesque world, and in a lyric +atmosphere. It certainly is a refreshment to us. It is a pity so little +was done by Browning in this pleasant, graceful, happy way. The +substance of thought in it and its intellectual force are just as strong +as in _Sordello_ or _Paracelsus_, and are concerned, especially in the +first two pieces, with serious and weighty matters of human life. Beyond +the pleasure the poem gives, its indirect teaching is full of truth and +beauty; and the things treated of belong to many phases of human life, +and touch their problems with poetic light and love. Pippa herself, in +her affectionate, natural goodness, illuminates the greater difficulties +of life in a single day more than Sordello or Paracelsus could in the +whole course of their lives. + +It may be that there are persons who think lightly of _Pippa Passes_ in +comparison with _Fifine at the Fair_, persons who judge poetry by the +difficulties they find in its perusal. But _Pippa Passes_ fulfils the +demands of the art of poetry, and produces in the world the high results +of lovely and noble poetry. The other only does these things in part; +and when _Fifine at the Fair_ and even _Sordello_ are in the future +only the study of pedants, _Pippa Passes_ will be an enduring strength +and pleasure to all who love tenderly and think widely. And those +portions of it which belong to Pippa herself, the most natural, easy and +simplest portions, will be the sources of the greatest pleasure and the +deepest thought. Like Sordello's song, they will endure for the healing, +comforting, exalting and impelling of the world. + +I have written of her and of other parts of the poem elsewhere. It only +remains to say that nowhere is the lyric element in Browning's genius +more delightfully represented than in this little piece of mingled song +and action. There is no better love-lyric in his work than + + You'll love me yet!--and I can tarry + Your love's protracted growing; + +and the two snatches of song which Pippa sings when she is passing under +Ottima's window and the Monsignore's--"The year's at the spring" and +"Overhead the tree-tops meet"--possess, independent of the meaning of +the words and their poetic charm, a freshness, dewiness, morning +ravishment to which it is difficult to find an equal. They are filled +with youth and its delight, alike of the body and the soul. What +Browning's spirit felt and lived when he was young and his heart beating +with the life of the universe, is in them, and it is their greatest +charm. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +_POEMS OF THE PASSION OF LOVE_ + + +When we leave _Paracelsus_, _Sordello_ and the _Dramas_ behind, and find +ourselves among the host of occasional poems contained in the _Dramatic +Lyrics_ and _Romances_, in _Men and Women_, in _Dramatis Personae_, and +in the later volumes, it is like leaving an unencumbered sea for one +studded with a thousand islands. Every island is worth a visit and +different from the rest. Their variety, their distinct scenery, their +diverse inhabitants, the strange surprises in them, are as continual an +enchantment for the poetic voyager as the summer isles of the Pacific. +But while each of them is different from the rest, yet, like the islands +in the Pacific, they fall into groups; and to isolate these groups is +perhaps the best way to treat so varied a collection of poems. To treat +them chronologically would be a task too long and wearisome for a book. +To treat them zoologically, if I may borrow that term, is possible, and +may be profitable. This chapter is dedicated to the poems which relate +to Love. + +Commonly speaking, the term _Love Poems_ does not mean poems concerning +the absolute Love, or the love of Ideas, such as Truth or Beauty, or +Love of mankind or one's own country, or the loves that belong to home, +or the love of friends, or even married love unless it be specially +bound up, as it is in Browning's poem of _By the Fireside_, with +ante-nuptial love--but poems expressing the isolating passion of one sex +for the other; chiefly in youth, or in conditions which resemble those +of youth, whether moral or immoral. These celebrate the joys and +sorrows, rapture and despair, changes and chances, moods, fancies, and +imaginations, quips and cranks and wanton wiles, all the tragedy and +comedy, of that passion, which is half of the sense and half of the +spirit, sometimes wholly of the senses and sometimes wholly of the +spirit. It began, in one form of it, among the lower animals and still +rules their lives; it has developed through many thousand years of +humanity into myriads of shapes in and outside of the soul; into stories +whose varieties and multitudes are more numerous than the stars of +heaven or the sand of the seashore; and yet whose multitudinous changes +and histories have their source in two things only--in the desire to +generate, which is physical; in the desire to forget self in another, +which is spiritual. The union of both these desires into one passion of +thought, act and feeling is the fine quintessence of this kind of love; +but the latter desire alone is the primal motive of all the other forms +of love, from friendship and maternal love to love of country, of +mankind, of ideas, and of God. + +With regard to love-poems of the sort we now discuss, the times in +history when they are most written are those in which a nation or +mankind renews its youth. Their production in the days of Elizabeth was +enormous, their passion various and profound, their fancy elaborate, +their ornament extravagant with the extravagance of youth; and, in the +hands of the greater men, their imagination was as fine as their melody. +As that age grew older they were not replaced but were dominated by more +serious subjects; and though love in its fantasies was happily recorded +in song during the Caroline period, passion in English love-poetry +slowly decayed till the ideas of the Revolution, before the French +outbreak, began to renew the youth of the world. The same career is run +by the individual poet. The subject of his youth is the passion of love, +as it was in Browning's _Pauline_. The subjects of his manhood are +serious with other thought and feeling, sad with another sadness, happy +with another happiness. They traverse a wider range of human feeling and +thought, and when they speak of love, it is of love in its wiser, +steadier, graver and less selfish forms. It was so with Browning, who +far sooner than his comrades, escaped from the tangled wilderness of +youthful passion. It is curious to think that so young a creature as he +was in 1833 should have left the celebration of the love of woman behind +him, and only written of the love which his _Paracelsus_ images in +Aprile. It seems a little insensitive in so young a man. But I do not +think Browning was ever quite young save at happy intervals; and this +falls in with the fact that his imagination was more intellectual than +passionate; that while he felt love, he also analysed, even dissected +it, as he wrote about it; that it scarcely ever carried him away so far +as to make him forget everything but itself. Perhaps once or twice, as +in _The Last Ride Together_, he may have drawn near to this absorption, +but even then the man is thinking more of his own thoughts than of the +woman by his side, who must have been somewhat wearied by so silent a +companion. Even in _By the Fireside_, when he is praising the wife whom +he loved with all his soul, and recalling the moment of early passion +while yet they looked on one another and felt their souls embrace before +they spoke--it is curious to find him deviating from the intensity of +the recollection into a discussion of what might have been if she had +not been what she was--a sort of _excursus_ on the chances of life which +lasts for eight verses--before he returns to that immortal moment. Even +after years of married life, a poet, to whom passion has been in youth +supreme, would scarcely have done that. On the whole, his poetry, like +that of Wordsworth, but not so completely, is destitute of the love-poem +in the ordinary sense of the word; and the few exceptions to which we +might point want so much that exclusiveness of a lover which shuts out +all other thought but that of the woman, that it is difficult to class +them in that species of literature. However, this is not altogether +true, and the main exception to it is a curious-piece of literary and +personal history. Those who read _Asolando_, the last book of poems he +published, were surprised to find with what intensity some of the first +poems in it described the passion of sexual love. They are fully charged +with isolated emotion; other thoughts than those of love do not intrude +upon them. Moreover, they have a sincere lyric note. It is impossible, +unless by a miracle of imagination, that these could have been written +when he was about eighty years of age. I believe, though I do not know, +that he wrote them when he was quite a young man; that he found them on +looking over his portfolios, and had a dim and scented pleasure in +reading and publishing them in his old age. He mentions in the preface +that the book contains both old and new poems. The new are easily +isolated, and the first poem, the introduction to the collection, is of +the date of the book. The rest belong to different periods of his life. +The four poems to which I refer are _Now_, _Summum Bonum_, _A Pearl--A +Girl_, and _Speculative_. They are beautiful with a beauty of their own; +full of that natural abandonment of the whole world for one moment with +the woman loved, which youth and the hours of youth in manhood feel. I +should have been sorry if Browning had not shaped into song this +abandonment. He loved the natural, and was convinced of its rightness; +and he had, as I might prove, a tenderness for it even when it passed +into wrong. He was the last man in the world to think that the passion +of noble sexual love was to be despised. And it is pleasant to find, at +the end of his long poetic career, that, in a serious and wise old age, +he selected, to form part of his last book, poems of youthful and +impassioned love, in which the senses and the spirit met, each in their +pre-eminence. + +The two first of these, _Now_ and _Summum Bonum_, must belong to his +youth, though from certain turns of expression and thought in them, it +seems that Browning worked on them at the time he published them. I +quote the second for its lyric charm, even though the melody is +ruthlessly broken, + + All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: + All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: + In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: + Breath and bloom, shade and shine,--wonder, wealth, and + --how far above them-- + Truth, that's brighter than gem, + Trust, that's purer than pearl,-- + Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe--all were for me + In the kiss of one girl. + +The next two poems are knit to this and to _Now_ by the strong emotion +of earthly love, of the senses as well as of the spirit, for one woman; +but they differ in the period at which they were written. The first, _A +Pearl--A Girl_, recalls that part of the poem _By the Fireside_, when +one look, one word, opened the infinite world of love to Browning. If +written when he was young, it has been revised in after life. + + A simple ring with a single stone + To the vulgar eye no stone of price: + Whisper the right word, that alone-- + Forth starts a sprite, like fire from ice, + And lo, you are lord (says an Eastern scroll) + Of heaven and earth, lord whole and sole + Through the power in a pearl. + + A woman ('tis I this time that say) + With little the world counts worthy praise + Utter the true word--out and away + Escapes her soul: I am wrapt in blaze, + Creation's lord, of heaven and earth + Lord whole and sole--by a minute's birth-- + Through the love in a girl! + +The second--_Speculative_--also describes a moment of love-longing, but +has the characteristics of his later poetry. It may be of the same date +as the book, or not much earlier. It may be of his later manhood, of +the time when he lost his wife. At any rate, it is intense enough. It +looks back on the love he has lost, on passion with the woman he loved. +And he would surrender all--Heaven, Nature, Man, Art--in this momentary +fire of desire; for indeed such passion is momentary. Momentariness is +the essence of the poem. "Even in heaven I will cry for the wild hours +now gone by--Give me back the Earth and Thyself." _Speculative_, he +calls it, in an after irony. + + Others may need new life in Heaven-- + Man, Nature, Art--made new, assume! + Man with new mind old sense to leaven, + Nature--new light to clear old gloom, + Art that breaks bounds, gets soaring-room. + + I shall pray: "Fugitive as precious-- + Minutes which passed,--return, remain! + Let earth's old life once more enmesh us, + You with old pleasure, me--old pain, + So we but meet nor part again!" + +Nor was this reversion to the passion of youthful love altogether a new +departure. The lyrics in _Ferishtah's Fancies_ are written to represent, +from the side of emotion, the intellectual and ethical ideas worked out +in the poems. The greater number of them are beautiful, and they would +gain rather than lose if they were published separately from the poems. +Some are plainly of the same date as the poems. Others, I think, were +written in Browning's early time, and the preceding poems are made to +fit them. But whatever be their origin, they nearly all treat of love, +and one of them with a crude claim on the love of the senses alone, as +if that--as if the love of the body, even alone--were not apart from +the consideration of a poet who wished to treat of the whole of human +nature. Browning, when he wished to make a thought or a fact quite +plain, frequently stated it without any of its modifications, trusting +to his readers not to mistake him; knowing indeed, that if they cared to +find the other side--in this case the love which issues from the senses +and the spirit together, or from the spirit alone--they would find it +stated just as soundly and clearly. He meant us to combine both +statements, and he has done so himself with regard to love. + +When, however, we have considered these exceptions, it still remains +curious how little the passionate Love-poem, with its strong personal +touch, exists in Browning's poetry. One reason may be that Love-poems of +this kind are naturally lyrical, and demand a sweet melody in the verse, +and Browning's genius was not especially lyrical, nor could he +inevitably command a melodious movement in his verse. But the main +reason is that he was taken up with other and graver matters, and +chiefly with the right theory of life; with the true relation of God and +man; and with the picturing--for absolute Love's sake, and in order to +win men to love one another by the awakening of pity--of as much of +humanity as he could grasp in thought and feeling. Isolated and personal +love was only a small part of this large design. + +One personal love, however, he possessed fully and intensely. It was his +love for his wife, and three poems embody it. The first is _By the +Fireside_. It does not take rank as a true love lyric; it is too long, +too many-motived for a lyric. It is a meditative poem of recollective +tenderness wandering through the past; and no poem written on married +love in England is more beautiful. The poet, sitting silent in the room +where his wife sits with him, sees all his life with her unrolled, muses +on what has been, and is, since she came to bless his life, or what will +be, since she continues to bless it; and all the fancies and musings +which, in a usual love lyric, would not harmonise with the intensity of +love-passion in youth, exactly fit in with the peace and satisfied joy +of a married life at home with God and nature and itself. The poem is +full of personal charm. Quiet thought, profound feeling and sweet memory +like a sunlit mist, soften the aspect of the room, the image of his +wife, and all the thoughts, emotions and scenery described. It is a +finished piece of art. + +The second of these poems is the Epilogue to the volumes of _Men and +Women_, entitled _One Word More_. It also is a finished piece of art, +carefully conceived, upbuilded stone by stone, touch by touch, each +separate thought with its own emotion, each adding something to the +whole, each pushing Browning's emotion and picture into our souls, till +the whole impression is received. It is full, and full to the brim, with +the long experience of peaceful joy in married love. And the subtlety of +the close of it, and of Browning's play with his own fancy about the +moon, do not detract from the tenderness of it; for it speaks not of +transient passion but of the love of a whole life lived from end to end +in music. + +The last of these is entitled _Prospice_. When he wrote it he had lost +his wife. It tells what she had made of him; it reveals alike his +steadfast sadness that she had gone from him and the steadfast +resolution, due to her sweet and enduring power, with which, after her +death, he promised, bearing with him his sorrow and his memory of joy, +to stand and withstand in the battle of life, ever a fighter to the +close--and well he kept his word. It ends with the expression of his +triumphant certainty of meeting her, and breaks forth at last into so +great a cry of pure passion that ear and heart alike rejoice. Browning +at his best, Browning in the central fire of his character, is in it. + + Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, + The mist in my face, + When the snows begin, and the blasts denote + I am nearing the place, + The power of the night, the press of the storm, + The post of the foe; + Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, + Yet the strong man must go: + For the journey is done and the summit attained + And the barriers fall, + Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, + The reward of it all. + I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, + The best and the last! + I would hate that Death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, + And bade me creep past. + No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers + The heroes of old, + Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears + Of pain, darkness and cold. + For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, + The black minute's at end, + And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, + Shall dwindle, shall blend, + Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, + Then a light, then thy breast, + O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, + And with God be the rest! + +Leaving now these personal poems on Love, we come to those we may call +impersonal. They are poems about love, not in its simplicities, but in +its subtle moments--moments that Browning loved to analyse, and which he +informed not so much with the passion of love, as with his profound love +of human nature. He describes in them, with the seriousness of one who +has left youth behind, the moods of love, its changes, vagaries, +certainties, failures and conquests. It is a man writing, not of the +love of happy youth, but of love tossed on the stormy seas of manhood +and womanhood, and modified from its singular personal intensity by the +deeper thought, feeling and surprising chances of our mortal life. Love +does not stand alone, as in the true love lyric, but with many other +grave matters. As such it is a more interesting subject for Browning. +For Love then becomes full of strange turns, unexpected thoughts, +impulses unknown before creating varied circumstances, and created by +them; and these his intellectual spirituality delighted to cope with, +and to follow, labyrinth after labyrinth. I shall give examples of these +separate studies, which have always an idea beyond the love out of which +the poem arises. In some of them the love is finally absorbed in the +idea. In all of them their aim is beyond the love of which they speak. + +_Love among the Ruins_ tells of a lover going to meet his sweetheart. +There are many poems with this expectant motive in the world of song, +and no motive has been written of with greater emotion. If we are to +believe these poems, or have ever waited ourselves, the hour contains +nothing but her presence, what she is doing, how she is coming, why she +delays, what it will be when she comes--a thousand things, each like +white fire round her image. But Browning's lover, through nine verses, +cares only for the wide meadows over which he makes his way and the +sheep wandering over them, and their flowers and the ruins in the midst +of them; musing on the changes and contrasts of the world--the lonely +land and the populous glory which was of old in the vast city. It is +only then, and only in two lines, that he thinks of the girl who is +waiting for him in the ruined tower. Even then his imagination cannot +stay with her, but glances from her instantly--thinking that the ancient +king stood where she is waiting, and looked, full of pride, from the +high tower on his splendid city. When he has elaborated this second +excursion of thought he comes at last to the girl. Then is the hour of +passion, but even in its fervour he draws a conclusion, belonging to a +higher world than youthful love, as remote from it as his description of +the scenery and the ruins. "Splendour of arms, triumph of wealth, +centuries of glory and pride, they are nothing to love. Love is best." +It is a general, not a particular conclusion. In a true Love-poem it +would be particular. + +Another poem of waiting love is _In Three Days_. And this has the spirit +of a true love lyric in it. It reads like a personal thing; it breathes +exaltation; it is quick, hurried, and thrilled. The delicate fears of +chance and change in the three days, or in the years to come, belong of +right and nature to the waiting, and are subtly varied and condensed. It +is, however, the thoughtful love of a man who can be metaphysical in +love, not the excluding mastery of passion. + +_Two in the Campagna_ is another poem in which love passes away into a +deeper thought than love--a strange and fascinating poem of twofold +desire. The man loves a woman and desires to be at peace with her in +love, but there is a more imperative passion in his soul--to rest in the +infinite, in accomplished perfection. And his livelong and vain pursuit +of this has wearied him so much that he has no strength left to realise +earthly love. Is it possible that she who now walks with him in the +Campagna can give him in her love the peace of the infinite which he +desires, and if not, why--where is the fault? For a moment he seems to +catch the reason, and asks his love to see it with him and to grasp it. +In a moment, like the gossamer thread he traces only to see it vanish, +it is gone--and nothing is left, save + + Infinite passion, and the pain + Of finite hearts that yearn. + +Least of all is the woman left. She has quite disappeared. This is not a +Love-poem at all, it is the cry of Browning's hunger for eternity in the +midst of mortality, in which all the hunger for earthly love is burnt to +dust. + +The rest are chiefly studies of different kinds of love, or of crises in +love; moments in its course, in its origin or its failure. There are +many examples in the shorter dramatic pieces, as _In a Balcony_; and +even in the longer dramas certain sharp climaxes of love are recorded, +not as if they belonged to the drama, but as if they were distinct +studies introduced by chance or caprice. In the short poems called +"dramatic" these studies are numerous, and I group a few of them +together according to their motives, leaving out some which I shall +hereafter treat of when I come to discuss the women in Browning. _Evelyn +Hope_ has nothing to do with the passion of love. The physical element +of love is entirely excluded by the subject. It is a beautiful +expression of a love purely spiritual, to be realised in its fulness +only after death, spirit with spirit, but yet to be kept as the master +of daily life, to whose law all thought and action are referred. The +thought is noble, the expression of it simple, fine, and clear. It is, +moreover, close to truth--there are hundreds of men who live quietly in +love of that kind, and die in its embrace. + +In _Cristina_ the love is just as spiritual, but the motive of the poem +is not one, as in _Evelyn Hope_, but two. The woman is not dead, and she +has missed her chance. But the lover has not. He has seen her and in a +moment loved her. She also looked on him and felt her soul matched by +his as they "rushed together." But the world carried her away and she +lost the fulness of life. He, on the contrary, kept the moment for ever, +and with it, her and all she might have been with him. + + Her soul's mine: and thus grown perfect, + I shall pass my life's remainder. + +This is not the usual Love-poem. It is a love as spiritual, as mystic, +even more mystic, since the woman lives, than the lover felt for Evelyn +Hope. + +The second motive in _Cristina_ of the lover who meets the true partner +of his soul or hers, and either seizes the happy hour and possesses joy +for ever, or misses it and loses all, is a favourite with Browning. He +repeats it frequently under diverse circumstances, for it opened out so +many various endings, and afforded so much opportunity for his beloved +analysis. Moreover, optimist as he was in his final thought of man, he +was deeply conscious of the ironies of life, of the ease with which +things go wrong, of the impossibility of setting them right from +without. And in the matter of love he marks in at least four poems how +the moment was held and life was therefore conquest. Then in _Youth and +Art_, in _Dis Aliter Visum_, in _Bifurcation_, in _The Lost Mistress_, +and in _Too Late_, he records the opposite fate, and in characters so +distinct that the repetition of the motive is not monotonous. These are +studies of the Might-have-beens of love. + +Another motive, used with varied circumstance in three or four poems, +but fully expanded in _James Lee's Wife_, is the discovery, after years +of love, that love on one side is lost irretrievably. Another motive is, +that rather than lose love men or women will often sacrifice their +conscience, their reason, or their liberty. This sacrifice, of all that +makes our nobler being for the sake of personal love alone, brings with +it, because the whole being is degraded, the degradation, decay, and +death of personal love itself. + +Another set of poems describes with fanciful charm, sometimes with happy +gaiety, love at play with itself. True love makes in the soul an +unfathomable ocean in whose depths are the imaginations of love, +serious, infinite, and divine. But on its surface the light of jewelled +fancies plays--a thousand thousand sunny memories and hopes, flying +thoughts and dancing feelings. A poet would be certain to have often +seen this happy crowd, and to desire to trick them out in song. So +Browning does in his poem, _In a Gondola_. The two lovers, with the dark +shadow of fate brooding over them, sing and muse and speak alternately, +imaging in swift and rival pictures made by fancy their deep-set love; +playing with its changes, creating new worlds in which to place it, but +always returning to its isolated individuality; recalling how it began, +the room where it reached its aim, the pictures, the furniture, the +balcony, her dress, all the scenery, in a hundred happy and glancing +pictures; while interlaced through their gaiety--and the gaiety made +keener by the nearness of dark fate--is coming death, death well +purchased by an hour of love. Finally, the lover is stabbed and slain, +and the pity of it throws back over the sunshine of love's fancies a +cloud of tears. This is the stuff of life that Browning loved to +paint--interwoven darkness and brightness, sorrow and joy trembling each +on the edge of the other, life playing at ball, as joyous as Nausicaa +and her maids, on a thin crust over a gulf of death. + +Just such another poem--of the sportiveness of love, only this time in +memory, not in present pleasure, is to be found in _A Lovers' Quarrel_, +and the quarrel is the dark element in it. Browning always feels that +mighty passion has its root in tragedy, and that it seeks relief in +comedy. The lover sits by the fireside alone, and recalls, forgetting +pain for a moment, the joyful play they two had together, when love +expressed its depth of pleasure in dramatic fancies. Every separate +picture is done in Browning's impressionist way. And when the glad +memories are over, and the sorrow returns, passion leaps out-- + + It is twelve o'clock: + I shall hear her knock + In the worst of a storm's uproar, + I shall pull her through the door, + I shall have her for evermore! + +This is partly a study of the memory of love; and Browning has +represented, without any sorrow linked to it, memorial love in a variety +of characters under different circumstances, so that, though the subject +is the same, the treatment varies. A charming instance of this is _The +Flowers Name_; easy to read, happy in its fancy, in its scenery, in the +subtle play of deep affection, in the character of its lover, in the +character of the girl who is remembered--a good example of Browning's +power to image in a few verses two human souls so clearly that they live +in our world for ever. _Meeting at Night--Parting at Morning_ is another +reminiscence, mixed up with the natural scenery of the meeting and +parting, a vivid recollection of a fleeting night of passion, and then +the abandonment of its isolation for a wider, fuller life with humanity. +I quote it for the fine impassioned way in which human feeling and +natural scenery are fused together. + + MEETING AT NIGHT. + + The grey sea and the long black land; + And the yellow half-moon large and low; + And the startled little waves that leap + In fiery ringlets from their sleep, + As I gain the cove with pushing prow. + And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. + Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; + Three fields to cross till a farm appears; + A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch + And blue spurt of a lighted match, + And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears. + Than the two hearts beating each to each! + + + PARTING AT MORNING. + + Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, + And the sun looked over the mountain's rim: + And straight was a path of gold for him, + And the need of a world of men for me. + +The poem entitled _Confessions_ is another of these memories, in which a +dying man, careless of death, careless of the dull conventions of the +clergyman, cares for nothing but the memory of his early passion for a +girl one happy June, and dies in comfort of the sweetness of the memory, +though he thinks-- + + How sad and bad and mad it was. + +Few but Browning would have seen, and fewer still have recorded, this +vital piece of truth. It represents a whole type of character--those who +in a life of weary work keep their day of love, even when it has been +wrong, as their one poetic, ideal possession, and cherish it for ever. +The wrong of it disappears in the ideal beauty which now has gathered +round it, and as it was faithful, unmixed with other love, it escapes +degradation. We see, when the man images the past and its scenery out of +the bottles of physic on the table, how the material world had been +idealised to him all his life long by this passionate memory-- + + Do I view the world as a vale of tears? + Ah, reverend sir, not I. + +It might be well to compare with this another treatment of the memory +of love in _St. Martin's Summer_. A much less interesting and natural +motive rules it than _Confessions_; and the characters, though more "in +society" than the dying man, are grosser in nature; gross by their +inability to love, or by loving freshly to make a new world in which the +old sorrow dies or is transformed. There is no humour in the thing, +though there is bitter irony. But there is humour in an earlier poem--_A +Serenade at the Villa_, where, in the last verse, the bitterness of +wrath and love together (a very different bitterness from that of _St. +Martin's Summer_), breaks out, and is attributed to the garden gate. The +night-watch and the singing is over; she must have heard him, but she +gave no sign. He wonders what she thought, and then, because he was only +half in love, flings away-- + + Oh how dark your villa was, + Windows fast and obdurate! + How the garden grudged me grass + Where I stood--the iron gate + Ground its teeth to let me pass! + +It is impossible to notice all these studies of love, but they form, +together, a book of transient phases of the passion in almost every +class of society. And they show how Browning, passing through the world, +from the Quartier Latin to London drawing-rooms, was continually on the +watch to catch, store up, and reproduce a crowd of motives for poetry +which his memory held and his imagination shaped. + +There is only one more poem, which I cannot pass by in this group of +studies. It is one of sacred and personal memory, so much so that it is +probable the loss of his life lies beneath it. It rises into that +highest poetry which fuses together into one form a hundred thoughts and +a hundred emotions, and which is only obscure from the mingling of their +multitude. I quote it, I cannot comment on it. + + Never the time and the place + And the loved one all together! + This path--how soft to pace! + This May--what magic weather! + Where is the loved one's face? + In a dream that loved one's face meets mine + But the house is narrow, the place is bleak + Where, outside, rain and wind combine + With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, + With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, + With a malice that marks each word, each sign! + O enemy sly and serpentine, + Uncoil thee from the waking man! + Do I hold the Past + Thus firm and fast + Yet doubt if the Future hold I can? + This path so soft to pace shall lead + Through the magic of May to herself indeed! + Or narrow if needs the house must be, + Outside are the storms and strangers: we-- + Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, + --I and she! + +That, indeed, is passionate enough. + +Then there is another group--tales which embody phases of love. _Count +Gismond_ is one of these. It is too long, and wants Browning's usual +force. The outline of the story was, perhaps, too simple to interest his +intellect, and he needed in writing poetry not only the emotional +subject, but that there should be something in or behind the emotion +through the mazes of which his intelligence might glide like a +serpent.[10] + +_The Glove_ is another of these tales--a good example of the brilliant +fashion in which Browning could, by a strange kaleidoscopic turn of his +subject, give it a new aspect and a new ending. The world has had the +tale before it for a very long time. Every one had said the woman was +wrong and the man right; but here, poetic juggler as he is, Browning +makes the woman right and the man wrong, reversing the judgment of +centuries. The best of it is, that he seems to hold the truth of the +thing. It is amusing to think that only now, in the other world, if she +and Browning meet, will she find herself comprehended. + +Finally, as to the mightier kinds of love, those supreme forms of the +passion, which have neither beginning nor end; to which time and space +are but names; which make and fill the universe; the least grain of +which predicates the whole; the spirit of which is God Himself; the +breath of whose life is immortal joy, or sorrow which means joy; whose +vision is Beauty, and whose activity is Creation--these, united in God, +or divided among men into their three great entities--love of ideas for +their truth and beauty; love of the natural universe, which is God's +garment; love of humanity, which is God's child--these pervade the whole +of Browning's poetry as the heat of the sun pervades the earth and every +little grain upon it. They make its warmth and life, strength and +beauty. They are too vast to be circumscribed in a lyric, represented in +a drama, bound up even in a long story of spiritual endeavour like +_Paracelsus_. But they move, in dignity, splendour and passion, through +all that he deeply conceived and nobly wrought; and their triumph and +immortality in his poetry are never for one moment clouded with doubt or +subject to death. This is the supreme thing in his work. To him Love is +the Conqueror, and Love is God. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[10] There is one simple story at least which he tells quite admirably, +_The Pied Piper of Hamelin_. But then, that story, if it is not troubled +by intellectual matter, is also not troubled by any deep emotion. It is +told by a poet who becomes a child for children. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER X + +_THE PASSIONS OTHER THAN LOVE_ + + +The poems on which I have dwelt in the last chapter, though they are +mainly concerned with love between the sexes, illustrate the other noble +passions, all of which, such as joy, are forms of, or rather children +of, self-forgetful love. They do not illustrate the evil or ignoble +passions--envy, jealousy, hatred, base fear, despair, revenge, avarice +and remorse--which, driven by the emotion that so fiercely and swiftly +accumulates around them, master the body and soul, the intellect and the +will, like some furious tyrant, and in their extremes hurry their victim +into madness. Browning took some of these terrible powers and made them +subjects in his poetry. Short, sharp-outlined sketches of them occur in +his dramas and longer poems. There is no closer image in literature of +long-suppressed fear breaking out into its agony of despair than in the +lines which seal Guido's pleading in the _The Ring and the Book_. + + Life is all! + I was just stark mad,--let the madman live + Pressed by as many chains as you please pile! + Don't open! Hold me from them! I am yours, + I am the Grand Duke's--no, I am the Pope's! + Abate,--Cardinal,--Christ,--Maria,--God, ... + Pompilia, will you let them murder me? + +But there is no elaborate, long-continued study of these sordid and +evil things in Browning. He was not one of our modern realists who love +to paddle and splash in the sewers of humanity. Not only was he too +healthy in mind to dwell on them, but he justly held them as not fit +subjects for art unless they were bound up with some form of pity, as +jealousy and envy are in Shakespeare's treatment of the story of +Othello; or imaged along with so much of historic scenery that we lose +in our interest in the decoration some of the hatefulness of the +passion. The combination, for example, of envy and hatred resolved on +vengeance in _The Laboratory_ is too intense for any pity to intrude, +but Browning realises not only the evil passions in the woman but the +historical period also and its temper; and he fills the poem with +scenery which, though it leaves the woman first in our eyes, yet lessens +the malignant element. The same, but of course with the difference +Browning's variety creates, may be said of the story of the envious +king, where envy crawls into hatred, hatred almost motiveless--the +_Instans Tyrannus_. A faint vein of humour runs through it. The king +describes what has been; his hatred has passed. He sees how small and +fanciful it was, and the illustrations he uses to express it tell us +that; though they carry with them also the contemptuous intensity of his +past hatred. The swell of the hatred remains, though the hatred is past. +So we are not left face to face with absolute evil, with the corruption +hate engenders in the soul. God has intervened, and the worst of it has +passed away. + +Then there is the study of hatred in the _Soliloquy of the Spanish +Cloister_. The hatred is black and deadly, the instinctive hatred of a +brutal nature for a delicate one, which, were it unrelieved, would be +too vile for the art of poetry. But it is relieved, not only by the +scenery, the sketch of the monks in the refectory, the garden of +flowers, the naughty girls seated on the convent bank washing their +black hair, but also by the admirable humour which ripples like laughter +through the hopes of his hatred, and by the brilliant sketching of the +two men. We see them, know them, down to their little tricks at dinner, +and we end by realising hatred, it is true, but in too agreeable a +fashion for just distress. + +In other poems of the evil passions the relieving element is pity. There +are the two poems entitled _Before_ and _After_, that is, before and +after the duel. _Before_ is the statement of one of the seconds, with +curious side-thoughts introduced by Browning's mental play with the +subject, that the duel is absolutely necessary. The challenger has been +deeply wronged; and he cannot and will not let forgiveness intermit his +vengeance. The man in us agrees with that; the Christian in us says, +"Forgive, let God do the judgment." But the passion for revenge has here +its way and the guilty falls. And now let Browning speak--Forgiveness is +right and the vengeance-fury wrong. The dead man has escaped, the living +has not escaped the wrath of conscience; pity is all. + + Take the cloak from his face, and at first + Let the corpse do its worst! + + How he lies in his rights of a man! + Death has done all death can. + And, absorbed in the new life he leads, + He recks not, he heeds + + Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike + On his senses alike, + And are lost in the solemn and strange + Surprise of the change. + + Ha, what avails death to erase + His offence, my disgrace? + I would we were boys as of old + In the field, by the fold: + His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn + Were so easily borne! + + I stand here now, he lies in his place; + Cover the face. + +Again, there are few studies in literature of contempt, hatred and +revenge more sustained and subtle than Browning's poem entitled _A +Forgiveness_; and the title marks how, though the justice of revenge was +accomplished on the woman, yet that pity, even love for her, accompanied +and followed the revenge. Our natural revolt against the cold-blooded +work of hatred is modified, when we see the man's heart and the woman's +soul, into pity for their fate. The man tells his story to a monk in the +confessional, who has been the lover of his wife. He is a statesman +absorbed in his work, yet he feels that his wife makes his home a +heaven, and he carries her presence with him all the day. His wife takes +the first lover she meets, and, discovered, tells her husband that she +hates him. "Kill me now," she cries. But he despises her too much to +hate her; she is not worth killing. Three years they live together in +that fashion, till one evening she tells him the truth. "I was jealous +of your work. I took my revenge by taking a lover, but I loved you, you +only, all the time, and lost you-- + + I thought you gave + Your heart and soul away from me to slave + At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost, + I stung myself to teach you, to your cost, + What you rejected could be prized beyond + Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond + Look on, a fatal word to. + +"Ah, is that true, you loved and still love? Then contempt perishes, and +hate takes its place. Write your confession, and die by my hand. +Vengeance is foreign to contempt, you have risen to the level at which +hate can act. I pardon you, for as I slay hate departs--and now, sir," +and he turns to the monk-- + + She sleeps, as erst + Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours! + +and drives the poisoned dagger through the grate of the confessional +into the heart of her lover. + +This is Browning's closest study of hate, contempt, and revenge. But +bitter and close as it is, what is left with us is pity for humanity, +pity for the woman, pity for the lover, pity for the husband. + +Again, in the case of Sebald and Ottima in _Pippa Passes_, pity also +rules. Love passing into lust has led to hate, and these two have slaked +their hate and murdered Luca, Ottima's husband. They lean out of the +window of the shrub-house as the morning breaks. For the moment their +false love is supreme. Their crime only creeps like a snake, half +asleep, about the bottom of their hearts; they recall their early +passion and try to brazen it forth in the face of their murder, which +now rises, dreadful and more dreadful, into threatening life in their +soul. They reanimate their hate of Luca to lower their remorse, but at +every instant his blood stains their speech. At last, while Ottima loves +on, Sebald's dark horror turns to hatred of her he loved, till she lures +him back into desire of her again. The momentary lust cannot last, but +Browning shoots it into prominence that the outburst of horror and +repentance may be the greater. + + I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now! + This way? Will you forgive me--be once more + My great queen? + +At that moment Pippa passes by, singing: + + The year's at the spring + And day's at the morn; + Morning's at seven; + The hill-side's dew-pearled; + The lark's on the wing; + The snail's on the thorn; + God's in his heaven-- + All's right with the world! + +Something in it smites Sebald's heart like a hammer of God. He repents, +but in the cowardice of repentance curses her. That baseness I do not +think Browning should have introduced, no, nor certain carnal phrases +which, previously right, now jar with the spiritual passion of +repentance. But his fury with her passes away into the passion of +despair-- + + My brain is drowned now--quite drowned: all I feel + Is ... is, at swift recurring intervals, + A hurry-down within me, as of waters + Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit: + There they go--whirls from a black fiery sea! + +lines which must have been suggested to Browning by verses, briefer and +more intense, in Webster's + +_Duchess of Malfi_. Even Ottima, lifted by her love, which purifies +itself in wishing to die for her lover, repents. + + Not me,--to him, O God, be merciful! + +Thus into this cauldron of sin Browning steals the pity of God. We know +they will be saved, so as by fire. + +Then there is the poem on the story of _Cristina and Monaldeschi_; a +subject too odious, I think, to be treated lyrically. It is a tale of +love turned to hatred, and for good cause, and of the pitiless vengeance +which followed. Browning has not succeeded in it; and it may be so +because he could get no pity into it. The Queen had none. Monaldeschi +deserved none--a coward, a fool, and a traitor! Nevertheless, more might +have been made of it by Browning. The poem is obscure and wandering, and +the effort he makes to grip the subject reveals nothing but the weakness +of the grip. It ought not to have been published. + + * * * * * + +And now I turn to passions more delightful, that this chapter may close +in light and not in darkness--passions of the imagination, of the +romantic regions of the soul. There is, first, the longing for the +mystic world, the world beneath appearance, with or without reference to +eternity. Secondly, bound up with that, there is the longing for the +unknown, for following the gleam which seems to lead us onward, but we +know not where. Then, there is the desire, the deeper for its constant +suppression, for escape from the prison of a worldly society, from its +conventions and maxims of morality, its barriers of custom and rule, +into liberty and unchartered life. Lastly, there is that longing to +discover and enjoy the lands of adventure and romance which underlies +and wells upwards through so much of modern life, and which has never +ceased to send its waters up to refresh the world. These are romantic +passions. On the whole, Browning does not often touch them in their +earthly activities. His highest romance was beyond this world. It +claimed eternity, and death was the entrance into its enchanted realm. +When he did bring romantic feeling into human life, it was for the most +part in the hunger and thirst, which, as in _Abt Vogler_, urged men +beyond the visible into the invisible. But now and again he touched the +Romantic of Earth. _Childe Roland_, _The Flight of the Duchess_, and +some others, are alive with the romantic spirit. + +But before I write of these, there are a few lyrical poems, written in +the freshness of his youth, which are steeped in the light of the +story-telling world; and might be made by one who, in the morning of +imagination, sat on the dewy hills of the childish world. They are full +of unusual melody, and are simple and wise enough to be sung by girls +knitting in the sunshine while their lovers bend above them. One of +these, a beautiful thing, with that touch of dark fate at its close +which is so common in folk-stories, is hidden away in _Paracelsus_. +"Over the sea," it begins: + + Over the sea our galleys went, + With cleaving prows in order brave + To a speeding wind and a bounding wave, + A gallant armament: + Each bark built out of a forest-tree + Left leafy and rough as first it grew, + And nailed all over the gaping sides, + Within and without, with black bull-hides, + Seethed in fat, and suppled with flame, + To bear the playful billows' game. + +It is made in a happy melody, and the curious mingling in the tale, as +it continues, of the rudest ships, as described above, with purple +hangings, cedar tents, and noble statues, + + A hundred shapes of lucid stone, + +and with gentle islanders from Graecian seas, is characteristic of +certain folk-tales, especially those of Gascony. That it is spoken by +Paracelsus as a parable of the state of mind he has reached, in which he +clings to his first fault with haughty and foolish resolution, scarcely +lessens the romantic element in it. That is so strong that we forget +that it is meant as a parable. + +There is another song which touches the edge of romance, in which +Paracelsus describes how he will bury in sweetness the ideal aims he had +in youth, building a pyre for them of all perfumed things; and the last +lines of the verse I quote leave us in a castle of old romance-- + + And strew faint sweetness from some old + Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud + Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; + Or shredded perfume, like a cloud + From closet long to quiet vowed, + With mothed and dropping arras hung, + Mouldering her lute and books among, + As when a queen, long dead, was young. + +The other is a song, more than a song, in _Pippa Passes_, a true piece +of early folk-romance, with a faint touch of Greek story, wedded to +Eastern and mediaeval elements, in its roving imaginations. It is +admirably pictorial, and the air which broods over it is the sunny and +still air which, in men's fancy, was breathed by the happy children of +the Golden Age. I quote a great part of it: + + A King lived long ago, + In the morning of the world, + When earth was nigher heaven than now: + And the King's locks curled, + Disparting o'er a forehead full + As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn + Of some sacrificial bull-- + Only calm as a babe new-born: + For he was got to a sleepy mood, + So safe from all decrepitude, + Age with its bane, so sure gone by, + (The gods so loved him while he dreamed) + That, having lived thus long, there seemed + No need the King should ever die. + + LUIGI. No need that sort of King should ever die! + + Among the rocks his city was: + Before his palace, in the sun, + He sat to see his people pass, + And judge them every one + From its threshold of smooth stone + They haled him many a valley-thief + Caught in the sheep-pens, robber chief + Swarthy and shameless, beggar, cheat, + Spy-prowler, or rough pirate found + On the sea-sand left aground; + + * * * + + These, all and every one, + The King judged, sitting in the sun. + + LUIGI. That King should still judge sitting in the sun! + + His councillors, on left and right, + Looked anxious up,--but no surprise + Disturbed the King's old smiling eyes + Where the very blue had turned to white. + 'Tis said, a Python scared one day + The breathless city, till he came, + With forty tongue and eyes on flame, + Where the old King sat to judge alway; + But when he saw the sweepy hair + Girt with a crown of berries rare + Which the god will hardly give to wear + To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare + In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights, + At his wondrous forest rites,-- + Seeing this, he did not dare + Approach the threshold in the sun, + Assault the old king smiling there. + Such grace had kings when the world begun! + +Then there are two other romantic pieces, not ringing with this early +note, but having in them a wafting scent of the Provencal spirit. One is +the song sung by Pippa when she passes the room where Jules and Phene +are talking--the song of Kate, the Queen. The other is the cry Rudel, +the great troubadour, sent out of his heart to the Lady of Tripoli whom +he never saw, but loved. The subject is romantic, but that, I think, is +all the romance in it. It is not Rudel who speaks but Browning. It is +not the twelfth but the nineteenth century which has made all that +analysis and over-worked illustration. + +There remain, on this matter, _Childe Roland_ and the _Flight of the +Duchess_. I believe that _Childe Roland_ emerged, all of a sudden and to +Browning's surprise, out of the pure imagination, like the Sea-born +Queen; that Browning did not conceive it beforehand; that he had no +intention in it, no reason for writing it, and no didactic or moral aim +in it. It was not even born of his will. Nor does he seem to be +acquainted with the old story on the subject which took a ballad form +in Northern England. The impulse to write it was suddenly awakened in +him by that line out of an old song the Fool quotes in _King Lear_. +There is another tag of a song in _Lear_ which stirs a host of images in +the imagination; and out of which some poet might create a romantic +lyric: + + Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind. + +But it does not produce so concrete a set of images as _Childe Roland to +the Dark Tower came_. Browning has made that his own, and what he has +done is almost romantic. Almost romantic, I say, because the +peculiarities of Browning's personal genius appear too strongly in +_Childe Roland_ for pure romantic story, in which the idiosyncrasy of +the poet, the personal element of his fancy, are never dominant. The +scenery, the images, the conduct of the tales of romance, are, on +account of their long passage through the popular mind, impersonal. + +Moreover, Browning's poem is too much in the vague. The romantic tales +are clear in outline; this is not. But the elements in the original +story entered, as it were of their own accord, into Browning. There are +several curious, unconscious reversions to folk-lore which have crept +into his work like living things which, seeing Browning engaged on a +story of theirs, entered into it as into a house of their own, and +without his knowledge. The wretched cripple who points the way; the +blind and wicked horse; the accursed stream; the giant mountain range, +all the peaks alive, as if in a nature myth; the crowd of Roland's +predecessors turned to stone by their failure; the sudden revealing of +the tower where no tower had been, might all be matched out of +folk-stories. I think I have heard that Browning wrote the poem at a +breath one morning; and it reads as if, from verse to verse, he did not +know what was coming to his pen. This is very unlike his usual way; but +it is very much the way in which tales of this kind are unconsciously +up-built. + +Men have tried to find in the poem an allegory of human life; but +Browning had no allegorising intention. However, as every story which +was ever written has at its root the main elements of human nature, it +is always possible to make an allegory out of any one of them. If we +like to amuse ourselves in that fashion, we may do so; but we are too +bold and bad if we impute allegory to Browning. _Childe Roland_ is +nothing more than a gallop over the moorlands of imagination; and the +skies of the soul, when it was made, were dark and threatening storm. +But one thing is plain in it: it is an outcome of that passion for the +mystical world, for adventure, for the unknown, which lies at the root +of the romantic tree. + +The _Flight of the Duchess_ is full of the passion of escape from the +conventional; and no where is Browning more original or more the poet. +Its manner is exactly right, exactly fitted to the character and +condition of the narrator, who is the Duke's huntsman. Its metrical +movement is excellent, and the changes of that movement are in harmony +with the things and feelings described. It is astonishingly swift, +alive, and leaping; and it delays, as a stream, with great charm, when +the emotion of the subject is quiet, recollective, or deep. The +descriptions of Nature in the poem are some of the most vivid and true +in Browning's work. The sketches of animal life--so natural on the lips +of the teller of the story--are done from the keen observation of a +huntsman, and with his love for the animals he has fed, followed and +slain. And, through it all, there breathes the romantic passion--to be +out of the world of custom and commonplace, set free to wander for ever +to an unknown goal; to drink the air of adventure and change; not to +know to-day what will take place to-morrow, only to know that it will be +different; to ride on the top of the wave of life as it runs before the +wind; to live with those who live, and are of the same mind; to be loved +and to find love the best good in the world; to be the centre of hopes +and joys among those who may blame and give pain, but who are never +indifferent; to have many troubles, but always to pursue their far-off +good; to wring the life out of them, and, at the last, to have a new +life, joy and freedom in another and a fairer world. But let Browning +tell the end: + + So, at the last shall come old age. + Decrepit as befits that stage; + How else would'st thou retire apart + With the hoarded memories of thy heart, + And gather all to the very least + Of the fragments of life's earlier feast, + Let fall through eagerness to find + The crowning dainties yet behind? + Ponder on the entire past + Laid together thus at last, + When the twilight helps to fuse + The first fresh with the faded hues. + And the outline of the whole + Grandly fronts for once thy soul. + And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam + Of yet another morning breaks, + And, like the hand which ends a dream, + Death, with the might of his sunbeam, + Touches the flesh, and the soul awakes, + Then---- + +Then the romance of life sweeps into the world beyond. But even in that +world the duchess will never settle down to a fixed life. She will be, +like some of us, a child of the wandering tribes of eternity. + +This romantic passion which never dies even in our modern society, is +embodied in the gipsy crone who, in rags and scarcely clinging to life, +suddenly lifts into youth and queenliness, just as in a society, where +romance seems old or dead, it springs into fresh and lovely life. This +is the heart of the poem, and it is made to beat the more quickly by the +wretched attempt of the duke and his mother to bring back the +observances of the Middle Ages without their soul. Nor even then does +Browning leave his motive. The huntsman has heard the gipsy's song; he +has seen the light on his mistress' face as she rode away--the light +which is not from sun or star--and the love of the romantic world is +born in him. He will not leave his master; there his duty lies. "I must +see this fellow his sad life through." But then he will go over the +mountains, after his lady, leaving the graves of his wife and children, +into the unknown, to find her, or news of her, in the land of the +wanderers. And if he never find her, if, after pleasant journeying, +earth cannot give her to his eyes, he will still pursue his quest in a +world where romance and formality are not married together. + + So I shall find out some snug corner, + Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, + Turn myself round and bid the world Good Night; + And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing + Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) + To a world where will be no further throwing + Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +_IMAGINATIVE REPRESENTATIONS_ + + +All poems might be called "imaginative representations." But the class +of poems in Browning's work to which I give that name stands apart. It +includes such poems as _Cleon, Caliban on Setebos, Fra Lippo Lippi_, the +_Epistle of Karshish_, and they isolate themselves, not only in +Browning's poetry, but in English poetry. They have some resemblance in +aim and method to the monologues of Tennyson, such as the _Northern +Farmer_ or _Rizpah_, but their aim is much wider than Tennyson's, and +their method far more elaborate and complex. + +What do they represent? To answer this is to define within what limits I +give them the name of "imaginative representations." They are not only +separate studies of individual men as they breathed and spoke; face, +form, tricks of body recorded; intelligence, character, temper of mind, +spiritual aspiration made clear--Tennyson did that; they are also +studies of these individual men--Cleon, Karshish and the rest--as +general types, representative images, of the age in which they lived; or +of the school of art to which they belonged; or of the crisis in +theology, religion, art, or the social movement which took place while +the men they paint were alive, and which these men led, on formed, or +followed. That is their main element, and it defines them. + +They are not dramatic. Their action and ideas are confined to one +person, and their circumstance and scenery to one time and place. But +Browning, unlike Tennyson, filled the background of the stage on which +he placed his single figure with a multitude of objects, or animals, or +natural scenery, or figures standing round or in motion; and these give +additional vitality and interest to the representation. Again, they are +short, as short as a soliloquy or a letter or a conversation in a +street. Shortness belongs to this form of poetic work--a form to which +Browning gave a singular intensity. It follows that they must not be +argumentative beyond what is fitting. Nor ought they to glide into the +support of a thesis, or into didactic addresses, as _Bishop Blougram_ +and _Mr. Sludge_ do. These might be called treatises, and are apart from +the kind of poem of which I speak. They begin, indeed, within its +limits, but they soon transgress those limits; and are more properly +classed with poems which, also representative, have not the brevity, the +scenery, the lucidity, the objective representation, the concentration +of the age into one man's mind, which mark out these poems from the +rest, and isolate them into a class of their own. + +The voice we hear in them is rarely the voice of Browning; nor is the +mind of their personages his mind, save so far as he is their creator. +There are a few exceptions to this, but, on the whole, Browning has, in +writing these poems, stripped himself of his own personality. He had, by +creative power, made these men; cast them off from himself, and put them +into their own age. They talk their minds out in character with their +age. Browning seems to watch them, and to wonder how they got out of his +hands and became men. That is the impression they make, and it +predicates a singular power of imagination. Like the Prometheus of +Goethe, the poet sits apart, moulding men and then endowing them with +life. But he cannot tell, any more than Prometheus, what they will say +and do after he has made them. He does tell, of course, but that is not +our impression. Our impression is that they live and talk of their own +accord, so vitally at home they are in the country, the scenery, and the +thinking of the place and time in which he has imagined them. + +Great knowledge seems required for this, and Browning had indeed an +extensive knowledge not so much of the historical facts, as of the +tendencies of thought which worked in the times wherein he placed his +men. But the chief knowledge he had, through his curious reading, was of +a multitude of small intimate details of the customs, clothing, +architecture, dress, popular talk and scenery of the towns and country +of Italy from the thirteenth century up to modern times. To every one of +these details--such as are found in _Sordello_, in _Fra Lippo Lippi_, in +the _Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church_--his vivid and +grasping imagination gave an uncommon reality. + +But even without great knowledge such poems may be written, if the poet +have imagination, and the power to execute in metrical words what has +been imagined. _Theology in the Island_ and the prologue to a _Death in +the Desert_ are examples of this. Browning knew nothing of that island +in the undiscovered seas where Prosper dwelt, but he made all the +scenery of it and all its animal life, and he re-created Caliban. He had +never seen the cave in the desert where he placed John to die, nor the +sweep of rocky hills and sand around it, nor the Bactrian waiting with +the camels. Other poets, of course, have seen unknown lands and alien +folks, but he has seen them more vividly, more briefly, more forcibly. +His imagination was objective enough. + +But it was as subjective as it was objective. He saw the soul of Fra +Lippo Lippi and the soul of his time as vividly as he saw the streets of +Florence at night, the watch, the laughing girls, and the palace of the +Medici round the corner. It was a remarkable combination, and it is by +this combination of the subjective and objective imagination that he +draws into some dim approach to Shakespeare; and nowhere closer than in +these poems. + +Again, not only the main character of each of these poems, but all the +figures introduced (sometimes only in a single line) to fill up the +background, are sketched with as true and vigorous a pencil as the main +figure; are never out of place or harmony with the whole, and are justly +subordinated. The young men who stand round the Bishop's bed when he +orders his tomb, the watchmen in _Fra Lippo Lippi_, the group of St. +John's disciples, are as alive, and as much in tune with the whole, as +the servants and tenants of Justice Shallow. Again, it is not only the +lesser figures, but the scenery of these poems which is worth our study. +That also is closely fitted to the main subject. The imagination paints +it for that, and nothing else. It would not fit any other subject. For +imagination, working at white heat, cannot do what is out of harmony; no +more than a great musician can introduce a false chord. All goes +together in these poems--scenery, characters, time, place and action. + +Then, also, the extent of their range is remarkable. Their subjects +begin with savage man making his god out of himself. They pass through +Greek mythology to early Christian times; from Artemis and Pan to St. +John dying in the desert. Then, still in the same period, while Paul was +yet alive, he paints another aspect of the time in Cleon the rich +artist, the friend of kings, who had reached the top of life, included +all the arts in himself, yet dimly craved for more than earth could +give. From these times the poems pass on to the early and late +Renaissance, and from that to the struggle for freedom in Italy, and +from that to modern life in Europe. This great range illustrates the +penetration and the versatility of his genius. He could place us with +ease and truth at Corinth, Athens or Rome, in Paris, Vienna or London; +and wherever we go with him we are at home. + +One word more must be said about the way a great number of these poems +arose. They leaped up in his imagination full-clad and finished at a +single touch from the outside. _Caliban upon Setebos_ took its rise from +a text in the Bible which darted into his mind as he read the _Tempest_. +_Cleon_ arose as he read that verse in St. Paul's speech at Athens, "As +certain also of your own poets have said." I fancy that _An Epistle of +Karshish_ was born one day when he read those two stanzas in _In +Memoriam_ about Lazarus, and imagined how the subject would come to him. +_Fra Lippo Lippi_ slipped into his mind one day at the Belle Arti at +Florence as he stood before the picture described in the poem, and +walked afterwards at night through the streets of Florence. These fine +things are born in a moment, and come into our world from poet, painter, +and musician, full-grown; built, like Aladdin's palace, with all their +jewels, in a single night. They are inexplicable by any scientific +explanation, as inexplicable as genius itself. When have the +hereditarians explained Shakespeare, Mozart, Turner? When has the +science of the world explained the birth of a lyric of Burns, a song of +Beethoven's, or a drawing of Raffaelle? Let these gentlemen veil their +eyes, and confess their inability to explain the facts. For it is fact +they touch. "Full fathom five thy father lies"--that song of Shakespeare +exists. The overture to Don Giovanni is a reality. We can see the +Bacchus and Ariadne at the National Gallery and the Theseus at the +Museum. These are facts; but they are a million million miles beyond the +grasp of any science. Nay, the very smallest things of their kind, the +slightest water-colour sketch of Turner, a half-finished clay sketch of +Donatello, the little song done in the corner of a provincial paper by a +working clerk in a true poetic hour, are not to be fathomed by the most +far-descending plummet of the scientific understanding. These things are +in that superphysical world into which, however closely he saw and +dealt with his characters in the world of the senses, the conscience, or +the understanding, Browning led them all at last. + +The first of these poems is _Natural Theology on the Island; or, Caliban +upon Setebos_. Caliban, with the instincts and intelligence of an early +savage, has, in an hour of holiday, set himself to conceive what +Setebos, his mother's god, is like in character. He talks out the +question with himself, and because he is in a vague fear lest Setebos, +hearing him soliloquise about him, should feel insulted and swing a +thunder-bolt at him, he not only hides himself in the earth, but speaks +in the third person, as if it was not he that spoke; hoping in that +fashion to trick his God. + +Browning, conceiving in himself the mind and temper of an honest, +earthly, imaginative savage--who is developed far enough to build +nature-myths in their coarse early forms--architectures the character of +Setebos out of the habits, caprices, fancies, likes and dislikes, and +thoughts of Caliban; and an excellent piece of penetrative imagination +it is. Browning has done nothing better, though he has done as well. + +But Browning's Caliban is not a single personage. No one savage, at no +one time, would have all these thoughts of his God. He is the +representative of what has been thought, during centuries, by many +thousands of men; the concentration into one mind of the ground-thoughts +of early theology. At one point, as if Browning wished to sketch the +beginning of a new theological period, Caliban represents a more +advanced thought than savage man conceives. This is Caliban's +imagination of a higher being than Setebos who is the capricious creator +and power of the earth--of the "Quiet," who is master of Setebos and +whose temper is quite different; who also made the stars, things which +Caliban, with a touch of Browning's subtle thought, separates from the +sun and moon and earth. It is plain from this, and from the whole +argument which is admirably conducted, that Caliban is an intellectual +personage, too long neglected; and Prospero, could he have understood +his nature, would have enjoyed his conversation. Renan agreed with +Browning in this estimate of his intelligence, and made him the +foundation of a philosophical play. + +There is some slight reason for this in Shakespeare's invention. He +lifts Caliban in intellect, even in feeling, far above Trinculo, +Stephano, the Boatswain and the rest of the common men. The objection, +however, has been made that Browning makes him too intelligent. The +answer is that Browning is not drawing Caliban only, but embodying in an +imagined personage the thoughts about God likely to be invented by early +man during thousands of years--and this accounts for the insequences in +Caliban's thinking. They are not the thoughts of one but of several men. +Yet a certain poetic unity is given to them by the unity of place. The +continual introduction of the landscape to be seen from his refuge knits +the discursive thinking of the savage into a kind of unity. We watch him +lying in the thick water-slime of the hollow, his head on the rim of it +propped by his hands, under the cave's mouth, hidden by the gadding +gourds and vines; looking out to sea and watching the wild animals that +pass him by--and out of this place he does not stir. + +In Shakespeare's _Tempest_ Caliban is the gross, brutal element of the +earth and is opposed to Ariel, the light, swift, fine element of the +air. Caliban curses Prospero with the evils of the earth, with the +wicked dew of the fen and the red plague of the sea-marsh. Browning's +Caliban does not curse at all. When he is not angered, or in a caprice, +he is a good-natured creature, full of animal enjoyment. He loves to lie +in the cool slush, like a lias-lizard, shivering with earthy pleasure +when his spine is tickled by the small eft-things that course along it, + + Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh. + +The poem is full of these good, close, vivid realisations of the brown +prolific earth. + +Browning had his own sympathy with Caliban Nor does Shakespeare make him +altogether brutish. He has been so educated by his close contact with +nature that his imagination has been kindled. His very cursing is +imaginative: + + As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed + With raven's feather from unwholesome fen + Drop on you both; a south-west blow on you + And blister you all o'er. + +Stephano and Trinculo, vulgar products of civilisation, could never have +said that. Moreover, Shakespeare's Caliban, like Browning's, has the +poetry of the earth-man in him. When Ariel plays, Trinculo and Stephano +think it must be the devil, and Trinculo is afraid: but Caliban loves +and enjoys the music for itself: + + Be not afear'd; the isle is full of noises, + Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. + Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments + Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices + That, if I then had waked after long sleep. + Will make me sleep again. + +Stephano answers, like a modern millionaire: + + This will prove a brave kingdom for me, where I shall have + my music for nothing. + +Browning's Caliban is also something of a poet, and loves the Nature of +whom he is a child. We are not surprised when he + + looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross + And recross till they weave a spider web + (Meshes of fire some great fish breaks at times) + +though the phrase is full of a poet's imagination, for so the living +earth would see and feel the sea. It belongs also to Caliban's nearness +to the earth that he should have the keenest of eyes for animals, and +that poetic pleasure in watching their life which, having seen them +vividly, could describe them vividly. I quote one example from the poem; +there are many others: + + 'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, + Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. + Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; + Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, + That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown + He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye + By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue + That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, + And says a plain word when she finds her prize, + But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves + That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks + About their hole-- + +There are two more remarks to make about this poem. First, that +Browning makes Caliban create a dramatic world in which Miranda, Ariel, +and he himself play their parts, and in which he assumes the part of +Prosper. That is, Caliban invents a new world out of the persons he +knows, but different from them, and a second self outside himself. No +lower animal has ever conceived of such a creation. Secondly, Browning +makes Caliban, in order to exercise his wit and his sense of what is +beautiful, fall to making something--a bird, an insect, or a building +which he ornaments, which satisfies him for a time, and which he then +destroys to make a better. This is art in its beginning; and the highest +animal we know of is incapable of it. We know that the men of the caves +were capable of it. When they made a drawing, a piece of carving, they +were unsatisfied until they had made a better. When they made a story +out of what they knew and saw, they went on to make more. Creation, +invention, art--this, independent entirely of the religious desire, +makes the infinite gulf which divides man from the highest animals. + +I do not mean, in this book, to speak of the theology of Caliban, though +the part of the poem which concerns the origin of sacrifice is well +worth our attention. But the poem may be recommended to those +theological persons who say there is no God; and to that large class of +professional theologians, whose idea of a capricious, jealous, +suddenly-angered God, without any conscience except his sense of power +to do as he pleases, is quite in harmony with Caliban's idea of Setebos. + +The next of these "imaginative representations" is the poem called +_Cleon_. Cleon is a rich and famous artist of the Grecian isles, alive +while St. Paul was still making his missionary journeys, just at the +time when the Graeco-Roman culture had attained a height of refinement, +but had lost originating power; when it thought it had mastered all the +means for a perfect life, but was, in reality, trembling in a deep +dissatisfaction on the edge of its first descent into exhaustion. Then, +as everything good had been done in the art of the past, cultivated men +began to ask "Was there anything worth doing?" "Was life itself worth +living?"; questions never asked by those who are living. Or "What is +life in its perfection, and when shall we have it?"; a question also not +asked by those who live in the morning of a new aera, when the world--as +in Elizabeth's days, as in 1789, as perhaps it may be in a few years--is +born afresh; but which is asked continually in the years when a great +movement of life has passed its culminating point and has begun to +decline. Again and again the world has heard these questions; in Cleon's +time, and when the Renaissance had spent its force, and at the end of +the reign of Louis XIV., and before Elizabeth's reign had closed, and +about 1820 in England, and of late years also in our society. This is +the temper and the time that Browning embodies in Cleon, who is the +incarnation of a culture which is already feeling that life is going out +of it. + +Protus, the king, has written to him, and the poem is Cleon's answer to +the king. Browning takes care, as usual, to have his background of +scenery quite clear and fair. It is a courtyard to Cleon's house in one +of the sprinkled isles-- + + Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, + And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece." + +I quote it; it marks the man and the age of luxurious culture. + + They give thy letter to me, even now; + I read and seem as if I heard thee speak. + The master of thy galley still unlades + Gift after gift; they block my court at last + And pile themselves along its portico + Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee; + And one white she-slave from the group dispersed + Of black and white slaves (like the chequer work + Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, + Now covered with this settle-down of doves), + One lyric woman, in her crocus vest + Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands + Commends to me the strainer and the cup + Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. + +But he is more than luxurious. He desires the highest life, and he +praises the king because he has acknowledged by his gifts the joy that +Art gives to life; and most of all he praises him, because he too +aspires, building a mighty tower, not that men may look at it, but that +he may gaze from its height on the sun, and think what higher he may +attain. The tower is the symbol of the cry of the king's soul. + +Then he answers the king's letter. "It is true, O king, I am poet, +sculptor, painter, architect, philosopher, musician; all arts are mine. +Have I done as well as the great men of old? No, but I have combined +their excellences into one man, into myself. + + "I have not chanted verse like Homer, no-- + Nor swept string like Terpander--no--nor carved + And painted men like Phidias and his friend: + I am not great as they are, point by point. + But I have entered into sympathy + With these four, running these into one soul, + Who, separate, ignored each other's art. + Say, is it nothing that I know them all? + +"This, since the best in each art has already been done, was the only +progress possible, and I have made it. It is not unworthy, king! + +"Well, now thou askest, if having done this, 'I have not attained the +very crown of life; if I cannot now comfortably and fearlessly meet +death?' 'I, Cleon, leave,' thou sayest, 'my life behind me in my poems, +my pictures; I am immortal in my work. What more can life desire?'" + +It is the question so many are asking now, and it is the answer now +given. What better immortality than in one's work left behind to move in +men? What more than this can life desire? But Cleon does not agree with +that. "If thou, O king, with the light now in thee, hadst looked at +creation before man appeared, thou wouldst have said, 'All is perfect so +far.' But questioned if anything more perfect in joy might be, thou +wouldst have said, 'Yes; a being may be made, unlike these who do not +know the joy they have, who shall be conscious of himself, and know that +he is happy. Then his life will be satisfied with daily joy.'" O king, +thou wouldst have answered foolishly. The higher the soul climbs in joy +the more it sees of joy, and when it sees the most, it perishes. Vast +capabilities of joy open round it; it craves for all it presages; desire +for more deepening with every attainment. And then the body intervenes. +Age, sickness, decay, forbid attainment. Life is inadequate to joy. What +have the gods done? It cannot be their malice, no, nor carelessness; +but--to let us see oceans of joy, and only give us power to hold a +cupful--is that to live? It is misery, and the more of joy my artist +nature makes me capable of feeling, the deeper my misery. + +"But then, O king, thou sayest 'that I leave behind me works that will +live; works, too, which paint the joy of life.' Yes, but to show what +the joy of life is, is not to have it. If I carve the young Phoebus, am +I therefore young? I can write odes of the delight of love, but grown +too grey to be beloved, can I have its delight? That fair slave of +yours, and the rower with the muscles all a ripple on his back who +lowers the sail in the bay, can write no love odes nor can they paint +the joy of love; but they can have it--not I." + +The knowledge, he thinks, of what joy is, of all that life can give, +which increases in the artist as his feebleness increases, makes his +fate the deadlier. What is it to him that his works live? He does not +live. The hand of death grapples the throat of life at the moment when +he sees most clearly its infinite possibilities. Decay paralyses his +hand when he knows best how to use his tools. It is accomplished +wretchedness. + +I quote his outburst. It is in the soul of thousands who have no hope of +a life to come. + + "But," sayest thou--(and I marvel, I repeat, + To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what + Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: + Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, + And AEschylus, because we read his plays!" + Why, if they live still, let them come and take + Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, + Speak in my place! "Thou diest while I survive?"-- + Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, + In this, that every day my sense of joy + Grows more acute, my soul (intensified + By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; + While every day my hairs fall more and more, + My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase-- + The horror quickening still from year to year, + The consummation coming past escape + When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy-- + When all my works wherein I prove my worth, + Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, + Alive still, in the praise of such as thou, + I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, + The man who loved his life so overmuch, + Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible + I dare at times imagine to my need + Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, + Unlimited in capability + For joy, as this is in desire of joy, + --To seek which the joy-hunger forces us: + That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait + On purpose to make prized the life at large-- + Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death, + We burst there as the worm into the fly. + Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no! + Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, + He must have done so, were it possible! + +This is one only of Browning's statements of what he held to be the +fierce necessity for another life. Without it, nothing is left for +humanity, having arrived at full culture, knowledge, at educated love of +beauty, at finished morality and unselfishness--nothing in the end but +Cleon's cry--sorrowful, somewhat stern, yet gentle--to Protus, + + Live long and happy, and in that thought die, + Glad for what was. Farewell. + +But for those who are not Cleon and Protus, not kings in comfort or +poets in luxury, who have had no gladness, what end--what is to be said +of them? I will not stay to speak of _A Death in the Desert_, which is +another of these poems, because the most part of it is concerned with +questions of modern theology. St. John awakes into clear consciousness +just before his death in the cave where he lies tended by a few +disciples. He foresees some of the doubts of this century and meets them +as he can. The bulk of this poem, very interesting in its way, is +Browning's exposition of his own belief, not an imaginative +representation of what St. John actually would have said. It does not +therefore come into my subject. What does come into it is the +extraordinary naturalness and vitality of the description given by +John's disciple of the place where they were, and the fate of his +companions. This is invented in Browning's most excellent way. It could +not be better done. + +The next poem is the _Epistle of Karshish, the Arab Physician_, to his +master, concerning his strange medical experience. The time is just +before the last siege of Jerusalem, and Karshish, journeying through +Jericho, and up the pass, stays for a few days at Bethany and meets +Lazarus. His case amazes him, and though he thinks his interest in it +unworthy of a man of science in comparison with the new herbs and new +diseases he has discovered, yet he is carried away by it and gives a +full account of it to his master. + +I do not think that Browning ever wrote a poem the writing of which he +more enjoyed. The creation of Karshish suited his humour and his quaint +play with recondite knowledge. He describes the physician till we see +him alive and thinking, in body and soul. The creation of Lazarus is +even a higher example of the imaginative power of Browning; and that it +is shaped for us through the mind of Karshish, and in tune with it, +makes the imaginative effort the more remarkable. Then the problem--how +to express the condition of a man's body and soul, who, having for three +days according to the story as Browning conceives it lived consciously +in the eternal and perfect world, has come back to dwell in this +world--was so difficult and so involved in metaphysical strangenesses, +that it delighted him. + +Of course, he carefully prepares his scenery to give a true semblance to +the whole. Karshish comes up the flinty pass from Jericho; he is +attacked by thieves twice and beaten, and the wild beasts endanger his +path; + + A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear, + Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls; + I cried and threw my staff and he was gone, + +and then, at the end of the pass, he met Lazarus. See how vividly the +scenery is realised-- + + I crossed a ridge of short, sharp, broken hills + Like an old lion's cheek-teeth. Out there came + A moon made like a face with certain spots, + Multiform, manifold and menacing: + Then a wind rose behind me. So we met + In this old sleepy town at unaware + The man and I. + +And the weird evening, Karshish thinks, had something to do with the +strange impression the man has made on him. Then we are placed in the +dreamy village of Bethany. We hear of its elders, its diseases, its +flowers, its herbs and gums, of the insects which may help medicine-- + + There is a spider here + Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, + Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-grey back; + +and then, how the countryside is all on fire with news of Vespasian +marching into Judaea. So we have the place, the village, the hills, the +animals, and the time, all clear, and half of the character of Karshish. +The inner character of the man emerges as clearly when he comes to deal +with Lazarus. This is not a case of the body, he thinks, but of the +soul. "The Syrian," he tells his master, "has had catalepsy, and a +learned leech of his nation, slain soon afterwards, healed him and +brought him back to life after three days. He says he was dead, and made +alive again, but that is his madness; though the man seems sane enough. +At any rate, his disease has disappeared, he is as well as you and I. +But the mind and soul of the man, that is the strange matter, and in +that he is entirely unlike other men. Whatever he has gone through has +rebathed him as in clear water of another life, and penetrated his whole +being. He views the world like a child, he scarcely listens to what goes +on about him, yet he is no fool. If one could fancy a man endowed with +perfect knowledge beyond the fleshly faculty, and while he has this +heaven in him forced to live on earth, such a man is he. His heart and +brain move there, his feet stay here. He has lost all sense of our +values of things. Vespasian besieging Jerusalem and a mule passing with +gourds awaken the same interest. But speak of some little fact, little +as we think, and he stands astonished with its prodigious import. If his +child sicken to death it does not seem to matter to him, but a gesture, +a glance from the child, starts him into an agony of fear and anger, as +if the child were undoing the universe. He lives like one between two +regions, one of distracting glory, of which he is conscious but must not +enter yet; and the other into which he has been exiled back again--and +between this region where his soul moves and the earth where his body +is, there is so little harmony of thought or feeling that he cannot +undertake any human activity, nor unite the demands of the two worlds. +He knows that what ought to be cannot be in the world he has returned +to, so that his life is perplexed; but in this incessant perplexity he +falls back on prone submission to the heavenly will. The time will come +when death will restore his being to equilibrium; but now he is out of +harmony, for the soul knows more than the body and the body clouds the +soul." + +"I probed this seeming indifference. 'Beast, to be so still and careless +when Rome is at the gates of thy town.' He merely looked with his large +eyes at me. Yet the man is not apathetic, but loves old and young, the +very brutes and birds and flowers of the field. His only impatience is +with wrongdoing, but he curbs that impatience." + +At last Karshish tells, with many apologies for his foolishness, the +strangest thing of all. Lazarus thinks that his curer was God himself +who came and dwelt in flesh among those he had made, and went in and out +among them healing and teaching, and then died. "It is strange, but why +write of trivial matters when things of price call every moment for +remark? Forget it, my master, pardon me and farewell." + +Then comes the postscript, that impression which, in spite of all his +knowledge, is left in Karshish's mind-- + + The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think? + So, the All-Great were the All-Loving too-- + So, through the thunder comes a human voice + Saying: "O heart I made, a heart beats here! + Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! + Thou hast no power, nor may'st conceive of mine, + But love I gave thee, with myself to love, + And thou must love me who have died for thee!"-- + The madman saith He said so; it is strange. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +_IMAGINATIVE REPRESENTATIONS RENAISSANCE_ + + +The Imaginative Representations to be discussed in this chapter are +those which belong to the time of the Renaissance. We take a great leap +when we pass from Karshish and Cleon to Fra Lippo Lippi, from early +Christian times to the early manhood of the Renaissance. But these leaps +are easy to a poet, and Browning is even more at his ease and in his +strength in the fifteenth century than in the first. + +We have seen with what force in _Sordello_ he realised the life and +tumult of the thirteenth century. The fourteenth century does not seem +to have attracted him much, though he frequently refers to its work in +Florence; but when the Renaissance in the fifteenth century took its +turn with decision towards a more open freedom of life and thought, +abandoning one after another the conventions of the past; when the moral +limits, which the Church still faintly insisted on, were more and more +withdrawn and finally blotted out; when, as the century passed into the +next, the Church led the revolt against decency, order, and morality; +when scepticism took the place of faith, even of duty, and criticism the +place of authority, then Browning became interested, not of course in +the want of faith and in immorality, but in the swift variety and +intensity of the movement of intellectual and social life, and in the +interlacing changes of the movement. This was an enchanting world for +him, and as he was naturally most interested in the arts, he represented +the way in which the main elements of the Renaissance appeared to him in +poems which were concerned with music, poetry, painting and the rest of +the arts, but chiefly with painting. Of course, when the Renaissance +began to die down into senile pride and decay, Browning, who never +ceased to choose and claim companionship with vigorous life, who +abhorred decay either in Nature or nations, in societies or in cliques +of culture, who would have preferred a blood-red pirate to the daintiest +of decadents--did not care for it, and in only one poem, touched with +contemptuous pity and humour, represented its disease and its +disintegrating elements, with so much power, however, with such grasping +mastery, that it is like a painting by Velasquez. Ruskin said justly +that the _Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church_ concentrated +into a few lines all the evil elements of the Renaissance. But this want +of care for the decaying Renaissance was contrasted by the extreme +pleasure with which he treated its early manhood in _Fra Lippo Lippi_. + +The Renaissance had a life and seasons, like those of a human being. It +went through its childhood and youth like a boy of genius under the care +of parents from whose opinions and mode of life he is sure to sever +himself in the end; but who, having made a deep impression on his +nature, retain power over, and give direction to, his first efforts at +creation. The first art of the Renaissance, awakened by the discovery of +the classic remnants, retained a great deal of the faith and +superstition, the philosophy, theology, and childlike _naivete_ of the +middle ages. Its painting and sculpture, but chiefly the first of these, +gave themselves chiefly to the representation of the soul upon the face, +and of the untutored and unconscious movements of the body under the +influence of religious passion; that is, such movements as expressed +devotion, fervent love of Christ, horror of sin, were chosen, and +harmonised with the expression of the face. Painting dedicated its work +to the representation of the heavenly life, either on earth in the story +of the gospels and in the lives of the saints, or in its glory in the +circles of heaven. Then, too, it represented the thought, philosophy, +and knowledge of its own time and of the past in symbolic series of +quiet figures, in symbolic pictures of the struggle of good with evil, +of the Church with the world, of the virtues with their opposites. +Naturally, then, the expression on the face of secular passions, the +movement of figures in war and trade and social life and the whole vast +field of human life in the ordinary world, were neglected as unworthy of +representation; and the free, full life of the body, its beauty, power +and charm, the objects which pleased its senses, the frank +representation of its movement under the influence of the natural as +contrasted with the spiritual passions, were looked upon with religious +dismay. Such, but less in sculpture than in painting, was the art of +the Renaissance in its childhood and youth, and Browning has scarcely +touched that time. He had no sympathy with a neglect of the body, a +contempt of the senses or of the beauty they perceived. He claimed the +physical as well as the intellectual and spiritual life of man as by +origin and of right divine. When, then, in harmony with a great change +in social and literary life, the art of the Renaissance began to turn, +in its early manhood, from the representation of the soul to the +representation of the body in natural movement and beauty; from the +representation of saints, angels and virtues to the representation of +actual men and women in the streets and rooms of Florence; from +symbolism to reality--Browning thought, "This suits me; this is what I +love; I will put this mighty change into a poem." And he wrote _Fra +Lippo Lippi_. + +As long as this vivid representation of actual human life lasted, the +art of the Renaissance was active, original, and interesting; and as it +moved on, developing into higher and finer forms, and producing +continually new varieties in its development, it reached its strong and +eager manhood. In its art then, as well as in other matters, the +Renaissance completed its new and clear theory of life; it remade the +grounds of life, of its action and passion; and it reconstituted its +aims. Browning loved this summer time of the Renaissance, which began +with the midst of the fifteenth century. But he loved its beginnings +even more than its fulness. That was characteristic. I have said that +even when he was eighty years old, his keenest sympathies were with +spring rather than summer, with those times of vital change when fresh +excitements disturbed the world, when its eyes were smiling with hope, +and its feet eager with the joy of pursuit. He rejoiced to analyse and +embody a period which was shaking off the past, living intensely in the +present, and prophesying the future. It charms us, as we read him, to +see his intellect and his soul like two hunting dogs, and with all their +eagerness, questing, roving, quartering, with the greatest joy and in +incessant movement, over a time like this, where so many diverse, +clashing, and productive elements mingled themselves into an enchanting +confusion and glory of life. Out of that pleasure of hunting in a +morning-tide of humanity, was born _Fra Lippo Lippi_; and there is +scarcely an element of the time, except the political elements, which it +does not represent; not dwelt on, but touched for the moment and left; +unconsciously produced as two men of the time would produce them in +conversation. The poem seems as easy as a chat in Pall Mall last night +between some intelligent men, which, read two hundred years hence, would +inform the reader of the trend of thought and feeling in this present +day. But in reality to do this kind of thing well is to do a very +difficult thing. It needs a full knowledge, a full imagination and a +masterly execution. Yet when we read the poem, it seems as natural as +the breaking out of blossoms. This is that divine thing, the ease of +genius. + +The scenery of the poem is as usual clear. We are in fifteenth-century +Florence at night. There is no set description, but the slight touches +are enough to make us see the silent lonely streets, the churches, the +high walls of the monastic gardens, the fortress-palaces. The sound of +the fountains is in our ears; the little crowds of revelling men and +girls appear and disappear like ghosts; the surly watch with their +weapons and torches bustle round the corner. Nor does Browning neglect +to paint by slight enlivening touches, introduced into Lippo Lippi's +account of himself as a starving boy, the aspect by day and the +character of the Florence of the fifteenth century. This painting of +his, slight as it is, is more alive than all the elaborate descriptions +in _Romola_. + +As to the poem itself, Browning plunges at once into his matter; no long +approaches, no elaborate porches belong to his work. The man and his +character are before us in a moment-- + + I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! + You need not clap your torches to my face. + Zooks, what's to blame? You think you see a monk! + What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, + And here you catch me at an alley's end + Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? + +For three weeks he has painted saints, and saints, and saints again, for +Cosimo in the Medici Palace; but now the time of blossoms has come. +Florence is now awake at nights; the secret of the spring moves in his +blood; the man leaps up, the monk retires. + + Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. + There came a hurry of feet and little feet, + A sweep of lute-strings, laughs and whifts of song,-- + _Flower o' the broom._ + _Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!_ + _Flower of the quince,_ + _I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?_ + _Flower of the thyme_--and so on. Round they went. + Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter, + Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,--three slim shapes, + And a face that looked up ... zooks, sir, flesh and blood, + That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, + Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, + All the bed furniture--a dozen knots, + There was a ladder! Down I let myself, + Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, + And after them. I came up with the fun + Hard by St. Laurence, hail fellow, well met,-- + _Flower o' the rose,_ + _If I've been merry, what matter who knows?_ + +It is a picture, not only of the man, but of the time and its temper, +when religion and morality, as well as that simplicity of life which +Dante describes, had lost their ancient power over society in Florence; +when the claim to give to human nature all it desired had stolen into +the Church itself. Even in the monasteries, the long seclusion from +natural human life had produced a reaction, which soon, indulging itself +as Fra Lippo Lippi did, ran into an extremity of licence. Nevertheless, +something of the old religious life lasted at the time of this poem. It +stretched one hand back to the piety of the past, and retained, though +faith and devotion had left them, its observances and conventions; so +that, at first, when Lippo was painting, the new only peeped out of the +old, like the saucy face of a nymph from the ilexes of a sacred grove. +This is the historical moment Browning illustrates. Lippo Lippi was +forced to paint the worn religious subjects: Jerome knocking his breast, +the choirs of angels and martyrs, the scenes of the Gospel; but out of +all he did the eager modern life began to glance! Natural, quaint, +original faces and attitudes appeared; the angels smiled like Florentine +women; the saints wore the air of Bohemians. There is a picture by +Lippo Lippi in the National Gallery of some nine of them sitting on a +bench under a hedge of roses, and it is no paradox to say that they +might fairly represent the Florentines who tell the tales of the +_Decameron_. + +The transition as it appeared in art is drawn in this poem. Lippo Lippi +became a monk by chance; it was not his vocation. A starving boy, he +roamed the streets of Florence; and the widespread intelligence of the +city is marked by Browning's account of the way in which the _boy_ +observed all the life of the streets for eight years. Then the coming +change of the aims of art is indicated by the way in which, when he was +allowed to paint, he covered the walls of the Carmine, not with saints, +virgins, and angels, but with the daily life of the streets--the boy +patting the dog, the murderer taking refuge at the altar, the white +wrath of the avenger coming up the aisle, the girl going to market, the +crowd round the stalls in the market, the monks, white, grey, and +black--things as they were, as like as two peas to the reality; flesh +and blood now painted, not skin and bone; not the expression on the face +alone, but the whole body in speaking movement; nothing conventional, +nothing imitative of old models, but actual life as it lay before the +painter's eyes. Into this fresh aera of art Lippo Lippi led the way with +the joy of youth. But he was too soon. The Prior, all the +representatives of the conservative elements in the convent, were sorely +troubled. "Why, this will never do: faces, arms, legs, and bodies like +the true; life as it is; nature as she is; quite impossible." And +Browning, in Lippo's defence of himself, paints the conflict of the +past with the coming art in a passage too long to quote, too admirable +to shorten. + +The new art conquered the old. The whole life of Florence was soon +painted as it was: the face of the town, the streets, the churches, the +towers, the winding river, the mountains round about it; the country, +the fields and hills and hamlets, the peasants at work, ploughing, +sowing, and gathering fruit, the cattle feeding, the birds among the +trees and in the sky; nobles and rich burghers hunting, hawking; the +magistrates, the citizens, the street-boys, the fine ladies, the +tradesmen's wives, the heads of the guilds; the women visiting their +friends; the interior of the houses. We may see this art of human life +in the apse of Santa Maria Novella, painted by the hand of Ghirlandajo: +in the Riccardi Palace, painted by Benozzo Gozzoli; in more than half +the pictures of the painters who succeeded Fra Lippo Lippi. Only, so +much of the old clings that all this actual Florentine life is painted +into the ancient religious subjects--the life of the Baptist and the +Virgin, the embassage of the Wise Men, the life of Christ, the legends +of the saints, the lives of the virgins and martyrs, Jerusalem and its +life painted as if it were Florence and its life--all the spiritual +religion gone out of it, it is true, but yet, another kind of religion +budding in it--the religion, not of the monastery, but of daily common +life. + + the world + --The beauty and the wonder and the power, + The shapes of things, their colours, lights, and shades. + Changes, surprises--and God made it all! + +Who paints these things as if they were alive, and loves them while he +paints, paints the garment of God; and men not only understand their own +life better because they see, through the painting, what they did not +see before; but also the movement of God's spirit in the beauty of the +world and in the life of men. Art interprets to man all that is, and God +in it. + + Oh, oh, + It makes me mad to think what men shall do + And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, + No blank; it means intensely, and means good: + To find its meaning is my meat and drink. + +He could not do it; the time was not ripe enough. But he began it. And +the spirit of its coming breaks out in all he did. + +We take a leap of more than half a century when we pass from _Fra Lippo +Lippi_ to _Andrea del Sarto_. That advance in art to which Lippo Lippi +looked forward with a kind of rage at his own powerlessness had been +made. In its making, the art of the Renaissance had painted men and +women, both body and soul, in every kind of life, both of war and peace; +and better than they had ever been painted before. Having fulfilled +that, the painters asked, "What more? What new thing shall we do? What +new aim shall we pursue?" And there arose among them a desire to paint +all that was paintable, and especially the human body, with scientific +perfection. "In our desire to paint the whole of life, we have produced +so much that we were forced to paint carelessly or inaccurately. In our +desire to be original, we have neglected technique. In our desire to +paint the passions on the face and in the movements of men, we have +lost the calm and harmony of the ancient classic work, which made its +ethical impression of the perfect balance of the divine nature by the +ideal arrangement, in accord with a finished science, of the various +members of the body to form a finished whole. Let the face no longer +then try to represent the individual soul. One type of face for each +class of art-representation is enough. Let our effort be to represent +beauty by the perfect drawing of the body in repose and in action, and +by chosen attitudes and types. Let our composition follow certain +guiding lines and rules, in accordance with whose harmonies all pictures +shall be made. We will follow the Greek; compose as he did, and by his +principles; and for that purpose make a scientific study of the body of +man; observing in all painting, sculpture, and architecture the general +forms and proportions that ancient art, after many experiments, selected +as the best. And, to match that, we must have perfect drawing in all we +do." + +This great change, which, as art's adulterous connection with science +deepened, led to such unhappy results, Browning represents, when its aim +had been reached, in his poem, _Andrea del Sarto_; and he tells +us--through Andrea's talk with his wife Lucretia--what he thought of it; +and what Andrea himself, whose broken life may have opened his eyes to +the truth of things, may himself have thought of it. On that element in +the poem I have already dwelt, and shall only touch on the scenery and +tragedy, of the piece: + +We sit with Andrea, looking out to Fiesole. + + sober, pleasant Fiesole. + There's the bell clinking from the chapel top; + That length of convent-wall across the way + Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; + The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, + And autumn grows, autumn in everything. + +As the poem goes on, the night falls, falls with the deepening of the +painter's depression; the owls cry from the hill, Florence wears the +grey hue of the heart of Andrea; and Browning weaves the autumn and the +night into the tragedy of the painter's life. + +That tragedy was pitiful. Andrea del Sarto was a faultless painter and a +weak character; and it fell to his lot to love with passion a faithless +woman. His natural weakness was doubled by the weakness engendered by +unconquerable passion; and he ruined his life, his art, and his honour, +to please his wife. He wearied her, as women are wearied, by passion +unaccompanied by power; and she endured him only while he could give her +money and pleasures. She despised him for that endurance, and all the +more that he knew she was guilty, but said nothing lest she should leave +him. Browning fills his main subject--his theory of the true aim of +art--with this tragedy; and his treatment of it is a fine example of his +passionate humanity; and the passion of it is knitted up with close +reasoning and illuminated by his intellectual play. + +It is worth a reader's while to read, along with this poem, Alfred de +Musset's short play, _Andre del Sarto_. The tragedy of the situation is +deepened by the French poet, and the end is told. Unlike Browning, only +a few lines sketch the time, its temper, and its art. It is the depth of +the tragedy which De Musset paints, and that alone; and in order to +deepen it, Andrea is made a much nobler character than he is in +Browning's poem. The betrayal is also made more complete, more +overwhelming. Lucretia is false to Andrea with his favourite pupil, with +Cordiani, to whom he had given all he had, whom he loved almost as much +as he loved his wife. Terrible, inevitable Fate broods over this brief +and masterly little play. + +The next of these imaginative representations of the Renaissance is, +_The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church_. We are placed in +the full decadence of the Renaissance. Its total loss of religion, even +in the Church; its immorality--the bishop's death-bed is surrounded by +his natural sons and the wealth he leaves has been purchased by every +kind of iniquity--its pride of life; its luxury; its semi-Paganism; its +imitative classicism; its inconsistency; its love of jewels, and fine +stones, and rich marbles; its jealousy and envy; its pleasure in the +adornment of death; its delight in the outsides of things, in mere +workmanship; its loss of originality; its love of scholarship for +scholarship's sake alone; its contempt of the common people; its +exhaustion--are one and all revealed or suggested in this astonishing +poem. + +These are the three greater poems dedicated to this period; but there +are some minor poems which represent different phases of its life. One +of these is the _Pictor Ignotus_. There must have been many men, during +the vital time of the Renaissance, who, born, as it were, into the +art-ability of the period, reached without trouble a certain level in +painting, but who had no genius, who could not create; or who, if they +had some touch of genius, had no boldness to strike it into fresh forms +of beauty; shy, retiring men, to whom the criticism of the world was a +pain they knew they could not bear. These men are common at a period +when life is racing rapidly through the veins of a vivid city like +Florence. The general intensity of the life lifts them to a height they +would never reach in a dull and sleepy age. The life they have is not +their own, but the life of the whole town. And this keen perception of +life outside of them persuades them that they can do all that men of +real power can do. In reality, they can do nothing and make nothing +worth a people's honour. Browning, who himself was compact of boldness, +who loved experiment in what was new, and who shaped what he conceived +without caring for criticism, felt for these men, of whom he must have +met many; and, asking himself "How they would think; what they would do; +and how life would seem to them," wrote this poem. In what way will poor +human nature excuse itself for failure? How will the weakness in the man +try to prove that it was power? How, having lost the joy of life, will +he attempt to show that his loss is gain, his failure a success; and, +being rejected of the world, approve himself within? + +This was a subject to please Browning; meat such as his soul loved: a +nice, involved, Daedalian, labyrinthine sort of thing, a mixture of real +sentiment and self-deceit; and he surrounded it with his pity for its +human weakness. + +"I could have painted any picture that I pleased," cries this painter; +"represented on the face any passion, any virtue." If he could he would +have done it, or tried it. Genius cannot hold itself in. + +"I have dreamed of sending forth some picture which should enchant the +world (and he alludes to Cimabue's picture)-- + + "Bound for some great state, + Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went-- + Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, + Through old streets named afresh from the event. + +"That would have been, had I willed it. But mixed with the praisers +there would have been cold, critical faces; judges who would press on me +and mock. And I--I could not bear it." Alas! had he had genius, no fear +would have stayed his hand, no judgment of the world delayed his work. +What stays a river breaking from its fountain-head? + +So he sank back, saying the world was not worthy of his labours. "What? +Expose my noble work (things he had conceived but not done) to the prate +and pettiness of the common buyers who hang it on their walls! No, I +will rather paint the same monotonous round of Virgin, Child, and Saints +in the quiet church, in the sanctuary's gloom. No merchant then will +traffic in my heart. My pictures will moulder and die. Let them die. I +have not vulgarised myself or them." Brilliant and nobly wrought as the +first three poems are of which I have written, this quiet little piece +needed and received a finer workmanship, and was more difficult than +they. + +Then there is _How it strikes a Contemporary_--the story of the gossip +of a Spanish town about a poor poet, who, because he wanders everywhere +about the streets observing all things, is mistaken for a spy of the +king. The long pages he writes are said to be letters to the king; the +misfortunes of this or that man are caused by his information. The +world thinks him a wonder of cleverness; he is but an inferior poet. It +imagines that he lives in Assyrian luxury; he lives and dies in a naked +garret. This imaginative representation might be of any time in a +provincial town of an ignorant country like Spain. It is a slight study +of what superstitious imagination and gossip will work up round any man +whose nature and manners, like those of a poet, isolate him from the +common herd. Force is added to this study by its scenery. The Moorish +windows, the shops, the gorgeous magistrates pacing down the promenade, +are touched in with a flying pencil; and then, moving through the crowd, +the lean, black-coated figure, with his cane and dog and his peaked hat, +clear flint eyes and beaked nose, is seen, as if alive, in the vivid +sunshine of Valladolid. But what Browning wished most to describe in +this poem was one of the first marks of a poet, even of a poor one like +this gentleman--the power of seeing and observing everything. Nothing +was too small, nothing uninteresting in this man's eyes. His very hat +was scrutinising. + + He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, + The man who slices lemons into drink, + The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys + That volunteer to help him turn its winch. + He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, + And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string, + And broad-edged bold-print posters by the wall. + He took such cognisance of man and things, + If any beat a horse you felt he saw; + If any cursed a woman, he took note; + Yet stared at nobody, you stared at him, + And found, less to your pleasure than surprise, + He seemed to know you and expect as much. + +That is the artist's way. It was Browning's way. He is describing +himself. In that fashion he roamed through Venice or Florence, stopping +every moment, attracted by the smallest thing, finding a poem in +everything, lost in himself yet seeing all that surrounded him, isolated +in thinking, different from and yet like the rest of the world. + +Another poem--_My Last Duchess_--must be mentioned. It is plainly placed +in the midst of the period of the Renaissance by the word _Ferrara_, +which is added to its title. But it is rather a picture of two +temperaments which may exist in any cultivated society, and at any +modern time. There are numbers of such men as the Duke and such women as +the Duchess in our midst. Both are, however, drawn with mastery. +Browning has rarely done his work with more insight, with greater +keenness of portraiture, with happier brevity and selection. As in _The +Flight of the Duchess_, untoward fate has bound together two +temperaments sure to clash with each other--and no gipsy comes to +deliver the woman in this case. The man's nature kills her. It happens +every day. The Renaissance society may have built up more men of this +type than ours, but they are not peculiar to it. + +Germany, not Italy, is, I think, the country in which Browning intended +to place two other poems which belong to the time of the +Renaissance--_Johannes Agricola in Meditation_ and _A Grammarian's +Funeral_. Their note is as different from that of the Italian poems as +the national temper of Germany is from that of Italy. They have no sense +of beauty for beauty's sake alone. Their atmosphere is not soft or gay +but somewhat stern. The logical arrangement of them is less one of +feeling than of thought. There is a stronger manhood in them, a grimmer +view of life. The sense of duty to God and Man, but little represented +in the Italian poems of the Renaissance, does exist in these two German +poems. Moreover, there is in them a full representation of aspiration to +the world beyond. But the Italian Renaissance lived for the earth alone, +and its loveliness; too close to earth to care for heaven. + +It pleased Browning to throw himself fully into the soul of Johannes +Agricola; and he does it with so much personal fervour that it seems as +if, in one of his incarnations, he had been the man, and, for the moment +of his writing, was dominated by him. The mystic-passion fills the +poetry with keen and dazzling light, and it is worth while, from this +point of view, to compare the poem with Tennyson's _Sir Galahad_, and on +another side, with _St. Simeon Stylites_. + +Johannes Agricola was one of the products of the reforming spirit of the +sixteenth century in Germany, one of its wild extremes. He believes that +God had chosen him among a few to be his for ever and for his own glory +from the foundation of the world. He did not say that all sin was +permitted to the saints, that what the flesh did was no matter, like +those wild fanatics, one of whom Scott draws in _Woodstock_; but he did +say, that if he sinned it made no matter to his election by God. Nay, +the immanence of God in him turned the poison to health, the filth to +jewels. Goodness and badness make no matter; God's choice is all. The +martyr for truth, the righteous man whose life has saved the world, but +who is not elected, is damned for ever in burning hell. "I am eternally +chosen; for that I praise God. I do not understand it. If I did, could I +praise Him? But I know my settled place in the divine decrees." I quote +the beginning. It is pregnant with superb spiritual audacity, and +kindled with imaginative pride. + + There's heaven above, and night by night + I look right through its gorgeous roof; + No suns and moons though e'er so bright + Avail to stop me; splendour-proof + Keep the broods of stars aloof: + For I intend to get to God, + For 'tis to God I speed so fast, + For in God's breast, my own abode, + Those shoals of dazzling glory, passed, + I lay my spirit down at last. + I lie where I have always lain, + God smiles as he has always smiled; + Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, + Ere stars were thunder-girt, or piled + The heavens, God thought on me his child; + Ordained a life for me, arrayed + Its circumstances every one + To the minutest; ay, God said + This head this hand should rest upon + Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun. + And having thus created me, + Thus rooted me, he bade me grow, + Guiltless for ever, like a tree + That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know + The law by which it prospers so: + But sure that thought and word and deed + All go to swell his love for me, + Me, made because that love had need + Of something irreversibly + Pledged solely its content to be. + +As to _A Grammarian's Funeral_, that poem also belongs to the German +rather than to the Italian spirit. The Renaissance in Italy lost its +religion; at the same time, in Germany, it added a reformation of +religion to the New Learning. The Renaissance in Italy desired the +fulness of knowledge in this world, and did not look for its infinities +in the world beyond. In Germany the same desire made men call for the +infinities of knowledge beyond the earth. A few Italians, like +Savonarola, like M. Angelo, did the same, and failed to redeem their +world; but eternal aspiration dwelt in the soul of every German who had +gained a religion. In Italy, as the Renaissance rose to its luxury and +trended to its decay, the pull towards personal righteousness made by +belief in an omnipotent goodness who demands the subjection of our will +to his, ceased to be felt by artists, scholars and cultivated society. A +man's will was his only law. On the other hand, the life of the New +Learning in Germany and England was weighted with a sense of duty to an +eternal Righteousness. The love of knowledge or beauty was modified into +seriousness of life, carried beyond this life in thought, kept clean, +and, though filled with incessant labour on the earth, aspired to reach +its fruition only in the life to come. + +This is the spirit and the atmosphere of the _Grammarian's Funeral_, and +Browning's little note at the beginning says that its time "was shortly +after the revival of learning in Europe." I have really no proof that +Browning laid the scene of his poem in Germany, save perhaps the use of +such words as "thorp" and "croft," but there is a clean, pure morning +light playing through the verse, a fresh, health-breathing northern air, +which does not fit in with Italy; a joyous, buoyant youthfulness in the +song and march of the students who carry their master with gay strength +up the mountain to the very top, all of them filled with his aspiring +spirit, all of them looking forward with gladness and vigour to +life--which has no relation whatever to the temper of Florentine or +Roman life during the age of the Medici. The bold brightness, moral +earnestness, pursuit of the ideal, spiritual intensity, reverence for +good work and for the man who did it, which breathe in the poem, differ +by a whole world from the atmosphere of life in _Andrea del Sarto_. This +is a crowd of men who are moving upwards, who, seizing the Renaissance +elements, knitted them through and through with reformation of life, +faith in God, and hope for man. They had a future and knew it. The +semi-paganism of the Renaissance had not, and did not know it had not. + +We may close this series of Renaissance representations by _A Toccata of +Galuppi's_. It cannot take rank with the others as a representative +poem. It is of a different class; a changeful dream of images and +thoughts which came to Browning as he was playing a piece of +eighteenth-century Venetian music. But in the dream there is a sketch of +that miserable life of fruitless pleasure, the other side of which was +dishonourable poverty, into which Venetian society had fallen in the +eighteenth century. To this the pride, the irreligion, the immorality, +the desire of knowledge and beauty for their own sake alone, had brought +the noblest, wisest, and most useful city in Italy. That part of the +poem is representative. It is the end of such a society as is drawn in +_The Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church_. That tomb is placed +in Rome, but it is in Venice that this class of tombs reached their +greatest splendour of pride, opulence, folly, debasement and irreligion. + +Finally, there are a few poems which paint the thoughts, the sorrows, +the pleasures, and the political passions of modern Italy. There is the +_Italian in England_, full of love for the Italian peasant and of pity +for the patriot forced to live and die far from his motherland. Mazzini +used to read it to his fellow-exiles to show them how fully an English +poet could enter into the temper of their soul. So far it may be said to +represent a type. But it scarcely comes under the range of this chapter. +But _Up in a Villa, down in the City_, is so vivid a representation of +all that pleased a whole type of the city-bred and poor nobles of Italy +at the time when Browning wrote the _Dramatic Lyrics_ that I cannot omit +it. It is an admirable piece of work, crowded with keen descriptions of +nature in the Casentino, and of life in the streets of Florence. And +every piece of description is so filled with the character of the +"Italian person of quality" who describes them--a petulant, humorous, +easily angered, happy, observant, ignorant, poor gentleman--that +Browning entirely disappears. The poem retains for us in its verse, and +indeed in its light rhythm, the childlikeness, the _naivete_, the simple +pleasures, the ignorance, and the honest boredom with the solitudes of +nature--of a whole class of Italians, not only of the time when it was +written, but of the present day. It is a delightful, inventive piece of +gay and pictorial humour. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +_WOMANHOOD IN BROWNING_ + + +The first woman we meet in Browning's poetry is Pauline; a twofold +person, exceedingly unlike the woman usually made by a young poet. She +is not only the Pauline idealised and also materialised by the selfish +passion of her lover, but also the real woman whom Browning has +conceived underneath the lover's image of her. This doubling of his +personages, as seen under two diverse aspects or by two different +onlookers, in the same poem, is not unfrequent in his poetry, and it +pleased his intellect to make these efforts. When the thing was well +done, its cleverness was amazing, even imaginative; when it was ill +done, it was confusing. Tennyson never did this; he had not analytic +power enough. What he sees of his personages is all one, quite clearly +drawn and easy to understand. But we miss in them, and especially in his +women, the intellectual play, versatility and variety of Browning. +Tennyson's women sometimes border on dulness, are without that movement, +change and surprises, which in women disturb mankind for evil or for +good. If Tennyson had had a little more of Browning's imaginative +analysis, and Browning a little less of it, both would have been better +artists. + +The Pauline of the lover is the commonplace woman whom a young man so +often invents out of a woman for his use and pleasure. She is to be his +salvation, to sympathise with his ideals, joys and pains, to give him +everything, with herself, and to live for him and him alone. Nothing can +be more _naif_ and simple than this common selfishness which forgets +that a woman has her own life, her own claim on the man, and her own +individuality to develop; and this element in the poem, which never +occurs again in Browning's poetry, may be the record of an early +experience. If so, he had escaped from this youthful error before he had +finished the poem, and despised it, perhaps too much. It is excusable +and natural in the young. His contempt for this kind of love is embodied +in the second Pauline. She is not the woman her lover imagines her to +be, but far older and more experienced than her lover; who has known +long ago what love was; who always liked to be loved, who therefore +suffers her lover to expatiate as wildly as he pleases; but whose life +is quite apart from him, enduring him with pleasurable patience, +criticising him, wondering how he can be so excited. There is a dim +perception in the lover's phrases of these elements in his mistress' +character; and that they are in her character is quite plain from the +patronising piece of criticism in French which Browning has put into her +mouth. The first touch of his humour appears in the contrast of the +gentle and lofty boredom of the letter with the torrents of love in the +poem. And if we may imagine that the lover is partly an image of what +Browning once felt in a youthful love, we may also think that the +making of the second and critical Pauline was his record, when his love +had passed, of what he thought about it all. + +This mode of treatment, so much more analytic than imaginative, belongs +to Browning as an artist. He seems, while he wrote, as if half of him +sat apart from the personages he was making, contemplating them in his +observant fashion, discussing them coolly in his mind while the other +half of him wrote about them with emotion; placing them in different +situations and imagining what they would then do; inventing trials for +them and recombining, through these trials, the elements of their +characters; arguing about and around them, till he sometimes loses the +unity of their personality. This is a weakness in his work when he has +to create characters in a drama who may be said, like Shakespeare's, to +have, once he has created them, a life of their own independent of the +poet. His spinning of his own thoughts about their characters makes us +often realise, in his dramas, the individuality of Browning more than +the individuality of the characters. We follow him at this work with +keen intellectual pleasure, but we do not always follow him with a +passionate humanity. + +On the contrary, this habit, which was one cause of his weakness as an +artist in the drama, increased his strength as an artist when he made +single pictures of men and women at isolated crises in their lives; or +when he pictured them as they seemed at the moment to one, two, or three +differently tempered persons--pictorial sketches and studies which we +may hang up in the chambers of the mind for meditation or discussion. +Their intellectual power and the emotional interest they awaken, the +vivid imaginative lightning which illuminates them in flashes, arise out +of that part of his nature which made him a weak dramatist. + +Had he chosen, for example, to paint Lady Carlisle as he conceived her, +in an isolated portrait, and in the same circumstances as in his drama +of _Strafford_, we should have had a clear and intimate picture of her +moving, alive at every point, amidst the decay and shipwreck of the +Court. But in the play she is a shade who comes and goes, unoutlined, +confused and confusing, scarcely a woman at all. The only clear hints of +what Browning meant her to be are given in the _asides_ of Strafford. + +Browning may have been content with _Strafford_ as a whole, but, with +his passion for vitality, he could not have been content with either +Lady Carlisle or the Queen as representatives of women. Indeed, up to +this point, when he had written _Pauline_, _Paracelsus_ and _Strafford_, +he must have felt that he had left out of his poetry one half of the +human race; and his ambition was to represent both men and women. +Pauline's chief appearance is in French prose. Michel, in _Paracelsus_, +is a mere silhouette of the sentimental German Frau, a soft sympathiser +with her husband and with the young eagle Paracelsus, who longs to leave +the home she would not leave for the world--an excellent and fruitful +mother. She is set in a pleasant garden landscape. Twice Browning tries +to get more out of her and to lift her into reality. But the men carry +him away from her, and she remains undrawn. These mere images, with the +exception of the woman in _Porphyria's Lover_, who, with a boldness +which might have astonished even Byron but is characteristic of Browning +in his audacious youth, leaves the ball to visit her lover in the +cottage in the garden--are all that he had made of womanhood in 1837, +four years after he had begun to publish poetry. + +It was high time he should do something better, and he had now begun to +know more of the variousness of women and of their resolute grip on life +and affairs. So, in _Sordello_, he created Palma. She runs through the +poem, and her appearances mark turning points in Sordello's development; +but thrice she appears in full colour and set in striking +circumstances--first, in the secret room of the palace at Verona with +Sordello when she expounds her policy, and afterwards leans with him +amid a gush of torch-fire over the balcony, whence the grey-haired +councillors spoke to the people surging in the square and shouting for +the battle. The second time is in the streets of Ferrara, full of +camping men and fires; and the third is when she waits with Taurello in +the vaulted room below the chamber where Sordello has been left to +decide what side he shall take, for the Emperor or the Pope. He dies +while they wait, but there is no finer passage in the poem than this of +Palma and Taurello talking in the dim corridor of the new world they +would make for North Italy with Sordello. It is not dramatic +characterisation, but magnificent individualisation of the woman and the +man. + +We see Palma first as a girl at Goito, where she fills Sordello with +dreams, and Browning gives her the beauty of the Venetians Titian +painted. + + How the tresses curled + Into a sumptuous swell of gold and wound + About her like a glory! even the ground + Was bright as with spilt sunbeams: + +Full consciousness of her beauty is with her, frank triumph in it; but +she is still a child. At the Court of Love she is a woman, not only +conscious of her loveliness, but able to use it to bind and loose, +having sensuous witchery and intellectual power, that terrible +combination. She lays her magic on Sordello. + +But she is not only the woman of personal magic and beauty. Being of +high rank and mixed with great events, she naturally becomes the +political woman, a common type in the thirteenth century. And Browning +gives her the mental power to mould and direct affairs. She uses her +personal charm to lure Sordello into politics. + + Her wise + And lulling words are yet about the room, + Her presence wholly poured upon the gloom + Down even to her vesture's creeping stir. + And so reclines he, saturate with her. + + * * * + + But when she felt she held her friend indeed + Safe, she threw back her curls, began implant + Her lessons; + +Her long discourse on the state of parties, and how Sordello may, in +mastering them, complete his being, fascinates him and us by the charm +of her intelligence. + +But the political woman has often left love behind. Politics, like +devotion, are a woman's reaction from the weariness of loving and being +loved. But Palma is young, and in the midst of her politics she retains +passion, sentiment, tenderness and charm. She dreams of some soul beyond +her own, who, coming, should call on all the force in her character; +enable her, in loving him, to give consummation to her work for Italy; +and be himself the hand and sword of her mind. Therefore she held +herself in leash till the right man came, till she loved. "Waits he +not," her heart cries, and mixes him with coming Spring: + + Waits he not the waking year? + His almond blossoms must be honey-ripe + By this; to welcome him, fresh runnels stripe + The thawed ravines; because of him, the wind + Walks like a herald. I shall surely find + Him now. + +She finds him in Sordello, and summons him, when the time is ripe, to +Verona. Love and ambition march together in her now. In and out of all +her schemes Sordello moves. The glory of her vision of North Italian +rule is like a halo round his brow. Not one political purpose is lost, +but all are transfigured in her by love. Softness and strength, +intellect and feeling meet in her. This is a woman nobly carved, and the +step from Michel, Pauline and Lady Carlisle to her is an immense one. + +By exercise of his powers Browning's genius had swiftly developed. There +comes a time, sooner or later, to a great poet when, after many +experiments, the doors of his intellect and soul fly open, and his +genius is flooded with the action and thought of what seems a universe. +And with this revelation of Man and Nature, a tidal wave of creative +power, new and impelling, carries the poet far beyond the station where +last he rested. It came to Browning now. The creation of Palma would be +enough to prove it, but there is not a character or scene in _Sordello_ +which does not also prove it. + + * * * * * + +In this new outrush of his genius he created a very different woman from +Palma. He created Pippa, the Asolan girl, at the other end of society +from Palma, at the other end of feminine character. Owing to the host of +new thoughts which in this early summer of genius came pouring into his +soul--all of which he tried to express, rejecting none, choosing none +out of the rest, expressing only half of a great number of them; so +delighted with them all that he could leave none out--he became obscure +in _Sordello_. Owing also to the great complexity of the historical +_mise-en-scene_ in which he placed his characters in that poem, he also +became obscure. Had he been an experienced artist he would have left out +at least a third of the thoughts and scenes he inserted. As it was, he +threw all his thoughts and all the matters he had learnt about the +politics, cities, architecture, customs, war, gardens, religion and +poetry of North Italy in the thirteenth century, pell-mell into this +poem, and left them, as it were, to find their own places. This was very +characteristic of a young man when the pot of his genius was boiling +over. Nothing bolder, more incalculable, was ever done by a poet in the +period of his storm and stress. The boundless and to express it, was +never sought with more audacity. It was impossible, in this effort, for +him to be clear, and we need not be vexed with him. The daring, the +rush, the unconsciousness and the youth of it all, are his excuse, but +not his praise. And when the public comes to understand that the +dimness and complexity of _Sordello_ arise from plenteousness not +scarcity of thought, and that they were not a pose of the poet's but the +natural leaping of a full fountain just let loose from its mountain +chamber, it will have a personal liking, not perhaps for the poem but +for Browning. "I will not read the book," it will say, "but I am glad he +had it in him." + +Still it was an artistic failure, and when Browning understood that the +public could not comprehend him--and we must remember that he desired to +be comprehended, for he loved mankind--he thought he would use his +powers in a simpler fashion, and please the honest folk. So, in the joy +of having got rid in _Sordello_ of so many of his thoughts by expression +and of mastering the rest; and determined, since he had been found +difficult, to be the very opposite--loving contrast like a poet--he +wrote _Pippa Passes_. I need not describe its plan. Our business is with +the women in it. + +Ottima, alive with carnal passion, in the fire of which the murder of +her husband seems a mere incident, is an audacious sketch, done in +splashes of ungradated colour. Had Browning been more in the woman's +body and soul he would not have done her in jerks as he has done. Her +trick of talking of the landscape, as if she were on a holiday like +Pippa, is not as subtly conceived or executed as it should be, and is +too far away from her dominant carnality to be natural. And her +sensualism is too coarse for her position. A certain success is +attained, but the imagination is frequently jarred. The very outburst of +unsensual love at the end, when her love passes from the flesh into the +spirit, when self-sacrifice dawns upon her and she begins to suffer the +first agonies of redemption, is plainly more due to the poet's pity than +to the woman's spirit. Again, Sebald is the first to feel remorse after +the murder. Ottima only begins to feel it when she thinks her lover is +ceasing to love her. I am not sure that to reverse the whole situation +would not be nearer to the truth of things; but that is matter of +discussion. Then the subject-matter is sordid. Nothing relieves the +coarseness of Sebald, Ottima and Luca and their relations to one another +but the few descriptions of nature and the happy flash of innocence when +Pippa passes by. Nor are there any large fates behind the tale or large +effects to follow which might lift the crime into dignity. This mean, +commonplace, ugly kind of subject had a strange attraction for Browning, +as we see in _The Inn Album_, in _Red Cotton Nightcap Country_, and +elsewhere. I may add that it is curious to find him, in 1841, writing +exactly like a modern realist, nearly fifty years before realism of this +kind had begun. And this illustrates what I have said of the way in +which he anticipated by so many years the kind of work to which the +literary world should come. The whole scene between Sebald and Ottima +might have been written by a powerful, relentless modern novelist. + +We have more of this realism, but done with great skill, humanity, even +tenderness, in the meeting and talk of the young harlotry on the steps +of the Duomo near the fountain. When we think of this piece of bold, +clear, impressionist reality cast into the midst of the proprieties of +literature in 1841, it is impossible not to wonder and smile. The girls +are excellently drawn and varied from each other. Browning's pity +gathers round them, and something of underlying purity, of natural grace +of soul, of tenderness in memory of their youth emerges in them; and the +charm of their land is round their ways. There was also in his mind, I +think, a sense of picturesqueness in their class when they were young, +which, mingling with his pity for them, attracted his imagination, or +touched into momentary life that roving element in a poet which resents +the barriers made by social and domestic purity. _Fifine at the Fair_ is +partly a study of that temper which comes and goes, goes and comes in +the life not only of poets but of ordinary men and women. + +Then, to illustrate this further, there is in _Sordello_ a brilliant +sketch of girls of this kind at Venice, full of sunlight, colour and +sparkling water, in which he has seen these butterflies of women as a +painter would see them, or as a poet who, not thinking then of moral +questions or feeling pity for their fate, is satisfied for the flying +moment with the picture they make, with the natural freedom of their +life. + +But he does not leave that picture without a representation of the other +side of this class of womanhood. It was a daring thing, when he wished +to say that he would devote his whole work to the love and +representation of humanity to symbolise it by a sorrowful street-girl in +Venice who wistfully asks an alms; worn and broken with sorrow and +wrong; whose eyes appeal for pity, for comprehension of her good and for +his love; and whose fascination and beauty are more to him than those +of her unsuffering companions. The other side of that class of women is +here given with clear truth and just compassion, and the representation +is lifted into imaginative strength, range and dignity of thought and +feeling by her being made the image of the whole of humanity. "This +woman," he thought, "is humanity, whom I love, who asks the poet in me +to reveal her as she is, a divine seed of God to find some day its +flowering--the broken harlot of the universe, who will be, far off, the +Magdalen redeemed by her ineradicable love. That, and with every power I +have, I will, as poet, love and represent." + +This is the imagination working at its best, with its most penetrative +and passionate power, and Browning is far greater as a poet in this +Thing of his, where thought and love are knit into union to give birth +to moral, intellectual and spiritual beauty, than he is in those lighter +and cleverer poems in which he sketches with a facile but too discursive +a pencil, the transient moments, grave or light, of the lives of women. +Yet this and they show his range, his variety, the embracing of his +sympathy. + +Over against these girls in the market-place, against Ottima in her +guilt, and Phene who is as yet a nonentity (her speech to the sculptor +is too plainly Browning's analysis of the moment, not her own +thinking--no girl of fourteen brought up by Natalia would talk in that +fashion) is set Pippa, the light, life and love of the day, the town, +the people and the poem. She passes like an angel by and touches with +her wing events and persons and changes them to good. She has some +natural genius, and is as unconscious of her genius as she is of the +good she does. In her unconsciousness is the fountain of her charm. She +lives like a flower of the field that knows not it has blest and +comforted with its beauty the travellers who have passed it by. She has +only one day in the whole year for her own, and for that day she creates +a fresh personality for herself. She clothes her soul, intellect, +imagination, and spiritual aspiration in holiday garments for the day, +becoming for the time a new poetic self, and able to choose any other +personality in Asolo from hour to hour--the queen and spirit of the +town; not wishing to be, actually, the folk she passes by, but only, +since she is so isolated, to be something in their lives, to touch them +for help and company. + +The world of nature speaks to her and loves her. She sees all that is +beautiful, feeds on it, and grasps the matter of thought that underlies +the beauty. And so much is she at home with nature that she is able to +describe with ease in words almost as noble as the thing itself the +advent of the sun. When she leaps out of her bed to meet the leap of the +sun, the hymn of description she sings might be sung by the Hours +themselves as they dance round the car of the god. She can even play +with the great Mother as with an equal, or like her child. The charming +gaiety with which she speaks to the sunlights that dance in her room, +and to the flowers which are her sisters, prove, however isolated her +life may be, that she is never alone. Along with this brightness she has +seriousness, the sister of her gaiety; the deep seriousness of +imagination, the seriousness also of the evening when meditation broods +over the day and its doings before sleep. These, with her sweet +humanity, natural piety, instinctive purity, compose her of soft +sunshine and soft shadow. Nor does her sadness at the close, which is +overcome by her trust in God, make her less but more dear to us. She is +a beautiful creation. There are hosts of happy women like her. They are +the salt of the earth. But few poets have made so much of them and so +happily, or sung about these birds of God so well as Browning has in +_Pippa Passes_. + +That was in 1841. Pleased with his success in this half-lyrical, +half-dramatic piece, he was lured towards the drama again, and also to +try his hand at those short lyrics--records of transient emotion on +fanciful subjects--or records of short but intense moments of thought or +feeling. It is a pity that he did not give to dramatic lyrics (in which +species of poetry he is quite our first master) the time he gave to +dramas, in which he is not much better than an amateur. Nevertheless, we +cannot omit the women in the dramas. I have already written of Lady +Carlisle. Polyxena, in _King Victor and King Charles_, is partly the +political woman and partly the sensible and loving wife of a strangely +tempered man. She is fairly done, but is not interesting. Good womanly +intelligence in affairs, good womanly support of her man; clear womanly +insight into men and into intrigue--a woman of whom there are hundreds +of thousands in every rank of life. In her, as in so much of Browning's +work, the intellect of the woman is of a higher quality than the +intellect of the man. + +Next, among his women, is Anael in the _Return of the Druses_, She is +placed in too unnatural a situation to allow her nature to have fair +play. In the preternatural world her superstition creates, she adores +Djabal, murders the Prefect, and dies by her own hand. She is, in that +world, a study of a young girl's enthusiasm for her faith and her +country, and for the man she thinks divine; and were the subject, so far +as it relates to her character, well or clearly wrought, she might be +made remarkable. As it is wrought, it is so intertwisted with complex +threads of thought and passion that any clear outline of her character +is lost. Both Djabal and she are like clouds illuminated by flashes of +sheet lightning which show an infinity of folds and shapes of vapour in +each cloud, but show them only for an instant; and then, when the +flashes come again, show new folds, new involutions. The characters are +not allowed by Browning to develop themselves. + +Anael, when she is in the preternatural world, loves Djabal as an +incarnation of the divine, but in the natural world of her girlhood her +heart goes out to the Knight of Malta who loves her. The in-and-out of +these two emotional states--one in the world of religious enthusiasm, +and one in her own womanhood, as they cross and re-cross one another--is +elaborated with merciless analysis; and Anael's womanhood appears, not +as a whole, but in bits and scraps. How will this young girl, divided by +two contemporaneous emotions, one in the supernatural and one in the +natural world, act in a crisis of her life? Well, the first, conquering +the second, brings about her death the moment she tries to transfer the +second into the world of the first--her dim, half-conscious love for +Lois into her conscious adoration of Djabal. + +Mildred and Guendolen are the two women in _A Blot in the 'Scutcheon_. +Guendolen is the incarnation of high-hearted feminine commonsense, of +clear insight into the truth of things, born of the power of love in +her. Amid all the weaknesses of the personages and the plot; in the +wildered situation made by a confused clashing of pride and innocence +and remorse, in which Browning, as it were on purpose to make a display +of his intellectual ability, involves those poor folk--Guendolen is the +rock on which we can rest in peace; the woman of the world, yet not +worldly; full of experience, yet having gained by every experience more +of love; just and strong yet pitiful, and with a healthy but +compassionate contempt for the intelligence of the men who belong to +her. + +Contrasted with her, and the quality of her love contrasted also, is +Mildred, the innocent child girl who loves for love's sake, and +continues to be lost in her love. But Browning's presentation of her +innocence, her love, is spoiled by the over-remorse, shame and fear +under whose power he makes her so helpless. They are in the +circumstances so unnaturally great that they lower her innocence and +love, and the natural courage of innocence and love. These rise again to +their first level, but it is only the passion of her lover's death which +restores them. And when they recur, she is outside of girlhood. One +touch of the courage she shows in the last scene would have saved in the +previous scene herself, her lover, and her brother. The lie she lets her +brother infer when she allows him to think that the lover she has +confessed to is not the Earl, yet that she will marry the Earl, degrades +her altogether and justly in her brother's eyes, and is so terribly out +of tune with her character that I repeat I cannot understand how +Browning could invent that situation. It spoils the whole presentation +of the girl. It is not only out of her character, it is out of nature. +Indeed, in spite of the poetry, in spite of the pathetic beauty of the +last scene, Mildred and Tresham are always over-heightened, +over-strained beyond the concert-pitch of nature. But the drawing of the +woman's character suffers more from this than the man's, even though +Tresham, in the last scene, is half turned into a woman. Sex seems to +disappear in that scene. + +A different person is Colombe, the Duchess in _Colombe's Birthday_. That +play, as I have said, gets on, but it gets on because Colombe moves +every one in the play by her own motion. From beginning to end of the +action she is the fire and the soul of it. Innocent, frank and brave, +simple and constant among a group of false and worldly courtiers, among +whom she moves like the white Truth, untouched as yet by love or by the +fates of her position, she is suddenly thrown into a whirlpool of +affairs and of love; and her simplicity, clearness of intelligence, +unconscious rightness of momentary feeling, which comes of her not +thinking about her feelings--that rare and precious element in +character--above all, her belief in love as the one worthy thing in the +world, bring her out of the whirlpool, unshipwrecked, unstained by a +single wave of ill-feeling or mean thinking, into a quiet harbour of +affection and of power. For she will influence Berthold all his life +long. + +She is herself lovely. Valence loves her at sight. Her love for Valence +is born before she knows it, and the touch of jealousy, which half +reveals it to her, is happily wrought by Browning. When she finds out +that Valence did for love of her what she thought was done for loyalty +alone to her, she is a little revolted; her single-heartedness is +disappointed. She puts aside her growing love, which she does not know +as yet is love, and says she will find out if Berthold wishes to marry +her because he loves her, or for policy. Berthold is as honest as she +is, and tells her love has nothing to do with the matter. The thought of +an untrue life with Berthold then sends her heart with a rush back to +Valence, and she chooses love and obscurity with Valence. It is the +portrait of incarnate truth, in vivid contrast to Constance, who is a +liar in grain. + +Constance is the heroine of the fragment of a drama called _In a +Balcony_. Norbert, a young diplomat, has served the Queen, who is fifty +years old, for a year, all for the love of Constance, a cousin and +dependent of the Queen. He tells Constance he will now, as his reward, +ask the Queen for her hand. Constance says, "No; that will ruin us both; +temporise; tell the Queen, who is hungry for love, that you love her; +and that, as she cannot marry a subject, you will be content with me, +whom the Queen loves." Norbert objects, and no wonder, to this lying +business, but he does it; and the Queen runs to Constance, crying, "I am +loved, thank God! I will throw everything aside and marry him. I +thought he loved you, but he loves me." Then Constance, wavering from +truth again, says that the Queen is right. Norbert does love her. And +this is supposed by some to be a noble self-sacrifice, done in pity for +the Queen. It is much more like jealousy. + +Then, finding that all Norbert's future depends on the Queen, she is +supposed to sacrifice herself again, this time for Norbert's sake. She +will give him up to the Queen, for the sake of his career; and she tells +the Queen, before Norbert, that he has confessed to her his love for the +Queen--another lie! Norbert is indignant--he may well be--and throws +down all this edifice of falsehood. The Queen knows then the truth, and +leaves them in a fury. Constance and Norbert fly into each other's arms, +and the tramp of the soldiers who come to arrest them is heard as the +curtain falls. + +I do not believe that Browning meant to make self-sacrifice the root of +Constance's doings. If he did, he has made a terrible mess of the whole +thing. He was much too clear-headed a moralist to link self-sacrifice to +systematic lying. Self-sacrifice is not self-sacrifice at all when it +sacrifices truth. It may wear the clothes of Love, but, in injuring +righteousness, it injures the essence of love. It has a surface beauty, +for it imitates love, but if mankind is allured by this beauty, mankind +is injured. It is the false Florimel of self-sacrifice. Browning, who +had studied self-sacrifice, did not exhibit it in Constance. There is +something else at the root of her actions, and I believe he meant it to +be jealousy. The very first lie she urges her lover to tell (that is, to +let the Queen imagine he loves her) is just the thing a jealous woman +would invent to try her lover and the Queen, if she suspected the Queen +of loving him, and him of being seduced from her by the worldly +advantage of marrying the Queen. And all the other lies are best +explained on the supposition of jealous experiments. At the last she is +satisfied; the crowning test had been tried. Through a sea of lying she +had made herself sure of Norbert's love, and she falls into his arms. +Had Browning meant Constance to be an image of self-sacrifice, he would +scarcely have written that line when Norbert, having told the truth of +the matter to the Queen, looks at both women, and cries out, "You two +glare, each at each, like panthers now." A woman, filled with the joy +and sadness of pure self-sacrifice, would not have felt at this moment +like a panther towards the woman for whom she had sacrificed herself. + +Even as a study of jealousy, Constance is too subtle. Jealousy has none +of these labyrinthine methods; it goes straight with fiery passion to +its end. It may be said, then, that Constance is not a study of +jealousy. But it may be a study by Browning of what he thought in his +intellect jealousy would be. At any rate, Constance, as a study of +self-sacrifice, is a miserable failure. Moreover, it does not make much +matter whether she is a study of this or that, because she is eminently +wrong-natured. Her lying is unendurable, only to be explained or excused +by the madness of jealousy, and she, though jealous, is not maddened +enough by jealousy to excuse her lies. The situations she causes are +almost too ugly. Whenever the truth is told, either by the Queen or +Norbert, the situations break up in disgrace for her. It is difficult +to imagine how Norbert could go on loving her. His love would have +departed if they had come to live together. He is radically true, and +she is radically false. A fatal split would have been inevitable. +Nothing could be better for them both--after their momentary outburst of +love at the end--than death. + +From the point of view of art, Constance is interesting. It is more than +we can say of Domizia in _Luria_. She is nothing more than a passing +study whom Browning uses to voice his theories. Eulalia in _A Soul's +Tragedy_ is also a transient thing, only she is more colourless, more a +phantom than Domizia. + +By this time, by the year 1846, Browning had found out that he could not +write dramas well, or even such dramatic proverbs as _In a Balcony_. And +he gave himself up to another species of his art. The women he now draws +(some of which belong to the years during which he wrote dramas) are +done separately, in dramatic lyrics as he called them, and in narrative +and philosophical poems. Some are touched only at moments of their +lives, and we are to infer from the momentary action and feeling the +whole of the woman. Others are carefully and lovingly drawn from point +to point in a variety of action, passion and circumstance. In these we +find Browning at his best in the drawing of women. I know no women among +the second-rate poets so sweetly, nobly, tenderly and wisely drawn as +Pompilia and Balaustion. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +_WOMANHOOD IN BROWNING_ + +(_THE DRAMATIC LYRICS AND POMPILIA_) + + +No modern poet has written of women with such variety as Browning. +Coleridge, except in a few love-poems, scarcely touched them. Wordsworth +did not get beyond the womanhood of the home affections, except in a few +lovely and spiritual sketches of girlhood which are unique in our +literature, in which maidenhood and the soul of nature so interchange +their beauty that the girl seems born of the lonely loveliness of nature +and lives with her mother like a child. + +What motherhood in its deep grief and joy, what sisterhood and wifehood +may be, have never been sung with more penetration and exquisiteness +than Wordsworth sang them. But of the immense range, beyond, of +womanhood he could not sing. Byron's women are mostly in love with Byron +under various names, and he rarely strays beyond the woman who is loved +or in love. The woman who is most vital, true and tender is Haidee in +_Don Juan_. Shelley's women melt into philosophic mist, or are used to +build up a political or social theory, as if they were "properties" of +literature. Cythna, Rosalind, Asia, Emilia are ideas, not realities. +Beatrice is alive, but she was drawn for him in the records of her +trial. Even the woman of his later lyrics soon ceases to be flesh and +blood. Keats let women alone, save in Isabella, and all that is of +womanhood in her is derived from Boccaccio. Madeline is nothing but a +picture. It is curious that his remarkable want of interest in the time +in which he lived should be combined with as great a want of interest in +women, as if the vivid life of any period in the history of a people +were bound up with the vivid life of women in that period. When women +awake no full emotion in a poet, the life of the time, as in the case of +Keats, awakes little emotion in him. He will fly to the past for his +subjects. Moreover, it is perhaps worth saying that when the poets cease +to write well about women, the phase of poetry they represent, however +beautiful it be, is beginning to decay. When poetry is born into a new +life, women are as living in it as men. Womanhood became at once one of +its dominant subjects in Tennyson and Browning. Among the new political, +social, religious, philosophic and artistic ideas which were then borne +like torches through England, the idea of the free development of women +was also born; and it carried with it a strong emotion. They claimed the +acknowledgment of their separate individuality, of their distinct use +and power in the progress of the world. This was embodied with +extraordinary fulness in _Aurora Leigh_, and its emotion drove itself +into the work of Tennyson and Browning. How Tennyson treated the subject +in the _Princess_ is well known. His representation of women in his +other poems does not pass beyond a few simple, well-known types both of +good and bad women. But the particular types into which the variety of +womanhood continually throws itself, the quick individualities, the +fantastic simplicities and subtleties, the resolute extremes, the +unconsidered impulses, the obstinate good and evil, the bold cruelties +and the bold self-sacrifices, the fears and audacities, the hidden work +of the thoughts and passions of women in the far-off worlds within them +where their soul claims and possesses its own desires--these were beyond +the power of Tennyson to describe, even, I think, to conceive. But they +were in the power of Browning, and he made them, at least in lyric +poetry, a chief part of his work. + +In women he touched great variety and great individuality; two things +each of which includes the other, and both of which were dear to his +imagination. With his longing for variety of representation, he was not +content to pile womanhood up into a few classes, or to dwell on her +universal qualities. He took each woman separately, marking out the +points which differentiated her from, not those which she shared with, +the rest of her sex. He felt that if he dwelt only on the deep-seated +roots of the tree of womanhood, he would miss the endless play, fancy, +movement, interaction and variety of its branches, foliage and flowers. +Therefore, in his lyrical work, he leaves out for the most part the +simpler elements of womanhood and draws the complex, the particular, the +impulsive and the momentary. Each of his women is distinct from the +rest. That is a great comfort in a world which, through laziness, wishes +to busy itself with classes rather than with personalities. I do not +believe that Browning ever met man or woman without saying to +himself--Here is a new world; it may be classed, but it also stands +alone. What distinguishes it from the rest--that I will know and that +describe. + +When women are not enslaved to conventions--and the new movement towards +their freedom of development which began shortly after 1840 had +enfranchised and has continued ever since to enfranchise a great number +from this slavery--they are more individual and various than men are +allowed to be. They carry their personal desires, aspirations and +impulses into act, speech, and into extremes with much greater licence +than is possible to men. One touches with them much more easily the +original stuff of humanity. It was this original, individual and various +Thing in women on which Browning seized with delight. He did not write +half as much as other poets had done of woman as being loved by man or +as loving him. I have said that the mere love-poem is no main element in +his work. He wrote of the original stuff of womanhood, of its good and +bad alike, sometimes of it as all good, as in Pompilia; but for the most +part as mingled of good and ill, and of the good as destined to conquer +the ill. + +He did not exalt her above man. He thought her as vital, interesting and +important for progress as man, but not more interesting, vital, or +important. He neither lowered her nor idealised her beyond natural +humanity. She stands in his poetry side by side with man on an equality +of value to the present and future of mankind. And he has wrought this +out not by elaborate statement of it in a theory, as Tennyson did in +the _Princess_ with a conscious patronage of womanhood, but by +unconscious representation of it in the multitude of women whom he +invented. + +But though the wholes were equal, the particulars of which the wholes +were composed differed in their values; and women in his view were more +keenly alive than men, at least more various in their manifestation of +life. It was their intensity of life which most attracted him. He loved +nothing so much as life--in plant or animal or man. His longer poems are +records of the larger movement of human life, the steadfast record in +quiet verse as in _Paracelsus_, or the clashing together in abrupt verse +as in _Sordello_, of the turmoil and meditation, the trouble and joy of +the living soul of humanity. When he, this archangel of reality, got +into touch with pure fact of the human soul, beating with life, he was +enchanted. And this was his vast happiness in his longest poem, the +_Ring and the Book_-- + + Do you see this square old yellow book I toss + I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about + By the crumpled vellum covers--pure crude fact + Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard + And brains, high blooded, ticked two centuries hence? + Give it me back. The thing's restorative + I' the touch and sight. + +But in his lyrics, it was not the steady development of life on which he +loved to write, but the unexpected, original movement of life under the +push of quick thought and sudden passion into some new form of action +which broke through the commonplace of existence. Men and women, and +chiefly women, when they spoke and acted on a keen edge of life with a +precipice below them or on the summit of the moment, with straight and +clear intensity, and out of the original stuff of their nature--were his +darling lyric subjects. And he did this work in lyrics, because the +lyric is the poem of the moment. + +There was one of these critical moments which attracted him +greatly--that in which all after-life is contained and decided; when a +step to the right or left settles, in an instant, the spiritual basis of +the soul. I have already mentioned some of these poems--those concerned +with love, such as _By the Fireside_ or _Cristina_--and the woman is +more prominent in them than the man. One of the best of them, so far as +the drawing of a woman is concerned, is _Dis aliter visum_. We see the +innocent girl, and ten years after what the world has made of her. But +the heart of the girl lies beneath the woman of the world. And she +recalls to the man the hour when they lingered near the church on the +cliff; when he loved her, when he might have claimed her, and did not. +He feared they might repent of it; sacrificing to the present their +chance of the eternities of love. "Fool! who ruined four lives--mine and +your opera-dancer's, your own and my husband's!" Whether her outburst +now be quite true to her whole self or not Browning does not let us +know; but it is true to that moment of her, and it is full of the poetry +of the moment she recalls. Moreover, these thirty short verses paint as +no other man could have done the secret soul of a woman in society. I +quote her outburst. It is full of Browning's keen poetry; and the first +verse of it may well be compared with a similar moment in _By the +Fireside_, where nature is made to play the same part, but succeeds as +here she fails: + + Now I may speak: you fool, for all + Your lore! Who made things plain in vain? + What was the sea for? What, the grey + Sad church, that solitary day, + Crosses and graves and swallows' call? + + Was there nought better than to enjoy? + No feat which, done, would make time break, + And let us pent-up creatures through + Into eternity, our due? + No forcing earth teach heaven's employ? + + No wise beginning, here and now, + What cannot grow complete (earth's feat) + And heaven must finish, there and then? + No tasting earth's true food for men, + Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet? + + No grasping at love, gaining a share + O' the sole spark from God's life at strife + With death, so, sure of range above + The limits here? For us and love. + Failure; but, when God fails, despair. + + This you call wisdom? Thus you add + Good unto good again, in vain? + You loved, with body worn and weak; + I loved, with faculties to seek: + Were both loves worthless since ill-clad? + + Let the mere star-fish in his vault + Crawl in a wash of weed, indeed, + Rose-jacynth to the finger tips: + He, whole in body and soul, outstrips + Man, found with either in default. + + But what's whole, can increase no more, + Is dwarfed and dies, since here's its sphere. + The devil laughed at you in his sleeve! + You knew not? That I well believe; + Or you had saved two souls: nay, four. + + For Stephanie sprained last night her wrist, + Ankle or something. "Pooh," cry you? + At any rate she danced, all say, + Vilely; her vogue has had its day. + Here comes my husband from his whist. + +Here the woman speaks for herself. It is characteristic of Browning's +boldness that there are a whole set of poems in which he imagines the +unexpressed thoughts which a woman revolves in self-communion under the +questionings and troubles of the passions, and chiefly of the passion of +love. The most elaborate of these is _James Lee's Wife_, which tells +what she thinks of when after long years she has been unable to retain +her husband's love. Finally, she leaves him. The analysis of her +thinking is interesting, but the woman is not. She is not the quick, +natural woman Browning was able to paint so well when he chose. His own +analytic excitement, which increases in mere intellectuality as the poem +moves on, enters into her, and she thinks more through Browning the man +than through her womanhood. Women are complex enough, more complex than +men, but they are not complex in the fashion of this poem. Under the +circumstances Browning has made, her thought would have been quite clear +at its root, and indeed in its branches. She is represented as in love +with her husband. Were she really in love, she would not have been so +involved, or able to argue out her life so anxiously. Love or love's +sorrow knows itself at once and altogether, and its cause and aim are +simple. But Browning has unconsciously made the woman clear enough for +us to guess the real cause of her departure. That departure is believed +by some to be a self-sacrifice. There are folk who see self-sacrifice in +everything Browning wrote about women. Browning may have originally +intended her action to be one of self-sacrifice, but the thing, as he +went on, was taken out of his hands, and turns out to be quite a +different matter. The woman really leaves her husband because her love +for him was tired out. She talks of leaving her husband free, and +perhaps, in women's way, persuades herself that she is sacrificing +herself; but she desires in reality to set herself free from an +unavailing struggle to keep his love. There comes a time when the +striving for love wearies out love itself. And James Lee's wife had +reached that moment. Her departure, thus explained, is the most womanly +thing in the poem, and I should not wonder if Browning meant it so. He +knew what self-sacrifice really was, and this departure of the woman was +not a true self-sacrifice. + +Another of these poems in which a woman speaks out her heart is _Any +Wife to any Husband_. She is dying, and she would fain claim his undying +fidelity to his love of her; but though she believes in his love, she +thinks, when her presence is not with him, that his nature will be drawn +towards other women. Then what he brings her, when he meets her again, +will not be perfect. Womanly to the core, and her nature is a beautiful +nature, she says nothing which is not kind and true, and the picture she +draws of faithfulness, without one stain of wavering, is natural and +lovely. But, for all that, it is jealousy that speaks, the desire to +claim all for one's self. "Thou art mine, and mine only"--that fine +selfishness which injures love so deeply in the end, because it forbids +its expansion, that is, forbids the essential nature of love to act. +That may be pardoned, unless in its extremes, during life, if the pardon +does not increase it; but this is in the hour of death, and it is +unworthy of the higher world. To carry jealousy beyond the grave is a +phase of that selfish passion over which this hour, touched by the +larger thought of the infinite world, should have uplifted the woman. +Still, what she says is in nature, and Browning's imagination has closed +passionately round his subject. But he has left us with pity for the +woman rather than with admiration of her. + +Perhaps the subtlest part of the poem is the impression left on us that +the woman knows all her pleading will be in vain, that she has fathomed +the weakness of her husband's character. He will not like to remember +that knowledge of hers; and her letting him feel it is a kind of +vengeance which will not help him to be faithful. It is also her worst +bitterness, but if her womanhood were perfect, she would not have had +that bitterness. + +In these two poems, and in others, there is to be detected the +deep-seated and quiet half-contempt--contempt which does not damage +love, contempt which is half pity--which a woman who loves a man has for +his weakness under passion or weariness. Both the wives in these poems +feel that their husbands are inferior to themselves in strength of +character and of intellect. To feel this is common enough in women, but +is rarely confessed by them. A man scarcely ever finds it out from his +own observation; he is too vain for that. But Browning knew it. A poet +sees many things, and perhaps his wife told him this secret. It was like +his audacity to express it. + +This increased knowledge of womanhood was probably due to the fact that +Browning possessed in his wife a woman of genius who had studied her own +sex in herself and in other women. It is owing to her, I think, that in +so many poems the women are represented as of a finer, even a stronger +intellect than the men. Many poets have given them a finer intuition; +that is a common representation. But greater intellectual power allotted +to women is only to be found in Browning. The instances of it are few, +but they are remarkable. + +It was owing also to his wife, whose relation to him was frank on all +points, that Browning saw so much more clearly than other poets into the +deep, curious or remote phases of the passions, thoughts and vagaries of +womanhood. I sometimes wonder what women themselves think of the things +Browning, speaking through their mouth, makes them say; but that is a +revelation of which I have no hope, and for which, indeed, I have no +desire. + +Moreover, he moved a great deal in the society where women, not having +any real work to do, or if they have it, not doing it, permit a greater +freedom to their thoughts and impulses than those of their sex who sit +at the loom of duty. Tennyson withdrew from this society, and his women +are those of a retired poet--a few real types tenderly and sincerely +drawn, and a few more worked out by thinking about what he imagined they +would be, not by knowing them. Browning, roving through his class and +other classes of society, and observing while he seemed unobservant, +drew into his inner self the lives of a number of women, saw them living +and feeling in a great diversity of circumstances; and, always on the +watch, seized the moment into which he thought the woman entered with +the greatest intensity, and smote that into a poem. Such poems, +naturally lyrics, came into his head at the opera, at a ball, at a +supper after the theatre, while he talked at dinner, when he walked in +the park; and they record, not the whole of a woman's character, but the +vision of one part of her nature which flashed before him and vanished +in an instant. Among these poems are _A Light Woman_, _A Pretty Woman_, +_Solomon and Balkis_, _Gold Hair_, and, as a fine instance of this +sheet-lightning poem about women--_Adam, Lilith and Eve. Too Late_ and +_The Worst of It_ do not belong to these slighter poems; they are on a +much higher level. But they are poems of society and its secret lives. +The men are foremost in them, but in each of them a different woman is +sketched, through the love of the men, with a masterly decision. + +Among all these women he did not hesitate to paint the types farthest +removed from goodness and love. The lowest woman in the poems is she who +is described in _Time's Revenges_-- + + So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, + Filled full, eaten out and in + With the face of her, the eyes of her, + The lips, the little chin, the stir + Of shadow round her mouth; and she + --I'll tell you--calmly would decree + That I should roast at a slow fire, + If that would compass her desire + And make her one whom they invite + To the famous ball to-morrow night + +Contrasted with this woman, from whose brutal nature civilisation has +stripped away the honour and passion of the savage, the woman of _In a +Laboratory_ shines like a fallen angel. She at least is natural, and +though the passions she feels are the worst, yet she is capable of +feeling strongly. Neither have any conscience, but we can conceive that +one of these women might attain it, but the other not. Both are examples +of a thing I have said is exceedingly rare in Browning's poetry--men +or women left without some pity of his own touched into their +circumstances or character. + +_In a Laboratory_ is a full-coloured sketch of what womanhood could +become in a court like that of Francis I.; in which every shred of +decency, gentlehood and honour had disappeared. Browning's description, +vivid as it is, is less than the reality. Had he deepened the colours of +iniquity and indecency instead of introducing so much detailed +description of the laboratory, detail which weakens a little our +impression of the woman, he had done better, but all the same there is +no poet in England, living or dead, who could have done it so well. One +of the best things in the poem is the impression made on us that it is +not jealousy, but the hatred of envy which is the motive of the woman. +Jealousy supposes love or the image of love, but among those who +surrounded Francis, love did not exist at all, only lust, luxury and +greed of power; and in the absence of love and in the scorn of it, hate +and envy reign unchallenged. This is what Browning has realised in this +poem, and, in this differentiation, he has given us not only historical +but moral truth. + +Apart from these lighter and momentary poems about women there are +those written out of his own ideal of womanhood, built up not only from +all he knew and loved in his wife, but also out of the dreams of his +heart. They are the imaginings of the high honour and affection which a +man feels for noble, natural and honest womanhood. They are touched here +and there by complex thinking, but for the most part are of a beloved +simplicity and tenderness, and they will always be beautiful. There is +the sketch of the woman in _The Italian in England_, a never to be +forgotten thing. It is no wonder the exile remembered her till he died. +There is the image we form of the woman in _The Flowers Name_. He does +not describe her; she is far away, but her imagined character and +presence fill the garden with an incense sweeter than all the flowers, +and her beauty irradiates all beauty, so delicately and so plenteously +does the lover's passion make her visible. There is _Evelyn Hope_, and +surely no high and pure love ever created a more beautiful soul in a +woman than hers who waits her lover in the spiritual world. There are +those on whom we have already dwelt--Pippa, Colombe, Mildred, Guendolen. +There is the woman in the _Flight of the Duchess_; not a sketch, but a +completed picture. We see her, just emerged from her convent, thrilling +with eagerness to see the world, believing in its beauty, interested in +everything, in the movement of the leaves on the trees, of the birds in +the heaven, ready to speak to every one high or low, desirous to get at +the soul of all things in Nature and Humanity, herself almost a creature +of the element, akin to air and fire. + +She is beaten into silence, but not crushed; overwhelmed by dry old +people, by imitation of dead things, but the life in her is not slain. +When the wandering gipsy claims her for a natural life, her whole nature +blossoms into beauty and joy. She will have troubles great and deep, but +every hour will make her conscious of more and more of life. And when +she dies, it will be the beginning of an intenser life. + +Finally, there is his wife. She is painted in these lyric poems with a +simplicity of tenderness, with a reticence of worship as sacred as it is +fair and delicate, with so intense a mingling of the ideal and the real +that we never separate them, and with so much passion in remembrance of +the past and in longing for the future, that no comment can enhance the +picture Browning draws of her charm, her intellect and her spirit. + +These pictures of womanhood were set forth before 1868, when a collected +edition of his poems was published in six volumes. They were chiefly +short, even impressionist studies, save those in the dramas, and Palma +in _Sordello_. Those in the dramas were troubled by his want of power to +shape them in that vehicle. It would have then been a pity if, in his +matured strength, he had not drawn into clear existence, with full and +careful, not impressionist work, and with unity of conception, some +women who should, standing alone, become permanent personages in poetry; +whom men and women in the future, needing friends, should love, honour +and obey, and in whom, when help and sympathy and wisdom were wanted, +these healing powers should be found. Browning did this for us in +_Pompilia_ and _Balaustion_, an Italian and a Greek girl--not an English +girl. It is strange how to the very end he lived as a poet outside of +his own land. + +In 1868, Pompilia appeared before the world, and she has captured ever +since the imagination, the conscience and the sentiment of all who love +womanhood and poetry. Her character has ennobled and healed mankind. +Born of a harlot, she is a star of purity; brought up by characters who +love her, but who do not rise above the ordinary meanness and small +commercial honesty of their class, she is always noble, generous, +careless of wealth, and of a high sense of honour. It is as if Browning +disdained for the time all the philosophy of heredity and environment; +and indeed it was characteristic of him to believe in the sudden +creation of beauty, purity and nobility out of their contraries and in +spite of them. The miracle of the unrelated birth of genius--that out of +the dunghill might spring the lily, and out of the stratum of crime the +saint--was an article of faith with him. Nature's or God's surprises +were dear to him; and nothing purer, tenderer, sweeter, more natural, +womanly and saintly was ever made than Pompilia, the daughter of a +vagrant impurity, the child of crime, the girl who grew to womanhood in +mean and vulgar circumstances. + +The only hatred she earns is the hatred of Count Guido her husband, the +devil who has tortured and murdered her--the hatred of evil for good. +When Count Guido, condemned to death, bursts into the unrestrained +expression of his own nature, he cannot say one word about Pompilia +which is not set on fire by a hell of hatred. Nothing in Browning's +writing is more vivid, more intense, than these sudden outbursts of +tiger fierceness against his wife. They lift and enhance the image of +Pompilia. + +When she comes into contact with other characters such as the Archbishop +and the Governor, men overlaid with long-deposited crusts of convention, +she wins a vague pity from them, but her simplicity, naturalness and +saintliness are nearly as repugnant to social convention as her goodness +is to villany; and Browning has, all through the poem, individualised in +Pompilia the natural simplicity of goodness in opposition to the +artificial moralities of conservative society. But when Pompilia touches +characters who have any good, however hidden, in them, she draws forth +that good. Her so-called parents pass before they die out of meanness +into nobility of temper. Conti, her husband's cousin, a fat, waggish man +of the world, changes into seriousness, pity and affection under her +silent influence. The careless folk she meets on her flight to Rome +recognise, even in most suspicious circumstances, her innocence and +nobleness; and change at a touch their ordinary nature for a higher. And +when she meets a fine character like Caponsacchi, who has been led into +a worldly, immoral and indifferent life, he is swept in a moment out of +it by the sight alone of this star of innocence and spiritual beauty, +and becomes her true mate, daily self-excelled. The monk who receives +her dying confession, the Pope, far set by his age above the noise of +popular Rome, almost at one with the world beyond death and feeling what +the divine judgment would be, both recognise with a fervour which +carries them beyond the prejudices of age and of their society the +loveliness of Heaven in the spirit of this girl of seventeen years, and +claim her as higher than themselves. + +It is fitting that to so enskied and saintly a child, when she rests +before her death, the cruel life she had led for four years should seem +a dream; and the working out of that thought, and of the two checks of +reality it received in the coming of her child and the coming of +Caponsacchi, is one of the fairest and most delicate pieces of +work that Browning ever accomplished. She was so innocent and so +simple-hearted--and the development of that part of her character in the +stories told of her childhood is exquisitely touched into life--so +loving, so born to be happy in being loved, that when she was forced +into a maze of villany, bound up with hatred, cruelty, baseness and +guilt, she seemed to live in a mist of unreality. When the pain became +too deep to be dreamlike she was mercifully led back into the dream by +the approach of death. As she lay dying there, all she had suffered +passed again into unreality. Nothing remained but love and purity, the +thrill when first she felt her child, the prayer to God which brought +Caponsacchi to her rescue so that her child might be born, and lastly +the vision of perfect union hereafter with her kindred soul, who, not +her lover on earth, would be her lover in eternity. Even her boy, who +had brought her, while she lived, her keenest sense of reality (and +Browning's whole treatment of her motherhood, from the moment she knew +she was in child, till the hour when the boy lay in her arms, is as true +and tender as if his wife had filled his soul while he wrote), even her +boy fades away into the dream. It is true she was dying, and there is no +dream so deep as dying. Yet it was bold of Browning, and profoundly +imagined by him, to make the child disappear, and to leave the woman at +last alone with the thought and the spiritual passion of her union with +Caponsacchi-- + + O lover of my life, O soldier saint, + No work begun shall ever pause for death. + +It is the love of Percival's sister for Galahad. + +It is not that she is naturally a dreamer, that she would not have felt +and enjoyed the realities of earth. Her perceptions are keen, her nature +expansive. Browning, otherwise, would not have cared for her. It was +only when she was involved in evil, like an angel in hell (a wolfs arm +round her throat and a snake curled over her feet), that she seemed to +be dreaming, not living. It was incredible to her that such things +should be reality. Yet even the dream called the hidden powers of her +soul into action. In realising these as against evil she is not the +dreamer. Her fortitude is unbroken; her moral courage never fails, +though she is familiar with fear; her action, when the babe has leaped +in her womb, is prompt, decisive and immediate; her physical courage, +when her husband overtakes her and befouls her honour, is like a man's. +She seizes his sword and would have slain the villain. Then, her natural +goodness, the genius of her goodness, gives her a spiritual penetration +which is more than an equivalent in her for an educated intelligence. +Her intuition is so keen that she sees through the false worldliness of +Caponsacchi to the real man beneath, and her few words call it into +goodness and honour for ever. Her clear sense of truth sees all the +threads of the net of villany in which she has been caught, and the only +means to break through it, to reveal and bring it into condemnation. +Fortitude, courage, intuition and intelligence are all made to arise out +of her natural saintliness and love. She is always the immortal child. + +For a time she has passed on earth through the realms of pain; and now, +stabbed to her death, she looks back on the passage, and on all who have +been kind and unkind to her--on the whole of the falsehood and villany. +And the royal love in her nature is the master of the moment. She makes +excuses for Violante's lie. "She meant well, and she did, as I feel now, +little harm." "I am right now, quite happy; dying has purified me of the +evil which touched me, and I colour ugly things with my own peace and +joy. Every one that leaves life sees all things softened and bettered." +As to her husband, she finds that she has little to forgive him at the +last. Step by step she goes over all he did, and even finds excuses for +him, and, at the end, this is how she speaks, a noble utterance of +serene love, lofty intelligence, of spiritual power and of the +forgiveness of eternity. + + For that most woeful man my husband once, + Who, needing respite, still draws vital breath, + I--pardon him? So far as lies in me, + I give him for his good the life he takes, + Praying the world will therefore acquiesce. + Let him make God amends,--none, none to me + Who thank him rather that, whereas strange fate + Mockingly styled him husband and me wife, + Himself this way at least pronounced divorce, + Blotted the marriage bond: this blood of mine + Flies forth exultingly at any door, + Washes the parchment white, and thanks the blow + We shall not meet in this world nor the next, + But where will God be absent? In His face + Is light, but in His shadow healing too: + Let Guido touch the shadow and be healed! + And as my presence was importunate,-- + My earthly good, temptation and a snare,-- + Nothing about me but drew somehow down + His hate upon me,--somewhat so excused + Therefore, since hate was thus the truth of him,-- + May my evanishment for evermore + Help further to relieve the heart that cast + Such object of its natural loathing forth! + So he was made; he nowise made himself: + I could not love him, but his mother did. + His soul has never lain beside my soul: + But for the unresisting body,--thanks! + He burned that garment spotted by the flesh. + Whatever he touched is rightly ruined: plague + It caught, and disinfection it had craved + Still but for Guido; I am saved through him + So as by fire; to him--thanks and farewell! + +Thus, pure at heart and sound of head, a natural, true woman in her +childhood, in her girlhood, and when she is tried in the fire--by nature +gay, yet steady in suffering; brave in a hell of fears and shame; +clear-sighted in entanglements of villany; resolute in self-rescue; +seeing and claiming the right help and directing it rightly; rejoicing +in her motherhood and knowing it as her crown of glory, though the child +is from her infamous husband; happy in her motherhood for one fortnight; +slain like a martyr; loving the true man with immortal love; forgiving +all who had injured her, even her murderer; dying in full faith and love +of God, though her life had been a crucifixion; Pompilia passes away, +and England's men and women will be always grateful to Browning for her +creation. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +_BALAUSTION_ + + +Among the women whom Browning made, Balaustion is the crown. So vivid is +her presentation that she seems with us in our daily life. And she also +fills the historical imagination. + +One would easily fall in love with her, like those sensitive princes in +the _Arabian Nights_, who, hearing only of the charms of a princess, set +forth to find her over the world. Of all Browning's women, she is the +most luminous, the most at unity with herself. She has the Greek +gladness and life, the Greek intelligence and passion, and the Greek +harmony. All that was common, prattling, coarse, sensual and spluttering +in the Greek, (and we know from Aristophanes how strong these lower +elements were in the Athenian people), never shows a trace of its +influence in Balaustion. Made of the finest clay, exquisite and delicate +in grain, she is yet strong, when the days of trouble come, to meet them +nobly and to change their sorrows into spiritual powers. + +And the _mise-en-scene_ in which she is placed exalts her into a +heroine, and adds to her the light, colour and humanity of Greek +romance. Born at Rhodes, but of an Athenian mother, she is fourteen +when the news arrives that the Athenian fleet under Nikias, sent to +subdue Syracuse, has been destroyed, and the captive Athenians driven to +labour in the quarries. All Rhodes, then in alliance with Athens, now +cries, "Desert Athens, side with Sparta against Athens." Balaustion +alone resists the traitorous cry. "What, throw off Athens, be disloyal +to the source of art and intelligence-- + + to the life and light + Of the whole world worth calling world at all!" + +And she spoke so well that her kinsfolk and others joined her and took +ship for Athens. Now, a wind drove them off their course, and behind +them came a pirate ship, and in front of them loomed the land. "Is it +Crete?" they thought; "Crete, perhaps, and safety." But the oars flagged +in the hands of the weary men, and the pirate gained. Then Balaustion, +springing to the altar by the mast, white, rosy, and uplifted, sang on +high that song of AEschylus which saved at Salamis-- + + 'O sons of Greeks, go, set your country free, + Free your wives, free your children, free the fanes + O' the Gods, your fathers founded,--sepulchres + They sleep in! Or save all, or all be lost.' + +The crew, impassioned by the girl, answered the song, and drove the boat +on, "churning the black water white," till the land shone clear, and the +wide town and the harbour, and lo, 'twas not Crete, but Syracuse, +luckless fate! Out came a galley from the port. "Who are you; Sparta's +friend or foe?" "Of Rhodes are we, Rhodes that has forsaken Athens!" + +"How, then, that song we heard? All Athens was in that AEschylus. Your +boat is full of Athenians--back to the pirate; we want no Athenians +here.... Yet, stay, that song was AEschylus; every one knows it--how +about Euripides? Might you know any of his verses?" For nothing helped +the poor Athenians so much if any of them had his mouth stored with + + Old glory, great plays that had long ago + Made themselves wings to fly about the world,-- + +But most of all those were cherished who could recite Euripides to +Syracuse, so mighty was poetry in the ancient days to make enemies into +friends, to build, beyond the wars and jealousies of the world, a land +where all nations are one. + +At this the captain cried: "Praise the God, we have here the very girl +who will fill you with Euripides," and the passage brings Balaustion +into full light. + + Therefore, at mention of Euripides, + The Captain crowed out, "Euoi, praise the God! + Ooep, boys, bring our owl-shield to the fore! + Out with our Sacred Anchor! Here she stands, + Balaustion! Strangers, greet the lyric girl! + Euripides? Babai! what a word there 'scaped + Your teeth's enclosure, quoth my grandsire's song + Why, fast as snow in Thrace, the voyage through, + Has she been falling thick in flakes of him! + Frequent as figs at Kaunos, Kaunians said. + Balaustion, stand forth and confirm my speech! + Now it was some whole passion of a play; + Now, peradventure, but a honey-drop + That slipt its comb i' the chorus. If there rose + A star, before I could determine steer + Southward or northward--if a cloud surprised + Heaven, ere I fairly hollaed 'Furl the sail!'-- + She had at fingers' end both cloud and star + Some thought that perched there, tame and tuneable, + Fitted with wings, and still, as off it flew, + 'So sang Euripides,' she said, 'so sang + The meteoric poet of air and sea, + Planets and the pale populace of heaven, + The mind of man, and all that's made to soar!' + And so, although she has some other name, + We only call her Wild-pomegranate-flower, + Balaustion; since, where'er the red bloom burns + I' the dull dark verdure of the bounteous tree, + Dethroning, in the Rosy Isle, the rose, + You shall find food, drink, odour, all at once; + Cool leaves to bind about an aching brow. + And, never much away, the nightingale. + Sing them a strophe, with the turn-again, + Down to the verse that ends all, proverb like. + And save us, thou Balaustion, bless the name" + +And she answered: "I will recite the last play he wrote from first to +last--_Alkestis_--his strangest, saddest, sweetest song." + + Then because Greeks are Greeks, and hearts are hearts. + And poetry is power,--they all outbroke + In a great joyous laughter with much love: + "Thank Herakles for the good holiday! + Make for the harbour! Row, and let voice ring, + 'In we row, bringing more Euripides!'" + All the crowd, as they lined the harbour now, + "More of Euripides!"--took up the cry. + We landed; the whole city, soon astir, + Came rushing out of gates in common joy + To the suburb temple; there they stationed me + O' the topmost step; and plain I told the play, + Just as I saw it; what the actors said, + And what I saw, or thought I saw the while, + At our Kameiros theatre, clean scooped + Out of a hill side, with the sky above + And sea before our seats in marble row: + Told it, and, two days more, repeated it + Until they sent us on our way again + With good words and great wishes. + +So, we see Balaustion's slight figure under the blue sky, and the white +temple of Herakles from the steps of which she spoke; and among the +crowd, looking up to her with rapture, the wise and young Sicilian who +took ship with her when she was sent back to Athens, wooed her, and +found answer before they reached Piraeus. And there in Athens she and her +lover saw Euripides, and told the Master how his play had redeemed her +from captivity. Then they were married; and one day, with four of her +girl friends, under the grape-vines by the streamlet side, close to the +temple, Baccheion, in the cool afternoon, she tells the tale; +interweaving with the play (herself another chorus) what she thinks, how +she feels concerning its personages and their doings, and in the comment +discloses her character. The woman is built up in this way for us. The +very excuse she makes for her inserted words reveals one side of her +delightful nature--her love of poetry, her love of beauty, her seeing +eye, her delicate distinction, her mingled humility and self-knowledge. + + Look at Baccheion's beauty opposite, + The temple with the pillars at the porch! + See you not something beside masonry? + What if my words wind in and out the stone + As yonder ivy, the God's parasite? + Though they leap all the way the pillar leads, + Festoon about the marble, foot to frieze, + And serpentiningly enrich the roof, + Toy with some few bees and a bird or two,-- + What then? The column holds the cornice up. + +As the ivy is to the pillar that supports the cornice, so are her words +to the _Alkestis_ on which she comments. + +That is her charming way. She also is, like Pompilia, young. But no +contrast can be greater than that between Pompilia at seventeen years of +age and Balaustion at fifteen. In Greece, as in Italy, women mature +quickly. Balaustion is born with that genius which has the experience of +age in youth and the fire of youth in age. Pompilia has the genius of +pure goodness, but she is uneducated, her intelligence is untrained, and +her character is only developed when she has suffered. Balaustion, on +the contrary, has all the Greek capacity, a thorough education, and that +education also which came in the air of that time to those of the +Athenian temper. She is born into beauty and the knowledge of it, into +high thinking and keen feeling; and she knows well why she thought and +how she felt. So finely wrought is she by passion and intelligence +alike, with natural genius to make her powers tenfold, that she sweeps +her kinsfolk into agreement with her, subdues the sailors to her will, +enchants the captain, sings the whole crew into energy, would have, I +believe, awed and enthralled the pirate, conquers the Syracusans, +delights the whole city, draws a talent out of the rich man which she +leaves behind her for the prisoners, is a dear friend of sombre +Euripides, lures Aristophanes, the mocker, into seriousness, mates +herself with him in a whole night's conversation, and wrings praise and +honour from the nimblest, the most cynical, and the most world-wise +intellect in Athens. + +Thus, over against Pompilia, she is the image of fine culture, held back +from the foolishness and vanity of culture by the steadying power of +genius. Then her judgment is always balanced. Each thing to her has many +sides. She decides moral and intellectual questions and action with +justice, but with mercy to the wrong opinion and the wrong thing, +because her intellect is clear, tolerant and forgiving through +intellectual breadth and power. Pompilia is the image of natural +goodness and of its power. A spotless soul, though she is passed through +hell, enables her, without a trained intellect, with ignorance of all +knowledge, and with as little vanity as Balaustion, to give as clear and +firm a judgment of right and wrong. She is as tolerant, as full of +excuses for the wrong thing, as forgiving, as Balaustion, but it is by +the power of goodness and love in her, not by that of intellect. +Browning never proved his strength more than when he made these two, in +vivid contrast, yet in their depths in harmony; both equal, though so +far apart, in noble womanhood. Both are beyond convention; both have a +touch of impulsive passion, of natural wildness, of flower-beauty. Both +are, in hours of crisis, borne beyond themselves, and mistress of the +hour. Both mould men, for their good, like wax in their fingers. But +Pompilia is the white rose, touched with faint and innocent colour; and +Balaustion is the wild pomegranate flower, burning in a crimson of love +among the dark green leaves of steady and sure thought, her powers +latent till needed, but when called on and brought to light, flaming +with decision and revelation. + +In this book we see her in her youth, her powers as yet untouched by +heavy sorrow. In the next, in _Aristophanes' Apology_, we first find her +in matured strength, almost mastering Aristophanes; and afterwards in +the depth of grief, as she flies with her husband over the seas to +Rhodes, leaving behind her Athens, the city of her heart, ruined and +enslaved. The deepest passion in her, the patriotism of the soul, is all +but broken-hearted. Yet, she is the life and support of all who are with +her; even a certain gladness breaks forth in her, and she secures for +all posterity the intellectual record of Athenian life and the images, +wrought to vitality, of some of the greater men of Athens. So we possess +her completely. Her life, her soul, its growth and strength, are laid +before us. To follow her through these two poems is to follow their +poetry. Whenever we touch her we touch imagination. _Aristophanes' +Apology_ is illuminated by Balaustion's eyes. A glimpse here and there +of her enables us to thread our way without too great weariness through +a thorny undergrowth of modern and ancient thought mingled together on +the subject of the Apology. + +In _Balaustion's Adventure_ she tells her tale, and recites, as she did +at Syracuse, the _Alkestis_ to her four friends. But she does more; she +comments on it, as she did not at Syracuse. The comments are, of course, +Browning's, but he means them to reveal Balaustion. They are touched +throughout with a woman's thought and feeling, inflamed by the poetic +genius with which Browning has endowed her. Balaustion is his deliberate +picture of genius the great miracle. + +The story of the _Alkestis_ begins before the play. Apollo, in his +exile, having served King Admetos as shepherd, conceives a friendship +for the king, helps him to his marriage, and knowing that he is doomed +to die in early life, descends to hell and begs the Fates to give him +longer life. That is a motive, holding in it strange thoughts of life +and death and fate, which pleased Browning, and he treats it separately, +and with sardonic humour, in the Prologue to one of his later volumes. +The Fates refuse to lengthen Admetos' life, unless some one love him +well enough to die for him. They must have their due at the allotted +time. + +The play opens when that time arrives. We see, in a kind of Prologue, +Apollo leaving the house of Admetos and Death coming to claim his +victim. Admetos has asked his father, mother, relations and servants to +die instead of him. None will do it; but his wife, Alkestis, does. +Admetos accepts her sacrifice. Her dying, her death, the sorrow of +Admetos is described with all the poignant humanity of Euripides. In the +meantime Herakles has come on the scene, and Admetos, though steeped in +grief, conceals--his wife's death and welcomes his friend to his house. +As Alkestis is the heroine of self-sacrifice, Admetos is the hero of +hospitality. Herakles feasts, but the indignant bearing of an old +servant attracts his notice, and he finds out the truth. He is shocked, +but resolves to attack Death himself, who is bearing away Alkestis. He +meets and conquers Death and brings back Alkestis alive to her husband. +So the strong man conquers the Fates, whom even Apollo could not subdue. + +This is a fine subject. Every one can see in how many different ways it +may be treated, with what different conceptions, how variously the +characters may be built up, and what different ethical and emotional +situations may be imaginatively treated in it. Racine himself thought it +the finest of the Greek subjects, and began a play upon it. But he died +before he finished it, and ordered his manuscript to be destroyed. We +may well imagine how the quiet, stately genius of Racine would have +conceived and ordered it; with the sincere passion, held under restraint +by as sincere a dignity, which characterised his exalted style. + +Balaustion treats it with an equal moral force, and also with that +modern moral touch which Racine would have given it; which, while it +removed the subject at certain points from the Greek morality, would yet +have exalted it into a more spiritual world than even the best of the +Greeks conceived. The commentary of Balaustion is her own treatment of +the subject. It professes to explain Euripides: it is in reality a fresh +conception of the characters and their motives, especially of the +character of Herakles. Her view of the character of Alkestis, especially +in her death, is not, I think, the view which Euripides took. Her +condemnation of Admetos is unmodified by those other sides of the +question which Euripides suggests. The position Balaustion takes up with +regard to self-sacrifice is far more subtle, with its half-Christian +touches, than the Greek simplicity would have conceived. Finally, she +feels so strongly that the subject has not been adequately conceived +that, at the end, she recreates it for herself. Even at the beginning +she rebuilds the Euripidean matter. When Apollo and Death meet, +Balaustion conceives the meeting for herself. She images the divine +Apollo as somewhat daunted, and images the dread meeting of these two +with modern, not Greek imagination. It is like the meeting, she thinks, +of a ruined eagle, caught as he swooped in a gorge, half heedless, yet +terrific, with a lion, the haunter of the gorge, the lord of the ground, +who pauses, ere he try the worst with the frightful, unfamiliar +creature, known in the shadows and silences of the sky but not known +here. It is the first example we have of Balaustion's imaginative power +working for itself. There is another, farther on, where she stays her +recitation to describe Death's rush in on Alkestis when the dialogue +between him and Apollo is over-- + + And, in the fire-flash of the appalling sword, + The uprush and the outburst, the onslaught + Of Death's portentous passage through the door, + Apollon stood a pitying moment-space: + I caught one last gold gaze upon the night, + Nearing the world now: and the God was gone, + And mortals left to deal with misery. + +So she speaks, as if she saw more than Euripides, as if to her the +invisible were visible--as it was. To see the eternal unseen is the +dower of imagination in its loftiest mood. + +She is as much at home with the hero of earth, the highest manhood, as +she is with the gods. When Herakles comes on the scene she cannot say +enough about him; and she conceives him apart from the Herakles of +Euripides. She paints in him, and Browning paints through her, the idea +of the full, the perfect man; and it is not the ideal of the cultivated, +of the sensitive folk. It is more also a woman's than a man's ideal. +For, now, suddenly, into the midst of the sorrow of the house, every one +wailing, life full of penury and inactivity, there leaps the "gay cheer +of a great voice," the full presence of the hero, his "weary happy +face, half god, half man, which made the god-part god the more." His +very voice, which smiled at sorrow, and his look, which, saying sorrow +was to be conquered, proclaimed to all the world "My life is in my hand +to give away, to make men glad," seemed to dry up all misery at its +source, for his love of man makes him always joyful. When Admetos opened +the house to him, and did not tell him of his wife's death, Balaustion +comments "The hero, all truth, took him at his word, and then strode off +to feast." He takes, she thought, the present rest, the physical food +and drink as frankly as he took the mighty labours of his fate. And she +rejoices as much in his jovial warmth, his joy in eating and drinking +and singing, and festivity, as in his heroic soul. They go together, +these things, in a hero. + + Making the most o' the minute, that the soul + And body, strained to height a minute since, + Might lie relaxed in joy, this breathing space, + For man's sake more than ever; + +He slew the pest of the marish, yesterday; to-day he takes his fill of +food, wine, song and flowers; to-morrow he will slay another plague of +mankind. + +So she sings, praising aloud the heroic temper, as mighty in the natural +joys of natural life, in the strength and honour of the body, as in the +saving of the world from pain and evil. But this pleasure of the senses, +though in the great nature, is in it under rule, and the moment Herakles +hears of Alkestis dead, he casts aside, in "a splendour of resolve," the +feast, wine, song, and garlands, and girds himself to fight with Death +for her rescue And Balaustion, looking after him as he goes, cries out +the judgment of her soul on all heroism. It is Browning's judgment also, +one of the deepest things in his heart; a constant motive in his poetry, +a master-thought in his life. + + Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world! + I think this is the authentic sign and seal + Of Godship, that it ever waxes glad, + And more glad, until gladness blossoms, bursts + Into a rage to suffer for mankind, + And recommence at sorrow: drops like seed + After the blossom, ultimate of all. + Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun? + Surely it has no other end and aim + Than to drop, once more die into the ground, + Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there: + And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy, + More joy and most joy,--do man good again. + +That is the truth Browning makes this woman have the insight to reveal. +Gladness of soul, becoming at one with sorrow and death and rising out +of them the conqueror, but always rejoicing, in itself, in the joy of +the universe and of God, is the root-heroic quality. + +Then there is the crux of the play--Alkestis is to die for Admetos, and +does it. What of the conduct of Admetos? What does Balaustion, the +woman, think of that? She thinks Admetos is a poor creature for having +allowed it. When Alkestis is brought dying on the stage, and Admetos +follows, mourning over her, Balaustion despises him, and she traces in +the speech of Alkestis, which only relates to her children's fate and +takes no notice of her husband's protestations, that she has judged her +husband, that love is gone in sad contempt, that all Admetos has given +her is now paid for, that her death is a business transaction which has +set her free to think no more about him, only of her children. For, what +seems most pertinent for him to say, if he loved, "Take, O Fates, your +promise back, and take my life, not hers," he does not say. That is not +really the thought of Euripides. + +Then, and this is subtly but not quite justly wrought into Euripides by +Balaustion, she traces through the play the slow awakening of the soul +of Admetos to the low-hearted thing he had done. He comes out of the +house, having disposed all things duteously and fittingly round the +dead, and Balaustion sees in his grave quietude that the truth is +dawning on him; when suddenly Pheres, his father, who had refused to die +for him, comes to lay his offering on the bier. This, Balaustion thinks, +plucks Admetos back out of unselfish thought into that lower atmosphere +in which he only sees his own advantage in the death of Alkestis; and in +which he now bitterly reproaches his father because he did not die to +save Alkestis. And the reproach is the more bitter because--and this +Balaustion, with her subtle morality, suggests--an undernote of +conscience causes him to see his own baser self, now prominent in his +acceptance of Alkestis' sacrifice, finished and hardened in the temper +of his father--young Admetos in old Pheres. He sees with dread and pain +what he may become when old. This hatred of himself in his father is, +Balaustion thinks, the source of his extreme violence with his father. +She, with the Greek sense of what was due to nature, seeks to excuse +this unfitting scene. Euripides has gone too far for her. She thinks +that, if Sophocles had to do with the matter, he would have made the +Chorus explain the man. + +But the unnatural strife would not have been explained by Sophocles as +Balaustion explains it. That fine ethical twist of hers--"that Admetos +hates himself in his father," is too modern for a Greek. It has the +casuistical subtlety which the over-developed conscience of the +Christian Church encouraged. It is intellectual, too, rather than real, +metaphysical more than moral, Browning rather than Sophocles. Nor do I +believe that a Rhodian girl, even with all Athens at the back of her +brain, would have conceived it at all. Then Balaustion makes another +comment on the situation, in which there is more of Browning than of +herself. "Admetos," she says, "has been kept back by the noisy quarrel +from seeing into the truth of his own conduct, as he was on the point of +doing, for 'with the low strife comes the little mind.'" But when his +father is gone, and Alkestis is borne away, then, in the silence of the +house and the awful stillness in his own heart, he sees the truth. His +shame, the whole woe and horror of his failure in love, break, like a +toppling wave, upon him, and the drowned truth, so long hidden from him +by self, rose to the surface, and appalled him by its dead face. His +soul in seeing true, is saved, yet so las by fire. At this moment +Herakles comes in, leading Alkestis, redeemed from death; and finding, +so Balaustion thinks, her husband restored to his right mind. + +But, then, we ask, how Alkestis, having found him fail, will live with +him again, how she, having topped nobility, will endure the memory of +the ignoble in him? That would be the interesting subject, and the +explanation Euripides suggests does not satisfy Balaustion. The dramatic +situation is unfinished. Balaustion, with her fine instinct, feels that, +to save the subject, it ought to be otherwise treated, and she invents a +new Admetos, a new Alkestis. She has heard that Sophocles meant to make +a new piece of the same matter, and her balanced judgment, on which +Browning insists so often, makes her say, "That is well. One thing has +many sides; but still, no good supplants a good, no beauty undoes +another; still I will love the _Alkestis_ which I know. Yet I have so +drunk this poem, so satisfied with it my heart and soul, that I feel as +if I, too, might make a new poem on the same matter." + + Ah, that brave + Bounty of poets, the one royal race + That ever was, or will be, in this world! + They give no gift that bounds itself and ends + I' the giving and the taking: theirs so breeds + I' the heart and soul o' the taker, so transmutes + The man who only was a man before, + That he grows godlike in his turn, can give-- + He also: share the poet's privilege, + Bring forth new good, new beauty, from the old. + +And she gives her conception of the subject, and it further unfolds her +character. + +When Apollo served Admetos, the noble nature of the God so entered into +him that all the beast was subdued in the man, and he became the ideal +king, living for the ennoblement of his people. Yet, while doing this +great work, he is to die, still young, and he breaks out, in a bitter +calm, against the fate which takes him from the work of his life. + +"Not so," answers Alkestis, "I knew what was coming, and though Apollo +urged me not to disturb the course of things, and not to think that any +death prevents the march of good or ends a life, yet he yielded; and I +die for you--all happiness." + +"It shall never be," replies Admetos; "our two lives are one. But I am +the body, thou art the soul; and the body shall go, and not the soul. I +claim death." + +"No," answered Alkestis; "the active power to rule and weld the people +into good is in the man. Thou art the acknowledged power. And as to the +power which, thou sayest, I give thee, as to the soul of me--take it, I +pour it into thee. Look at me." And as he looks, she dies, and the king +is left--still twofold as before, with the soul of Alkestis in +him--himself and her. So is Fate cheated, and Alkestis in Admetos is not +dead. A passage follows of delicate and simple poetry, written by +Browning in a manner in which I would he had oftener written. To read it +is to regret that, being able to do this, he chose rather to write, from +time to time, as if he were hewing his way through tangled underwood. No +lovelier image of Proserpina has been made in poetry, not even in +Tennyson's _Demeter_, than this-- + + And even while it lay, i' the look of him, + Dead, the dimmed body, bright Alkestis' soul + Had penetrated through the populace + Of ghosts, was got to Kore,--throned and crowned + The pensive queen o' the twilight, where she dwells + Forever in a muse, but half away + From flowery earth she lost and hankers for,-- + And there demanded to become a ghost + Before the time. + Whereat the softened eyes + Of the lost maidenhood that lingered still + Straying among the flowers in Sicily, + Sudden was startled back to Hades' throne + By that demand: broke through humanity + Into the orbed omniscience of a God, + Searched at a glance Alkestis to the soul + And said ... + "Hence, thou deceiver! This is not to die, + If, by the very death which mocks me now, + The life, that's left behind and past my power, + Is formidably doubled ..." + And so, before the embrace relaxed a whit, + The lost eyes opened, still beneath the look; + And lo, Alkestis was alive again, + And of Admetos' rapture who shall speak? + +The old conception has more reality. This is in the vague world of +modern psychical imagination. Nevertheless it has its own beauty, and it +enlarges Browning's picture of the character of Balaustion. + +Her character is still further enlarged in _Aristophanes' Apology_. That +poem, if we desire intellectual exercise, illuminated by flashings of +imagination, is well worth reading, but to comprehend it fully, one must +know a great deal of Athenian life and of the history of the Comic +Drama. It is the defence by Aristophanes of his idea of the business, +the method, and the use of Comedy. How far what he says is Browning +speaking for Aristophanes, and how far it is Browning speaking for +himself, is hard to tell. And it would please him to leave that +purposely obscure. What is alive and intense in the poem is, first, the +realisation of Athenian life in several scenes, pictured with all +Browning's astonishing force of presentation, as, for instance, the +feast after the play, and the grim entrance of Sophocles, black from +head to foot, among the glittering and drunken revellers, to announce +the death of Euripides. + +Secondly, there is the presentation of Aristophanes. Browning has +created him for us-- + + And no ignoble presence! On the bulge + Of the clear baldness,--all his head one brow,-- + True, the veins swelled, blue network, and there surged + A red from cheek to temple,--then retired + As if the dark-leaved chaplet damped a flame,-- + Was never nursed by temperance or health. + But huge the eyeballs rolled back native fire, + Imperiously triumphant: nostrils wide + Waited their incense; while the pursed mouth's pout + Aggressive, while the beak supreme above, + While the head, face, nay, pillared throat thrown back, + Beard whitening under like a vinous foam, + There made a glory, of such insolence-- + I thought,--such domineering deity + Hephaistos might have carved to cut the brine + For his gay brother's prow, imbrue that path + Which, purpling, recognised the conqueror. + Impudent and majestic: drunk, perhaps, + But that's religion; sense too plainly snuffed: + Still, sensuality was grown a rite. + +We see the man, the natural man, to the life. But as the poem goes on, +we company with his intellect and soul, with the struggle of sensualism +against his knowledge of a more ideal life; above all, with one, who +indulging the appetites and senses of the natural man, is yet, at a +moment, their master. The coarse chambers of his nature are laid bare, +his sensuous pleasure in the lower forms of human life, his joy in +satirising them, his contempt for the good or the ideal life if it throw +the sensual man away. Then, we are made to know the power he has to rise +above this--without losing it--into the higher imaginative region where, +for the time, he feels the genius of Sophocles, Euripides, the moral +power of Balaustion, and the beauty of the natural world. Indeed, in +that last we find him in his extant plays. Few of the Greeks could write +with greater exquisiteness of natural beauty than this wild poet who +loved the dunghill. And Browning does not say this, but records in this +_Apology_ how when Aristophanes is touched for an instant by +Balaustion's reading of the _Herakles_, and seizing the psalterion sings +the song of Thamuris marching to his trial with the Muses through a +golden autumn morning--it is the glory and loveliness of nature that he +sings. This portraiture of the poet is scattered through the whole poem. +It is too minute, too full of detail to dwell on here. It has a thousand +touches of life and intimacy. And it is perhaps the finest thing +Browning has done in portraiture of character. But then there was a +certain sympathy in Browning for Aristophanes. The natural man was never +altogether put aside by Browning. + +Lastly, there is the fresh presentation of Balaustion, of the matured +and experienced woman whom we have known as a happy girl. Euthycles and +she are married, and one night, as she is sitting alone, he comes in, +bringing the grave news that Euripides is dead, but had proved at the +court of Archelaos of Macedonia his usefulness as counsellor to King and +State, and his power still to sing-- + + Clashed thence _Alkaion_, maddened _Pentheus'_ up; + Then music sighed itself away, one moan + Iphigeneia made by Aulis' strand; + With her and music died Euripides. + +And Athens, hearing, ceased to mock and cried "Bury Euripides in +Peiraios, bring his body back." "Ah," said Balaustion, "Death alters the +point of view. But our tribute is in our hearts; and more, his soul +will now for ever teach and bless the world. + + Is not that day come? What if you and I + Re-sing the song, inaugurate the fame? + +For, like Herakles, in his own _Alkestis_, he now strides away (and this +is the true end of the _Alkestis_) to surmount all heights of destiny." +While she spoke thus, the Chorus of the Comedy, girls, boys, and men, in +drunken revel and led by Aristophanes, thundered at the door and claimed +admittance. Balaustion is drawn confronting them--tall and superb, like +Victory's self; her warm golden eyes flashing under her black hair, +"earth flesh with sun fire," statuesque, searching the crowd with her +glance. And one and all dissolve before her silent splendour of reproof, +all save Aristophanes. She bids him welcome. "Glory to the Poet," she +cries. "Light, light, I hail it everywhere; no matter for the murk, that +never should have been such orb's associate." Aristophanes changes as he +sees her; a new man confronts her. + + "So!" he smiled, "piercing to my thought at once, + You see myself? Balaustion's fixed regard + Can strip the proper Aristophanes + Of what our sophists, in their jargon, style + His accidents?" + +He confesses her power to meet him in discourse, unfolds his views and +plans to her, and having contrasted himself with Euripides, bids her use +her thrice-refined refinement, her rosy strength, to match his argument. +She claims no equality with him, the consummate creator; but only, as a +woman, the love of all things lovable with which to meet him who has +degraded Comedy. She appeals to the high poet in the man, and finally +bids him honour the deep humanity in Euripides. To prove it, and to win +his accord, she reads the _Herakles_, the last of Euripides. + +It is this long night of talk which Balaustion dictates to Euthycles as +she is sailing, day after day, from Athens back to Rhodes. The aspect of +sea and sky, as they sail, is kept before us, for Balaustion uses its +changes as illustrations, and the clear descriptions tell, even more +fully than before, how quick this woman was to observe natural beauty +and to correlate it with humanity. Here is one example. In order to +describe a change in the temper of Aristophanes from wild license to +momentary gravity, Balaustion seizes on a cloud-incident of the +voyage--Euthycles, she cries, + + ... "o'er the boat side, quick, what change, + Watch--in the water! But a second since, + It laughed a ripply spread of sun and sea, + Ray fused with wave, to never disunite. + Now, sudden, all the surface hard and black, + Lies a quenched light, dead motion: what the cause? + Look up, and lo, the menace of a cloud + Has solemnised the sparkling, spoiled the sport! + Just so, some overshadow, some new care + Stopped all the mirth and mocking on his face." + +Her feeling for nature is as strong us her feeling for man, and both are +woven together. + +All her powers have now ripened, and the last touch has been given to +them by her ideal sorrow for Athens, the country of her soul, where high +intelligence and imagination had created worlds. She leaves it now, +ruined and degraded, and the passionate outbreak of her patriotic sorrow +with which the poem opens lifts the character and imagination of +Balaustion into spiritual splendour. Athens, "hearted in her heart," has +perished ignobly. Not so, she thinks, ought this beauty of the world to +have died, its sea-walls razed to the ground to the fluting and singing +of harlots; but in some vast overwhelming of natural energies--in the +embrace of fire to join the gods; or in a sundering of the earth, when +the Acropolis should have sunken entire and risen in Hades to console +the ghosts with beauty; or in the multitudinous over-swarming of ocean. +This she could have borne, but, thinking of what has been, of the misery +and disgrace, "Oh," she cries, "bear me away--wind, wave and bark!" But +Browning does not leave Balaustion with only this deep emotion in her +heart. He gives her the spiritual passion of genius. She is swept beyond +her sorrow into that invisible world where the soul lives with the gods, +with the pure Ideas of justice, truth and love; where immortal life +awaits the disembodied soul and we shall see Euripides. In these high +thoughts she will outlive her sorrow. + + Why should despair be? Since, distinct above + Man's wickedness and folly, flies the wind + And floats the cloud, free transport for our soul + Out of its fleshly durance dim and low,-- + Since disembodied soul anticipates + (Thought-borne as now, in rapturous unrestraint) + Above all crowding, crystal silentness, + Above all noise, a silver solitude:-- + Surely, where thought so bears soul, soul in time + May permanently bide, "assert the wise," + There live in peace, there work in hope once more-- + O nothing doubt, Philemon! Greed and strife, + Hatred and cark and care, what place have they + In yon blue liberality of heaven? + How the sea helps! How rose-smit earth will rise + Breast-high thence, some bright morning, and be Rhodes! + Heaven, earth and sea, my warrant--in their name, + Believe--o'er falsehood, truth is surely sphered, + O'er ugliness beams beauty, o'er this world + Extends that realm where, "as the wise assert," + Philemon, thou shalt see Euripides + Clearer than mortal sense perceived the man! + +We understand that she has drunk deep of Socrates, that her spiritual +sense reached onward to the Platonic Socrates. In this supersensuous +world of thought she is quieted out of the weakness which made her +miserable over the fall of Athens; and in the quiet, Browning, who will +lift his favourite into perfectness, adds to her spiritual imagination +the dignity of that moral judgment which the intellect of genius gathers +from the facts of history. In spite of her sorrow, she grasps the truth +that there was justice in the doom of Athens. Let justice have its way. +Let the folk die who pulled her glory down. This is her prophetic +strain, the strength of the Hebrew in the Greek. + +And then the prophet in the woman passes, and the poet in her takes the +lyre. She sees the splendid sunset. Why should its extravagance of glory +run to waste? Let me build out of it a new Athens, quarry out the golden +clouds and raise the Acropolis, and the rock-hewn Place of Assembly, +whence new orators may thunder over Greece; and the theatre where +AEschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, godlike still, may contend for the +prize. Yet--and there is a further change of thought--yet that may not +be. To build that poetic vision is to slip away from reality, and the +true use of it. The tragedy is there--irrevocable. Let it sink deep in +us till we see Rhodes shining over the sea. So great, so terrible, so +piteous it is, that, dwelt on in the soul and seen in memory, it will do +for us what the great tragedians made their tragic themes do for their +hearers. It will purify the heart by pity and terror from the baseness +and littleness of life. Our small hatreds, jealousies and prides, our +petty passions will be rebuked, seem nothing in its mighty sorrow. + + What else in life seems piteous any more + After such pity, or proves terrible + Beside such terror; + +This is the woman--the finest creature Browning drew, young and fair and +stately, with her dark hair and amber eyes, lovely--the wild pomegranate +flower of a girl--as keen, subtle and true of intellect as she is +lovely, able to comment on and check Euripides, to conceive a new play +out of his subject, to be his dearest friend, to meet on equality +Aristophanes; so full of lyric sympathy, so full of eager impulse that +she thrills the despairing into action, enslaves a city with her +eloquence, charms her girl-friends by the Ilissus, and so sends her +spirit into her husband that, when the Spartans advise the razing of +Athens to the ground he saves the city by those famous lines of +Euripides, of which Milton sang; so at one with natural beauty, with all +beauty, that she makes it live in the souls of men; so clear in judgment +that she sees the right even when it seems lost in the wrong, that she +sees the justice of the gods in the ruin of the city she most loved; so +poetic of temper that everything speaks to her of life, that she +acknowledges the poetry which rises out of the foulness she hates in +Aristophanes, that she loves all humanity, bad or good, and Euripides +chiefly because of his humanity; so spiritual, that she can soar out of +her most overwhelming sorrow into the stormless world where the gods +breathe pure thought and for ever love; and, abiding in its peace, use +the griefs of earth for the ennoblement of the life of men, because in +all her spiritual apartness, however far it bear her from earth, she +never loses her close sympathy with the fortunes of mankind. Nay, from +her lofty station she is the teacher of truth and love and justice, in +splendid prophecy. It is with an impassioned exaltation, worthy of Sibyl +and Pythoness in one, of divine wisdom both Roman and Greek, that she +cries to the companions of her voyage words which embody her soul and +the soul of all the wise and loving of the earth, when they act for men; +bearing their action, thought and feeling beyond man to God in man-- + + Speak to the infinite intelligence, + Sing to the everlasting sympathy! + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +_THE RING AND THE BOOK_ + + +When Browning published _The Ring and the Book_, he was nearly fifty +years old. All his powers (except those which create the lyric) are used +therein with mastery; and the ease with which he writes is not more +remarkable than the exultant pleasure which accompanies the ease. He +has, as an artist, a hundred tools in hand, and he uses them with +certainty of execution. The wing of his invention does not falter +through these twelve books, nor droop below the level at which he began +them; and the epilogue is written with as much vigour as the prologue. +The various books demand various powers. In each book the powers are +proportionate to the subject; but the mental force behind each exercise +of power is equal throughout. He writes as well when he has to make the +guilty soul of Guido speak, as when the innocence of Pompilia tells her +story. The gain-serving lawyers, each distinctly isolated, tell their +worldly thoughts as clearly as Caponsacchi reveals his redeemed and +spiritualised soul. The parasite of an aristocratic and thoughtless +society in _Tertium Quid_ is not more vividly drawn than the Pope, who +has left in his old age the conventions of society behind him, and +speaks in his silent chamber face to face with God. And all the minor +characters--of whom there are a great number, ranging from children to +old folk, from the peasant to the Cardinal, through every class of +society in Italy--are drawn, even when they are slashed out in only +three lines, with such force, certainty, colour and life that we know +them better than our friends. The variousness of the product would seem +to exclude an equality of excellence in drawing and invention. But it +does not. It reveals and confirms it. The poem is a miracle of +intellectual power. + +This great length, elaborate detail, and the repetition so many times of +the same story, would naturally suggest to an intending reader that the +poem might be wearisome. Browning, suspecting this, and in mercy to a +public who does not care for a work of _longue haleine_, published it at +first in four volumes, with a month's interval between each volume. He +thought that the story told afresh by characters widely different would +strike new, if each book were read at intervals of ten days. There were +three books in each volume. And if readers desire to realise fully the +intellectual _tour de force_ contained in telling the same story twelve +times over, and making each telling interesting, they cannot do better +than read the book as Browning wished it to be read. "Give the poem four +months, and let ten days elapse between the reading of each book," is +what he meant us to understand. Moreover, to meet this possible +weariness, Browning, consciously, or probably unconsciously, since +genius does the right thing without asking why, continually used a trick +of his own which, at intervals, stings the reader into wakefulness and +pleasure, and sends him on to the next page refreshed and happy. After +fifty, or it may be a hundred lines of somewhat dry analysis, a vivid +illustration, which concentrates all the matter of the previous lines, +flashes on the reader as a snake might flash across a traveller's dusty +way: or some sudden description of an Italian scene in the country or in +the streets of Rome enlivens the well-known tale with fresh humanity. Or +a new character leaps up out of the crowd, and calls us to note his +ways, his dress, his voice, his very soul in some revealing speech, and +then passes away from the stage, while we turn, refreshed (and indeed at +times we need refreshment), to the main speaker, the leading character. + +But to dwell on the multitude of portraits with which Browning's keen +observation, memory and love of human nature have embellished _The Ring +and the Book_ belongs to another part of this chapter. At present the +question rises: "What place does _The Ring and the Book_ hold in +Browning's development?" It holds a central place. There was always a +struggle in Browning between two pleasures; pleasure in the exercise of +his intellect--his wit, in the fullest sense of the word; pleasure in +the exercise of his poetic imagination. Sometimes one of these had the +upper hand in his poems, sometimes the other, and sometimes both happily +worked together. When the exercise of his wit had the upper hand, it +tended to drive out both imagination and passion. Intellectual play may +be without any emotion except its delight in itself. Then its mere +cleverness attracts its user, and gives him an easily purchased +pleasure. When a poet falls a complete victim to this pleasure, +imagination hides her face from him, passion runs away, and what he +produces resembles, but is not, poetry. And Browning, who had got +perilously near to the absence of poetry in _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, +succeeded in _Mr. Sludge, the Medium_, in losing poetry altogether. In +_The Ring and the Book_ there are whole books, and long passages in its +other books in which poetry almost ceases to exist and is replaced by +brilliant cleverness, keen analysis, vivid description, and a +combination of wit and fancy which is rarely rivalled; but no emotion, +no imagination such as poets use inflames the coldness of these +qualities into the glow of poetry. The indefinable difference which +makes imaginative work into poetry is not there. There is abundance of +invention; but that, though a part of imagination, belongs as much to +the art of prose as to the art of poetry. + +Browning could write thus, out of his intellect alone. None of the +greater poets could. Their genius could not work without fusing into +their intellectual work intensity of feeling; and that combination +secured poetic treatment of their subject. It would have been totally +impossible for Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, Vergil, or even the great +mass of second-rate poets, to have written some of Browning's so-called +poetry--no matter how they tried. There was that in Browning's nature +which enabled him to exercise his intellectual powers alone, without +passion, and so far he almost ceases to deserve the name of poet. And +his pleasure in doing this grew upon him, and having done it with +dazzling power in part of _The Ring and the Book_, he was carried away +by it and produced a number of so-called poems; terrible examples of +what a poet can come to when he has allowed his pleasure in clever +analysis to tyrannise over him--_Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau_, _The Inn +Album_, _Red Cotton Nightcap Country_, and a number of shorter poems in +the volumes which followed. In these, what Milton meant by passion, +simplicity and sensuousness were banished, and imagination existed only +as it exists in a prose writer. + +This condition was slowly arrived at. It had not been fully reached when +he wrote _The Ring and the Book_. His poetic powers resisted their +enemies for many years, and had the better in the struggle. If it takes +a long time to cast a devil out, it takes a longer time to depose an +angel. And the devil may be utterly banished, but the angel never. And +though the devil of mere wit and the little devils of analytic +exercise--devils when they usurp the throne in a poet's soul and enslave +imaginative emotion--did get the better of Browning, it was only for a +time. Towards the end of his life he recovered, but never as completely +as he had once possessed them, the noble attributes of a poet. The evils +of the struggle clung to him; the poisonous pleasure he had pursued +still affected him; he was again and again attacked by the old malaria. +He was as a brand plucked from the burning. + +_The Ring and the Book_ is the central point of this struggle. It is +full of emotion and thought concentrated on the subject, and commingled +by imagination to produce beauty. And whenever this is the case, as in +the books which treat of Caponsacchi and Pompilia, we are rejoiced by +poetry. In their lofty matter of thought and feeling, in their +simplicity and nobleness of spiritual beauty, poetry is dominant. In +them also his intellectual powers, and his imaginative and passionate +powers, are fused into one fire. Nor is the presentation of Guido +Franceschini under two faces less powerful, or that of the Pope, in his +meditative silence. But in these books the poetry is less, and is +mingled, as would naturally indeed be the case, with a searching +analysis, which intrudes too much into their imaginative work. +Over-dissection makes them cold. In fact, in fully a quarter of this +long poem, the analysing understanding, that bustling and self-conscious +person, who plays only on the surface of things and separates their +elements from one another instead of penetrating to their centre; who is +incapable of seeing the whole into which the various elements have +combined--is too masterful for the poetry. It is not, then, imaginative, +but intellectual pleasure which, as we read, we gain. + +Then again there is throughout a great part of the poem a dangerous +indulgence of his wit; the amusement of remote analogies; the use of +far-fetched illustrations; quips and cranks and wanton wiles of the +reasoning fancy in deviating self-indulgence; and an allusiveness which +sets commentators into note-making effervescence. All these, and more, +which belong to wit, are often quite ungoverned, allowed to disport +themselves as they please. Such matters delight the unpoetic readers of +Browning, and indeed they are excellent entertainment. But let us call +them by their true name; let us not call them poetry, nor mistake their +art for the art of poetry. Writing them in blank verse does not make +them poetry. In _Half-Rome_, in _The Other Half-Rome_, and in _Tertium +Quid_, these elements of analysis and wit are exhibited in three-fourths +of the verse; but the other fourth--in description of scenes, in vivid +portraiture, in transient outbursts out of which passion, in glimpses, +breaks--rises into the realm of poetry. In the books which sketch the +lawyers and their pleadings, there is wit in its finest brilliancy, +analysis in its keenest veracity, but they are scarcely a poet's work. +The whole book is then a mixed book, extremely mixed. All that was +poetical in Browning's previous work is represented in it, and all the +unpoetical elements which had gradually been winning power in him, and +which showed themselves previously in _Bishop Blougram_ and _Mr. +Sludge_, are also there in full blast. It was, as I have said, the +central battlefield of two powers in him. And when _The Ring and the +Book_ was finished, the inferior power had for a time the victory. + +To sum up then, there are books in the poem where matter of passion and +matter of thought are imaginatively wrought together. There are others +where psychological thought and metaphysical reasoning are dominant, but +where passionate feeling has also a high place. There are others where +analysis and wit far excel the elements of imaginative emotion; and +there are others where every kind of imagination is absent, save that +which is consistent throughout and which never fails--the power of +creating men and women into distinct individualities. That is left, but +it is a power which is not special to a poet. A prose writer may possess +it with the same fulness as a poet. Carlyle had it as remarkably as +Browning, or nearly as remarkably. He also had wit--a heavier wit than +Browning's, less lambent, less piercing, but as forcible. + +One thing more may be said. The poem is far too long, and the subject +does not bear its length. The long poems of the world (I do not speak of +those by inferior poets) have a great subject, are concerned with +manifold fates of men, and are naturally full of various events and +varied scenery. They interest us with new things from book to book. In +_The Ring and the Book_ the subject is not great, the fates concerned +are not important, and the same event runs through twelve books and is +described twelve times. However we may admire the intellectual force +which actually makes the work interesting, and the passion which often +thrills us in it--this is more than the subject bears, and than we can +always endure. Each book is spun out far beyond what is necessary; a +great deal is inserted which would be wisely left out. No one could be +more concise than Browning when he pleased. His power of flashing a +situation or a thought into a few words is well known. But he did not +always use this power. And in _The Ring and the Book_, as in some of the +poems that followed it, he seems now and then to despise that power. + +And now for the poem itself. Browning tells the story eight times by +different persons, each from a different point of view, and twice more +by the same person before and after his condemnation and, of course, +from two points of view. Then he practically tells it twice more in the +prologue and the epilogue--twelve times in all--and in spite of what I +have said about the too great length of the poem, this is an +intellectual victory that no one else but Browning could have won +against its difficulties. Whether it was worth the creation by himself +of the difficulty is another question. He chose to do it, and we had +better submit to him and get the good of his work. At least we may avoid +some of the weariness he himself feared by reading it in the way I have +mentioned, as Browning meant it to be read. Poems--being the highest +product of the highest genius of which man is capable--ought to be +approached with some reverence. And a part of that reverence is to read +them in accordance with the intention and desire of the writer. + +We ought not to forget the date of the tale when we read the book. It is +just two hundred years ago. The murder of Pompilia took place in 1698; +and the book completes his studies of the Renaissance in its decay. If +_Sordello_ is worth our careful reading as a study of the thirteenth +century in North Italy, this book is as valuable as a record of the +society of its date. It is, in truth, a mine of gold; pure crude ore is +secreted from man's life, then moulded into figures of living men and +women by the insight and passion of the poet. In it is set down Rome as +she was--her customs, opinions, classes of society; her dress, houses, +streets, lanes, byeways and squares; her architecture, fountains, +statues, courts of law, convents, gardens; her fashion and its +drawing-rooms, the various professions and their habits, high life and +middle class, tradesmen and beggars, priest, friar, lay-ecclesiastic, +cardinal and Pope. Nowhere is this pictorial and individualising part of +Browning's genius more delighted with its work. Every description is +written by a lover of humanity, and with joy. + +Nor is he less vivid in the _mise-en-scene_ in which he places this +multitude of personages. In _Half-Rome_ we mingle with the crowd between +Palazzo Fiano and Ruspoli, and pass into the church of Lorenzo in Lucina +where the murdered bodies are exposed. The mingled humours of the crowd, +the various persons and their characters are combined with and enhanced +by the scenery. Then there is the Market Place by the Capucin convent of +the Piazza Barberini, with the fountains leaping; then the _Reunion_ at +a palace, and the fine fashionable folk among the mirrors and the +chandeliers, each with their view of the question; then the Courthouse, +with all its paraphernalia, where Guido and Caponsacchi plead; then, the +sketches, as new matters turn up, of the obscure streets of Rome, of the +country round Arezzo, of Arezzo itself, of the post road from Arezzo to +Rome and the country inn near Rome, of the garden house in the suburbs, +of the households of the two advocates and their different ways of +living; of the Pope in his closet and of Guido in the prison cell; and +last, the full description of the streets and the Piazza del Popolo on +the day of the execution--all with a hundred vivifying, illuminating, +minute details attached to them by this keen-eyed, observant, questing +poet who remembered everything he saw, and was able to use each detail +where it was most wanted. Memories are good, but good usage of them is +the fine power. The _mise-en-scene_ is then excellent, and Browning was +always careful to make it right, fitting and enlivening. Nowhere is this +better done than in the Introduction where he finds the book on a stall +in the Square of San Lorenzo, and describes modern Florence in his walk +from the Square past the Strozzi, the Pillar and the Bridge to Casa +Guidi on the other side of the Arno opposite the little church of San +Felice. During the walk he read the book through, yet saw everything he +passed by. The description will show how keen were his eyes, how +masterly his execution. + + That memorable day, + (June was the month, Lorenzo named the Square) + I leaned a little and overlooked my prize + By the low railing round the fountain-source + Close to the statue, where a step descends: + While clinked the cans of copper, as stooped and rose + Thick-ankled girls who brimmed them, and made place + For marketmen glad to pitch basket down, + Dip a broad melon-leaf that holds the wet, + And whisk their faded fresh. And on I read + Presently, though my path grew perilous + Between the outspread straw-work, piles of plait + Soon to be flapping, each o'er two black eyes + And swathe of Tuscan hair, on festas fine: + Through fire-irons, tribes of tongs, shovels in sheaves, + Skeleton bedsteads, wardrobe-drawers agape, + Rows of tall slim brass lamps with dangling gear,-- + And worse, cast clothes a-sweetening in the sun: + None of them took my eye from off my prize. + Still read I on, from written title page + To written index, on, through street and street, + At the Strozzi, at the Pillar, at the Bridge; + Till, by the time I stood at home again + In Casa Guidi by Felice Church, + Under the doorway where the black begins + With the first stone-slab of the staircase cold, + I had mastered the contents, knew the whole truth + Gathered together, bound up in this book, + Print three-fifths, written supplement the rest. + +This power, combined with his power of portraiture, makes this long poem +alive. No other man of his century could paint like him the to and fro +of a city, the hurly-burly of humanity, the crowd, the movement, the +changing passions, the loud or quiet clash of thoughts, the gestures, +the dress, the interweaving of expression on the face, the whole play of +humanity in war or peace. As we read, we move with men and women; we are +pressed everywhere by mankind. We listen to the sound of humanity, +sinking sometimes to the murmur we hear at night from some high window +in London; swelling sometimes, as in _Sordello_, into a roar of +violence, wrath, revenge, and war. And it was all contained in that +little body, brain and heart; and given to us, who can feel it, but not +give it. This is the power which above all endears him to us as a poet. +We feel in each poem not only the waves of the special event of which he +writes, but also the large vibration of the ocean of humanity. + +He was not unaware of this power of his. We are told in _Sordello_ that +he dedicated himself to the picturing of humanity; and he came to think +that a Power beyond ours had accepted this dedication, and directed his +work. He declares in the introduction that he felt a Hand ("always above +my shoulder--mark the predestination"), that pushed him to the stall +where he found the fated book in whose womb lay his child--_The Ring and +the Book_. And he believed that he had certain God-given qualities which +fitted him for this work. These he sets forth in this introduction, and +the self-criticism is of the greatest interest. + +The first passage is, when he describes how, having finished the book +and got into him all the gold of its fact, he added from himself that to +the gold which made it workable--added to it his live soul, informed, +transpierced it through and through with imagination; and then, standing +on his balcony over the street, saw the whole story from the beginning +shape itself out on the night, alive and clear, not in dead memory but +in living movement; saw right away out on the Roman road to Arezzo, and +all that there befell; then passed to Rome again with the actors in the +tragedy, a presence with them who heard them speak and think and act. +The "life in him abolished the death of things--deep calling unto deep." +For "a spirit laughed and leaped through his every limb, and lit his +eye, and lifted him by the hair, and let him have his will" with +Pompilia, Guido, Caponsacchi, the lawyers, the Pope, and the whole of +Rome. And they rose from the dead; the old woe stepped on the stage +again at the magician's command; and the rough gold of fact was rounded +to a ring by art. But the ring should have a posy, and he makes that in +a passionate cry to his dead wife--a lovely spell where high thinking +and full feeling meet and mingle like two deep rivers. Whoso reads it +feels how her spirit, living still for him, brooded over and blest his +masterpiece: + + O lyric Love, half angel and half bird + And all a wonder and a wild desire,-- + Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, + Took sanctuary within the holier blue, + And sang a kindred soul out to his face,-- + Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart-- + When the first summons from the darkling earth + Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, + And bared them of the glory--to drop down, + To toil for man, to suffer or to die,-- + This is the same voice: can thy soul know change + Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help! + Never may I commence my song, my due + To God who best taught song by gift of thee, + Except with bent head and beseeching hand-- + That still, despite the distance and the dark, + What was, again may be; some interchange + Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought, + Some benediction anciently thy smile: + --Never conclude, but raising hand and head + Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn + For all hope, all sustainment, all reward, + Their utmost up and on,--so blessing back + In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, + Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud, + Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall! + +The poem begins with the view that one half of Rome took of the events. +At the very commencement we touch one of the secondary interests of the +book, the incidental characters. Guido, Caponsacchi, Pompilia, the Pope, +and, in a lesser degree, Violante and Pietro, are the chief characters, +and the main interest contracts around them. But, through all they say +and do, as a motley crowd through a street, a great number of minor +characters move to and fro; and Browning, whose eye sees every face, and +through the face into the soul, draws them one by one, some more fully +than others in perhaps a hundred lines, some only in ten. Most of them +are types of a class, a profession or a business, yet there is always a +touch or two which isolates each of them so that they do not only +represent a class but a personal character. He hated, like Morris, the +withering of the individual, nor did he believe, nor any man who knows +and feels mankind, that by that the world grew more and more. The poem +is full of such individualities. It were well, as one example, to read +the whole account of the people who come to see the murdered bodies laid +out in the Church of Lorenzo. The old, curious, doddering gossip of the +Roman street is not less alive than the Cardinal, and the clever pushing +Curato; and around them are heard the buzz of talk, the movement of the +crowd. The church, the square are humming with humanity. + +He does the same clever work at the deathbed of Pompilia. She lies in +the House of the dying, and certain folk are allowed to see her. Each +one is made alive by this creative pencil; and all are different, one +from the other--the Augustinian monk, old mother Baldi chattering like a +jay who thought that to touch Pompilia's bedclothes would cure her +palsy, Cavalier Carlo who fees the porter to paint her face just because +she was murdered and famous, the folk who argue on theology over her +wounded body. Elsewhere we possess the life-history of Pietro and +Violante, Pompilia's reputed parents; several drawings of the retired +tradesmen class, with their gossips and friends, in the street of a poor +quarter in Rome; then, the Governor and Archbishop of Arezzo, the friar +who is kindly but fears the world and all the busy-bodies of this +provincial town. Arezzo, its characters and indwellers, stand in clear +light. The most vivid of these sketches is Dominus Hyacinthus, the +lawyer who defends Guido. I do not know anything better done, and more +amusingly, than this man and his household--a paternal creature, full of +his boys and their studies, making us, in his garrulous pleasure, at +home with them and his fat wife. Browning was so fond of this sketch +that he drew him and his boys over again in the epilogue. + +These represent the episodical characters in this drama of life; and +Browning has scattered them, as it were, behind the chief characters, +whom sometimes they illustrate and sometimes they contrast. Of these the +whitest, simplest, loveliest is Pompilia, of whom I have already +written. The other chief characters are Count Guido and Giuseppe +Caponsacchi; and to the full development of these two characters +Browning gives all his powers. They are contrasted types of the spirit +of good and the spirit of evil conquering in man. Up to a certain point +in life their conduct is much alike. Both belong to the Church--one as a +priest, one as a layman affiliated to the Church. The lust of money and +self, when the character of Pompilia forces act, turns Guido into a +beast of greed and hate. The same character, when it forces act, lifts +Caponsacchi into almost a saint. This was a piece of contrasted +psychology in which the genius of Browning revelled, and he followed all +the windings of it in both these hearts with the zest of an explorer. +They were labyrinthine, but the more labyrinthine the better he was +pleased. Guido's first speech is made before the court in his defence. +We see disclosed the outer skin of the man's soul, all that he would +have the world know of him--cynical, mocking, not cruel, not +affectionate, a man of the world whom life had disappointed, and who +wishing to establish himself in a retired life by marriage had been +deceived and betrayed, he pleads, by his wife and her parents--an +injured soul who, stung at last into fury at having a son foisted on +him, vindicates his honour. And in this vindication his hypocrisy slips +at intervals from him, because his hatred of his wife is too much for +his hypocrisy. + +This is the only touch of the wolf in the man--his cruel teeth shown +momentarily through the smooth surface of his defence. A weaker poet +would have left him there, not having capacity for more. But Browning, +so rich in thought he was, had only begun to draw him. Guido is not only +painted by three others--by Caponsacchi, by Pompilia, by the Pope--but +he finally exposes his real self with his own hand. He is condemned to +death. Two of his friends visit him the night before his execution, in +his cell. Then, exalted into eloquence by the fierce passions of fear of +death and hatred of Pompilia, he lays bare as the night his very soul, +mean, cruel, cowardly, hungry for revenge, crying for life, black with +hate--a revelation such as in literature can best be paralleled by the +soliloquies of Iago. Baseness is supreme in his speech, hate was never +better given; the words are like the gnashing of teeth; prayers for life +at any cost were never meaner, and the outburst of terror and despair at +the end is their ultimate expression. + +Over against him is set Caponsacchi, of noble birth, of refined manner, +one of those polished and cultivated priests of whom Rome makes such +excellent use, and of whom Browning had drawn already a different type +in Bishop Blougram. He hesitated, being young and gay, to enter the +Church. But the archbishop of that easy time, two hundred years ago, +told him the Church was strong enough to bear a few light priests, and +that he would be set free from many ecclesiastical duties if, by +assiduity in society and with women, he strengthened the social weight +of the Church. In that way, making his madrigals and confessing fine +ladies, he lived for four years. This is an admirable sketch of a type +of Church society of that date, indeed, of any date in any Church; it +is by no means confined to Rome. + +On this worldly, careless, indifferent, pleasure-seeking soul Pompilia, +in her trouble and the pity of it, rises like a pure star seen through +mist that opens at intervals to show her excelling brightness; and in a +moment, at the first glimpse of her in the theatre, the false man drops +away; his soul breaks up, stands clear, and claims its divine birth. He +is born again, and then transfigured. The life of convention, of +indifference, dies before Pompilia's eyes; and on the instant he is true +to himself, to her, and to God. The fleeting passions which had absorbed +him, and were of the senses, are burned up, and the spiritual love for +her purity, and for purity itself--that eternal, infinite desire--is now +master of his life. Not as Miranda and Ferdinand changed eyes in +youthful love, but as Dante and Beatrice look on one another in +Paradise, did Pompilia and Caponsacchi change eyes, and know at once +that both were true, and see without speech the central worth of their +souls. They trusted one another and they loved for ever. So, when she +cried to him in her distress, he did her bidding and bore her away to +Rome. He tells the story of their flight, and tells it with +extraordinary beauty and vehemence in her defence. So noble is the tale +that he convinces the judges who at first had disbelieved him; and the +Pope confesses that his imprudence was a higher good than priestly +prudence would have been. When he makes his defence he has heard that +Pompilia has been murdered. Then we understand that in his conversion to +goodness he has not lost but gained passion. Scorn of the judges, who +could not see that neither he was guilty nor Pompilia; fiery +indignation with the murderer; infinite grief for the lamb slain by the +wolf, and irrevocable love for the soul of Pompilia, whom he will dwell +with eternally when they meet in Heaven, a love which Pompilia, dying, +declares she has for him, and in which, growing and abiding, she will +wait for him--burn on his lips. He is fully and nobly a man; yet, at the +end--and he is no less a man for it--the wild sorrow at his heart breaks +him down into a cry: + + O great, just, good God! Miserable me! + +Pompilia ends her words more quietly, in the faith that comes with +death. Caponsacchi has to live on, to bear the burden of the world. But +Pompilia has borne all she had to bear. All pain and horror are behind +her, as she lies in the stillness, dying. And in the fading of this +life, she knows she loves Caponsacchi in the spiritual world and will +love him for ever. Each speaks according to the circumstance, but she +most nobly: + + He is ordained to call and I to come! + Do not the dead wear flowers when dressed for God? + Say,--I am all in flowers from head to foot! + Say,--not one flower of all he said and did, + Might seem to flit unnoticed, fade unknown, + But dropped a seed, has grown a balsam-tree + Whereof the blossoming perfumes the place + At this supreme of moments! He is a priest; + He cannot marry therefore, which is right: + I think he would not marry if he could. + Marriage on earth seems such a counterfeit, + Mere imitation of the inimitable: + In heaven we have the real and true and sure. + 'Tis there they neither marry nor are given + In marriage but are as the angels: right, + Oh how right that is, how like Jesus Christ + To say that! Marriage-making for the earth, + With gold so much,--birth, power, repute so much, + Or beauty, youth so much, in lack of these! + Be as the angels rather, who, apart, + Know themselves into one, are found at length + Married, but marry never, no, nor give + In marriage; they are man and wife at once + When the true time is; here we have to wait + Not so long neither! Could we by a wish + Have what we will and get the future now, + Would we wish aught done undone in the past? + So, let him wait God's instant men call years; + Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul, + Do out the duty! Through such souls alone + God stooping shows sufficient of His light + For us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise. + +Last of these main characters, the Pope appears. Guido, condemned to +death by the law, appeals from the law to the head of the Church, +because, being half an ecclesiastic, his death can only finally be +decreed by the ecclesiastical arm. An old, old man, with eyes clear of +the quarrels, conventions, class prejudices of the world, the Pope has +gone over all the case during the day, and now night has fallen. Far +from the noise of Rome, removed from the passions of the chief +characters, he is sitting in the stillness of his closet, set on his +decision. We see the whole case now, through his mind, in absolute +quiet. He has been on his terrace to look at the stars, and their solemn +peace is with him. He feels that he is now alone with God and his old +age. And being alone, he is not concise, but garrulous and discursive. +Browning makes him so on purpose. But discursive as his mind is, his +judgment is clear, his sentence determined. Only, before he speaks, he +will weigh all the characters, and face any doubts that may shoot into +his conscience. He passes Guido and the rest before his spiritual +tribunal, judging not from the legal point of view, but from that which +his Master would take at the Judgment Day. How have they lived; what +have they made of life? When circumstances invaded them with temptation, +how did they meet temptation? Did they declare by what they did that +they were on God's side or the devil's? And on these lines he delivers +his sentence on Pompilia, Caponsacchi, Guido, Pietro, Violante, and the +rest. He feels he speaks as the Vicegerent of God. + +This solemn, silent, lonely, unworldly judgment of the whole case, done +in God's presence, is, after the noisy, crowded, worldly judgment of it +by Rome, after the rude humours of the law, and the terrible clashing of +human passions, most impressive; and it rises into the majesty of old +age in the summing up of the characters of Pompilia, Caponsacchi, and +Guido. I wish Browning had left it there. But he makes a sudden doubt +invade the Pope with a chill. Has he judged rightly in thinking that +divine truth is with him? Is there any divine truth on which he may +infallibly repose? + +And then for many pages we are borne away into a theological discussion, +which I take leave to say is wearisome; and which, after all, lands the +Pope exactly at the point from which he set out--a conclusion at which, +as we could have told him beforehand, he would be certain to arrive. We +might have been spared this. It is an instance of Browning's pleasure in +intellectual discourse which had, as I have said, such sad results on +his imaginative work. However, at the end, the Pope resumes his interest +in human life. He determines; and quickly--"Let the murderer die +to-morrow." + +Then comes the dreadful passion of Guido in the condemned cell, of +which I have spoken. And then, one would think the poem would have +closed. But no, the epilogue succeeds, in which, after all the tragedy, +humour reigns supreme. It brings us into touch with all that happened in +this case after the execution of Guido; the letters written by the +spectators, the lawyer's view of the deed, the gossip of Rome upon the +interesting occasion. No piece of humour in Browning's poetry, and no +portrait-sketching, is better than the letter written by a Venetian +gentleman in Rome giving an account of the execution. It is high comedy +when we are told that the Austrian Ambassador, who had pleaded for +Guido's life, was so vexed by the sharp "no" of the Pope (even when he +had told the Pope that he had probably dined at the same table with +Guido), that he very nearly refused to come to the execution, and would +scarcely vouchsafe it more than a glance when he did come--as if this +conduct of his were a slight which the Pope would feel acutely. Nor does +Browning's invention stop with this inimitable letter. He adds two other +letters which he found among the papers; and these give to the +characters of the two lawyers, new turns, new images of their steady +professional ambition not to find truth, but to gain the world. + +One would think, after this, that invention would be weary. Not at all! +The Augustinian monk who attended Pompilia has not had attention enough; +and this is the place, Browning thinks, to show what he thought of the +case, and how he used it in his profession. So, we are given a great +part of the sermon he preached on the occasion, and the various +judgments of Rome upon it. + +It is wonderful, after invention has been actively at work for eleven +long books, pouring forth its waters from an unfailing fountain, to find +it, at the end, as gay, as fresh, as keen, as youthful as ever. This, I +repeat, is the excellence of Browning's genius--fulness of creative +power, with imagination in it like a fire. It does not follow that all +it produces is poetry; and what it has produced in _The Ring and the +Book_ is sometimes, save for the metre, nothing better than prose. But +this is redeemed by the noble poetry of a great part of it. The book is, +as I have said, a mixed book--the central arena of that struggle in +Browning between prose and poetry with a discussion of which this +chapter began, and with the mention of which I finish it. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +_LATER POEMS_ + + +A just appreciation of the work which Browning published after _The Ring +and the Book_ is a difficult task. The poems are of various kinds, on +widely separated subjects; and with the exception of those which treat +of Balaustion, they have no connection with one another. Many of them +must belong to the earlier periods of his life, and been introduced into +the volumes out of the crowd of unpublished poems every poet seems to +possess. These, when we come across them among their middle-aged +companions, make a strange impression, as if we found a white-thorn +flowering in an autumnal woodland; and in previous chapters of this book +I have often fetched them out of their places, and considered them where +they ought to be--in the happier air and light in which they were born. +I will not discuss them again, but in forming any judgment of the later +poems they must be discarded. + +The struggle to which I have drawn attention between the imaginative and +intellectual elements in Browning, and which was equally balanced in +_The Ring and the Book_, continued after its publication, but with a +steady lessening of the imaginative and a steady increase of the +intellectual elements. One poem, however, written before the publication +of _The Ring and the Book_, does not belong to this struggle. This is +_Herve Riel_, a ballad of fire and joy and triumph. It is curiously +French in sentiment and expression, and the eager sea-delight in it is +plainly French, not English in feeling. Nor is it only French; it is +Breton in audacity, in self-forgetfulness, in carelessness of reward, +and in loyalty to country, to love and to home. If Browning had been all +English, this transference of himself into the soul of another +nationality would have been wonderful, nay, impossible. As it is, it is +wonderful enough; and this self-transference--one of his finest poetic +powers--is nowhere better accomplished than in this poem, full of the +salt wind and the leap and joy of the sea-waves; but even more full, as +was natural to Browning, of the Breton soul of Herve Riel. + +In _Balaustion's Adventure_ (1871) which next appeared, the imaginative +elements, as we have seen, are still alive and happy; and though they +only emerge at intervals in its continuation, _Aristophanes' Apology_ +(1875), yet they do emerge. Meanwhile, between _Balaustion's Adventure_ +and the end of 1875, he produced four poems--_Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, +Saviour of Society_; _Fifine at the Fair_; _Red Cotton Nightcap +Country_, or _Turf and Towers_; and _The Inn Album_. They are all long, +and were published in four separate volumes. In them the intellectual +elements have all but completely conquered the imaginative. They are, +however, favourite "exercise-places" for some of his admirers, who think +that they derive poetic pleasures from their study. The pleasure these +poems give, when they give it, is not altogether a poetic pleasure. It +is chiefly the pleasure of the understanding called to solve with +excitement a huddle of metaphysical problems. They have the name but not +the nature of poetry. + +They are the work of my Lord Intelligence--attended by wit and +fancy--who sits at the desk of poetry, and with her pen in his hand. He +uses the furniture of poetry, but the goddess herself has left the room. +Yet something of her influence still fills the air of the chamber. In +the midst of the brilliant display that fancy, wit, and intellect are +making, a soft steady light of pure song burns briefly at intervals, and +then is quenched; like the light of stars seen for a moment of quiet +effulgence among the crackling and dazzling of fireworks. + +The poems are, it is true, original. We cannot class them with any +previous poetry. They cannot be called didactic or satirical. The +didactic and satirical poems of England are, for the most part, +artificial, concise, clear. These poems are not artificial, clear or +concise. Nor do they represent the men and women of a cultured, +intellectual and conventional society, such as the poetry of Dryden and +Pope addressed. The natural man is in them--the crude, dull, badly-baked +man--what the later nineteenth century called the real man. We see his +ugly, sordid, contemptible, fettered soul, and long for Salinguerra, or +Lippo Lippi, or even Caliban. The representations are then human enough, +with this kind of humanity, but they might have been left to prose. +Poetry has no business to build its houses on the waste and leprous +lands of human nature; and less business to call its work art. Realism +of this kind is not art, it is science. + +Yet the poems are not scientific, for they have no clarity of argument. +Their wanderings of thought are as intertangled as the sheep-walks on +league after league of high grasslands. When one has a fancy to follow +them, the pursuit is entertaining; but unless one has the fancy, there +are livelier employments. Their chief interest is the impression they +give us of a certain side of Browning's character. They are his darling +debauch of cleverness, of surface-psychology. The analysis follows no +conventional lines, does not take or oppose any well-known philosophical +side. It is not much more than his own serious or fantastic thinking +indulging itself with reckless abandon--amusing itself with itself. And +this gives them a humanity--a Browning humanity--outside of their +subjects. + +The subjects too, though not delightful, are founded on facts of human +life. _Bishop Blougram_ was conceived from Cardinal Wiseman's career, +_Mr. Sludge_ from Mr. Home's. _Prince Hohenstiel Schwangau_ explains and +defends the expediency by which Napoleon III. directed his political +action. _The Inn Album_, _Red Cotton Nightcap Country_, are taken from +actual stories that occurred while Browning was alive, and _Fifine at +the Fair_ analyses a common crisis in the maturer lives of men and +women. The poems thus keep close to special cases, yet--and in this the +poet appears--they have an extension which carries them beyond the +particular subjects into the needs and doings of a wider humanity. Their +little rivers run into the great sea. They have then their human +interest for a reader who does not wish for beauty, passion, +imagination, or the desires of the spirit in his poetry; but who hankers +at his solitary desk after realistic psychology, fanciful ethics, +curiosities of personal philosophy, cold intellectual play with +argument, and honest human ugliness. + +Moreover, the method Browning attempts to use in them for the discovery +of truth is not the method of poetry, nor of any of the arts. It is +almost a commonplace to say that the world of mankind and each +individual in it only arrives at the truth on any matter, large or +small, by going through and exhausting the false forms of that +truth--and a very curious arrangement it seems to be. It is this method +Browning pursues in these poems. He represents one after another various +false or half-true views of the matter in hand, and hopes in that +fashion to clear the way to the truth. But he fails to convince partly +because it is impossible to give all or enough of the false or half-true +views of any one truth, but chiefly because his method is one fitted for +philosophy or science, but not for poetry. Poetry claims to see and feel +the truth at once. When the poet does not assert that claim, and act on +it, he is becoming faithless to his art. + +Browning's method in these poems is the method of a scientific +philosopher, not of an artist. He gets his man into a debateable +situation; the man debates it from various points of view; persons are +introduced who take other aspects of the question, or personified +abstractions such as _Sagacity, Reason, Fancy_ give their opinions. Not +satisfied with this, Browning discusses it again from his own point of +view. He is then like the chess-player who himself plays both red and +white; who tries to keep both distinct in his mind, but cannot help now +and again taking one side more than the other; and who is frequently a +third person aware of himself as playing red, and also of himself as +playing white; and again of himself as outside both the players and +criticising their several games. This is no exaggerated account of what +is done in these poems. Three people, even when the poems are +monologues, are arguing in them, and Browning plays all their hands, +even in _The Inn Album_, which is not a monologue. In _Red Cotton +Nightcap Country_, when he has told the story of the man and woman in +all its sordid and insane detail, with comments of his own, he brings +the victim of mean pleasure and mean superstition to the top of the +tower whence he throws himself down, and, inserting his intelligence +into the soul of the man, explains his own view of the situation. In +_Prince Hohenstiel Schwangau_, we have sometimes what Browning really +thinks, as in the beginning of the poem, about the matter in hand, and +then what he thinks the Prince would think, and then, to complicate the +affair still more, the Prince divides himself, and makes a personage +called _Sagacity_ argue with him on the whole situation. As to _Fifine +at the Fair_--a poem it would not be fair to class altogether with +these--its involutions resemble a number of live eels in a tub of water. +Don Juan changes his personality and his views like a player on the +stage who takes several parts; Elvire is a gliding phantom with gliding +opinions; Fifine is real, but she remains outside of this shifting +scenery of the mind; and Browning, who continually intrudes, is +sometimes Don Juan and sometimes himself and sometimes both together, +and sometimes another thinker who strives to bring, as in the visions +in the poem, some definition into this changing cloudland of the brain. +And after all, not one of the questions posed in any of the poems is +settled in the end. I do not say that the leaving of the questions +unsettled is not like life. It is very like life, but not like the work +of poetry, whose high office it is to decide questions which cannot be +solved by the understanding. + +Bishop Blongram thinks he has proved his points. Gigadibs is half +convinced he has. But the Bishop, on looking back, thinks he has not +been quite sincere, that his reasonings were only good for the occasion. +He has evaded the centre of the thing. What he has said was no more than +intellectual fencing. It certainly is intellectual fencing of the finest +kind. Both the Bishop and his companion are drawn to the life; yet, and +this is the cleverest thing in the poem, we know that the Bishop is in +reality a different man from the picture he makes of himself. And the +truth which in his talk underlies its appearance acts on Gigadibs and +sends him into a higher life. The discussion--as it may be called though +the Bishop only speaks--concerning faith and doubt is full of admirable +wisdom, and urges me to modify my statement that Browning took little or +no interest in the controversies of his time. Yet, all through the +fencing, nothing is decided. The button is always on the Bishop's foil. +He never sends the rapier home. And no doubt that is the reason that his +companion, with "his sudden healthy vehemence" did drive his weapon home +into life--and started for Australia. + +Mr. Sludge, the medium, excuses his imposture, and then thinks "it may +not altogether be imposture. For all he knows there may really be +spirits at the bottom of it. He never meant to cheat; yet he did cheat. +Yet, even if he lied, lies help truth to live; and he must live himself; +and God may have made fools for him to live on;" and many other are the +twists of his defence. The poem is as lifelike in its insight into the +mind of a supple cheat as it is a brilliant bit of literature; but +Browning leaves the matter unconcluded, as he would not have done, I +hold, had he been writing poetry. Prince Hohenstiel's defence of +expediency in politics is made by Browning to seem now right, now wrong, +because he assumes at one time what is true as the ground of his +argument, and then at another what is plainly false, and in neither case +do the assumptions support the arguments. What really is concluded is +not the question, but the slipperiness of the man who argues. And at the +end of the poem Browning comes in again to say that words cannot be +trusted to hit truth. Language is inadequate to express it. Browning was +fond of saying this. It does not seem worth saying. In one sense it is a +truism; in another it resembles nonsense. Words are the only way by +which we can express truth, or our nearest approach to what we think it +is. At any rate, silence, in spite of Maeterlinck, does not express it. +Moreover, with regard to the matter in hand, Browning knew well enough +how a poet would decide the question of expediency he has here brought +into debate. He has decided it elsewhere; but here he chooses not to +take that view, that he may have the fun of exercising his clever brain. +There is no reason why he should not entertain himself and us in this +way; but folk need not call this intellectual jumping to and fro a poem, +or try to induce us to believe that it is the work of art. + +When he had finished these products of a time when he was intoxicated +with his intellect, and of course somewhat proud of it, the poet in him +began to revive. This resurrection had begun in _Fifine at the Fair_. I +have said it would not be just to class this poem with the other three. +It has many an oasis of poetry where it is a happiness to rest. But the +way between their palms and wells is somewhat dreary walking, except to +those who adore minute psychology. The poem is pitilessly long. If +throughout its length it were easy to follow we might excuse the length, +but it is rendered difficult by the incessant interchange of misty +personalities represented by one personality. Elvire, Fifine only exist +in the mind of Don Juan; their thoughts are only expressed in his words; +their outlines not only continually fade into his, but his thought +steals into his presentation of their thought, till it becomes +impossible to individualise them. The form in which Browning wrote the +poem, by which he made Don Juan speak for them, makes this want of +clearness and sharpness inevitable. The work is done with a terrible +cleverness, but it is wearisome at the last. + +The length also might be excused if the subject were a great one or had +important issues for mankind. But, though it has its interest and is +human enough, it does not deserve so many thousand lines nor so much +elaborate analysis. A few lyrics or a drama of two acts might say all +that is worth saying on the matter. What Browning has taken for subject +is an every-day occurrence. We are grateful to him for writing on so +universal a matter, even though it is unimportant; and he has tried to +make it uncommon and important by weaving round it an intricate +lace-work of psychology; yet, when we get down to its main lines, it is +the ordinary event, especially commonplace in any idle society which +clings to outward respectability and is dreadfully wearied of it. Our +neighbours across the Channel call it _La Crise_ when, after years of a +quiet, not unhappy, excellent married existence, day succeeding day in +unbroken continuity of easy affection and limited experience, the man or +the woman, in full middle life, suddenly wearies of the apparent +monotony, the uneventful love, the slow encroaching tide of the +commonplace, and looks on these as fetters on their freedom, as walls +which shut them in from the vivid interests of the outside world, from +the gipsy roving of the passions. The time arrives, when this becomes, +they think, too great for endurance, and their impatience shows itself +in a daily irritability quite new in the household, apparently +causeless, full of sudden, inexplicable turns of thought and act which +turn the peaceful into a tempestuous home. It is not that the husband or +the wife are inconstant by nature--to call _Fifine at the Fair_ a +defence of inconstancy is to lose the truth of the matter--but it is the +desire of momentary change, of a life set free from conventional +barriers, of an outburst into the unknown, of the desire for new +experiences, for something which will bring into play those parts of +their nature of which they are vaguely conscious but which are as yet +unused--new elements in their senses, intellect, imagination, even in +their spirit, but not always in their conscience. That, for the time +being, as in this poem, is often shut up in the cellar, where its voice +cannot be heard. + +This is, as I said, a crisis of common occurrence. It may be rightly +directed, its evil controlled, and a noble object chosen for the +satisfaction of the impulse. Here, that is not the case; and Browning +describes its beginning with great freshness and force as Juan walks +down to the fair with Elvire. Nor has he omitted to treat other forms of +it in his poetry. He knew how usual it was, but he has here made it +unusual by putting it into the heart of a man who, before he yielded to +it, was pleased to make it the subject of a wandering metaphysical +analysis; who sees not only how it appears to himself in three or four +moods, but how it looks to the weary, half-jealous wife to whom he is so +rude while he strives to be courteous, and to the bold, free, +conscienceless child of nature whose favour he buys, and with whom, +after all his barren metaphysics, he departs, only to attain, when his +brief spell of foolish freedom is over, loneliness and cynic satiety. It +may amuse us to circle with him through his arguments, though every one +knows he will yield at last and that yielding is more honest than his +talk; but what we ask is--Was the matter worth the trouble of more than +two thousand lines of long-winded verse? Was it worth an artist's +devotion? or, to ask a question I would not ask if the poem were good +art, is it of any real importance to mankind? Is it, finally, anything +more than an intellectual exercise of Browning on which solitary +psychologists may, in their turn, employ their neat intelligence? This +poem, with the exceptions of some episodes of noble poetry, is, as well +as the three others, a very harlequinade of the intellect. + +I may say, though this is hypercritical, that the name of Don Juan is a +mistake. Every one knows Don Juan, and to imagine him arguing in the +fashion of this poem is absurd. He would instantly, without a word, have +left Elvire, and abandoned Fifine in a few days. The connection then of +the long discussions in the poem with his name throws an air of +unreality over the whole of it. The Don Juan of the poem had much better +have stayed with Elvire, who endured him with weary patience. I have no +doubt that he bored Fifine to extinction. + +The poems that follow these four volumes are mixed work, half +imaginative, half intellectual. Sometimes both kinds are found, +separated, in the same poem; sometimes in one volume half the poems will +be imaginative and the other half not. Could the imaginative and +intellectual elements have now been fused as they were in his earlier +work, it were well; but they were not. They worked apart. His witful +poems are all wit, his analytical poems are all analysis, and his +imaginative poems, owing to this want of fusion, have not the same +intellectual strength they had in other days. _Numpholeptos_, for +instance, an imaginative poem, full too of refined and fanciful emotion, +is curiously wanting in intellectual foundation. + +The _Numpholeptos_ is in the volume entitled _Pacchiarotto, and how he +worked in Distemper_. Part of the poems in it are humorous, such as +_Pacchiarotto_ and _Filippo Baldinucci_, excellent pieces of agreeable +wit, containing excellent advice concerning life. One reads them, is +amused by them, and rarely desires to read them again. In the same +volume there are some severe pieces, sharply ridiculing his critics. In +the old days, when he wrote fine imaginative poetry, out of his heart +and brain working together, he did not mind what the critics said, and +only flashed a scoff or two at them in his creation of Naddo in +_Sordello_. But now when he wrote a great deal of his poetry out of his +brain alone, he became sensitive to criticism. For that sort of poetry +does not rest on the sure foundation which is given by the consciousness +the imagination has of its absolute rightness. He expresses his needless +soreness with plenty of wit in _Pacchiarotto_ and in the _Epilogue_, +criticises his critics, and displays his good opinion of his work--no +doubt of these later poems, like _The Inn Album_ and the rest--with a +little too much of self-congratulation. "The poets pour us wine," he +says, "and mine is strong--the strong wine of the loves and hates and +thoughts of man. But it is not sweet as well, and my critics object. +Were it so, it would be more popular than it is. Sweetness and strength +do not go together, and I have strength." + +But that is not the real question. The question is--Is the strength +poetical? Has it imagination? It is rough, powerful, full of humanity, +and that is well. But is it half prose, or wholly prose? Or is it +poetry, or fit to be called so? He thinks that _Prince Hohenstiel_, or +_Red Cotton Nightcap Country_, are poetry. They are, it is true, strong; +and they are not sweet. But have they the strength of poetry in them, +and not the strength of something else altogether? That is the question +he ought to have answered, and it does not occur to him. + +Yet, he was, in this very book, half-way out of this muddle. There are +poems in it, just as strong as _The Inn Album_, but with the ineffable +spirit of imaginative emotion and thought clasped together in them, so +that the strong is stronger, and the humanity deeper than in the pieces +he thought, being deceived by the Understanding, were more strong than +the poems of old. In _Bifurcation_, in _St. Martin's Summer_, the +diviner spirit breathes. There is that other poem called _Forgiveness_ +of which I have already spoken--one of his masterpieces. _Cenciaja_, +which may be classed with _Forgiveness_ as a study of the passion of +hatred, is not so good as its comrade, but its hatred is shown in a mean +character and for a meaner motive. And the _Prologue_, in its rhythm and +pleasure, its subtlety of thought, its depth of feeling, and its close +union of both, recalls his earlier genius. + +The first of the _Pisgah Sights_ is a jewel. It is like a poem by +Goethe, only Goethe would have seen the "sight" not when he was dying, +but when he was alive to his finger-tips. The second is not like +Goethe's work, nor Browning's; but it is a true picture of what many +feel and are. So is _Fears and Scruples_. As to _Natural Magic_, surely +it is the most charming of compliments, most enchantingly expressed. + +The next volume of original poems was _La Saisiaz_ and the _Two Poets of +Croisic_. The _Croisic Poets_ are agreeable studies, written with verve +and lucidity, of two fantastic events which lifted these commonplace +poets suddenly into fame. They do well to amuse an idle hour. The end of +both is interesting. That of the first, which begins with stanza lix., +discusses the question: "Who cares, how such a mediocrity as Rene lived +after the fame of his prophecy died out?"[11] And Browning answers-- + + Well, I care--intimately care to have + Experience how a human creature felt + In after life, who bore the burthen grave + Of certainly believing God had dealt + For once directly with him: did not rave + --A maniac, did not find his reason melt + --An idiot, but went on, in peace or strife, + The world's way, lived an ordinary life. + +The solution Browning offers is interesting, because it recalls a part +of the experiences of Lazarus in the _Epistle to Karshish_. Rene, like +Lazarus, but only for a moment, has lived in the eternal. + +Are such revelations possible, is his second question. Yes, he answers; +and the form of the answer belongs to the theory of life laid down in +_Paracelsus_. Such sudden openings of the greater world are at +intervals, as to Abt Vogler, given by God to men. + +The end of the second asks what is the true test of the greater poet, +when people take on them to weigh the worth of poets--who was better, +best, this, that or the other bard? When I read this I trembled, knowing +that I had compared him with Tennyson. But when I heard the answer I +trembled no more. "The best poet of any two is the one who leads the +happier life. The strong and joyful poet is the greater." But this is a +test of the greatness of a man, not necessarily of a poet. And, +moreover, in this case, Tennyson and Browning both lived equally happy +lives. Both were strong to the end, and imaginative joy was their +companion. But the verse in which Browning winds up his answer is one of +the finest in his poetry. + + So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force; + What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteer + The palm, his hope be in the vivid horse + Whose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steer + Sluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse, + Despair; but ever mid the whirling fear, + Let, through the tumult, break the poet's face + Radiant, assured his wild slaves win the race! + +_La Saisiaz_ is a more important poem: it describes the sudden death of +his friend, Ann Egerton Smith, and passes from that, and all he felt +concerning it, into an argument on the future life of the soul, with the +assumption that God is, and the soul. The argument is interesting, but +does not concern us here. What does concern us is that Browning has +largely recovered his poetical way of treating a subject. He is no +longer outside of it, but in it. He does not use it as a means of +exercising his brains only. It is steeped in true and vital feeling, and +the deep friendship he had for his friend fills even the theological +argument with a passionate intensity. Nevertheless, the argument is +perilously near the work of the understanding alone--as if a question +like that of immortality could receive any solution from the hands of +the understanding. Only each man, in the recesses of his own spirit with +God, can solve that question for himself, and not for another. That is +Browning's position when he writes as a poet, and no one has written +more positively on the subject. But when he submits the question to +reasoning, he wavers, as he does here, and leaves the question more +undecided than anywhere else in his work. This is a pity, but it is the +natural penalty of his partial abandonment of the poetic for the prosaic +realm, of the imagination for the understanding, of the Reason for +reasoning. + +FOOTNOTES: + +[11] Rene Gentilhomme, page to Prince Conde, heir of France since Louis +XIII. and his brother Gaston were childless, is surprised, while writing +a love poem, by a lightning flash which shatters a marble ducal crown. +He thinks this a revelation from God, and he prophecies that a Dauphin +will be born to the childless Queen. The Dauphin was born, and Rene +pushed suddenly into fame. + + * * * * * + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +_THE LAST POEMS_ + + +Two Volumes of Dramatic Idyls, one in 1879, the other in 1880, followed +_La Saisiaz_ and _The Two Poets of Croisic_. These are also mixed books, +composed, partly of studies of character written in rhythmical prose, +and partly of poems wrought out of the pure imagination. Three of +them--if they were written at this time--show how the Greek legends +still dwelt with Browning; and they brought with them the ocean-scent, +heroic life, and mythical charm of Athenian thought. It would be +difficult, if one could write of them at all, not to write of them +poetically; and _Pheidippides, Echetlos, Pan and Luna_ are alive with +force, imaginative joy, and the victorious sense the poet has of having +conquered his material. _Pheidippides_ is as full of fire, of careless +heroism as _Herve Riel_, and told in as ringing verse. The versing of +_Echetlos_, its rugged, rousing sound, its movement, are in most +excellent harmony with the image of the rude, giant "Holder of the +ploughshare," who at Marathon drove his furrows through the Persians and +rooted up the Mede. Browning has gathered into one picture and one sound +the whole spirit of the story. _Pan and Luna_ is a bold re-rendering of +the myth that Vergil enshrines, and the greater part of it is of such +poetic freshness that I think it must be a waif from the earlier years +of his poetry. Nor is there better imaginative work in his descriptive +poetry than the image of the naked moon, in virginal distress, flying +for refuge through the gazing heaven to the succourable cloud--fleece on +fleece of piled-up snow, drowsily patient--where Pan lay in ambush for +her beauty. + +Among these more gracious idyls, one of singular rough power tells the +ghastly tale of the mother who gave up her little children to the wolves +to save herself. Browning liked this poem, and the end he added to the +story--how the carpenter, Ivan, when the poor frightened woman +confessed, lifted his axe and cut off her head; how he knew that he did +right, and was held to have done right by the village and its pope. The +sin by which a mother sacrificed the lives of her children to save her +own was out of nature: the punishment should be outside of ordinary law. +It is a piteous tale, and few things in Browning equal the horror of the +mother's vain attempt to hide her crime while she confesses it. Nor does +he often show greater imaginative skill in metrical movement than when +he describes in galloping and pattering verse the grey pack emerging +from the forest, their wild race for the sledge, and their demon leader. + +The other idyls in these two volumes are full of interest for those who +care for psychological studies expressed in verse. What the vehicle of +verse does for them is to secure conciseness and suggestiveness in the +rendering of remote, daring, and unexpected turns of thought and +feeling, and especially of conscience. Yet the poems themselves cannot +be called concise. Their subjects are not large enough, nor indeed +agreeable enough, to excuse their length. Goethe would have put them +into a short lyrical form. It is impossible not to regret, as we read +them, the Browning of the _Dramatic Lyrics_. Moreover, some of them are +needlessly ugly. _Halbert and Hob_--and in _Jocoseria_--_Donald_, are +hateful subjects, and their treatment does not redeem them; unlike the +treatment of _Ivan Ivanovitch_ which does lift the pain of the story +into the high realms of pity and justice. Death, swift death, was not +only the right judgment, but also the most pitiful. Had the mother +lived, an hour's memory would have been intolerable torture. +Nevertheless, if Browning, in his desire to represent the whole of +humanity, chose to treat these lower forms of human nature, I suppose we +must accept them as an integral part of his work; and, at least, there +can be no doubt of their ability, and of the brilliancy of their +psychological surprises. _Ned Bratts_ is a monument of cleverness, as +well as of fine characterisation of a momentary outburst of conscience +in a man who had none before; and who would have lost it in an hour, had +he not been hanged on the spot. The quick, agile, unpremeditated turns +of wit in this poem, as in some of the others, are admirably easy, and +happily expressed. Indeed, in these later poems of character and event, +ingenuity or nimbleness of intellect is the chief element, and it is +accompanied by a facile power which is sometimes rude, often careless, +always inventive, fully fantastical, and rarely imaginative in the +highest sense of the word. Moreover, as was not the case of old, they +have, beyond the story, a direct teaching aim, which, while it lowers +them as art, is very agreeable to the ethical psychologist. + +_Jocoseria_ has poems of a higher quality, some of which, like the +lovely _Never the Time and Place_, I have been already quoted. _Ixion_ +is too obscurely put to attain its end with the general public. But it +may be recommended, though vainly, to those theologians who, hungry for +the Divine Right of torture, build their God, like Caliban, out of their +own minds; who, foolish enough to believe that the everlasting endurance +of evil is a necessary guarantee of the everlasting endurance of good, +are still bold and bad enough to proclaim the abominable lie of eternal +punishment. They need that spirit the little child whom Christ placed in +the midst of his disciples; and in gaining which, after living the life +of the lover, the warrior, the poet, the statesman, _Jochanan Hakkadosh_ +found absolute peace and joy. Few poems contain more of Browning's +matured theory of life than this of the Jewish Rabbi; and its +seriousness is happily mingled with imaginative illustrations and with +racy wit. The sketch of Tsaddik, who puts us in mind of Wagner in the +_Faust_, is done with a sarcastic joy in exposing the Philistine, and +with a delight in its own cleverness which is fascinating. + +_Ferishtah's Fancies_ and _Parleyings with Certain People_ followed +_Jocoseria_ in 1884 and 1887. The first of these books is much the +better of the two. A certain touch of romance is given by the Dervish, +by the Fables with which he illustrates his teaching, and by the Eastern +surroundings. Some of the stories are well told, and their scenery is +truthfully wrought and in good colour. The subjects are partly +theological, with always a reference to human life; and partly of the +affections and their working. It is natural to a poet, and delightful in +Browning, to find him in his old age dwelling from poem to poem on the +pre-eminence of love, on love as the ultimate judge of all questions. He +asserts this again and again; with the greatest force in _A Pillar at +Sebzevar_, and, more lightly, in _Cherries_. Yet, and this is a pity, he +is not satisfied with the decision of love, but spends pages in +argumentative discussions which lead him away from that poetical +treatment of the subjects which love alone, as the master, would have +enabled him to give. However, the treatment that love gives we find in +the lyrics at the end of each _Fancy_; and some of these lyrics are of +such delicate and subtle beauty that I am tempted to think that they +were written at an earlier period, and their _Fancies_ composed to fit +them. If they were written now, it is plain that age had not disenabled +him from walking with pleasure and power among those sweet, enamelled +meadows of poetry in whose soil he now thought great poetry did not +grow. And when we read the lyrics, our regret is all the more deep that +he chose the thorn-clad and desert lands, where barren argument goes +round and round its subjects without ever finding the true path to their +centre. + +He lost himself more completely in this error in _Parleyings with +Certain People_, in which book, with the exception of the visionary +landscapes in _Gerard de Lairesse_, and some few passages in _Francis +Furini_ and _Charles Avison_, imagination, such as belongs to a poet, +has deserted Browning. He feels himself as if this might be said of +him; and he asks in _Gerard de Lairesse_ if he has lost the poetic +touch, the poetic spirit, because he writes of the soul, of facts, of +things invisible--not of fancy's feignings, not of the things perceived +by the senses? "I can do this," he answers, "if I like, as well as you," +and he paints the landscape of a whole day filled with mythological +figures. The passage is poetry; we see that he has not lost his poetic +genius. But, he calls it "fooling," and then contrasts the spirit of +Greek lore with the spirit of immortal hope and cheer which he +possesses, with his faith that there is for man a certainty of Spring. +But that is not the answer to his question. It only says that the spirit +which animates him now is higher than the Greek spirit. It does not +answer the question--Whether _Daniel Bartoli_ or _Charles Avison_ or any +of these _Parleyings_ even approach as poetry _Paracelsus_, the +_Dramatic Lyrics_, or _Men and Women_. They do not. Nor has their +intellectual work the same force, unexpectedness and certainty it had of +old. Nevertheless, these _Parleyings_, at the close of the poet's life, +and with biographical touches which give them vitality, enshrine +Browning's convictions with regard to some of the greater and lesser +problems of human life. And when his personality is vividly present in +them, the argument, being thrilled with passionate feeling, rises, but +heavily like a wounded eagle, into an imaginative world. + +The sub-consciousness in Browning's mind to which I have alluded--that +these later productions of his were not as poetical as his earlier work +and needed defence--is the real subject of a remarkable little poem at +the end of the second volume of the _Dramatic Idyls_. He is thinking of +himself as poet, perhaps of that double nature in him which on one side +was quick to see and love beauty; and on the other, to see facts and +love their strength. Sometimes the sensitive predominated. He was only +the lover of beauty whom everything that touched him urged into song. + + "Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke: + Soil so quick-receptive,--not one feather-seed, + Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke + Vitalising virtue: song would song succeed + Sudden as spontaneous--prove a poet-soul!" + +This, which Browning puts on the lips of another, is not meant, we are +told, to describe himself. But it does describe one side of him very +well, and the origin and conduct of a number of his earlier poems. But +now, having changed his manner, even the principles of his poetry, he +describes himself as different from that--as a sterner, more iron poet, +and the work he now does as more likely to endure, and be a power in the +world of men. He was curiously mistaken. + +Indeed, he cries, is that the soil in which a poet grows? + + "Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare: + Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage + Vainly both expend,--few flowers awaken there: + Quiet in its cleft broods--what the after-age + Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage." + +In this sharp division, as in his _Epilogue_ to _Pacchiarotto_, he +misses the truth. It is almost needless to say that a poet can be +sensitive to beauty, and also to the stern facts of the moral and +spiritual struggle of mankind through evil to good. All the great poets +have been sensitive to both and mingled them in their work. They were +ideal and real in both the flower and the pine. They are never forced +to choose one or other of these aims or lives in their poetry. They +mingled facts and fancies, the intellectual and the imaginative. They +lived in the whole world of the outward and the inward, of the senses +and the soul. Truth and beauty were one to them. This division of which +Browning speaks Was the unfortunate result of that struggle between his +intellect and his imagination on which I have dwelt. In old days it was +not so with him. His early poetry had sweetness with strength, stern +thinking with tender emotion, love of beauty with love of truth, +idealism with realism, nature with humanity, fancy with fact. And this +is the equipment of the great poet. When he divides these qualities each +from the other, and is only aesthetic or only severe in his realism; only +the worshipper of Nature or only the worshipper of human nature; only +the poet of beauty or only the poet of austere fact; only the idealist +or only the realist; only of the senses or only of the soul--he may be a +poet, but not a great poet. And as the singular pursuit of the realistic +is almost always bound up with pride, because realism does not carry us +beyond ourselves into the infinite where we are humbled, the realistic +poetry loses imagination; its love of love tends to become self-love, or +love of mere cleverness. And then its poetic elements slowly die. + +There was that, as I have said, in Browning which resisted this sad +conclusion, but the resistance was not enough to prevent a great loss of +poetic power. But whatever he lost, there was one poetic temper of mind +which never failed him, the heroic temper of the faithful warrior for +God and man; there was one ideal view of humanity which dominated all +his work; there was one principle which directed all his verse to +celebrate the struggle of humanity towards the perfection for which God, +he believed, had destined it. These things underlie all the poems in +_Ferishtah's Fancies_ and the _Parleyings with Certain People_, and give +to them the uplifted, noble trumpet note with which at times they are +animated. The same temper and principle, the same view of humanity +emerge in that fine lyric which is the Epilogue to _Ferishtah's +Fancies_, and in the Epilogue to _Asolando_. + +The first sees a vision of the present and the future in which all the +battle of our life passes into a glorious end; nor does the momentary +doubt that occurs at the close of the poem--that his belief in a divine +conclusion of our strife may only have been caused by his own happiness +in love--really trouble his conviction. That love itself is part of the +power which makes the noble conclusion sure. The certainty of this +conclusion made his courage in the fight unwavering, despair impossible, +joy in battle, duty; and to be "ever a fighter" in the foremost rank the +highest privilege of man. + + Then the cloud-rift broadens, spanning earth that's under, + Wide our world displays its worth, man's strife and strife's success: + All the good and beauty, wonder crowning wonder, + Till my heart and soul applaud perfection, nothing less. + +And for that reason, because of the perfectness to come, Browning lived +every hour of his life for good and against wrong. He said with justice +of himself, and with justice he brought the ideal aim and the real +effort together: + + I looked beyond the world for truth and beauty: + Sought, found, and did my duty. + +Nor, almost in the very grasp of death, did this faith fail him. He +kept, in the midst of a fretful, slothful, wailing world, where prophets +like Carlyle and Ruskin were as impatient and bewildered, as lamenting +and despondent, as the decadents they despised, the temper of his +Herakles in _Balaustion_. He left us that temper as his last legacy, and +he could not have left us a better thing. We may hear it in his last +poem, and bind it about our hearts in sorrow and joy, in battle and +peace, in the hour of death and the days of judgment. + + At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time + When you set your fancies free, + Will they pass to where--by death, fools think, imprisoned-- + Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so + --Pity me? + + Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken + What had I on earth to do + With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? + Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel + --Being--who? + + One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward, + Never doubted clouds would break, + Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, + Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, + Sleep to wake. + + No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time + Greet the unseen with a cheer! + Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, + "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,--fight on, fare ever + There as here!" + +With these high words he ended a long life, and his memory still falls +upon us, like the dew which fell on Paradise. It was a life lived fully, +kindly, lovingly, at its just height from the beginning to the end. No +fear, no vanity, no lack of interest, no complaint of the world, no +anger at criticism, no villain fancies disturbed his soul. No laziness, +no feebleness in effort, injured his work, no desire for money, no +faltering of aspiration, no pandering of his gift and genius to please +the world, no surrender of art for the sake of fame or filthy lucre, no +falseness to his ideal, no base pessimism, no slavery to science yet no +boastful ignorance of its good, no morbid naturalism, no devotion to the +false forms of beauty, no despair of man, no retreat from men into a +world of sickly or vain beauty, no abandonment of the great ideas or +disbelief in their mastery, no enfeeblement of reason such as at this +time walks hand in hand with the worship of the mere discursive +intellect, no lack of joy and healthy vigour and keen inquiry and +passionate interest in humanity. Scarcely any special bias can be found +running through his work; on the contrary, an incessant change of +subject and manner, combined with a strong but not overweening +individuality, raced, like blood through the body, through every vein of +his labour. Creative and therefore joyful, receptive and therefore +thoughtful, at one with humanity and therefore loving; aspiring to God +and believing in God, and therefore steeped to the lips in radiant Hope; +at one with the past, passionate with the present, and possessing by +faith an endless and glorious future--this was a life lived on the top +of the wave, and moving with its motion from youth to manhood, from +manhood to old age. + +There is no need to mourn for his departure. Nothing feeble has been +done, nothing which lowers the note of his life, nothing we can regret +as less than his native strength. His last poem was like the last look +of the Phoenix to the sun before the sunlight lights the odorous pyre +from which the new-created Bird will spring. And as if the Muse of +Poetry wished to adorn the image of his death, he passed away amid a +world of beauty, and in the midst of a world endeared to him by love. +Italy was his second country. In Florence lies the wife of his heart. In +every city he had friends, friends not only among men and women, but +friends in every ancient wall, in every fold of Apennine and Alp, in +every breaking of the blue sea, in every forest of pines, in every +Church and Palace and Town Hall, in every painting that great art had +wrought, in every storied market place, in every great life which had +adorned, honoured and made romantic Italy; the great mother of Beauty, +at whose breasts have hung and whose milk have sucked all the arts and +all the literatures of modern Europe. Venice saw and mourned his death. +The sea and sky and mountain glory of the city he loved so well +encompassed him with her beauty; and their soft graciousness, their +temperate power of joy and life made his departure peaceful. Strong and +tender in life, his death added a new fairness to his life. Mankind is +fortunate to have so noble a memory, so full and excellent a work to +rest upon and love. + + + + +INDEX + +OF PASSAGES RELATING TO THE POEMS + + +A + +Andre del Sarto (A. de Musset) + +Animal Studies + +Arnold, Matthew + +Art, Poems dealing with + Romantic Revival in + During the Renaissance + +Art, Browning's Poetic, + Compared with that of Tennyson + Compared with that of Morris and Rossetti + In Abt Vogler + In the Grammarian's Funeral + In the Ring and the Book + +Art, Browning's Theory of, + In Andrea del Sarto + In Pippa Passes + In Sordello + +Aurora Leigh (E.B. Browning) + + +B + +Balaustion's Adventures and Aristophanes' Apology, + Character of the Heroine + Contrast between Balaustion and Pompilia + Balaustion's Prologue + The Story of Alkestis + Representation of Aristophanes + +Becket (Tennyson) + +Boccaccio + +Browning, Elizabeth Barrett + Poems relating to + +Browning-- + His relation to his Age + His artistic Development + His Art Poems + His Minor Characters + His Sense of Colour + His Composition + His Cosmopolitan Sympathies + As a Dramatist + As Poet of Humanity + His Imagination + The Influence of Shelley + Intellectual Analysis + His Love Poems + His Lyrical Poems + His Methods + His Treatment of Nature + His Obscurity + His Originality + His Treatment of the Renaissance + Romantic and Classic Elements in + His Spontaneity + His Style + Compared with Tennyson + His Theory of Life + His Wideness of Range + His Wit and Humour + +Byron + + +C + +Cain (Byron) + +Carlyle + +Cenci, The (Shelley) + +Charles the First (Shelley) + +Chaucer + +Clough + +Coleridge + +Colour-sense in Browning + +Cup, The (Tennyson) + + +D + +Dante + +Decameron (Boccaccio) + +Dramas, The + Absence of Nature Pictures in + Defects in Browning's Dramatic Treatment + Dramas separately considered + +Dramatic Poems + +Duchess of Malfi (Webster) + + +E + +English Scenery in Browning + + +F + +Falcon, The (Tennyson) + +Form in Poetry + +French Revolution, its Influence in England + + +H + +Hand and Soul (Rossetti) + +Harold (Tennyson) + +History, Imaginative Study of + +Homer + +Humanity, Browning's Treatment of + +Humour, Browning's + +Hunt, Holman + + +I + +Imagination in Browning + +Imaginative Representations + Definition of Term + Their Inception + Theological Studies + Renaissance Studies + Poems on Modern Italy + +In Memoriam (Tennyson) + + +K + +Keats + +King Lear + + +L + +Landscapes, Browning's + +Later Poems + More intellectual than imaginative + Subjects generally founded on Fact + Show Sensitiveness to Criticism + +Last Poems + Psychological Studies in + +Lotos-Eaters, The (Tennyson) + +Love Poetry, + What it is and when produced + Rare in Browning + +Love Poems, The + Poems of Passion + Poems to Elizabeth Barrett Browning + Impersonal Poems + Poems embodying Phases of Love + +Lyrical Element in Browning + + +M + +Malory + +Manfred (Byron) + +Mariana in the South (Tennyson) + +Maud (Tennyson) + +Mazzini + +Midsummer Night's Dream, A + +Millais + +Milton + +Morris + +Musset, Alfred de + + +N + +Nature, Browning's Treatment of + Separate from and subordinate to Man + Joy in Nature + God and Nature + The Pathetic Fallacy + Illustrations drawn from Nature + Browning's view compared with that of other Poets + His Treatment illustrated in Saul + Faults in his Treatment + Nature Pictures + Later Indifference to Nature + +New Age, The (Arnold) + +Northern Farmer, The (Tennyson) + + +O + +Oenone (Tennyson) + +Originality, Browning's + + +P + +Palace of Art, The (Tennyson) + +Paracelsus + Nature-description in + Theory of Life in + Sketch of Argument + +Passions, Poems of the Fiercer + Poems of the Romantic + +Pathetic Fallacy, The + +Pauline + Theory of Life in + Nature-description in + Mental Development of Hero +Character of Pauline + +Petrarch + +Pippa Passes + Nature-description in + Theory of Art in + Lyrics in + Studies of Women in + +Plato + +Poems, Passages relating to, + Abt Vogler + Adam, Lilith and Eve + After + Andrea del Sarto + Any Wife to any Husband + Aristophanes' Apology + Asolando + Balaustion's Adventure + Bean Stripe, A + Before + Bells and Pomegranates + Bifurcation + Bishop Blougram + Bishop orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church, The + Blot in the 'Scutcheon, A + By the Fireside + Caliban upon Setebos + Cavalier Tunes + Cenciaja + Charles Avison + Cherries + Childe Ronald + Christmas Eve + Cleon + Colombe's Birthday + Confessions + Count Gismond + Cristina + Cristina and Monaldeschi + Daniel Bartoli + Death in the Desert, A + De Gustibus + Dis Aliter Visum + Donald + Dramas, The + Strafford + King Victor and King Charles + The Return of the Druses + A Blot in the 'Scutcheon + Colombe's Birthday + Luria + A Soul's Tragedy + Pippa Passes + Dramatic Idylls + Dramatic Lyrics + Dramatic Romances + Dramatis Personae + Easter Day + Echetlos + Englishman in Italy, The + Epilogue to Asolando, in + Epilogue to Ferishtah's Fancies + Epilogue to Pacchiarotto + Epistle of Karshish, An + Evelyn Hope + Fears and Scruples + Ferishtah's Fancies + Fifine at the Fair + Filippo Baldinucci + Flight of the Duchess, The + Flower's Name, The + Forgiveness, A + Fra Lippo Lippi + Francis Furini + Gerard de Lairesse + Glove, The + Gold Hair + Grammarian's Funeral, A + Halbert and Hob + Herve Riel + Holy Cross Day + Home Thoughts from Abroad + Home Thoughts from the Sea + How it strikes a Contemporary + How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix + In a Balcony + In a Gondola + Inn Album, The + Instans Tyrannus + In Three Days + Italian in England, The + Ivan Ivanovitch + Ixion + James Lee's Wife + Jochanan Hakkadosh + Jocoseria + Johannes Agricola in Meditation + King Victor and King Charles + Laboratory, The + Last Ride Together, The + Light Woman, A + Lost Mistress, The + Love Among the Ruins + Lovers' Quarrel, A + Luria + Meeting at Night--Parting at Morning + Men and Women + Mr. Sludge, the Medium + My Last Duchess + Natural Magic + Natural Theology on the Island + Ned Bratts + Never the Time and the Place + Now + Numpholeptos + Old Pictures in Florence + One Word More + Pacchiarotto + Pacchiarotto Prologue to + Pacchiarotto Epilogue to + Pan and Luna + Paracelsus + Parleyings with Certain People + Pauline + Pearl--A Girl, A + Pheidippides + Pictor Ignotus + Pied Piper of Hamelin, The + Pillar at Sebzevar, A + Pippa Passes + Pisgah Sights + Porphyria's Lover + Pretty Woman, A + Rabbi Ben Ezra + Red Cotton Nightcap Country + Return of the Druses, The + Reverie + Rudel and the Lady of Tripoli + St. Martin's Summer + Saisiaz, La + Saul + Serenade at the Villa, A + Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, A + Solomon and Balkis + Sordello + Soul's Tragedy, A + Speculative + Strafford + Summum Bonum + Time's Revenges + Toccata of Galuppi's, A + Too Late + Transcendentalism + Two in the Campagna + Two Poets of Croisic + Up in a Villa--Down in the City + Waring + Worst of it, The + Youth and Art + +Poet, Characteristics of a + +Poetry + Grounds of Judgment on + Characteristics of Best + Form in + Matter in + Thought and Emotion in + +Portraiture, Browning's Power of Minute + +Prelude, The (Wordsworth) + +Princess, The (Tennyson) + +Promise of May, The (Tennyson) + +Purgatorio, The (Dante) + + +Q + +Queen Mary (Tennyson) + + +R + +Racine + +Realism in Browning + +Religious Phases, Poems dealing with + +Renaissance, The + +Renaissance, Poems dealing with the + +Renan + +Revenge, The (Tennyson) + +Ring and the Book, The + Nature-description in + Its Position among Browning's Works + Its Plan + Humour and Wit in + Partly intellectual, partly imaginative + Study of Renaissance in + Scenery and human Background + Browning's imaginative Method in + Minor Characters in + Principal Characters + Guido + Caponsacchi + Pompilia + The Pope + The Conclusion + +Rizpah (Tennyson) + +Robin Hood (Tennyson) + +Romantic Spirit in Browning + +Rossetti + +Ruskin + + +S + +St. Simeon Stylites (Tennyson) + +Scott + +Shakespeare + +Shelley + +Sir Galahad (Tennyson) + +Sordello + Landscape in + The Temperament of the Hero + His artistic Development + The Argument + Historical Background to the Story + Nature Pictures + Portraiture + Illustrative Episodes + Analogy between Sordello and Browning + Theory of Art in + Theory of Life in + Character of the Heroine + +Style in Browning + +Swinburne + + +T + +Tempest, The (Shakespeare) + +Tennyson + +Turner + +Theory of Life, Browning's + Its main Features + In Pauline + In Paracelsus + In Easter Day + In Abt Vogler + In Andrea del Sarto + In Old Pictures in Florence + In Sordello + + +V + +Vergil +Vita Nuova, La (Dante) + + +W + +Will Waterproof's Monologue (Tennyson) + +Womanhood, Studies of + In the Early Poems + Pauline + Lady Carlisle + Palma + In the Dramas, &c. + Ottima + Pippa + Anael + Mildred and Guendolen + Colombe + Constance + In the Dramatic Lyrics + Characteristics of Browning's Women + Poems to Mrs. Browning + Pompilia + Balaustion + +Womanhood in the Modern Poets + +Wordsworth + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poetry Of Robert Browning +by Stopford A. 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