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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9067-8.txt b/9067-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb43599 --- /dev/null +++ b/9067-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11891 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Robert Browning: How To Know Him, by William Lyon Phelps +#3 in our series by William Lyon Phelps + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Robert Browning: How To Know Him + +Author: William Lyon Phelps + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9067] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on September 2, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT BROWNING: HOW TO KNOW HIM *** + + + + +Produced by C. Aldarondo, T. Vergon, R. Prince and the Distributed Proofreaders + + + + +[Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING] + +ROBERT BROWNING: HOW TO KNOW HIM + +By WILLIAM LYON PHELPS, M.A., PH.D. Lampton Professor of English + Literature at Yale + + +WITH PORTRAIT + +TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY WITH SINCERE AFFECTION AND RESPECT + +PREFACE + +In this volume I have attempted to give an account of Browning's +life and an estimation of his character: to set forth, with +sufficient illustration from his poems, his theory of poetry, his +aim and method: to make clear some of the leading ideas in his work: +to show his fondness for paradox: to exhibit the nature and basis of +his optimism. I have given in complete form over fifty of his poems, +each one preceded by my interpretation of its meaning and +significance. + +W. L. P. + +[Illistration: Seven Gables, Lake Huron] + + + + +CONTENTS + + +CHAPTER + +I THE MAN + +II BROWNING'S THEORY OF POETRY + +III LYRICS + +IV DRAMATIC LYRICS + +V DRAMATIC MONOLOGUES + +VI POEMS OF PARADOX + +VII BROWNING'S OPTIMISM + +INDEX + + + + +LIST OF POEMS + + +ABT VOGLER + +ANDREA DEL SARTO + +APPARENT FAILURE + +BAD DREAMS + +BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB, THE + +CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS + +CAVALIER TUNES + +"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME" + +CONFESSIONS + +COUNT GISMOND + +CRISTINA + +EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO + +EPILOGUE TO FEFINE AT THE FAIR + +EPISTLE (AN) CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH + +EVELYN HOPE + +EYES CALM BESIDE THEE + +FACE, A + +GLOVE, THE + +GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL, A + +GUARDIAN-ANGEL, THE + +HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD + +HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA + +HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY + +"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX" + +JAMES LEE'S WIFE (two stanzas from) + +JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION + +LABORATORY, THE + +LAST RIDE TOGETHER, THE + +LOST LEADER, THE + +LOST MISTRESS, THE + +LOVE AMONG THE RUINS + +MEETING AT NIGHT + +MY LAST DUCHESS + +MY STAR + +NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE + +ONE WAY OF LOVE + +ONE WORD MORE + +OVER THE SEA OUR GALLEYS WENT + +PARTING AT MORNING + +PORPHYRIA'S LOVER + +PROLOGUE TO ASOLANDO + +PROLOGUE TO JOCOSERIA + +PROLOGUE TO LA SAISIAZ + +PROLOGUE TO PACCHIAROTTO + +PROLOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC + +PROSPICE + +RABBI BEN EZRA + +REPHAN + +RESPECTABILITY + +SAUL + +SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS + +SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER + +SONG FROM A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON + +SONGS FROM PARACELSUS + +SONGS FROM PIPPA PASSES + +STATUE (THE) AND THE BUST + +SUMMUM BONUM + +"TRANSCENDENTALISM" + +UP AT A VILLA--DOWN IN THE CITY + +WHICH? + + + + + + +BROWNING + + + +I + + +THE MAN + +If we enter this world from some other state of existence, it seems +certain that in the obscure pre-natal country, the power of free +choice--so stormily debated by philosophers and theologians +here--does not exist. Millions of earth's infants are handicapped at +the start by having parents who lack health, money, brains, and +character; and in many cases the environment is no better than the +ancestry. "God plants us where we grow," said Pompilia, and we can +not save the rose by placing it on the tree-top. Robert Browning, +who was perhaps the happiest man in the nineteenth century, was +particularly fortunate in his advent. Of the entire population of +the planet in the year of grace 1812, he could hardly have selected +a better father and mother than were chosen for him; and the place +of his birth was just what it should have been, the biggest town on +earth. All his life long he was emphatically a city man, dwelling in +London, Florence, Paris, and Venice, never remaining long in rural +surroundings. + +Browning was born on May 7, 1812, in Southampton Street, Camberwell, +London, a suburb on the southern side of the river. One hundred years +later, as I traversed the length of this street, it looked squalid +in the rain, and is indeed sufficiently unlovely. But in 1812 it was +a good residential locality, and not far away were fresh woods and +pastures.... The good health of Browning's father may be inferred +from the fact that he lived to be eighty-four, "without a day's +illness;" he was a practical, successful business man, an official +in the Bank of England. His love of literature and the arts is +proved by the fact that he practised them constantly for the pure +joy of the working; he wrote reams and reams of verse, without +publishing a line. He had extraordinary facility in composition, +being able to write poetry even faster than his son. Rossetti said +that he had "a real genius for drawing." He owned a large and +valuable library, filled with curiosities of literature. Robert was +brought up among books, even in earliest youth turning over many a +quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. His latest biographers +have shown the powerful and permanent effects on his poetry of this +early reading. + +Browning's father--while not a rich man--had sufficient income to +give his son every possible advantage in physical and intellectual +training, and to enable him to live without earning a cent; after +Robert grew up, he was absolutely free to devote his entire time and +energy to writing poetry, which, even to the day of his death, did +not yield a livelihood. The young poet was free from care, free from +responsibility, and able from childhood to old age to bring out the +best that was in him. A curious and exact parallel is found in the +case of the great pessimist, Schopenhauer, who never ceased to be +grateful to his father for making his whole life-work possible. In +his later years, Browning wrote: "It would have been quite +unpardonable in any case not to have done my best. My dear father +put me in a condition most favourable for the best work I was +capable of. When I think of the many authors who had to fight their +way through all sorts of difficulties I have no reason to be proud +of my achievements." + +Browning's mother, whom he loved with passionate adoration, was a +healthy and sensible woman; better than all these gifts, she was +deeply religious, with sincere and unaffected piety. She was a +Dissenter, a Congregationalist, and brought up Robert in the nurture +and admonition of the Lord, herself a noble example of her teachings. +This evangelical training had an incalculably strong influence on +the spirit of Browning's poetry. She loved music ardently, and when +Robert was a boy, used to play the piano to him in the twilight. He +always said that he got his devotion to music from her. + +In these days, when there is such a strong reaction everywhere +against the elective system in education, it is interesting to +remember that Browning's education was simply the elective system +pushed to its last possibility. It is perhaps safe to say that no +learned man in modern times ever had so little of school and college. +His education depended absolutely and exclusively on his inclinations; +he was encouraged to study anything he wished. His father granted +him perfect liberty, never sent him to any "institution of learning," +and allowed him to do exactly as he chose, simply providing +competent private instruction in whatever subject the youth +expressed any interest. Thus he learned Greek, Latin, the modern +languages, music (harmony and counterpoint, as well as piano and +organ), chemistry (a private laboratory was fitted up in the house), +history and art. Now every one knows that; so far as definite +acquisition of knowledge is concerned, our schools and colleges-at +least in America--leave much to be desired; our boys and girls study +the classics for years without being able to read a page at sight; +and the modern languages show a similarly meagre harvest. If one +wishes positive and practical results one must employ a private tutor, +or work alone in secret. The great advantages of our schools and +colleges--except in so far as they inspire intellectual +curiosity--are not primarily of a scholarly nature; their strength +lies in other directions. The result of Browning's education was +that at the age of twenty he knew more than most college graduates +ever know; and his knowledge was at his full command. His favorite +reading on the train, for example, was a Greek play; one of the +reasons why his poetry sometimes seems so pedantic is simply because +he never realised how ignorant most of us really are. I suppose he +did not believe that men could pass years in school and university +training and know so little. Yet the truth is, that most boys, +brought up as Browning was, would be utterly unfitted for the active +duties and struggles of life, and indeed for the amenities of social +intercourse. With ninety-nine out of a hundred, such an education, +so far as it made for either happiness or efficiency, would be a +failure. But Browning was the hundredth man. He was profoundly +learned without pedantry and without conceit; and he was primarily a +social being, + +His physical training was not neglected. The boy had expert private +instruction in fencing, boxing, and riding. He was at ease on the +back of a spirited horse. He was particularly fond of dancing, which +later aroused the wonder of Elizabeth Barrett, who found it +difficult to imagine the author of _Paracelsus_ dancing the polka. + +In 1833 appeared Browning's first poem, _Pauline_, which had been +completed before he was twenty-one years old. His aunt, Mrs. +Silverthorne, gave him one hundred and fifty dollars, which paid the +expenses of publication. Not a single copy was sold, and the unbound +sheets came home to roost. The commercial worth of _Pauline_ was +exactly zero; today it is said that only five copies exist. One was +sold recently for two thousand four hundred dollars. + +In 1834 Browning visited Russia, going by steamer to Rotterdam, and +then driving fifteen hundred miles with horses. Although he was in +Russia about three months, and at the most sensitive time of life, +the country made surprisingly little impression upon him, or at +least upon his poetry. The dramatic idyl, _Ivan Ivànovitch_, is +practically the only literary result of this journey. It was the +south, and not the north, that was to be the inspiration of Browning. + +He published his second poem, _Paracelsus_, in 1835. Although this +attracted no general attention, and had no sale, it was +enthusiastically reviewed by John Forster, who declared that its +author was a man of genius. The most fortunate result of its +appearance was that it brought Browning within the pale of literary +society, and gave him the friendship of some of the leading men in +London. The great actor Macready was charmed with the poem, and +young Browning haunted Macready's dressing-room at the theatre for +years; but their friendship ceased in 1843 when _A Blot in the +'Scutcheon_ was acted. Browning wrote four plays for Macready, two +of which were accepted. + +Although Browning late in life remarked in a casual conversation +that he had visited Italy in 1834, he must have been mistaken, for +it is impossible to find any record of such a journey. To the best +of our knowledge, he first saw the land of his inspiration in 1838, +sailing from London on April 13th, passing through the Straits of +Gibraltar on the twenty-ninth, and reaching Trieste on May 30th. On +the first of June he entered Venice. It was on a walking-trip that +he first saw the village of Asolo, about thirty miles to the +northeast of Venice. Little did he then realise how closely his name +would be forever associated with this tiny town. The scenes of +_Pippa Passes_ he located there: the last summer of his life, in +1889, was spent in Asolo, his last volume he named in memory of the +village; and on the one hundredth anniversary of his birth, the +street where he lived and wrote in 1889 was formally named Via +Roberto Browning. His son, Robert Barrett Browning, lived to see +this event, and died at Asolo on July 8, 1912. + +The long and obscure poem _Sordello_ was published in 1840; and then +for thirty years Browning produced poetry of the highest order: +poetry that shows scarcely any obscurity, and that in lyric and +dramatic power has given its author a fixed place among the greatest +names in English literature. + +The story of the marriage and married life of Elizabeth Barrett and +Robert Browning is one of the greatest love stories in the world's +history; their love-letters reveal a drama of noble passion that +excels in beauty and intensity the universally popular examples of +Heloise and Abelard, Aucassin and Nicolette, Paul and Virginia. +There was a mysterious bond between them long before the personal +acquaintance: each admired the other's poetry. Miss Barrett had a +picture of Browning in her sickroom, and declared that the adverse +criticism constantly directed against his verse hurt her like a lash +across her own back. In a new volume of poems, she made a +complimentary reference to his work, and in January, 1845, he wrote +her a letter properly beginning with the two words, "I love." It was +her verses that he loved, and said so. In May he saw her and +illustrated his own doctrine by falling in love with her at first +sight. She was in her fortieth year, and an invalid; but if any one +is surprised at the passion she aroused in the handsome young poet, +six years her junior, one has only to read her letters. She was a +charming woman, feminine from her soul to her finger-tips, the +incarnation of _das Ewigweibliche_. Her intimate friends were mostly +what were then known as strong-minded women--I suppose to-day they +would seem like timid, shy violets. She was modest, gentle, winsome, +irresistible: profoundly learned, with the eager heart of a child. + +Wimpole Street in London, "the long, unlovely street," as Tennyson +calls it, is holy ground to the lover of literature: for at Number +67 lived Arthur Henry Hallam, and diagonally opposite, at Number 50, +lived Elizabeth Barrett. This street--utterly commonplace in +appearance--is forever associated with the names of our two great +Victorian poets: and the association with Tennyson is Death: with +Browning, Love. + +Not only was Elizabeth believed to be a hopeless invalid, but her +father had forbidden any of his children to marry. He was a +religious man, whose motto in his own household was apparently +"Thou shalt have no other gods before me." He had the particular +kind of piety that is most offensive to ordinary humanity. He gave +his children, for whom he had a stern and savage passion, everything +except what they wanted. He had an insane jealousy of any possible +lover, and there is no doubt that he would have preferred to attend +the funeral of any one of his children rather than a marriage. But +Browning's triumphant love knew no obstacles, and he persuaded +Elizabeth Barrett to run away with him. They were married in +September, 1846, and shortly after left for Italy. Her father refused +to see either of them in subsequent years, and returned his +daughter's letters unopened. Is there any cause in nature for these +hard hearts? + +Browning's faith wrought a miracle. Instead of dying on the journey +to Italy, Mrs. Browning got well, and the two lived together in +unclouded happiness for fifteen years, until 1861, when she died in +his arms. Not a scrap of writing passed between them from the day of +her marriage to the day of her death: for they were never separated. +She said that all a woman needed to be perfectly happy was three +things--Life, Love, Italy--and she had all three. + +The relations between Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning had all +the wonder and beauty of a mediaeval romance, with the notable +addition of being historically true. The familiar story of a damosel +imprisoned in a gloomy dungeon, guarded by a cruel dragon--and then, +when all her hope had vanished, rescued by the sudden appearance of +the brilliant knight, who carried her away from her dull prison to a +land of sunshine and happiness--this became the literal experience +of Elizabeth Barrett. Her love for her husband was the passionate +love of a woman for a man, glorified by adoration for the champion +who had miraculously transformed her life from the depths of despair +to the topmost heights of joy. He came, "pouring heaven into this +shut house of life." She expressed the daily surprise of her +happiness in her Sonnets, which one day she put shyly into his hands: + + I thought once how Theocritus had sung + Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, + Who each one in a gracious hand appears + To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: + And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, + I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, + The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, + Those of my own life, who by turns had flung + A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, + So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move + Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; + And a voice said in mastery while I strove, ... + "Guess now who holds thee?"--"Death!" I said. But, there, + The silver answer rang ... "Not Death, but Love." + + My own Beloved, who hast lifted me + From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown, + And in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown + A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully + Shines out again, as all the angels see, + Before thy saving kiss! My own, my own, + Who camest to me when the world was gone, + And I who looked for only God, found _thee_! + I find thee: I am safe, and strong, and glad. + As one who stands in dewless asphodel + Looks backward on the tedious time he had + In the upper life ... so I, with bosom-swell, + Make witness here between the good and bad, + That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well. + +Browning replied to this wonderful tribute by appending to the fifty +poems published in 1855 his _One Word More_. He wrote this in a +metre different from any he had ever used, for he meant the poem to +be unique in his works, a personal expression of his love. He +remarked that Rafael wrote sonnets, that Dante painted a picture, +each man going outside the sphere of his genius to please the woman +he loved, to give her something entirely apart from his gifts to the +world. He wished that he could do something other than poetry for his +wife, and in the next life he believed that it would be possible. +But here God had given him only one gift--verse: he must therefore +present her with a specimen of the only art he could command; but it +should be utterly unlike all his other poems, for they were dramatic; +here just once, and for one woman only, he would step out from +behind the scenes, and address her directly in his own person. + +Of course Browning could have modelled a statue, or written a piece +of music for Elizabeth, for in both of these arts he had attained +moderate proficiency: but he wished not only to make a gift just for +her, but to give it to her in public, with the whole world regarding; +therefore it must be of his best. + +He calls her his _moon_ of poets. He reminds her how a few days ago, +they had seen the crescent moon in Florence, how they had seen it +nightly waxing until it lamped the facade of San Miniato, while the +nightingales, in ecstasy among the cypress trees, gave full-throated +applause. Then they had travelled together to London, and now saw +the same dispirited moon, saving up her silver parsimoniously, sink +in gibbous meanness behind the chimney-tops. + +The notable thing about the moon is that whereas the earth, during +one revolution about the sun, turns on its own axis three hundred +and sixty-five times, the shy moon takes exactly the same length of +time to turn around as she takes to circle once around the earth. +For this reason, earth's inhabitants have never seen but one side of +the moon, and never will. Elizabeth Browning is _his_ moon, because +she shows the other side to him alone. The radiant splendor of her +poetry fills the whole earth with light; but to her husband she +shows the other side, the loving, domestic woman, the unspeakably +precious and intimate associate of his daily life. The world thinks +it knows her; but it has seen only one side; it knows nothing of the +marvellous depth and purity of her real nature. + + + +ONE WORD MORE + +TO E.B.B. 1855 + + +I + + There they are, my fifty men and women + Naming me the fifty poems finished! + Take them, Love, the book and me together: + Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. + + + II + + Rafael made a century of sonnets, + Made and wrote them in a certain volume + Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil + Else he only used to draw Madonnas: + These, the world might view--but one, the volume. + Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you. + Did she live and love it all her life-time? + Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, + Die, and let it drop beside her pillow + Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, + Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving-- + Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, + Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's? + + + III + + You and I would rather read that volume, + (Taken to his beating bosom by it) + Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, + Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas-- + Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, + Her, that visits Florence in a vision, + Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre-- + Seen by us and all the world in circle. + + + IV + + You and I will never read that volume. + Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple + Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it + Guido Reni dying, all Bologna + Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!" + Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. + + + V + + Dante once prepared to paint an angel: + Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice." + While he mused and traced it and retraced it, + (Peradventure with a pen corroded + Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, + When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked, + Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, + Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, + Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, + Let the wretch go festering through Florence)-- + Dante, who loved well because he hated, + Hated wickedness that hinders loving, + Dante standing, studying his angel,-- + In there broke the folk of his Inferno. + Says he--"Certain people of importance" + (Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) + "Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." + Says the poet-"Then I stopped my painting." + + + VI + + You and I would rather see that angel, + Painted by the tenderness of Dante, + Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno. + + + VII + + You and I will never see that picture. + While he mused on love and Beatrice, + While he softened o'er his outlined angel, + In they broke, those "people of importance": + We and Bice bear the loss for ever. + + + VIII + + What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? + This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not + Once, and only once, and for one only, + (Ah, the prize!) to find his love a language + Fit and fair and simple and sufficient-- + Using nature that's an art to others, + Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature. + Ay, of all the artists living, loving, + None but would forego his proper dowry,-- + Does he paint? he fain would write a poem,-- + Does he write? he fain would paint a picture, + Put to proof art alien to the artist's, + Once, and only once, and for one only, + So to be the man and leave the artist, + Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. + + + IX + + Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! + He who smites the rock and spreads the water, + Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, + Even he, the minute makes immortal, + Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, + Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. + While he smites, how can he but remember, + So he smote before, in such a peril, + When they stood and mocked--"Shall smiting help us?" + When they drank and sneered--"A stroke is easy!" + When they wiped their mouths and went their journey, + Throwing him for thanks--"But drought was pleasant." + Thus old memories mar the actual triumph; + Thus the doing savours of disrelish; + Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; + O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, + Carelessness or consciousness--the gesture. + For he bears an ancient wrong about him, + Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, + Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude-- + "How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?" + Guesses what is like to prove the sequel-- + "Egypt's flesh-pots--nay, the drought was better." + + + X + + Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant! + Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance, + Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. + Never dares the man put off the prophet. + + + XI + + Did he love one face from out the thousands, + (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely, + Were she but the Æthiopian bondslave,) + He would envy yon dumb patient camel, + Keeping a reserve of scanty water + Meant to save his own life in the desert; + Ready in the desert to deliver + (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) + Hoard and life together for his mistress. + + + XII + + I shall never, in the years remaining, + Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, + Make you music that should all-express me; + So it seems: I stand on my attainment. + This of verse alone, one life allows me; + Verse and nothing else have I to give you. + Other heights in other lives, God willing: + All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love! + + + XIII + + Yet a semblance of resource avails us-- + Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. + Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, + Lines I write the first time and the last time. + He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, + Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, + Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, + Makes a strange art of an art familiar, + Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. + He who blows thro' bronze, may breathe thro' silver, + Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. + He who writes, may write for once as I do. + + + XIV + + Love, you saw me gather men and women, + Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, + Enter each and all, and use their service, + Speak from every mouth,--the speech, a poem. + Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, + Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: + I am mine and yours--the rest be all men's, + Karshish, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty. + Let me speak this once in my true person, + Not as Lippo, Roland or Andrea, + Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: + Pray you, look on these my men and women, + Take and keep my fifty poems finished; + Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! + Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things. + + + XV + + Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self! + Here in London, yonder late in Florence, + Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. + Curving on a sky imbrued with colour, + Drifted over Fiesole by twilight, + Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. + Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, + Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, + Perfect till the nightingales applauded. + Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, + Hard to greet, she traverses the houseroofs, + Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, + Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. + + + XVI + + What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? + Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, + Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), + All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos) + She would turn a new side to her mortal, + Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman-- + Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, + Blind to Galileo on his turret, + Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats--him, even! + Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal-- + When she turns round, comes again in heaven, + Opens out anew for worse or better! + Proves she like some portent of an iceberg + Swimming full upon the ship it founders, + Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? + Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire + Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain? + Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu + Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, + Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. + Like the bodied heaven in his clearness + Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, + When they ate and drank and saw God also! + + + XVII + + What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know. + Only this is sure--the sight were other, + Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, + Dying now impoverished here in London. + God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures + Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, + One to show a woman when he loves her! + + + XVIII + + This I say of me, but think of you, Love! + This to you--yourself my moon of poets! + Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, + Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! + There, in turn I stand with them and praise you-- + Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. + But the best is when I glide from out them, + Cross a step or two of dubious twilight, + Come out on the other side, the novel + Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, + Where I hush and bless myself with silence. + + + XIX + + Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, + Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, + Wrote one song--and in my brain I sing it, + Drew one angel--borne, see, on my bosom! + + R. B. + +The Brownings travelled a good deal: they visited many places in +Italy, Venice, Ancona, Fano, Siena, and spent several winters in Rome. +The winter of 1851-52 was passed at Paris, where on the third of +January Browning wrote one of his most notable poems, _Childe Roland +to the Dark Tower Came_. One memorable evening at London in 1855 +there were gathered together in an upper room Mr. and Mrs. Browning, +Mr. and Mrs. Tennyson, Dante and William Rossetti. Tennyson had just +published _Maud_ and Browning the two volumes called _Men and Women_. +Each poet was invited to read from his new work. Tennyson, with one +leg curled under him on the sofa, chanted _Maud_, the tears running +down his cheeks; and then Browning read in a conversational manner +his characteristic poem, _Fra Lippo Lippi_. Rossetti made a +pen-and-ink sketch of the Laureate while he was intoning. On one of +the journeys made by the Brownings from London to Paris they were +accompanied by Thomas Carlyle, who wrote a vivid and charming +account of the transit. The poet was the practical member of the +party: the "brave Browning" struggled with the baggage, and the +customs, and the train arrangements; while the Scot philosopher +smoked infinite tobacco. + +The best account of the domestic life of the Brownings at Casa Guidi +in Florence was written by Nathaniel Hawthorne, and published in his +_Italian Note-Books_. On a June evening, Mr. and Mrs. Browning, +William Cullen Bryant, and Nathaniel Hawthorne ate strawberries and +talked spiritualism. Hawthorne and Browning stood on the little +balcony overlooking the street, and heard the priests chanting in +the church of San Felice, the chant heard only in June, which +Browning was to hear again on the night of the June day when he +found the old yellow book. Both chant and terrace were to be +immortalised in Browning's epic. Hawthorne said that Browning had an +elfin wife and an elf child. "I wonder whether he will ever grow up, +whether it is desirable that he should." Like all visitors at Casa +Guidi, the American was impressed by the extraordinary sweetness, +gentleness, and charity of Elizabeth Browning, and by the energy, +vivacity, and conversational powers of her husband. Hawthorne said +he seemed to be in all parts of the room at once. + +Mr. Barrett Browning told me in 1904 that he remembered his mother, +Elizabeth Barrett Browning, as clearly as though he had seen her +yesterday. He was eleven years old at the time of her death. He +would have it that her ill health had been greatly exaggerated. She +was an invalid, but did not give the impression of being one. She +was able to do many things, and had considerable power of endurance. +One day in Florence she walked from her home out through the Porta +Romana, clear up on the heights, and back to Casa Guidi. "That was +pretty good, wasn't it?" said he. She was of course the idol of the +household, and everything revolved about her. She was "intensely +loved" by all her friends. Her father was a "very peculiar man." The +son's account of her health differs radically from that written by +the mother of E. C. Stedman, who said that Mrs. Browning was kept +alive only by opium, which she had to take daily. This writer added, +however, that in spite of Mrs. Browning's wretched health, she had +never heard her speak ill of any one, though she talked with her +many times. + +After the death of his wife, Browning never saw Florence again. He +lived in London, and after a few years was constantly seen in society, +Tennyson, who hated society, said that Browning would die in a dress +suit. His real fame did not begin until the year 1864, with the +publication of _Dramatis Personæ_. During the first thirty years of +his career, from the publication of _Pauline_ in 1833 to the +appearance of _Dramatis Personæ_, he received always tribute from +the few, and neglect, seasoned with ridicule, from the many. _Pauline, +Paracelsus, Pippa Passes, A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, Christmas-Eve, +Men and Women_--each of these volumes was greeted enthusiastically +by men and women whose own literary fame is permanent. But the world +knew him not. How utterly obscure he was may be seen by the fact +that so late as 1860, when the publisher's statement came in for +_Men and Women_, it appeared that during the preceding six months +not a single copy had been sold! The best was yet to be. _The +Dramatis Personæ_ was the first of his books to go into a genuine +second edition. Then four years later came _The Ring and the Book_, +which a contemporary review pronounced to be the "most precious and +profound spiritual treasure which England has received since the +days of Shakespeare." + +Fame, which had shunned him for thirty years, came to him in +extraordinary measure during the last part of his life: another +exact parallel between him and the great pessimist Schopenhauer. It +was naturally sweet, its sweetness lessened only by the thought that +his wife had not lived to see it. Each had always believed in the +superiority of the other: and the only cloud in Mrs. Browning's mind +was the (to her) incomprehensible neglect of her husband by the +public. At the time of the marriage, it was commonly said that a +young literary man had eloped with a great poetess: during their +married life, her books went invariably into many editions, while +his did not sell at all. And even to the last day of Browning's +earthly existence, her poems far outsold his, to his unspeakable +delight. "The demand for my poems is nothing like so large," he +wrote cheerfully, in correcting a contrary opinion that had been +printed. Even so late as 1885, I found this passage in an account of +Mrs. Browning's life, published that year, It appears that "she was +married in 1846 to Robert Browning, who was also a poet and dramatic +writer of some note, though his fame seems to have been almost +totally eclipsed by the superior endowments of his gifted wife." This +reminds us of the time when Mr. and Mrs. Schumann were presented to +a Scandinavian King: Mrs. Schumann played on the piano, and His +Majesty, turning graciously to the silent husband, enquired +"Are you also musical?" + +The last summer of Browning's life, the summer of 1889, was passed +at Asolo: in the autumn he moved into his beautiful house in Venice, +the Palazzo Rezzonico, which had the finest situation of all +Venetian residences, built at an angle in the Grand Canal. Although +seventy-seven years old, he was apparently as vigorous as ever: no +change had taken place in his appearance, manner or habits. One day +he caught a bad cold walking on the Lido in a bitter wind; and with +his usual vehement energy declined to take any proper care of his +throat. Instead of staying in, he set out for long tramps with +friends, constantly talking in the raw autumn air. In order to prove +to his son that nothing was the matter with him, he ran rapidly up +three flights of stairs, the son vainly trying to restrain him. +Nothing is more characteristic of the youthful folly of aged folk +than their impatient resentment of proffered hygienic advice. When +we are children, we reject with scorn the suggestions of our parents; +when we are old, we reject with equal scorn the advice of our +children. Man is apparently an animal more fit to give advice than +to take it. Browning's impulsive rashness proved fatal. Bronchitis +with heart trouble finally sent him to bed, though on the last +afternoon of his life he rose and walked about the room. During the +last few days he told many good stories and talked with his +accustomed eagerness. He died at ten o'clock in the evening of the +twelfth of December, 1889, A few moments before his death came a +cablegram from London announcing that his last volume of poems had +been published that day, and that the evening papers were speaking +in high terms of its contents. "That is very gratifying," said he. + +Browning's life was healthy, comfortable, and happy. With the +exception of frequent headaches in his earlier years, he never knew +sickness or physical distress. His son said that he had never seen +him in bed in the daytime until the last illness. He had a truly +wonderful digestion; it was his firm belief that one should eat only +what one really enjoyed, desire being the infallible sign that the +food was healthful. "My father was a man of _bonne fourchette_" said +Barrett Browning to me; "he was not very fond of meat, but liked all +kinds of Italian dishes, especially with rich sauces. He always ate +freely of rich and delicate things. He could make a whole meal off +mayonnaise." It is pleasant to remember that Emerson, the other +great optimist of the century, used to eat pie for breakfast. Unlike +Carlyle and Tennyson, who smoked constantly, Browning never used +tobacco; he drank wine with his meals, but sparingly, and never more +than one kind of wine at a dinner. While physically robust, fond of +riding and walking, never using a cab or public conveyance if he +could help it, he was like most first-class literary men in caring +nothing whatever for competitive sports. He did not learn to swim +until late in life; his son taught him at Pornic, in Brittany. He +was venturesome for a man well on in years, swimming far out with +boyish delight, as he has himself described it in the _Prologue to +Fifine at the Fair_. + +Browning's eyes were peculiar, one having a long focus, the other +very short. He had the unusual accomplishment (try it and prove) of +closing either eye without "squinching," and without any apparent +effort, though sometimes on the street in strong sunshine his face +would be a bit distorted. He did all his reading and writing with +one eye, closing the long one as he sat down at his desk. He never +wore glasses, and was proud of his microscopic eye. He often wrote +minutely, to show off his powers. When he left the house to go for a +walk, he shut the short eye and opened the long one, with which he +could see an immense distance. He never suffered with any pain in +his eyes except once, when a boy, he was trying to be a vegetarian +in imitation of his youthful idol, Shelley. + +Contrary to the oft-repeated statement, Browning was not a really +fine pianist. As a very young man, he used to play several +instruments, and once he had been able to play all of Beethoven's +sonatas on the piano. In later life he became ambitious to improve +his skill with this instrument, and had much trouble, for his +fingers were clumsy and stiff. He therefore used to rise at six, and +practise finger-exercises for an hour! + +He loved first-class music ardently, had a profound knowledge of it, +and was a good judge. If the performance was fine, he would express +his praise with the utmost enthusiasm; but bad work caused him acute +pain. Sometimes at a concert he would put his fingers in his ears, +his suffering being apparently uncontrollable. + +The salient feature of his character was his boyish vivacity and +enthusiasm. If he looked out of the window and saw a friend coming +along the street to call, he would often rush out and embrace him. +In conversation he was extraordinarily eager and impulsive, with a +great flow of talk on an enormous range of subjects. If he liked +anything, he spoke of it in the heartiest manner, laughing aloud +with delight. He was very generous in his appreciation and praise of +other men's work, being beautifully free from that jealousy which is +one of the besetting sins of artists. He always tried to see what +was good. Occasionally he was enraged at reading a particularly +hostile criticism of himself, but on the whole he stood abuse +very well, and had abundant opportunity to exercise the gift of +patience. A great admirer of Tennyson's poetry and of Tennyson's +character--they were dear and intimate friends--he never liked the +stock comparison. "Tennyson and I are totally unlike," he used to say. +No letter from one rival to another was ever more beautiful than the +letter Browning wrote to Tennyson on the occasion of the Laureate's +eightieth birthday: + + "My DEAR TENNYSON--To-morrow is your birthday--indeed, a memorable + one. Let me say I associate myself with the universal pride of our + country in your glory, and in its hope that for many and many a year + we may have your very self among us--secure that your poetry will be + a wonder and delight to all those appointed to come after. And for + my own part, let me further say, I have loved you dearly. May God + bless you and yours. + + "At no moment from first to last of my acquaintance with your works, + or friendship with yourself, have I had any other feeling, expressed + or kept silent, than this which an opportunity allows me to + utter--that I am and ever shall be, my dear Tennyson, admiringly and + affectionately yours, + + "ROBERT BROWNING." + +What I have said of Browning's impulsiveness is borne out not only +by the universal testimony of those who knew him well, but +particularly by a letter of Mrs. Browning to Mrs. Jameson. The +manuscript of this letter was bought in London by an American, and +went down with the _Titanic_ in 1912. An extract from it appeared in +a bookseller's catalogue--"You must learn Robert--he is made of +moods--chequered like a chess-board; and the colour goes for too +much--till you learn to treat it as a game." + +No man--little or great--was ever more free from pose. His appearance, +in clothes and in hair, was studiously normal. No one in his later +years would ever have guessed that he was a poet, either in seeing +him on the street, or in meeting him at dinner. He was interested in +multitudinous things, but never spoke of poetry--either in general +or in his own particular--if he could avoid doing so. The fact that +strangers who were presented to him and talked with him did not +guess that he was _the_ Mr. Browning, gave rise to numberless +humorous situations. + +Perhaps the best thing that can be said of his personal character is +the truthful statement that he stood in the finest manner two +searching tests of manhood--long neglect and sudden popularity, The +long years of oblivion, during which he was producing much of his +best work, made him neither angry nor sour, though he must have +suffered deeply. On the other hand, when his fame reached prodigious +proportions, he was neither conceited nor affected. He thoroughly +believed in himself, and in his work; and he cared more about it +than he did for its reception. + +The crushing grief that came to him in the death of his wife he bore +with that Christian resignation of which we hear more often than +perhaps we see in experience. For Browning was a Christian, not only +in faith but in conduct; it was the mainspring of his art and of his +life. There are so many writers whose lives show so painful a +contrast with the ideal tone of their written work, that it is +refreshing and inspiring to be so certain of Browning; to know that +the author of the poems which thrill us was as great in character as +he was in genius. + + + +II + + +BROWNING'S THEORY OF POETRY + +With one exception, the economic law of supply and demand governs +the production of literature exactly as it determines the price of +wheat. For many years the Novel has been the chief channel of +literary expression, the dominant literary form: in the days of +Queen Elizabeth, the Drama was supreme. During the early part of the +eighteenth century, theological poetry enjoyed a great vogue; Pope's +_Essay on Man_ circulated with the rapidity of a modern detective +story. Consider the history of the English sonnet. This form of +verse was exceedingly popular in 1600, By 1660 it had vanished, and +remained obsolete for nearly a hundred years; about the middle of +the eighteenth century it was revived by Thomas Edwards and others; +in the nineteenth century it became fashionable, and still holds its +place, as one may see by opening current magazines. Why is it that +writers put their ideas on God, Nature, and Woman in the form of a +drama in 1600, and in the form of a novel in 1900? Why is it that an +inspired man should make poems of exactly fourteen lines in 1580 and +in 1880, and not do it in 1680? If we do not attempt an ultimate +metaphysical analysis, the answer is clear. The bookseller supplies +the public, the publisher supplies the bookseller, the author +supplies the publisher. A bookseller has in his window what the +people want, and the publisher furnishes material in response to the +same desire; just as a farmer plants in his fields some foodstuffs +for which there is a sharp demand. Authors are compelled to write +for the market, whether they like it or not, otherwise their work +can not appear in print. The reason why the modern novel, with all +its shortcomings, is the mirror of ideas on every conceivable topic +in religious, educational, economic, and sociological thought, is +because the vast majority of writers are at this moment compelled by +the market to put their reflections into the form of novels, just as +Marlowe and Chapman were forced to write plays. With one exception, +the law of supply and demand determines the metrical shape of the +poet's frenzy, and the prose mould of the philosopher's ideas. + +The exception is so rare that it establishes the rule. The exception +is Genius--next to radium the scarcest article on earth. And even +Genius often follows the market--it takes the prevailing literary +fashion, and adapts itself to the form in vogue in a more excellent +way. Such genius--the Genius for Adaptation--never has to wait long +for recognition, simply because it supplies a keen popular demand. +Such a genius was Shakespeare: such a genius was Pope: such a genius +was Scott: such a genius was Byron: such a genius was Tennyson. But +the true exception to the great economic law is seen in the Man of +Original Genius, who cares not at all for the fashion except perhaps +to destroy it. This man is outside the law of supply and demand, +because he supplies no demand, and there exists no demand for him. +He therefore has to create the demand as well as the supply. Such a +man in Music was Wagner: such a man in Drama was Ibsen: such a man +in Poetry was Browning. + +These three men were fortunate in all reaching the age of seventy, +for had they died midway in their careers, even after accomplishing +much of their best work, they would have died in obscurity. They had +to wait long for recognition, because nobody was looking for them, +nobody wanted them. There was no demand for Wagner's music--but +there is now, and he made it. There was no demand for plays like +those of Ibsen; and there was not the slightest demand for poetry +like _Pauline_ and the _Dramatic Lyrics_. The reason why the public +does not immediately recognise the greatness of a work of original +genius, is because the public at first--if it notices the thing at +all--apprehends not its greatness, but its strangeness. It is so +unlike the thing the public is seeking, that it seems grotesque or +absurd--many indeed declare that it is exactly the opposite of what +it professes to be. Thus, many insisted that Ibsen's so-called +dramas were not really plays: they were merely conversations on +serious and unpleasant themes. In like manner, the critics said that +Wagner, whatever he composed, did not compose music; for instead of +making melodies, he made harsh and discordant sounds. For eighty +years, many men of learning and culture have been loudly proclaiming +that Browning, whatever he was, was not a poet; he was ingenious, he +was thoughtful, a philosopher, if you like, but surely no poet. When +_The Ring and the Book_ was published, a thoroughly respectable +British critic wrote, "Music does not exist for him any more than +for the deaf." On the other hand, the accomplished poet, musician, +and critic, Sidney Lanier, remarked: + +"Have you seen Browning's _The Ring and the Book_? I am confident +that at the birth of this man, among all the good fairies who +showered him with magnificent endowments, one bad one--as in the old +tale--crept in by stealth and gave him a constitutional twist i' the +neck, whereby his windpipe became, and has ever since remained, a +marvellous tortuous passage. Out of this glottis-labyrinth his words +won't, and can't, come straight. A hitch and a sharp crook in every +sentence bring you up with a shock. But what a shock it is! Did you +ever see a picture of a lasso, in the act of being flung? In a +thousand coils and turns, inextricably crooked and involved and +whirled, yet, if you mark the noose at the end, you see that it is +directly in front of the bison's head, there, and is bound to catch +him! That is the way Robert Browning catches you. The first sixty or +seventy pages of _The Ring and the Book_ are altogether the most +doleful reading, in point either of idea or of music, in the English +language; and yet the monologue of Giuseppe Caponsacchi, that of +Pompilia Comparini, and the two of Guido Franceschini, are +unapproachable, in their kind, by any living or dead poet, _me judice_. +Here Browning's jerkiness comes in with inevitable effect. You get +lightning glimpses--and, as one naturally expects from lightning, +zigzag glimpses--into the intense night of the passion of these souls. +It is entirely wonderful and without precedent." [1] + +One of the most admirable things about Browning's admirable career +as poet and man is that he wrote not to please the critics, as +Tennyson often did, not to please the crowd, as the vast horde of +ephemeral writers do, but to please himself. The critics and the +crowd professed that they could not understand him; but he had no +difficulty in understanding them. He knew exactly what they wanted, +and declined to supply it. Instead of giving them what he thought +they wanted, he gave them what he thought they needed. That +illustrates the difference between the literary caterer and the +literary master. Some poets, critics, dramatists, and novelists are +born to be followers of the public taste; they have their reward. +Only a few, and one at a time, are leaders. This is entirely as it +should be, for, with followers, the more the merrier; with leaders +it is quite otherwise. + +In the case of a man of original genius, the first evidence of +approaching fame is seen in the dust raised by contempt, scorn, +ridicule, and various forms of angry resistance from those who will +ultimately be converts. People resist him as they resist the Gospel. +He comes unto his own, and his own receive him not. The so-called +reading public have the stupid cruelty of schoolboys, who will not +tolerate on the part of any newcomer the slightest divergence in +dress, manners, or conversation from the established standard. +Conformity is king; for schoolboys are the most conservative mass of +inertia that can be found anywhere on earth. And they are thorough +masters of ridicule--the most powerful weapon known to humanity. But +as in schoolboy circles the ostracising laughter is sometimes a sign +that a really original boy has made his appearance, so the +unthinking opposition of the conventional army of readers is +occasionally a proof that the new man has made a powerful impression +which can not be shaken off. + +[Footnote 1: Life of Sidney Lanier, by Professor Edwin Mims.] + +This is what Browning did with his "lasso" style. It was suitably +adapted to his purposes, and the public behaved somewhat like the +buffalo. They writhed, kicked, struggled, plunged, and the greater +the uproar, the more evident it was that they were caught. Shortly +before his death, Professor F.J. Child, a scholar of international +fame, told me angrily that Wagner was no musician at all; that he +was a colossal fraud; that the growing enthusiasm for him was mere +affectation, which would soon pass away. He spoke with extraordinary +passion. I wondered at his rage, but I understand it now. It was the +rage of a king against the incoming and inexorable tide. + +Nothing is more singular to contemplate than the variations in form +of what the public calls melody, both in notation and in language. +What delights the ears of one generation distresses or wearies the +ears of another. Elizabethan audiences listened with rapture to long +harangues in bombastic blank verse: a modern audience can not endure +this. The senses of Queen Anne Englishmen were charmed by what they +called the melody of Pope's verse--by its even regularity and steady +flow. To us Pope's verse is full of wit and cerebration, but we find +the measure intolerably monotonous. Indeed, by a curious irony of +fate, Pope, who regarded himself as a supreme poet, has since +frequently been declared to be no poet at all. Keats wrote _Endymion_ +in the heroic couplet--the very measure employed by Pope. But his +use of it was so different that this poem would have seemed utterly +lacking in melody to Augustan ears--Pope would have attempted to +"versify" it. And yet we enjoy it. It seems ridiculous to say that +the man who wrote _Der fliegende Holländer and Tannhäuser_ could not +write melody, and yet it was almost universally said. It seems +strange that critics should have declared that the man who wrote +_Love Among the Ruins_ could not write rhythmical verse, yet such +was once almost the general opinion. Still, the rebellious instinct +of the public that condemned Wagner in music and Browning in poetry +was founded on something genuine; for Wagner was unlike other +musicians, and Browning was unlike other poets. + +_Fraser's Magazine_, for December, 1833, contained a review of +Browning's first poem, _Pauline_, which had been published that year. +The critic decided that the new poet was mad: "you being, beyond all +question, as mad as Cassandra, without any of the power to prophesy +like her, or to construct a connected sentence like anybody else. We +have already had a Monomaniac; and we designate you 'The Mad Poet of +the Batch;' as being mad not in one direction only, but in all. A +little lunacy, like a little knowledge, would be a dangerous thing." + +Yet it was in this despised and rejected poem that a great, original +genius in English poetry was first revealed. It is impossible to +understand Browning or even to read him intelligently without firmly +fixing in the mind his theory of poetry, and comprehending fully his +ideal and his aim. All this he set forth clearly in _Pauline_, and +though he was only twenty years old when he wrote it, he never +wavered from his primary purpose as expressed in two lines of the +poem, two lines that should never be forgotten by those who really +wish to enjoy the study of Browning: + + And then thou said'st a perfect bard was one + Who chronicled the stages of all life. + +What is most remarkable about this definition of poetry is what it +omits. The average man regards poetry as being primarily concerned +with the creation of beauty. Not a word is said about beauty in +Browning's theory. The average man regards poetry as being +necessarily melodious, rhythmical, tuneful, above all, pleasing to +the senses; but Browning makes no allusion here to rime or rhythm, +nor to melody or music of any sort. To him the bard is a Reporter of +Life, an accurate Historian of the Soul, one who observes human +nature in its various manifestations, and gives a faithful record. +Sound, rhythm, beauty are important, because they are a part of life; +and they are to be found in Browning's works like wild flowers in a +field; but they are not in themselves the main things. The main +thing is human life in its totality. Exactly in proportion to the +poet's power of portraying life, is the poet great; if he correctly +describes a wide range of life, he is greater than if he has +succeeded only in a narrow stretch; and the Perfect Bard would be the +one who had chronicled the stages of all life. Shakespeare is the +supreme poet because he has approached nearer to this ideal than any +one else--he has actually chronicled most phases of humanity, and +has truthfully painted a wide variety of character. Browning +therefore says of him in _Christmas-Eve_-- + + As I declare our Poet, him + Whose insight makes all others dim: + A thousand poets pried at life, + And only one amid the strife + Rose to be Shakespeare. + +Browning's poetry, as he elsewhere expresses it, was always dramatic +in principle, always an attempt to interpret human life. With that +large number of highly respectable and useful persons who do not +care whether they understand him or not, I have here no concern: but +to those who really wish to learn his secret, I insist that his main +intention must ever be kept in mind. Much of his so-called obscurity, +harshness, and uncouthness falls immediately into its proper place, +is indeed necessary. The proof of his true greatness not as a +philosopher, thinker, psychologist, but as a poet, lies in the +simple fact that when the subject-matter he handles is beautiful or +sublime, his style is usually adequate to the situation. Browning +had no difficulty in writing melodiously when he placed the posy in +the Ring, + + O lyric Love, half angel and half bird + And all a wonder and a wild desire, + +although just a moment before, when he was joking about his lack of +readers, he was anything but musical. _The Ring and the Book_ is +full of exquisite beauty, amazing felicity of expression, fluent +rhythm and melody; full also of crudities, jolts, harshness, pedantry, +wretched witticisms, and coarseness. Why these contrasts? Because it +is a study of human testimony. The lawyers in this work speak no +radiant or spiritual poetry; they talk like tiresome, conceited +pedants because they were tiresome, conceited pedants; Pompilia's +dying speech of adoring passion for Caponsacchi is sublime music, +because she was a spiritual woman in a glow of exaltation. Guido +speaks at first with calm, smiling irony, and later rages like a +wild beast caught in a spring-trap; in both cases the verse fits his +mood. If Pompilia's tribute to Caponsacchi had been expressed in +language as dull and flat as the pleas of the lawyers, then we +should be quite sure that Browning, whatever he was, was no poet. +For it would indicate that he could not create the right diction for +the right situation and character. Now, his picture of the triple +light of sunset in _The Last Ride Together_ is almost intolerably +beautiful, because such a scene fairly overwhelms the senses. I hear +the common and unintelligent comment, "Ah, if he had only always +written like that!" He would have done so, if he had been interested +in only the beautiful aspects of this world. "How could the man who +wrote such lovely music as that have also written such harsh stuff +as _Mr. Sludge, the Medium_"? The answer is that in the former he +was chronicling a stage of life that in its very essence was beauty: +in the latter, something exactly the opposite. Life has its +trivialities and its ugliness, as well as its sublime aspirations. +In Browning's poetry, whenever the thought rises, the style +automatically rises with it, + +Compare the diction of _Holy Cross Day_ with that in _Love Among the +Ruins_. Cleon is an old Greek poet, and he speaks noble, serene verse: +Bishop Blougram is a subtle dialectician, a formidable antagonist in +a joint debate, and he has the appropriate manner and language. +Would you have him talk like the lover in _Evelyn Hope_? + +Browning was a great artist, and the grotesque is an organic part of +his structures. To find fault with the grotesque excrescences in +Browning's poetry is exactly like condemning a cathedral because it +has gargoyles. How could the architect that dreamed those wonderful +columns and arches have made those hideous gargoyles? Did he flatter +himself they were beautiful? When _Macbeth_ was translated into +German, the translator was aghast at the coarse language of the +drunken porter. How could the great Shakespeare, who had proved so +often his capacity as an artist, have made such an appalling blunder? +So the translator struck out the offensive words, and made the +porter sing a sweet hymn to the dawn. + +The theory of poetry originally stated in _Pauline_ Browning not +only endeavored to exemplify in his work; he often distinctly +repeated it. In _The Glove_, all the courtiers, hide-bound by +conventional ideas, unite in derisive insults howled at the lady. She +goes out 'mid hooting and laughter. Only two men follow her: one, +because he loves her; the other, for purely professional reasons. +To-day, he would of course be a society reporter. "I beg your pardon, +Madam, but would you kindly grant me an interview? I represent the +_New York Flash_, and we shall be glad to present your side of this +story in our next Sunday issue." With equal professional zeal, Peter +Ronsard is keenly interested in discovering the motives that +underlay the lady's action. He simply must know, and in defense of +his importunity, he presents his credentials. He is a poet, and +therefore the strange scene that has just been enacted comes within +his special domain. + + I followed after, + And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? + If she wished not the rash deed's recallment? + "For I"--so I spoke--"am a poet: + Human nature,--behoves that I know it!" + +In _Transcendentalism_, a poem which is commonly misunderstood, +Browning informs us that the true poet must deal, not with abstract +thought, but with concrete things. A young poet informs an elder +colleague that he has just launched a huge philosophical poem, +called _Transcendentalism: a Poem in Twelve Books_. His wiser critic +tells him that he is on the wrong track altogether; what he has +written is prose, not poetry. Poetry is not a discussion of abstract +ideas, but the creation of individual things. Transcendentalism is +not a fit subject for poetry, because it deals with metaphysical +thought, instead of discussing men and women. To illustrate his point, +he makes a comparison between botany and roses. Which is the more +interesting, to read a heavy treatise on botany, or to behold roses? +A few pedants may like botany better, but ordinary humanity is quite +right in preferring flowers. Browning indicates that the poet should +not compose abstract treatises, but should create individual works +of art, like the stout Mage of Halberstadt, + + John, who made things Boehme wrote thoughts about. + He with a "look you!" vents a brace of rhymes, + 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. + +Many have failed to understand this poem, because they think that +Browning himself is constantly guilty of the sin specifically +condemned here. Browning has indeed often been called a thinker, a +philosopher: but a moment's serious reflection will prove that of all +English poetry outside of the drama, Browning's is the least +abstract and the most concrete. Poetry is not condemned because it +arouses thought, but only when it is abstract in method. Browning +often deals with profound ideas, but always by concrete illustrations. +For example, he discusses the doctrine of predestination by giving +us the individual figure of Johannes-Agricola in meditation: the +royalist point of view in the seventeenth century by cavaliers +singing three songs: the damnation of indecision by two Laodicaean +lovers in _The Statue and the Bust_. When Browning is interested in +any doctrine, idea, or system of thought, he creates a person to +illustrate it. + +Browning's theory of poetry is further reenforced by his poem +_How It Strikes a Contemporary_, which, in the final rearrangement +of his works, he placed directly after _Transcendentalism_, as though +to drive his doctrine home. Here is a picture of a real poet. Where +does he live, whence does he get his sources of inspiration, and how +does he pass his time? The poem answers these questions in a most +instructive manner, if only we keep in mind the original definition +given in _Pauline_. It is conventionally believed that the country +is more poetic than the city: that an ideal residence for a poet +would be in lonely, lovely, romantic scenery; and that in splendid +solitude and isolation he should clothe his thoughts in forms of +beauty. Now Browning's own life and methods of work were in exact +contrast to these popular ideas; because his theory of poetry +requires the poet to live in the very midst of human activities, and +to draw his inspiration not from a mountain or the stars, but from +all sorts and conditions of men. Thus, in the poem, _How It Strikes +a Contemporary_, the poet lives in a noisy city, spends his time +walking the streets, and instead of being lost in a trance, he is +intensely aware of everything that happens in the town. The poet is +an observer, not a dreamer. Indeed, the citizens think this old poet +is a royal spy, because he notices people and events with such sharp +attention. Browning would seem to say that the mistake is a quite +natural one; the poet ought to act like a spy, for, if he be a true +poet, he is a spy--a spy on human life. He takes upon himself the +mystery of things, as if he were God's spy. + + He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, + Scenting the world, looking it full in face.... + He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, + And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string, + And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. + He took such cognizance of men and things, + If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; + If any cursed a woman, he took note. + +This is an exact description of the way Robert Browning walked the +streets of Florence. Only a few years after this poem was printed, +he was glancing o'er the books on stalls in the square of San Lorenzo, +and found the old yellow volume which he turned into an epic of +humanity. The true poet "scents" the world, smells it out, as a dog +locates game. A still stronger expression is used in _Christmas-Eve_, +where the poets "pried" at life, turned up its surface in order to +disclose all its hidden treasures of meaning. + + + +"TRANSCENDENTALISM: A POEM IN TWELVE BOOKS" + + +1855 + + Stop playing, poet! May a brother speak? + 'Tis you speak, that's your error. Song's our art: + Whereas you please to speak these naked thoughts + Instead of draping them in sights and sounds. + --True thoughts, good thoughts, thoughts fit to treasure up! + But why such long prolusion and display, + Such turning and adjustment of the harp, + And taking it upon your breast, at length, + Only to speak dry words across its strings? + Stark-naked thought is in request enough: + Speak prose and hollo it till Europe hears! + The six-foot Swiss tube, braced about with bark, + Which helps the hunter's voice from Alp to Alp-- + Exchange our harp for that,--who hinders you? + + But here's your fault; grown men want thought, you think; + 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. + Quite otherwise! Objects throng our youth, 'tis true; + We see and hear and do not wonder much: + If you could tell us what they mean, indeed! + As German Boehme never cared for plants + Until it happed, a-walking in the fields, + He noticed all at once that plants could speak, + Nay, turned with loosened tongue to talk with him. + That day the daisy had an eye indeed-- + Colloquized with the cowslip on such themes! + We find them extant yet in Jacob's prose. + But by the time youth slips a stage or two + While reading prose in that tough book he wrote + (Collating and emendating the same + And settling on the sense most to our mind), + We shut the clasps and find life's summer past. + Then, who helps more, pray, to repair our loss-- + Another Boehme with a tougher book + And subtler meanings of what roses say,-- + Or some stout Mage like him of Halberstadt, + John, who made things Boehme wrote thoughts about? + He with a "look you!" vents a brace of rhymes, + 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! + You are a poem, though your poem's naught. + The best of all you showed before, believe, + Was your own boy-face o'er the finer chords + Bent, following the cherub at the top + That points to God with his paired half-moon wings. + + + + +HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY + + +1855 + + I only knew one poet in my life: + And this, or something like it, was his way. + + You saw go up and down Valladolid, + A man of mark, to know next time you saw. + His very serviceable suit of black + Was courtly once and conscientious still, + And many might have worn it, though none did: + The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, + Had purpose, and the ruff, significance. + He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, + Scenting the world, looking it full in face, + An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. + They turned up, now, the alley by the church, + That leads nowhither; now, they breathed themselves + On the main promenade just at the wrong time: + You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat, + Making a peaked shade blacker than itself + Against the single window spared some house + Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work,-- + Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick + Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks + Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. + 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-edge bold-print posters by the wall. + He took such cognizance of men 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. + So, next time that a neighbour's tongue was loosed, + It marked the shameful and notorious fact, + We had among us, not so much a spy, + As a recording chief-inquisitor, + The town's true master if the town but knew! + We merely kept a governor for form, + While this man walked about and took account + Of all thought, said and acted, then went home, + And wrote it fully to our Lord the King + Who has an itch to know things, he knows why, + And reads them in his bedroom of a night. + Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, + A tang of ... well, it was not wholly ease + As back into your mind the man's look came. + Stricken in years a little,--such a brow + His eyes had to live under!--clear as flint + On either side the formidable nose + Curved, cut and coloured like an eagle's claw. + Had he to do with A.'s surprising fate? + When altogether old B. disappeared + And young C. got his mistress,--was't our friend, + His letter to the King, that did it all? + What paid the bloodless man for so much pains? + Our Lord the King has favourites manifold, + And shifts his ministry some once a month; + Our city gets new governors at whiles,-- + But never word or sign, that I could hear, + Notified to this man about the streets + The King's approval of those letters conned + The last thing duly at the dead of night. + Did the man love his office? Frowned our Lord, + Exhorting when none heard--"Beseech me not! + Too far above my people,--beneath me! + I set the watch,--how should the people know? + Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" + Was some such understanding 'twixt the two? + + I found no truth in one report at least-- + That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes + Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace, + You found he ate his supper in a room + Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall, + And twenty naked girls to change his plate! + Poor man, he lived another kind of life + In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, + Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! + The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, + Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, + Playing a decent cribbage with his maid + (Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese + And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, + Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, + Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he. + + My father, like the man of sense he was, + Would point him out to me a dozen times; + "'St--'St," he'd whisper, "the Corregidor!" + I had been used to think that personage + Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, + And feathers like a forest in his hat, + Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news, + Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, + And memorized the miracle in vogue! + He had a great observance from us boys; + We were in error; that was not the man. + + I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid, + To have just looked, when this man came to die, + And seen who lined the clean gay garret-sides + And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, + With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. + Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, + Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death, + Doing the King's work all the dim day long, + In his old coat and up to knees in mud, + Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,-- + And, now the day was won, relieved at once! + No further show or need for that old coat, + You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while + How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! + A second, and the angels alter that. + Well, I could never write a verse,--could you? + Let's to the Prado and make the most of time. + +In common with all English poets--there is no exception--Browning +loved nature. But he loved human nature so much more that when he +contemplates natural objects he thinks of them _in terms of humanity_. +This is exactly contrary to the conventional method. Most poets and +novelists describe human faces in terms of outdoor nature: the +heroine has "stormy eyes," "rainy eyes," her face is swept by +"gusts of passion," and so on, _ad infinitum_. I do not say that +Browning's is the better way; I say it is his way, because he was +obsessed by humanity. To take instances only from his first poem: + + 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. + + Autumn has come like Spring returned to us + Won from her girlishness. + + ... the trees bend + O'er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl. + + So, when Spring comes + With sunshine back again like an old smile. + + I am to sing whilst ebbing day dies soft, + As a lean scholar dies worn o'er his book, + And in the heaven stars steal out one by one + As hunted men steal to their mountain watch. + +Browning's love for the dramatic was so intense that he carried it +into every kind of poetry that he wrote. Various classes of his +works he called _Dramas, Dramatic Lyrics, Dramatic Romances, +Dramatic Idyls, Dramatis Personae_. In one of her prefaces, +Elizabeth Barrett had employed--for the first time in English +literature, I think--the term _Dramatic Lyric_. This naturally +appealed to Browning, and he gave the title in 1842 to his first +published collection of short poems. At first blush "dramatic lyric" +sounds like a contradiction in terms, like "non-mathematical algebra." +Drama is the most objective branch of poetry, and the lyric the most +subjective: but Browning was so intent upon the chronicling of all +stages of life that he carried the methods of the drama into the +lyric form, of which _Meeting at Night_ may serve as an excellent +example. Many of his short poems have the lyrical beauty of Shelley +and Heine; but they all represent the soul of some historical or +imaginary person. + +At the very end of _The Ring and the Book_, Browning declared that +human testimony was false, a statement that will be supported by any +lawyer or judge of much court experience. Human testimony being +worthless, there remains but one way for the poet to tell the truth +about humanity, and that is through his art. The poet should use his +skill not primarily with the idea of creating something beautiful, +but with the main purpose of expressing the actual truth concerning +human life and character. The highest art is the highest veracity, +and this conforms to Browning's theory of poetry. This was his ideal, +and by adhering to this he hoped to save his soul. Browning believed +that by living up to our best capacity we attained unto salvation. +The man who hid his talent in the earth was really a lost soul. Like +many truly great artists, Browning felt deeply the responsibility of +his splendid endowment. In one of his letters to Miss Barrett, he +said, "I must write poetry and save my soul." In the last lines of +_The Ring and the Book_ we find this thought repeated: + + So, British public, who may like me yet, + (Marry and amen!) learn one lesson hence + Of many which whatever lives should teach: + This lesson, that our human speech is naught, + Our human testimony false, our fame + And human estimation words and wind. + Why take the artistic way to prove so much? + Because, it is the glory and good of Art, + That Art remains the one way possible + Of speaking truth, to minds like mine at least.... + But Art,--wherein man nowise speaks to men, + Only to mankind,--Art may tell a truth + Obliquely, do the thing shall breed the thought, + Nor wrong the thought, missing the mediate word. + So may you paint your picture, twice show truth, + Beyond mere imagery on the wall,-- + So, note by note, bring music from your mind, + Deeper than ever e'en Beethoven dived,-- + So write a book shall mean beyond the facts, + Suffice the eye and save the soul beside. + And save the soul! + +From first to last Browning understood the prevailing criticism of +his poetry, directed against its so-called lack of musical rhythm. +He commented on it more than once. But he answered it always in the +same way, in _Pippa Passes_, in the last stanzas of _Pacchiarotto_, +and in the _Epilogue_ to the same volume. He insisted that what the +critics meant by melody was a childish jingle of rimes like Mother +Goose. Referring to _Sordello_, he makes the Second Student in +_Pippa Passes_ remark, "Instead of cramp couplets, each like a +knife in your entrails, he should write, says Bluphocks, both +classically and intelligibly.... One strip Cools your lip.... One +bottle Clears your throttle." In _Pacchiarotto_, he calls to critics: + + And, what with your rattling and tinkling, + Who knows but you give me an inkling + How music sounds, thanks to the jangle + Of regular drum and triangle? + Whereby, tap-tap, chink-chink, 'tis proven + I break rule as bad as Beethoven. + "That chord now--a groan or a grunt is't? + Schumann's self was no worse contrapuntist. + No ear! or if ear, so tough-gristled-- + He thought that he sung while he whistled!" + +Browning felt that there was at times a certain virtue in mere +roughness: that there were ideas, which, if expressed in harsh phrase, +would make a deeper impression, and so be longer remembered. The +opening stanza of _The Twins_ was meant to emphasise this point: + + Grand rough old Martin Luther + Bloomed fables--flowers on furze, + The better the uncouther: + Do roses stick like burrs? + +Such a theory may help to explain the powerful line in _Rabbi Ben +Ezra_: + + Irks care the cropfull bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? + +Of course Browning's theory of poetry does not justify or explain +all the unmusical passages in his works. He felt, as every poet must, +the difficulty of articulation--the disparity between his ideas and +the verbal form he was able to give them. Browning had his trials in +composition, and he placed in the mouth of the Pope his own ardent +hope that in the next world there will be some means of communication +better than language: + + Expect nor question nor reply + At what we figure as God's judgment bar! + None of this vile way by the barren words + Which, more than any deed, characterise + Man as made subject to a curse: no speech. + +Over and over again, however, Browning declared that poetry should +not be all sweetness. Flowers growing naturally here and there in a +pasture are much more attractive than cut and gathered into a nosegay. +As Luther's long disquisitions are adorned with pretty fables, that +bloom like flowers on furze, so, in the _Epilogue to Pacchiarotto_, +Browning insisted that the wide fields of his verse are not without +cowslips: + + And, friends, beyond dispute + I too have the cowslips dewy and dear. + Punctual as Springtide forth peep they: + But I ought to pluck and impound them, eh? + Not let them alone, but deftly shear + And shred and reduce to--what may suit + Children, beyond dispute? + +Now, there are many law-abiding and transparently honest persons who +prefer anthologies to "works," who love to read tiny volumes prettily +bound, called "Beauties of Ruskin," and who have substituted for the +out-of-fashion "Daily Food" books, painted bits of cardboard with +sweet sayings culled from popular idols of the day, with which they +embellish the walls of their offices and bedrooms, in the hope that +they may hoist themselves into a more hallowed frame of mind. This +is the class--always with us, though more prosperous than the +poor--who prefer a cut bouquet to the natural flowers in wood and +meadow, and for whose comfort and convenience Browning declined to +work. His poetry is too stiff for these readers, partly because they +start with a preconceived notion of the function of poetry. Instead +of being charmed, their first sensation is a shock. They honestly +believe that the attitude of the mind in apprehending poetry should +be passive, not active: is not the poet a public entertainer? Did we +not buy the book with the expectation of receiving immediate pleasure? +The anticipated delight of many persons when they open a volume of +poems is almost physical, as it is when they settle themselves to +hear certain kinds of music. They feel presumably as a comfortable +cat does when her fur is fittingly stroked. The torture that many +listeners suffered when they heard Wagner for the first time was not +imaginary, it was real; "Oh, if somebody would only play a tune!" Yet +Wagner converted thousands of these quondam sufferers, and conquered +them without making any compromises. He simply enlarged their +conception of what opera-music might mean. He gave them new sources +of happiness without robbing them of the old. For my part, although +I prefer Wagner's to all other operas, I keenly enjoy Mozart's +_Don Giovanni_, Charpentier's _Louise_, Gounod's _Faust_, Strauss's +_Salomé_, Verdi's _Aida_, and I never miss an opportunity to hear +Gilbert and Sullivan. Almost all famous operas have something good +in them except the works of Meyerbeer. + +We all have moods when the mind wishes to be lulled, soothed, charmed, +hypnotised with agreeable melody, and in English literature we +fortunately have many great poets who can perform this service. + + That strain again! it had a dying fall. + +Tennyson was a veritable magician, who charmed with his genius +hundreds and thousands of people. No arduous mental effort is +necessary for the enjoyment of his verse, which is one reason why he +is and will remain a popular poet. Browning can not be taken in just +that way, any more than a man completely exhausted with the day's +work can enjoy _Siegfried_ or _Hedda Gabler_. Active, constant +cerebration on the part of the listener or the reader is essential. +This excludes at once a considerable number to whom the effort of +real thinking is as strange as it is oppressive. Browning is a +stimulus, not a sedative; his poetry is like an electric current +which naturally fails to affect those who are non-conductors of +poetry. As one of my undergraduate students tersely expressed it, +"Tennyson soothes our senses: Browning stimulates our thoughts." +Poetry is in some ways like medicine. Tennyson quiets the nerves: +Browning is a tonic: some have found Thomson's _Seasons_ invaluable +for insomnia: the poetry of Swift is an excellent emetic. + +I do not quite understand the intense anger of many critics and +readers over the eternal question of Browning's obscurity. They have +been harping on this theme for eighty years and show no more sign of +exhaustion than a dog barking in the night. Why do the heathen rage? +Why do they not let Browning alone, and read somebody they can +understand? Browning is still gravely rebuked by many critics for +having written _Sordello_. Over and over again we have been informed +that the publication of this poem shattered his reputation for +twenty-five years. Well, what of it? what difference does it make now? +He seems to have successfully survived it. This huge work, which +William Sharp called "that colossal derelict upon the ocean of poetry," +is destined to have an immortality all its own. From one point of +view, we ought to be grateful for its publication. It has aroused +inextinguishable laughter among the blessed gods. It is not witty in +itself, but it is the cause of wit in many. Douglas Jerrold and +Carlyle commented delightfully on it; even Tennyson succeeded for +once in saying something funny. One critic called it a fine house in +which the architect had forgotten to put any stairs. Another called +it a huge boil in which all the impurities in Browning's system came +to an impressive head, after which the patient, pure from poison, +succeeded in writing the clear and beautiful _Pippa Passes_. Besides +innumerable parodies that have been forgotten, Browning's obscurity +was the impenetrable flint that struck two mental flashes that +belong to literature, Calverley's _Cock and the Bull_, and +Swinburne's _John Jones_, a brilliant exposition of the perversities +in that tedious poem, _James Lee's Wife_. Not long ago, a young man +sat by the lamplight, studying a thick volume with evident discomfort. +To the friend who asked what he was doing, he replied, "I'm studying +Browning." + +"Why, no, you idiot, that isn't Browning: you are reading the index +of first lines to the works of Wordsworth." + +"By Jove! you're right! But it sounds just like Browning." + +Browning's place in English literature is not with the great +verse-sculptors, not with the masters of imperishable beauty of form; +he does not belong to the glorious company where reign supreme Milton, +Keats, and Tennyson; his place is rather with the Interpreters of +Life, with the poets who use their art to express the shine and +shade of life's tragicomedy--to whom the base, the trivial, the +frivolous, the grotesque, the absurd seem worth reporting along with +the pure, the noble, and the sublime, since all these elements are +alike human. In this wide field of art, with the exception of +Shakespeare, who is the exception to everything, the first-born and +the last-born of all the great English poets know no equal in the +five centuries that rolled between them. The first person to say +this publicly was himself a poet and a devoted student of +Form--Walter Savage Landor. When he said it, people thought it was +mere hyperbole, the stressed language of compliment; but we know now +that Landor's words are as true as they are beautiful: + + Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's, + Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, + Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, + No man hath walk'd along our roads with step + So active, so enquiring eye, or tongue + So varied in discourse. + +Many critics who are now dead, and some that are yet alive, have +predicted the speedy death of Browning's reputation. This prediction +seems to afford a certain class of critics a calm and holy joy. Some +years ago, Mr. James Douglas, of London, solemnly announced the +approaching demise. Browning will die, said he, even as Donne is dead, +and for the same reason. But Donne is not quite dead. + + I must survive a thing ere know it dead. + +I think Donne will survive all our contemporary criticisms about him. +Ben Jonson said that Donne, for not keeping of accent, deserved +hanging. But Donne, though he forgot to keep step with the procession +of poets, has survived many poets who tripped a regular measure. He +has survived even Pope's "versification" of his poems, one of the +most unconsciously humorous things in English literature. Accent +alone will not keep a man alive. Which poet of these latter days +stands the better chance to remain, Francis Thompson, whose +spiritual flame occasionally burned up accent, or Alfred Austin, who +studied to preserve accent through a long life? Accent is indeed +important; but raiment is of little value unless it clothes a living +body. Does Browning's best poetry smell of mortality? Nearly every +new novel I read in English has quotations from Browning without the +marks, sure evidence that the author has read him and assumes that +the readers of the novel have a like acquaintance. When Maeterlinck +wrote his famous play, _Monna Vanna_, he took one of the scenes +directly from Browning's _Luria_: he said that he had been inspired +by Browning: that Browning is one of the greatest poets that England +has ever produced: that to take a scene from him is a kind of public +homage, such as we pay to Homer, Aeschylus, and Shakespeare. + +With the exception of Shakespeare, any other English poet could now +be spared more easily than Browning. For, owing to his aim in poetry, +and his success in attaining it, he gave us much vital truth and +beauty that we should seek elsewhere in vain; and, as he said in the +_Epilogue_ to _Pacchiarotio_, the strong, heady wine of his verse +may become sweet in process of time. + + + + + +III + + + +LYRICS + +A pure lyric, as distinguished from other kinds of poetry, narrative, +descriptive, epic, dramatic, should have three characteristic +qualities, immediately evident on the first reading: it should be +short, it should be melodious, it should express only one mood. A +very long lyrical poem has never been written, and probably could +not be: a lyric without fluent melody is unthinkable: and a poem +representing a great variety of moods would more properly be classed +as descriptive or dramatic than lyrical. Examples of the perfect +lyric in nineteenth century English poetry are Shelley's _I Arise +From Dreams of Thee_; Keats's _Bright Star_; Byron's _She Walks in +Beauty_; Tennyson's _Break, Break, Break_. In each one of these +notable illustrations the poem is a brief song of passion, +representing the mood of the singer at that moment. + +There are innumerable _lyrical_ passages in Browning's long poems, +and in his dramatic monologues; there are splendid outbursts of +melody. He could not be ranked among the greatest English poets if +he had not been one of our greatest singers. But we do not go to +Browning primarily for song. He is not one of our greatest lyrical +poets. It is certain, however, that he could have been had he chosen +to be. He wrote a sufficient number of pure lyrics to prove his +quality and capacity. But he was so much more deeply interested in +the study of the soul than in the mere expression of beauty--he was +so essentially, from _Pauline_ to _Asolando_--a dramatic poet, that +his great contribution to literature is seen in profound and subtle +interpretations of the human heart. It is fortunate that he made the +soul his specialty, because English literature is wonderfully rich +in song: there are many poets who can thrill us with music: but +there is only one Browning, and there is no group of writers in any +literature among which he can be classed. + +Browning's dramatic lyrics differ from Tennyson's short poems as the +lyrics of Donne differed from those of Campion; but Browning +occasionally tried his hand at the composition of a pure lyric, as +if to say, "You see I can write like this when I choose." Therein +lies his real superiority to almost all other English poets: he +could do their work, but they could not do his. It is significant +that his first poem, _Pauline_, should have deeply impressed two men +of precisely opposite types of mind. These two were John Stuart Mill +and Dante Gabriel Rossetti--their very names illustrating +beautifully the difference in their mental tastes and powers. Carlyle +called Mill a "logic-chopping engine," because his intellectual +processes were so methodical, systematic, hard-headed: Rossetti was +a master of color and harmony. Yet Mill found in _Pauline_ the +workings of a powerful mind: and Rossetti's sensitive temperament +was charmed with the wonderful pictures and lovely melodies it +contained. + +I like to think that Mill read, paused, re-read and meditated on +this passage: + + I am made up of an intensest life, + Of a most clear idea of consciousness + Of self, distinct from all its qualities, + From all affections, passions, feelings, powers; + And thus far it exists, if tracked, in all: + But linked, in me, to self-supremacy + Existing as a centre to all things, + Most potent to create and rule and call + Upon all things to minister to it; + And to a principle of restlessness + Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all-- + This is myself; and I should thus have been + Though gifted lower than the meanest soul. + +I like to think that Rossetti was thrilled with this picture of +Andromeda: + + Andromeda! + And she is with me: years roll, I shall change, + But change can touch her not--so beautiful + With her fixed eyes, earnest and still, and hair + Lifted and spread by the salt-sweeping breeze, + And one red beam, all the storm leaves in heaven, + Resting upon her eyes and hair, such hair, + As she awaits the snake on the wet beach + By the dark rock and the white wave just breaking + At her feet; quite naked and alone; a thing + I doubt not, nor fear for, secure some god + To save will come in thunder from the stars. + +It is rather singular, in view of the great vogue of the sonnet in +the nineteenth century, that neither Tennyson nor Browning should +have succeeded in this form. The two men wrote very few +sonnets--Browning fewer than Tennyson--and neither ever wrote a +great one. Longfellow, so inferior in most respects to his two great +English contemporaries, was an incomparably superior sonnetteer. +Tennyson's sonnets are all mediocre: Browning did not publish a +single sonnet in the final complete edition of his works. He did +however print a very few on special occasions, and when he was +twenty-two years old, between the composition of _Pauline_ and +_Paracelsus_, there appeared in the _Monthly Repository_ a sonnet +beginning + + Eyes calm beside thee (Lady, could'st thou know!) + +which is the best example from his pen that has been preserved. +Although he did not think much of it in later years, it has been +frequently reprinted, and is worth keeping; both for the ardor of +its passion, and because it is extraordinary that he should have +begun so very early in his career a form of verse that he +practically abandoned. This sonnet may have been addressed to a +purely imaginary ideal; but it is possible that the young man had in +mind Eliza Flower, for whom he certainly had a boyish love, and who +was probably the original of Pauline. She and her sister, Sarah +Flower, the author of _Nearer, My God, to Thee_, were both older +than Browning, and both his intimate friends during the period of +his adolescence. + + + +SONNET + + +1834 + + Eyes calm beside thee (Lady, could'st thou know!) + May turn away thick with fast-gathering tears: + I glance not where all gaze: thrilling and low + Their passionate praises reach thee--my cheek wears + Alone no wonder when thou passest by; + Thy tremulous lids bent and suffused reply + To the irrepressible homage which doth glow + On every lip but mine: if in thine ears + Their accents linger--and thou dost recall + Me as I stood, still, guarded, very pale, + Beside each votarist whose lighted brow + Wore worship like an aureole, "O'er them all + My beauty," thou wilt murmur, "did prevail + Save that one only:"--Lady, could'st thou know! + +It is perhaps characteristic of Browning that this early sonnet +should be so irregular in its rime-scheme. + +The songs in _Paracelsus_ (1835) prove that Browning was a genuine +lyrical poet: the best of them, _Over the Sea Our Galleys Went_, is +more properly a dramatic monologue: but the song in the second act, +by Aprile (who I think stands for Keats) is a pure lyric, and so are +the two stanzas sung by Paracelsus in the fourth act. There are +lines here which suggest something of the drowsy music of Tennyson's +_Lotos-Eaters_, published in 1832: + + .... such balsam falls + Down sea-side mountain pedestals, + From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, + Spent with the vast and howling main, + To treasure half their island-gain. + + + + +SONGS FROM PARACELSUS + + +1835 + + (Aprile sings) + + I hear a voice, perchance I heard + Long ago, but all too low, + So that scarce a care it stirred + If the voice were real or no: + I heard it in my youth when first + The waters of my life outburst: + But, now their stream ebbs faint, I hear + That voice, still low, but fatal-clear-- + As if all poets, God ever meant + Should save the world, and therefore lent + Great gifts to, but who, proud, refused + To do his work, or lightly used + Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavour, + So, mourn cast off by him for ever,-- + As if these leaned in airy ring + To take me; this the song they sing. + + "Lost, lost! yet come, + With our wan troop make thy home. + Come, come! for we + Will not breathe, so much as breathe + Reproach to thee, + Knowing what thou sink'st beneath. + So sank we in those old years, + We who bid thee, come! thou last + Who, living yet, hast life o'erpast. + And altogether we, thy peers, + Will pardon crave for thee, the last + Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast + With those who watch but work no more, + Who gaze on life but live no more. + Yet we trusted thou shouldst speak + The message which our lips, too weak, + Refused to utter,--shouldst redeem + Our fault: such trust, and all a dream! + Yet we chose thee a birthplace + Where the richness ran to flowers: + Couldst not sing one song for grace? + Not make one blossom man's and ours? + Must one more recreant to his race + Die with unexerted powers, + And join us, leaving as he found + The world, he was to loosen, bound? + Anguish! ever and for ever; + Still beginning, ending never. + Yet, lost and last one, come! + How couldst understand, alas, + What our pale ghosts strove to say, + As their shades did glance and pass + Before thee night and day? + Thou wast blind as we were dumb: + Once more, therefore, come, O come! + How should we clothe, how arm the spirit + Shall next thy post of life inherit-- + How guard him from thy speedy ruin? + Tell us of thy sad undoing + Here, where we sit, ever pursuing + Our weary task, ever renewing + Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave + Our powers, and man they could not save!" + + (Paracelsus sings) + Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes + Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, + Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes + From out her hair: such balsam falls + Down sea-side mountain pedestals, + From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, + Spent with the vast and howling main, + To treasure half their island-gain. + + 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. + + (Song by Festus) + + 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: + Nought 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. + +The songs in _Pippa Passes_ (1841) are ail exquisite works of art. +The one on the King had been printed in the _Monthly Repository_ in +1835; the others appeared for the first time in the published drama. +All of them are vitally connected with the action of the plot, +differing in this respect from the Elizabethan custom of simple +interpolation. The song sung in the early morning by the girl in her +chamber + + All service ranks the same with God + +contains the philosophy of the play--human lives are inextricably +intertwined, and all are dependent on the will of God. No individual +can separate himself either from other men and women, or can sever +the connection between himself and his Father in Heaven. The first +stanza repeats the teaching of Milton in the sonnet on his blindness: +the second is more definitely connected with Pippa's professional +work. + + Untwine me from the mass + Of deeds which make up life, + +refers to her daily duty as a girl in the silk-mill, for she +naturally thinks of the complexity of life as a tangled skein. + + All service ranks the same with God: + If now, as formerly he trod + Paradise, his presence fills + Our earth, each only as God wills + Can work--God's puppets, best and worst, + Are we; there is no last nor first. + + Say not "a small event!" Why "small"? + Costs it more pain that this, ye call + A "great event," should come to pass, + Than that? Untwine me from the mass + Of deeds which make up life, one deed + Power shall fall short in or exceed! + + + + +OTHER SONGS FROM PIPPA PASSES + + +1841 + + You'll love me yet!--and I can tarry + Your love's protracted growing: + June reared that bunch of flowers you carry, + From seeds of April's sowing. + + I plant a heartful now: some seed + At least is sure to strike, + And yield--what you'll not pluck indeed, + Not love, but, may be, like. + + You'll look at least on love's remains, + A grave's one violet: + Your look?--that pays a thousand pains. + What's death? You'll love me yet! + + Overhead the tree-tops meet, + Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; + There was nought above me, nought below, + My childhood had not learned to know: + For, what are the voices of birds + --Ay, and of beasts,--but words, our words, + Only so much more sweet? + The knowledge of that with my life begun. + But I had so near made out the sun, + And counted your stars, the seven and one, + Like the fingers of my hand: + Nay, I could all but understand + Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges; + And just when out of her soft fifty changes + No unfamiliar face might overlook me-- + Suddenly God took me. + +The most famous song in the play, which simply sings itself, is: + + 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! + +The last line is unfortunately very often misquoted + + All's well with the world! + +a remark never made either by Pippa or by Browning. In Browning's +philosophy all may be right with the world, and yet far from well. +Perhaps it is too prosaically minute to point out in so beautiful a +poem, a scientific error, but at seven o'clock on the first of +January in Asolo the sun is still below the horizon. + + + + +MERTOUN'S SONG FROM A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON + + +1843 + + There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest; + And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the + surest: + And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre + Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the + wild-grape cluster, + Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: + Then her voice's music ... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's + warble! + And this woman says, "My days were sunless and my nights were + moonless, + Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's + outbreak tuneless, + If you loved me not!" And I who--(ah, for words of flame!) adore + her, + Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her-- + I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, + And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me! + +The two lyrics, _Home-Thoughts, from the Sea_ and _Home-Thoughts, +from Abroad_, were written during Browning's first Italian journey in +1838; and it seems strange that he did not print them among the +_Dramatic Lyrics_ of 1842 but reserved them for the _Dramatic +Romances_ of 1845; especially as he subsequently transferred them to +the _Lyrics_. They are both notable on account of the strong feeling +for England which they express. No great English poet has said so +little of England as Browning, though his own feelings were always +keenly patriotic. Even in _Pauline_, a poem without a country, there +occur the two lines + + ... and I cherish most + My love of England--how her name, a word + Of hers in a strange tongue makes my heart beat! + +The allusion to the English thrush has given immortality to +_Home-Thoughts, from Abroad_. Many had observed that the thrush +sings a lilt, and immediately repeats it: but Browning was the first +to give a pretty reason for it. The thrush seems to say, "You think +that beautiful melody is an accident? Well, I will show you it is no +fluke, I will sing it correctly right over again." Browning was not +in Italy in April--perhaps he wrote the first stanza on the voyage, +as he wrote _Home-Thoughts, from the Sea_, and added the second +stanza about May and June after he had reached the country of his +quest. + + + + +HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA + + +1845 + + 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. + + + + +HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD + + +1845 + + + I + + 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 bole are in tiny leaf, + While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough + In England--now! + + + II + + 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! + +The collection of poems called _James Lee's Wife_, published in the +_Dramatis Personae_ (1864), seems to me illustrative of Browning's +worst faults; it is obscure, harsh, and dull. But it contains one +fine lyric descriptive of an autumn morning, a morning, by the way, +much commoner in America during autumn than anywhere in Europe. The +second stanza is nobly ethical in its doctrine of love--that we +should not love only those persons whom we can respect, for true +love seeks no profit. It must be totally free from the prospect of +gain. A beautiful face inspired another lyric in this volume, and +Browning drew upon his memories of Correggio to give the perfect +tone to the poem. + + + + +FROM JAMES LEE'S WIFE + + +1864 + + + I + + 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. + + + II + + That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; + Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. + If you loved only what were worth your love, + Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: + Make the low nature better by your throes! + Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! + + + + +A FACE + + +1864 + + If one could have that little head of hers + Painted upon a background of pale gold, + Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! + No shade encroaching on the matchless mould + Of those two lips, which should be opening soft + In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, + For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft + Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's + Burthen of honey-coloured buds to kiss + And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. + Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, + How it should waver on the pale gold ground + Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! + I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts + Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb + Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: + But these are only massed there, I should think, + Waiting to see some wonder momently + Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky + (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), + All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye + Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. + +One of the most original and powerful of Browning's lyrical pieces +comes just where we should least expect it, at the end of that dark, +dreary, and all but impenetrable wilderness of verse, _Fifine at the +Fair_. It serves as an _Epilogue_, but it would be difficult and +unprofitable to attempt to discover its connection with the poem to +which is appended. Its metre is unique in Browning, and stirs the +heart with inexpressible force. In music it most closely resembles +the swift thrilling roll of a snare drum, and can be read aloud in +exact accord with that instrument. Browning calls it _The Householder_, +and of course it represents in his own life the anticipated moment +when the soul leaves its house to unite with its mate. Out of the +catastrophe of death appears a radiant vision which really seems too +good to be true. + + "What, and is it really you again?" quoth I: + "I again, what else did you expect?" quoth She. + +The man is weary of his old patched up body, now no longer needed: +weary of the noisy nuisances of life, and the tiresome and futile +gabble of humanity: resentful, now that his spirit has actually +survived death, when he remembers the scientific books he had read +which almost struck despair in him. He petulantly says, + + "If you knew but how I dwelt down here!" quoth I: + "And was I so better off up there?" quoth She. + +He is for immediate departure, leaving his empty carcass where it +lies; but she reminds him of the necessity for decent burial. Much +is to be done before they can begin to enjoy together their new and +freer existence. There is the body to be buried; the obituary +notices to be written for the papers: the parson and undertaker to be +summoned: the formalities of the funeral: the selection of a proper +tombstone, with care for the name and accurate carving of the date +of death thereupon: and finally a bit of verse in the way of final +flourish. So these two spirits look on with impatience at the +funeral exercises, at the weeping friends left behind, and not until +the coffin is under ground, are they at liberty to depart from +terrestial scenes. If we do survive the death of the body, with what +curious sensations must we regard the solemn ceremonies of its +interment! + + + + +EPILOGUE TO FIFINE + + +1872 + + THE HOUSEHOLDER + + + I + + Savage I was sitting in my house, late, lone: + Dreary, weary with the long day's work: + Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a stone: + Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming like a Turk; + When, in a moment, just a knock, call, cry, + Half a pang and all a rapture, there again were we!-- + "What, and is it really you again?" quoth I: + "I again, what else did you expect?" quoth She. + + + II + + "Never mind, hie away from this old house-- + Every crumbling brick embrowned with sin and shame! + Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes arouse! + Let them--every devil of the night--lay claim, + Make and mend, or rap and rend, for me! Good-bye! + God be their guard from disturbance at their glee, + Till, crash, comes down the carcass in a heap!" quoth I: + "Nay, but there's a decency required!" quoth She. + + + III + + "Ah, but if you knew how time has dragged, days, nights! + All the neighbour-talk with man and maid--such men! + All the fuss and trouble of street-sounds, window-sights; + All the worry of flapping door and echoing roof; and then, + All the fancies ... Who were they had leave, dared try + Darker arts that almost struck despair in me? + If you knew but how I dwelt down here!" quoth I: + "And was I so better off up there?" quoth She, + + + IV + + "Help and get it over! _Re-united to his wife_ + (How draw up the paper lets the parish-people know?) + _Lies M., or N., departed from this life, + Day the this or that, month and year the so and so_. + What i' the way of final flourish? Prose, verse? Try! + _Affliction sore long time he bore_, or, what is it to be? + _Till God did please to grant him ease_. Do end!" quoth I: + "I end with--Love is all and Death is nought!" quoth She. + +The same thought--the dramatic contrast between the free spirit and +its prison-house--is the basis of the two lyrics that serve as +prologues to _Pacchiarotto_ and to _La Saisiaz_. As Dryden's +prefaces are far better than his plays, so Browning's _Prologues_ to +_Pacchiarotto_, to _La Saisiaz_, to _The Two Poets of Croisic_, to +_Jocoseria_ are decidedly superior in poetic art and beauty to the +volumes they introduce. Indeed the prologue to _The Two Poets of +Croisic_ is one of the most beautiful and perfect lyrics in the +English language. + + + + +PROLOGUE + + +1878 + + + I + + Such a starved bank of moss + Till that May-morn, + Blue ran the flash across: + Violets were born! + + + II + + Sky--what a scowl of cloud + Till, near and far, + Ray on ray split the shroud. + Splendid, a star! + + + III + + World--how it walled about + Life with disgrace + Till God's own smile came out: + That was thy face! + + + + +PROLOGUE TO _PACCHIAROTTO_ + + +1876 + + + I + + O the old wall here! How I could pass + Life in a long Midsummer day, + My feet confined to a plot of grass, + My eyes from a wall not once away! + + + II + + And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe + Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green: + Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, + In lappets of tangle they laugh between. + + + III + + Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? + Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims + The body,--the house, no eye can probe,-- + Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs? + + + IV + + And there again! But my heart may guess + Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps: + So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess + Died out and away in the leafy wraps. + + + V + + Wall upon wall are between us: life + And song should away from heart to heart. + I--prison-bird, with a ruddy strife + At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start-- + + + VI + + Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing + That's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free; + Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring + Of the rueful neighbours, and--forth to thee! + + + + + +PROLOGUE TO _LA SAISIAZ_ + +1878 + + + I + + Good, to forgive; + Best, to forget! + Living, we fret; + Dying, we live. + Fretless and free, + Soul, clap thy pinion! + Earth have dominion, + Body, o'er thee! + + + II + + Wander at will, + Day after day,-- + Wander away, + Wandering still-- + Soul that canst soar! + Body may slumber: + Body shall cumber + Soul-flight no more. + + + III + + Waft of soul's wing! + What lies above? + Sunshine and Love, + Skyblue and Spring! + Body hides--where? + Ferns of all feather, + Mosses and heather, + Yours be the care! + + + + +PROLOGUE TO _JOCOSERIA_ + +1883 + + Wanting is--what? + Summer redundant, + Blueness abundant, + --Where is the blot? + Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, + --Framework which waits for a picture to frame: + What of the leafage, what of the flower? + Roses embowering with nought they embower! + Come then, complete incompletion, O comer, + Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer! + Breathe but one breath + Rose-beauty above. + And all that was death + Grows life, grows love, + Grows love! + + + + +NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE + +1883 + + 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 + Thro' the magic of May to herself indeed! + Or narrow if needs the house must he, + Outside are the storms and strangers: we-- + Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, + --I and she! + + + + + +IV + + +DRAMATIC LYRICS + +Browning's poetic career extended from 1833 to 1889, nearly sixty +years of fairly continuous composition. We may make a threefold +division: first, the thirteen years before his marriage in 1846; +second, the fifteen years of married life, closing in 1861; third, +the remaining twenty-eight years. During the first period he +published twelve works; during the second, two; during the third, +eighteen. The fact that so little was published during the years +when his wife was alive may be accounted for by the fact that the +condition of her health required his constant care, and that after +the total failure of _Men and Women_ (1855) to attract any +popular attention, Browning for some time spent most of his +energy in clay-modelling, giving up poetry altogether. Not long +before the death of Mrs. Browning, he was busy writing _Prince +Hohenstiel-Schwangau_, although he did not publish it until the +right moment, which came in 1871. After the appearance of _Dramatis +Personae_ (1864), and _The Ring and the Book_ (1868-9), Browning's +fame spread like a prairie fire; and it was quite natural that his +immense reputation was a sharp spur to composition. One is more +ready to speak when one is sure of an audience. Capricious destiny, +however, willed that the books which sold the fastest after +publication, were, with few exceptions, the least interesting and +valuable of all the poet's performances. Perhaps he did not take so +much care now that his fame was assured; perhaps the fires in his +own mind were dying; perhaps the loss of his wife robbed him of +necessary inspiration, as it certainly robbed him of the best critic +he ever had, and the only one to whom he paid any serious attention. +When we remember that some of the _Dramatic Romances_, _Luria_, +_A Soul's Tragedy_, _Christmas-Eve_, _Men and Women_, and some of +the _Dramatis Personae_ were read by her in manuscript, and that +_The Ring and the Book_ was written in the shadow of her influence, +we begin to realise how much she helped him. Their love-letters +during the months that preceded their marriage indicate the +excellence of her judgment, her profound and sympathetic +understanding of his genius and his willingness to listen to her +advice. He did not intend to publish _A Soul's Tragedy_ at all, +though it is one of his most subtle and interesting dramas, and only +did so at her request; part of the manuscript of _Christmas-Eve_ is +in her handwriting, + +It is worth remembering too that in later years Browning hated to +write poetry, and nothing but a sense of duty kept him during the +long mornings at his desk. He felt the responsibility of genius +without its inspiration. + +Browning has given a little trouble to bibliographers by +redistributing the poems originally published in the three works, +_Dramatic Lyrics_ (1842), _Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_ (1845), +and _Men and Women_ (1855). The _Dramatic Lyrics_ at first contained +sixteen pieces; the _Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_ twenty-three; the +_Men and Women_ fifty-one. In the final arrangement the first of +these included fifty; the second, called simply _Dramatic Romances_, +twenty-five; whilst the last was reduced to thirteen. He also +changed the titles of many of the poems, revised the text somewhat, +classified two separate poems under one title, _Claret and Tokay_, +and _Here's to Nelson's Memory_, under the heading _Nationality in +Drinks_, and united the two sections of _Saul_ in one poem. It is +notable that he omitted not one, and indeed it is remarkable that +with the exception of _The Boy and the Angel_, _A Lover's Quarrel_, +_Mesmerism_, and _Another Way of Love_, every poem in the long +list has the indubitable touch of genius; and even these four are +not the worst of Browning's compositions. + +It would have seemed to us perhaps more fitting if Browning had +grouped the contents of all three works under the one heading +_Men and Women_; for that would fairly represent the sole subject +of his efforts. Perhaps he felt that the title was too general, and +as a matter of fact, it would apply equally well to his complete +poetical works. I think, however, that he especially loved the +appellation _Dramatic Lyrics_, for he put over half of the poems +finally under that category. The word "dramatic" obsessed Browning. + +What is a dramatic lyric? When Tennyson published in 1842 his +_Ulysses_, a Yankee farmer in America made in one sentence three +remarks about it: a statement and two prophecies. He said that +_Ulysses_ belonged to a high class of poetry, destined to be the +highest, and to be more cultivated in the next generation. Now +_Ulysses_ is both a dramatic lyric and a dramatic monologue, and +Tennyson never wrote anything better than this poem. As it became +increasingly evident that the nineteenth century was not going to +have a great literary dramatic movement on the stage, while at the +same time the interest in human nature had never been keener, the +poets began to turn their attention to the interpretation of +humanity by the representation of historical or imaginary +individuals speaking: and their speech was to reveal the secrets of +the human soul, in its tragedy and comedy, in its sublimity and +baseness, in its nobility and folly. Later in life Tennyson +cultivated sedulously the dramatic monologue; and Browning, the most +original force in literature that the century produced, after +abandoning his early attempts at success on the stage, devoted +practically the entire strength of his genius to this form of poetry. +Emerson was a wise man. + +In reshuffling the short poems in the three works mentioned above, +it is not always easy to see the logic of the distribution and it +would be interesting if we could know the reasons that guided the +poet in the classification of particular poems. Thus it is perfectly +clear why _Incident of the French Camp_, _Count Gismond_, and +_In a Gondola_ were taken from the _Dramatic Lyrics_ and placed +among the _Dramatic Romances_; it is easy to see why _The Lost Leader_ +and _Home-Thoughts, from Abroad_ were taken from the _Romances_ and +placed among the _Lyrics_; it is not quite so clear why _Rudel_ and +_Artemis Prologizes_ were taken from the _Lyrics_ and classed +among _Men and Women_, when nearly all the poems originally +published under the latter head were changed to _Lyrics_ and _ +Romances_. In changing _How They Brought the Good News_ from the +_Dramatic Romances_, where it was originally published, to _ +Dramatic Lyrics_, Browning probably felt that the lyrical sound of +the piece was more important than the story: but it really is a +dramatic romance. Furthermore, _My Last Duchess_ would seem to fall +more properly under the heading _Men and Women_; Browning, however, +took it from the _Dramatic Lyrics_ and placed it among the _Dramatic +Romances_. In most cases, however, the reason for the transfer of +individual poems is clear; and a study of the classification is of +positive assistance toward the understanding of the piece. + +In the eight volumes published from 1841 to 1846, which Browning +called _Bells and Pomegranates_, meaning simply Sound and Sense, +Meat and Music, only two are collections of short poems and the +other six contain exclusively plays--seven in all, two being printed +together in the last volume. Browning intended the whole _Bells and +Pomegranates_ series to be devoted to the drama, as one may see by +the original preface to _Pippa Passes_: but that drama and the next +did not sell, and the publisher suggested that he include some short +poems. This explains why the third volume is filled with lyrics; and +in a note published with it, Browning half apologised for what might +seem a departure from his original plan, saying these two might +properly fall under the head of dramatic pieces; being, although +lyrical in expression, "always dramatic in principle, and so many +utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine." + +He means then by a dramatic lyric a poem that is short, that is +musical, but that is absolutely not subjective--does not express or +betray the writer's own ideas nor even his mood, as is done in +Tennyson's ideal lyric, _Crossing the Bar_. A dramatic lyric is a +composition lyrical in form, and dramatic in subject-matter; +remembering all the time that by dramatic we do not necessarily mean +anything exciting but simply something objective, something entirely +apart from the poet's own feelings. On the stage this is +accomplished by the creation of separate characters who _in propria +persona_ express views that may or may not be in harmony with the +poet's own. Thus, Macbeth's speech, beginning + + Out, out, brief candle! + +is really a dramatic lyric; because it is lyrical in form, and it +expresses views on the value of life which could hardly have been +held by Shakespeare, though they seem eminently fitting from the +lips of a man who had tried to gain the whole world by losing his +soul, and had succeeded in losing both. + +In view of Browning's love for this form of verse, it is interesting +to remember that the first two independent short poems that he ever +wrote and retained in his works are both genuine dramatic lyrics. +These are _Porphyria's Lover_ and _Johannes Agricola_, printed in +the _Monthly Repository_ in 1836, when Browning was twenty-four +years old. Thus early did he show both aptitude for this form and +excellence in it, for each of these pieces is a work of genius. They +were meant to be studies in abnormal psychology, for they were +printed together in the _Dramatic Lyrics_ under the caption _ +Madhouse Cells_. Browning was very young then, and naturally thought +a man who believed in predestination and a man who killed the woman +he loved were both insane; but after a longer experience of life, +and seeing how many strange creatures walk the streets, he ceased to +call these two men, obsessed by religion and obsessed by love, mad. +If Porphyria's lover is mad, there is method in his madness. Her +superior social rank has stifled hitherto the instincts of the heart; +she has never given her lover any favors; but to-night, at the +dinner-dance, by one of those strange and inexplicable caprices that +make Woman the very Genius of the Unexpected, she has a vision. In +the midst of the lights and the laughter, she sees her lonely lover +sitting dejectedly in his cold and cheerless cottage, thinking of her. +She slips away from the gay company, trips through the pouring rain, +and enters the dark room like an angel of light. After kindling a +blazing fire in the grate, she kindles her lover's hope-dead heart; +she draws him to her and places his head on her naked shoulder. +Suddenly a thought comes to him; one can see the light of murder in +his eyes. At this moment she is sublime, fit for Heaven: for the +first time in her life, a noble impulse has triumphed over the +debasing conventions of society; if he lets her go, she will surely +fall from grace, and become a lost soul. He strangles her with her +yellow hair, risking damnation for her salvation. So the quick and +the dead sit together through the long night. + + + + +PORPHYRIA'S LOVER + +1836 + + The rain set early in to-night, + The sullen wind was soon awake, + It tore the elm-tops down for spite, + And did its worst to vex the lake: + I listened with heart fit to break. + When glided in Porphyria; straight + She shut the cold out and the storm, + And kneeled and made the cheerless grate + Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; + Which done, she rose, and from her form + Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, + And laid her soiled gloves by, untied + Her hat and let the damp hair fall, + And, last, she sat down by my side + And called me. When no voice replied, + She put my arm about her waist, + And made her smooth white shoulder bare, + And all her yellow hair displaced, + And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, + And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, + Murmuring how she loved me--she + Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, + To set its struggling passion free + From pride, and vainer ties dissever, + And give herself to me for ever. + But passion sometimes would prevail, + Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain + A sudden thought of one so pale + For love of her, and all in vain: + So, she was come through wind and rain. + Be sure I looked up at her eyes + Happy and proud; at last I knew + Porphyria worshipped me; surprise + Made my heart swell, and still it grew + While I debated what to do. + That moment she was mine, mine, fair, + Perfectly pure and good: I found + A thing to do, and all her hair + In one long yellow string I wound + Three times her little throat around, + And strangled her. No pain felt she; + I am quite sure she felt no pain. + As a shut bud that holds a bee, + I warily oped her lids: again + Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. + And I untightened next the tress + About her neck; her cheek once more + Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: + I propped her head up as before, + Only, this time my shoulder bore + Her head, which droops upon it still; + The smiling rosy little head, + So glad it has its utmost will, + That all it scorned at once is fled, + And I, its love, am gained instead! + Porphyria's love: she guessed not how + Her darling one wish would be heard. + And thus we sit together now, + And all night long we have not stirred, + And yet God has not said a word! + +What is the meaning of that last enigmatical line? Does it mean that +the expected bolt from the sky has not fallen, that God approves of +the murder? Or does it mean that the man is vaguely disappointed, +that he had hoped to hear a voice from Heaven, saying, "This is my +beloved son, in whom I am well pleased"? Or does it mean that the +Power above is wholly indifferent, "when the sky, which noticed all, +makes no disclosure"? + +In _Johannes Agricola_, Browning wrote a lyric setting forth the +strange and yet largely accepted doctrine that Almighty God before +the foundations of the earth were laid, predestined a few of the +coming population to everlasting bliss and the vast majority to +eternal torture. This is by no means a meditation in a madhouse cell, +as Browning first believed; but might logically be the reflections +of a nineteenth century Presbyterian clergyman, seated in his +comfortable library. It is the ecstatic mystical joy of one who +realises, that through no merit of his own, he is numbered among the +elect. Sir Thomas Browne quaintly pictured to himself the surprise +of the noble, upright men of antiquity, when they wake up in hell +simply because they did not believe on One of whom they had never +heard; so Johannes speculates on the ironical fate of monks, ascetics, +women and children, whose lives were full of innocence and purity, +who nevertheless reach ultimately the lake of fire. Praise God for it! +for if I could understand Him, I could not praise Him. How much more +noble this predestinating God is than one who should reward virtue, +and thus make eternal bliss a matter of calculation and bargain! + + + + +JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION + +1836 + + 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 + I 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 thundergirt, 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. + Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend, + No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop! + + I have God's warrant, could I blend + All hideous sins, as in a cup, + To drink the mingled venoms up; + Secure my nature will convert + The draught to blossoming gladness fast: + While sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt, + And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast, + As from the first its lot was cast. + For as I lie, smiled on, full-fed + By unexhausted power to bless, + I gaze below on hell's fierce bed, + And those its waves of flame oppress, + Swarming in ghastly wretchedness; + Whose life on earth aspired to be + One altar-smoke, so pure!--to win + If not love like God's love for me, + At least to keep his anger in; + And all their striving turned to sin. + Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white + With prayer, the broken-hearted nun, + The martyr, the wan acolyte, + The incense-swinging child,--undone + Before God fashioned star or sun! + God, whom I praise; how could I praise, + If such as I might understand, + Make out and reckon on his ways, + And bargain for his love, and stand, + Paying a price, at his right hand? + +The religious exaltation of the opening lines + + There's heaven above, and night by night + I look right through its gorgeous roof; ... + 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 + +reminds one infallibly of Tennyson's beautiful dramatic lyric, +_St. Agnes' Eve_: + + Deep on the convent roof the snows + Are sparkling to the moon: + My breath to heaven like vapour goes, + May my soul follow soon! + +It is interesting to remember that the former was published in 1836, +the latter in 1837, and each in a periodical. + +Perhaps Browning attempted to show the dramatic quality of his +lyrics by finally placing at the very beginning the _Cavalier Tunes_ +and _The Lost Leader_; for the former voice in eloquent language the +hatred of democratic ideas, and the latter, in language equally +strenuous, is a glorification of democracy. Imagine Browning himself +saying what he places in the mouth of his gallant cavaliers-- +"Hampden to hell!" In the second, _The Lost Leader_, nothing was +farther from Browning's own feelings than a personal attack on +Wordsworth, whom he regarded with reverence; in searching for an +example of a really great character who had turned from the popular +to the aristocratic party, he happened to think of the change from +radicalism to conservatism exhibited by Wordsworth. Love for the +lost leader is still strong in the breasts of his quondam followers +who now must fight him; in Heaven he will not only be pardoned, he +will be first there as he was always first here. In the following +lines, the prepositions are interesting: + + Shakespeare was _of_ us, Milton was _for_ us, + Burns, Shelley, were _with_ us. + +Shakespeare was indeed of the common people, but so far as we can +conjecture, certainly not for them; Milton was not of them, but was +wholly for them, being indeed regarded as an anarchist; Burns was a +peasant, and Shelley a blue-blood, but both were with the popular +cause. Browning himself, as we happen to know from one of his +personal sonnets, was an intense Liberal in feeling. + + + + +CAVALIER TUNES + +1842 + + +I. MARCHING ALONG + + + I + + Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, + Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: + And, pressing a troop unable to stoop + And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, + Marched them along, fifty-score strong, + Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. + + + II + + God for King Charles! Pym and such carles + To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! + Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, + Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup + Till you're-- + CHORUS.--_Marching along, fifty-score strong_, + _Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song_. + + + III + + Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell + Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! + England, good cheer! Rupert is near! + Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here + CHORUS.--_Marching along, fifty-score strong_, + _Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song_? + + + IV + + Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls + To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! + Hold by the right, you double your might; + So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, + CHORUS.--_March we along, fifty-score strong_, + _Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song_! + + + + +II. GIVE A ROUSE + + I + + King Charles, and who'll do him right now? + King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? + Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, + King Charles! + + + II + + Who gave me the goods that went since? + Who raised me the house that sank once? + Who helped me to gold I spent since? + Who found me in wine you drank once? + CHORUS.--_King Charles, and who'll do him right now? + King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? + Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, + King Charles_! + + + III + + To whom used my boy George quaff else, + By the old fool's side that begot him? + For whom did he cheer and laugh else, + While Noll's damned troopers shot him? + CHORUS.--_King Charles, and who'll do him right now? + King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? + Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, + King Charles_! + + + + +III. BOOT AND SADDLE + + + I + + Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! + Rescue my castle before the hot day + Brightens to blue from its silvery grey, + CHORUS.--_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away_! + + + II + + Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; + Many's the friend there, will listen and pray + "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay--" + CHORUS.--"_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away_!" + + + III + + Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, + Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: + Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay," + CHORUS.--"_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away_!" + + + + IV + + Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, + Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! + I've better counsellors; what counsel they?" + CHORUS.--"_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away_!" + + + + + +THE LOST LEADER + +1845 + + + I + + Just for a handful of silver he left us, + Just for a riband to stick in his coat-- + Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, + Lost all the others she lets us devote; + They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, + So much was theirs who so little allowed: + How all our copper had gone for his service! + Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud! + We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, + Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, + Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, + Made him our pattern to live and to die! + Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, + Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! + He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, + --He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! + + + II + + We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence; + Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; + Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, + Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: + Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, + One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, + One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, + One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! + Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! + There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, + Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, + Never glad confident morning again! + Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, + Menace our heart ere we master his own; + Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, + Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! + + +The poem _Cristina_ (1842), while not very remarkable as poetry, is +notable because it contains thus early in Browning's career, four of +his most important doctrines. The more one studies Browning, the +more one is convinced that the poet's astonishing mental vigor is +shown not in the number and variety of his ideas, but rather in the +number and variety of illustrations of them. I can not at this +moment think of any poet, dramatist or novelist who has invented so +many plots as Browning. He seems to present to us a few leading +ideas in a vast series of incarnations. Over and over again the same +thoughts, the same doctrines are repeated; but the scenery, the +situations, and the characters are never alike. Here is where he +remains true to the theory set forth in _Transcendentalism_; the poet +should not produce thoughts but rather concrete images of them; or, +as he says in the closing lines of _The Ring and the Book_, Art must +do the thing that breeds the thought. + +In _Cristina_, four of Browning's fundamental articles of faith are +expressed: the doctrine of the elective affinities; the doctrine of +success through failure; the doctrine that time is measured not by +the clock and the calendar, but by the intensity of spiritual +experiences; the doctrine that life on earth is a trial and a test, +the result of which will be seen in the higher and happier +development when the soul is freed from the limitations of time and +space. + +The expression "elective affinities" as applied to human beings was +first brought into literature, I believe, by no less a person than +Goethe, who in his novel, published in 1809, which he called _ +Elective Affinities (Wahlverwandschaften_), showed the tremendous +force which tends to draw together certain persons of opposite sexes. +The term was taken from chemistry, where an elective affinity means +the "force by which the atoms of bodies of dissimilar nature unite"; +elective affinity is then simply a chemical force. + +In Goethe's novel, Charlotte thus addresses the Captain: "Would you +tell me briefly what is meant here by Affinities?" The Captain +replied, "In all natural objects with which we are acquainted, we +observe immediately that they have a certain relation." Charlotte: +"Let me try and see whether I can understand where you are bringing +me. As everything has a reference to itself, so it must have some +relation to others." Edward interrupts: "And that will be different +according to the natural differences of the things themselves. +Sometimes they will meet like friends and old acquaintances; they +will come rapidly together, and unite without either having to alter +itself at all--as wine mixes with water." Charlotte: "One can almost +fancy that in these simple forms one sees people that one is +acquainted with." The Captain: "As soon as our chemical chest arrives, +we can show you a number of entertaining experiments, which will +give you a clearer idea than words, and names, and technical +expressions." Charlotte: "It appears to me that if you choose to +call these strange creatures of yours related, the relationship is +not so much a relationship of blood as of soul or of spirit." The +Captain: "We had better keep to the same instances of which we have +already been speaking. Thus, what we call limestone is a more or +less pure calcareous earth in combination with a delicate acid, +which is familiar to us in the form of a gas. Now, if we place a +piece of this stone in diluted sulphuric acid, this will take +possession of the lime, and appear with it in the form of gypsum, +the gaseous acid at the same time going off in vapour. Here is a +case of separation: a combination arises, and we believe ourselves +now justified in applying to it the words 'Elective Affinity;' it +really looks as if one relation had been deliberately chosen in +preference to another." Charlotte: "Forgive me, as I forgive the +natural philosopher. I can not see any choice in this; I see a +natural necessity rather, and scarcely that. Opportunity makes +relations as it makes thieves: and as long as the talk is only of +natural substances, the choice appears to be altogether in the hands +of the chemist who brings the creatures together. Once, however, let +them be brought together, and then God have mercy on them." The +scientific conversation is summed up by their all agreeing that the +chemical term "elective affinities" can properly be applied in +analogy to human beings. + +An elective affinity as applied to men and women may result in +happiness or misery; or may be frustrated by a still superior +prudential or moral force. The law of elective affinity being a force, +it is naturally unaware of any human artificial obstacles, such as a +total difference in social rank, or the previous marriage of one or +both of the parties. If two independent individuals meet and are +drawn together by the law of elective affinities, they may marry and +live happily forever after; if another marriage has already taken +place, as in Goethe's story, the result may be tragedy. In _Cristina_, +the elective affinities assert their force between a queen and a +private individual; the result is, at least temporarily, unfortunate +for the simple reason that the lady, although drawn toward the man +by the workings of this mysterious force, is controlled even more +firmly by the bondage of social convention; she behaves in a +contrary manner to that shown by the stooping lady in Maurice +Hewlett's story. This force needs only one moment, one glance, to +assert its power: + + She should never have looked at me + If she meant I should not love her! + +Love in Browning is often love at first sight; no prolonged +acquaintance is necessary; not even a spoken word, or any physical +contact. + + Doubt you whether + This she felt as, _looking at me_, + Mine and her souls rushed together? + +In Tennyson's _Locksley Hall_ (published the same year), contact was +important: + + And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. + +Browning's portrayal of love shows that it can be a wireless +telegraphy, that, in the instance of Cristina and her lover, exerted +its force across a crowded room; in _The Statue and the Bust_, it is +equally powerful across a public square in Florence. The glance, or +as Donne expresses it, the "twisted eye-beams," is an important +factor in Browning's poetry--sufficient to unite two souls +throughout all eternity, as it does in _Tristan und Isolde_. Browning +repeats his favorite doctrine of the elective affinities in _Evelyn +Hope_, _Count Gismond_, _In a Gondola_, _Dis Aliter Visum_, _Youth +and Art_, and other poems; and its noblest expression is perhaps in +that wonderful scene in the crowded theatre at Arezzo; whilst the +flippant audience are gazing at a silly musical comedy, the sad eyes +of Pompilia encounter the grave, serious regard of Caponsacchi, and +the two young hearts are united forever. + +Another leading idea in Browning's philosophy is _Success in Failure_. +This paradox is indeed a corner-stone in the construction of his +thought. Every noble soul must fail in life, because every noble +soul has an ideal. We may be encouraged by temporary successes, but +we must be inspired by failure. Browning can forgive any daring +criminal; but he can not forgive the man who is selfishly satisfied +with his attainments and his position, and thus accepts compromises +with life. The soul that ceases to grow is utterly damned. The +damnation of contentment is shown with beauty and fervor in one of +Browning's earliest lyrics, _Over the Sea Our Galleys Went_. The +voyagers were weary of the long journey, they heeded not the voice +of the pilot Conscience, they accommodated their ideals to their +personal convenience. The reason why Browning could not forgive +Andrea was not because he was Andrea del Sarto, the son of a tailor; +it was because he was known as the Faultless Painter, because he +could actually realise his dreams. The text of that whole poem is +found in the line + + Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp. + +In _Cristina_, the man's love is not rewarded here, he fails; but he +has aimed high, he has loved a queen. He will always love her--in +losing her he has found a guiding principle for his own life, which +will lead him ever up and on. + + She has lost me, I have gained her; + Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect, + I shall pass my life's remainder. + +Her body I have lost: some other man will possess that: but her soul +I gained in the moment when our eyes met, and my life has reached a +higher plane and now has a higher motive. In failure I reach real +success. + +This doctrine, illustrated repeatedly in Browning's works, is stated +explicitly in _Rabbi Ben Ezra_: + + For thence,--a paradox + Which comforts while it mocks,-- + Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: + What I aspired to be, + And was not, comforts me: + A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. + +The thought that life is not measured by length of days is brought +out clearly in _Cristina_. We constantly read in the paper +interviews with centenarians, who tell us how to prolong our lives +by having sufficient sleep, by eating moderately, by refraining from +worry. But, as a writer in a southern journal expressed it, Why do +these aged curiosities never tell us what use they have made of this +prolonged existence? Mark Twain said cheerfully, "Methuselah lived +nine hundred and sixty-nine years; but what of that? There was +nothing doing." No drama on the stage is a success unless it has +what we call a supreme moment; and the drama of our individual lives +can not be really interesting or important unless it has some +moments when we live intensely, when we live longer than some +persons live in years; moments that settle our purpose and destiny. + + Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows! + But not quite so sunk that moments, + Sure, tho' seldom, are denied us, + When the spirit's true endowments + Stand out plainly from its false ones, + And apprise it if pursuing + Or the right way or the wrong way, + To its triumph or undoing. + There are flashes struck from midnights, + There are fire-flames noondays kindle, + Whereby piled-up honours perish, + Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle. + +An American public man who one day fell in public esteem as far as +Lucifer, said that it had taken him fifty years to build up a great +reputation, and that he had lost it all in one forenoon. The dying +courtier in _Paracelsus_ had such a moment. + +Finally, in _Cristina_, we find that ardent belief in a future life +that lifts its head so often and so resolutely in Browning's poetry, +and on which, as we shall see later, his optimism is founded. Science +tells us that the matter of which the universe is composed is +indestructible; Browning believes even more strongly in the +permanence of spirit. Aspiration, enthusiasm, love would not be +given to us to have their purposes broken off, not if this is a +rational and economic universe; the important thing is not to have +our hopes fulfilled here, the important thing is to keep hoping. +Such love as the man had for Cristina must eventually find its full +satisfaction so long as it remains the guiding principle of his life, +which will serve as a test of his tenacity. + + Life will just hold out the proving + Both our powers, alone and blended: + And then, come next life quickly! + This world's use will have been ended. + +Precisely the same situation and the same philosophical result of it +are illustrated in the exquisite lyric, _Evelyn Hope_. The lover is +frustrated not by social distinctions, but by death. The girl is +lost to him here, but the power of love is not quenched nor even +lessened by this disaster. The man's ardor will steadily increase +during the remaining years of his earthly existence; and then his +soul will start out confident on its quest. + + God above + Is great to grant, as mighty to make, + And creates the love to reward the love: + I claim you still, for my own love's sake! + Delayed it may be for more lives yet, + Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: + Much is to learn, much to forget, + Ere the time be come for taking you. + +This doctrine, that earthly existence is a mere test of the soul to +determine its fitness for entering upon an eternal and freer stage +of development, is frequently set forth in Browning. The apostle John +makes it quite clear in _A Death in the Desert_; and in _Abt Vogler_, +the inspired musician sings + + And 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 might be prized? + +From the above discussion it should be plain that the short poem +_Cristina_ deserves patient and intense study, for it contains in +the form of a dramatic lyric, some of Browning's fundamental ideas. + + + + +CRISTINA + +1842 + + + I + + She should never have looked at me + If she meant I should not love her! + There are plenty ... men, you call such, + I suppose ... she may discover + All her soul to, if she pleases, + And yet leave much as she found them: + But I'm not so, and she knew it + When she fixed me, glancing round them. + + + II + + What? To fix me thus meant nothing? + But I can't tell (there's my weakness) + What her look said!--no vile cant, sure, + About "need to strew the bleakness + Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, + That the sea feels"--no "strange yearning + That such souls have, most to lavish + Where there's chance of least returning." + + + III + + Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows! + But not quite so sunk that moments, + Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, + When the spirit's true endowments + Stand out plainly from its false ones, + And apprise it if pursuing + Or the right way or the wrong way, + To its triumph or undoing. + + + IV + + There are flashes struck from midnights, + There are fire-flames noondays kindle, + Whereby piled-up honours perish, + Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle, + While just this or that poor impulse, + Which for once had play unstifled, + Seems the sole work of a life-time + That away the rest have trifled. + + + V + + Doubt you if, in some such moment, + As she fixed me, she felt clearly, + Ages past the soul existed, + Here an age 'tis resting merely, + And hence fleets again for ages, + While the true end, sole and single, + It stops here for is, this love-way, + With some other soul to mingle? + + + VI + + Else it loses what it lived for, + And eternally must lose it; + Better ends may be in prospect, + Deeper blisses (if you choose it), + But this life's end and this love-bliss + Have been lost here. Doubt you whether + This she felt as, looking at me, + Mine and her souls rushed together? + + + VII + + Oh, observe! Of course, next moment, + The world's honours, in derision, + Trampled out the light for ever: + Never fear but there's provision + Of the devil's to quench knowledge + Lest we walk the earth in rapture! + --Making those who catch God's secret + Just so much more prize their capture! + + + VIII + + Such am I: the secret's mine now! + She has lost me, I have gained her; + Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect, + I shall pass my life's remainder. + Life will just hold out the proving + Both our powers, alone and blended: + And then, come the next life quickly! + This world's use will have been ended. + + + + + +SONG FROM _PARACELSUS_ + +1835 + + 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 in flame, + To bear the playful billows' game: + So, each good ship was rude to see, + Rude and bare to the outward view, + But each upbore a stately tent + Where cedar pales in scented row + Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, + And an awning drooped the mast below, + In fold on fold of the purple fine, + That neither noontide nor starshine + Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, + Might pierce the regal tenement. + When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad + We set the sail and plied the oar; + But when the night-wind blew like breath, + For joy of one day's voyage more, + We sang together on the wide sea, + Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; + Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, + Each helm made sure by the twilight star, + And in a sleep as calm as death, + We, the voyagers from afar, + Lay stretched along, each weary crew + In a circle round its wondrous tent + Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, + And with light and perfume, music too: + So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past, + And at morn we started beside the mast, + And still each ship was sailing fast. + + Now, one morn, land appeared--a speck + Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky: + "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check + The shout, restrain the eager eye!" + But the heaving sea was black behind + For many a night and many a day, + And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; + So, we broke the cedar pales away, + Let the purple awning flap in the wind, + And a statue bright was on every deck! + We shouted, every man of us, + And steered right into the harbour thus, + With pomp and paean glorious. + + A hundred shapes of lucid stone! + All day we built its shrine for each, + A shrine of rock for every one, + Nor paused till in the westering sun + We sat together on the beach + To sing because our task was done. + When lo! what shouts and merry songs! + What laughter all the distance stirs! + A loaded raft with happy throngs + Of gentle islanders! + "Our isles are just at hand," they cried, + "Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping: + Our temple-gates are opened wide, + Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping + For these majestic forms"--they cried. + Oh, then we awoke with sudden start + From our deep dream, and knew, too late, + How bare the rock, how desolate, + Which had received our precious freight: + Yet we called out--"Depart! + Our gifts, once given, must here abide. + Our work is done; we have no heart + To mar our work,"--we cried, + + + + + +EVELYN HOPE + +1855 + + + I + + Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! + Sit and watch by her side an hour. + That is her book-shelf, this her bed; + She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, + Beginning to die too, in the glass; + Little has yet been changed, I think: + The shutters are shut, no light may pass + Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. + + + II + + Sixteen years old when she died! + Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; + It was not her time to love; beside, + Her life had many a hope and aim, + Duties enough and little cares, + And now was quiet, now astir, + Till God's hand beckoned unawares,-- + And the sweet white brow is all of her. + + + III + + Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? + What, your soul was pure and true, + The good stars met in your horoscope, + Made you of spirit, fire and dew-- + And, just because I was thrice as old + And our paths in the world diverged so wide, + Each was nought to each, must I be told? + We were fellow mortals, nought beside? + + + IV + + No, indeed! for God above + Is great to grant, as mighty to make, + And creates the love to reward the love: + I claim you still, for my own love's sake! + Delayed it may be for more lives yet, + Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: + Much is to learn, much to forget + Ere the time be come for taking you. + + + V + + But the time will come,--at last it will, + When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) + In the lower earth, in the years long still, + That body and soul so pure and gay? + Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, + And your mouth of your own geranium's red-- + And what you would do with me, in fine, + In the new life come in the old one's stead. + + + VI + + I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, + Given up myself so many times, + Gained me the gains of various men, + Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; + Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, + Either I missed or itself missed me: + And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! + What is the issue? let us see! + + + VII + + I loved you, Evelyn, all the while. + My heart seemed full as it could hold? + There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, + And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. + So, hush,--I will give you this leaf to keep: + See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! + There, that is our secret: go to sleep! + You will wake, and remember, and understand. + +The dramatic lyric in two parts called _Meeting at Night_ and +_Parting at Morning_ contains only sixteen lines and is a flawless +masterpiece. Of the four dimensions of mathematics, one only has +nothing to do with poetry. The length of a poem is of no importance +in estimating its value. I do not fully understand what is meant by +saying that a poem is too long or too short. It depends entirely on +the art with which the particular subject is treated. A short poem +of no value is too long; a long poem of genius is not too long. +Richardson's _Clarissa_ in eight volumes is not too long, as is +proved by the fact that the numerous attempts to abridge it are all +failures; whereas many short stories in our magazines are far too +long. Browning's _Night and Morning_ is not too short, because it +contains in sixteen lines everything necessary; _The Ring and the +Book_ is not too long, because the twenty thousand and odd lines are +all needed to make the study of testimony absolutely complete. But +whilst the mathematical dimension of length is not a factor in poetry, +the dimensions of breadth and depth are of vital importance, and the +mysterious fourth dimension is the quality that determines whether +or not a poem is a work of genius. Poems of the highest imagination +can not be measured at all except in the fourth dimension. The first +part of Browning's lyric is notable for its shortness, its breadth +and its depth; the second part possesses these qualities even more +notably, and also takes the reader's thoughts into a world entirely +outside the limits of time and space. + +Browning has often been called a careless writer and although he +maintained that the accusation was untrue, the condition of some of +the manuscripts he sent to the press--notably _Mr. Sludge, the Medium_ +--is proof positive that he did not work at each one of his poems at +his highest level of patient industry. He was however in general a +fastidious artist; much more so than is commonly supposed. He was one +of our greatest impromptu poets, like Shakespeare, writing hot from +the brain; he was not a polisher and reviser, like Chaucer and +Tennyson. But he studied with care the sound of his words. Many +years ago, Mrs. Le Moyne, who has done so much to increase the +number of intelligent Browning lovers in America, met the poet in +Europe, and told him she would like to recite to him one of his own +poems. "Go ahead, my dear." So she began to repeat in her beautiful +voice _Meeting at Night_; she spoke the third line + + And the little startled waves that leap + +"Stop!" said Browning, "that isn't right." She then learned from him +the sharp difference between "little startled waves" as she read it, +and "startled little waves" as he wrote it. He was trying to produce +the effect of a warm night on the beach with no wind, where the tiny +wavelets simply crumble in a brittle fashion on the sand. "Startled +little waves" produces this effect; "little startled waves" does not. + +The impressionistic colors in this poem add much to its effect; the +grey sea, the black land, the yellow moon, the fiery ringlets, the +blue spurt of the match, the golden light of morning. The sounds and +smells are realistic; one hears the boat cut harshly into the slushy +sand; the sharp scratch of the match; one inhales the thick, heavy +odor radiating from the sea-scented beach that has absorbed all day +the hot rays of the sun. + +It is probable that the rendezvous is not at dusk, as is commonly +supposed, but at midnight. Owen Wister, in his fine novel, _The +Virginian_, speaks of the lover's journey as taking place at dusk. +Now the half-moon could not scientifically be low at that early hour, +and although most poets care nothing at all for the moon except as a +decorative object, Browning was generally precise in such matters. An +American poet submitted to the _Century Magazine_ a poem that was +accepted, the last line of each stanza reading + + And in the west the waning moon hangs low. + +One of the editorial staff remembered that the waning moon does not +hang low in the west; he therefore changed the word to "weary," +which made the poet angry. He insisted that he was a poet, not a man +of science, and vowed that he would place his moon exactly where he +chose. The editors replied, "You can have a waning moon in the west +in some magazines, perhaps, but you can not have it there in the +_Century_." So it was published "weary," as any one may see who +has sufficient time and patience. + +Furthermore the contrast in this poem is not between evening and +morning, but between night and morning. The English commonly draw a +distinction between evening and night that we do not observe in +America. _Pippa Passes_ is divided into four sections, Morning, Noon, +Evening, Night. Furthermore the meeting is a clandestine one; not the +first one, for the man's soliloquy of his line of march shows how +often he has travelled this way before, and now his eager mind, +leaping far ahead of his feet, repeats to him each stage of the +journey. The cottage is shrouded in absolute darkness until the +lover's tap is heard; then comes the sound and the sight of the match, +and the sudden thrill of the mad embrace, when the wild heart-beats +are louder than the love-whispers. + +The dramatic contrast in this poem is between the man's feelings at +night, and his mood in the morning. Both parts of the lyric, +therefore, come from the man's heart. It is absurd to suppose, as +many critics seem to think, that the second part is uttered by the +woman. Such a mistake could never have arisen if it had not been for +the word "him" in the penultimate line, which does not of course, +refer to the man, but to the sun. To have the woman repeat in her +heart these lines not only destroys the true philosophy of life set +forth in the lyric, but the last reflection, + + And the need of a world of men for me + +would seem to make her taste rather catholic for an ideal sweetheart. + +The real meaning of the poem is simply this: The passionate +intensity of love can not be exaggerated; in the night's meeting all +other thoughts, duties, and pleasures are as though they were not; +but with the day comes the imperious call of life and even if the +woman could be content to live forever with her lover in the lonely +cottage, he could not; he loves her honestly with fervor and +sincerity, but he simply must go out into the world where men are, +and take his share of the excitement and the struggle; he would soon +be absolutely miserable if marooned from life, even with the woman +he loves. Those novels that represent a man as having no interest in +life but love are false to human nature. In this poem Browning +represents facts as they are; it is not simply that the man wants to +go out and live among other men, it is a natural law that he must, +as truly a natural law as gravitation. + + And straight was a path of gold for him, + And the need of a world of men for me. + +Just as the sun must take his prescribed course through the sky, so +must I run my circle of duties in the world of men. It is not a +moral call of duty; it is the importunate pull of necessity. + +There is still the possibility of another interpretation of the last +line, though I think the one just given is correct, "I need the +world of men; it is a natural law." Now it is just possible that we +could interpret "need" in another sense, with an inversion; +"the world of men needs me, and I must go to do my share." This +would make the man perhaps nobler, but surely not so natural; indeed +it would sound like a priggish excuse to leave his mistress. I have +never quite surrendered to the cavalier's words + + I could not love thee, dear, so much, + Loved I not Honour more. + +Are we sure it is honor, and not himself, he loves more? + +It is impossible to improve on the Cowboy's comment on these lines +in Mr. Wister's _Virginian_; after Molly has read them aloud to the +convalescing male, he remarks softly, "That is very, very true." +Molly does not see why the Virginian admires these verses so much +more than the others. "I could scarcely explain," says he, "but that +man does know something." Molly wants to know if the lovers had +quarrelled. "Oh, no! he will come back after he has played some more +of the game." "The game?" "Life, ma'am. Whatever he was adoin' in +the world of men. That's a bed-rock piece, ma'am." + +The Virginian is much happier in his literary criticism of this +lyric than he is of the _Good News_ or of the _Incident of the +French Camp_; in the latter instance, he misses the point altogether. +The boy was not a poseur. The boy was so happy to think he had +actually given his life for his master that he smilingly corrected +Napoleon's cry "You're wounded!" It is as though one should +congratulate an athletic contestant, and say "My felicitations! you +won the second prize!" "No, indeed: I won the First." + +_Night and Morning_ suggests so many thoughts that we could +continue our comments indefinitely; but time suffices for only one +more. The nature picture of the dawn is absolutely perfect. + + Round the cape of a sudden came the sea. + +He does not say that finally the cape became visible, but that the +sea suddenly came round the cape. Any one who has stood on the +ocean-shore before dawn, and gazed along the indented coast in the +grey light, has observed the precise effect mentioned in these words. +At first one sees only the blur of land where the cape is, and +nothing beyond it; suddenly the light increases, and the sea +actually appears to come around the point. + + + + +MEETING AT NIGHT + +1845 + + 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. + +It is interesting to remember that Browning, of all poets most +intellectual, should be so predominantly the poet of Love. This +passion is the motive power of his verse, as he believed it to be +the motive power of the universe. He exhibits the love of men and +women in all its manifestations, from baseness and folly to the +noblest heights of self-renunciation. It is natural that the most +masculine and the most vigorous and the most intellectual of all our +poets should devote his powers mainly to the representation of love. +For love is the essence of force, and does not spring from +effeminate weakness or febrile delicacy. Any painter can cover a huge +canvas, but, as has been observed, only the strong hand can do the +fine and tender work. To discuss at length the love-poems of +Browning would take us far beyond the limits of this volume; but +certain of the dramatic lyrics may be selected to illustrate salient +characteristics. As various poets in making portraits emphasise what +is to them the most expressive features, the eyes or the lips, so +Browning, the poet of the mind, loves best of all in his women and +men, the Brow. + +In _Evelyn Hope_, + + And the sweet white brow is all of her. + +In _The Last Ride Together_, + + My mistress bent that brow of hers. + +In _By the Fireside_, + + Reading by firelight, that great brow + And the spirit-small hand propping it. + +In _The Statue and the Bust_, + + Hair in heaps lay heavily + Over a pale brow spirit-pure. + +In _Count Gismond_, + + They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen + By virtue of her brow and breast. + +And the wonderful description of Pompilia by Caponsacchi: + + Her brow had not the right line, leaned too much, + Painters would say; they like the straight-up Greek: + This seemed bent somewhat with an invisible crown + Of martyr and saint, not such as art approves. + +In _Eurydice_, + + But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow! + +In _Count Gismond_, + + Our elder boy has got the clear + Great brow. + +In _The Statue and the Bust_, + + On his steady brow and quiet mouth. + +His ideally beautiful women generally have yellow hair. The lady +_In a Gondola_ had coiled hair, "a round smooth cord of gold." In +_Evelyn Hope_, the "hair's young gold:" in _Love Among the Ruins_, +"eager eyes and yellow hair:" in _A Toccata_, + + Dear dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold + Used to hang and brush their bosoms? + +And we must not forget his poem, _Gold Hair_. His descriptions of +women's faces are never conventional, rosy cheeks and bright eyes, +but always definite and specific. In _Time's Revenges_, the +unfortunate lover is maddened by the vision of the girl's face: + + 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. + +Browning's rejected lovers are such splendid fellows that one +wonders at their ill luck. Tennyson's typical lovers, as seen in +_Locksley Hall_, _Lady Clara Vere de Vere_, and the first part of +_Maud_, behave in a manner that quite justifies the woman. They +whine, they rave, and they seem most of all to be astonished at the +woman's lack of judgment in not recognising their merits. Instead of +a noble sorrow, they exhibit peevishness; they seem to say, +"You'll be sorry some day." Browning's rejected lovers never think +of themselves and their own defeat; they think only of the woman, +who is now more adorable than ever. It never occurs to them that the +woman is lacking in intelligence because of her refusal; nor that +the man she prefers is a lowbrowed scoundrel. They are chivalrous; +they do their best to win. When they lose, they would rather have +been rejected by this woman than accepted by any other; and they are +always ready to congratulate the man more fortunate than they. They +are in fact simply irresistible, and one can not help believing in +their ultimate success. In _The Lost Mistress_, which Swinburne said +was worth a thousand _Lost Leaders_, the lover has just been rejected, +and instead of thinking of his own misery, he endeavours to make the +awkward situation easier for the girl by small-talk about the +sparrows and the leaf-buds. She has urged that their friendship +continue; that this episode need not put an end to their meetings, +and that he can come to see her as often as he likes, only there +must be no nonsense; he must promise to be sensible, and treat her +only as a friend. Instead of rejecting this suggestion with scorn, he +accepts, and agrees to do his best. + + Tomorrow we meet the same then, dearest? + May I take your hand in mine? + Mere friends are we ... + Yet I will but say what mere friends say, + Or only a thought stronger; + I will hold your hand but as long as all may, + Or so very little longer! + +"I will do my best to please you, but remember I'm made of flesh and +blood." + +In _One Way of Love_, the same kind of man appears. Pauline likes +flowers, music, and fine speeches. He is just a mere man, who has +never noticed a flower in his life, who is totally indifferent to +music, and never could talk with eloquence. But if Pauline likes +these things, he must endeavor to impress her, if not with his skill, +at all events with his devotion. He sends her a beautiful bouquet; +she does not even notice it. For months he tries to learn the +instrument, until finally he can play "his tune." She does not even +listen; he throws the lute away, for he cares nothing for music +except for her sake. At last comes the supreme moment when he makes +his declaration, on which the whole happiness of his life depends. + + This hour my utmost art I prove + And speak my passion-heaven or hell? + +Many lovers, on being rejected, would simply repeat the last word +just quoted. This fine sportsmanlike hero remarks, + + She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well + Lose who may--I still can say, + Those who win heaven, blest are they! + +"I can not reproach myself, for I did my best, and lost: still less +can I reproach her; all I can say is, the man who gets her is lucky." + +Finally, the same kind of character appears in one of the greatest +love-poems in all literature, _The Last Ride Together_. The +situation just before the opening lines is an exact parallel to that +of _The Lost Mistress_. Every day this young pair have been riding +together. The man has fallen in love, and has mistaken the girl's +camaraderie for a deeper feeling. He has just discovered his error, +and without minimising the force of the blow that has wrecked his +life's happiness, this is what he says: + + Then, dearest, since 'tis so, + Since now at length my fate I know, + Since nothing all my love avails, + Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, + Since this was written and needs must be-- + My whole heart rises up to + (curse, oh, no!) + rises up to bless + Your name in pride and thankfulness! + Take back the hope you gave,--I claim + Only a memory of the same, + --And this beside, if you will not blame, + Your leave for one more last ride with me. + +What does the rejected lover mean by such brave words as "pride" and +"thankfulness"? He means that it is a great honor to be rejected by +such a woman, as Mr. Birrell says it is better to be knocked down by +Doctor Johnson than to be picked up by Mr. Froude. He is thankful, +too, to have known such a wonderful woman; and to show that he can +control himself, and make the situation easier for her, he requests +that to-day for the last time they ride just as usual--indeed they +had met for that purpose, are properly accoutred, and were about to +start, when he astonished her with his sudden and no longer +controllable declaration. Right! We shall ride together. I am not +yet banished from the sight of her. Perhaps the world will end +to-night. + +In the course of this poem, Browning develops one of his favorite +ideas, that Life is always greater than Art. A famous poet may sit +at his desk, and write of love in a way to thrill the hearts of his +readers; but we should place him lower than rustic sweethearts +meeting in the moonlight, because they are having in reality +something which exists for the poet only in dreams. The same is true +of sculpture and all pictorial art; men will turn from the greatest +masterpiece of the chisel or the brush to look at a living woman. + + And you, great sculptor,--so, you gave + A score of years to Art, her slave, + And that's your Venus, whence we turn + To yonder girl that fords the burn! + +I was once seated in the square room in the gallery at Dresden that +holds the most famous picture in the world, Rafael's Sistine Madonna. +A number of tourists were in the place, and we were all gazing +steadfastly at the immortal Virgin, when a pretty, fresh-colored +young American girl entered the room. Every man's head twisted away +from the masterpiece of art, and every man's eyes stared at the +commonplace stranger, because she was alive! I was much amused, and +could not help thinking of Browning's lines. + +This doctrine, that Life is greater than Art, is repeated by +Browning in _Cleon_, and it forms the whole content of Ibsen's last +drama, _When We Dead Awaken_. + +The lover's reasoning at the close of Browning's poem, that +rejection may be better for him because now he has an unrealised +ideal, and that the race itself is better than the victor's garland, +reminds us of Lessing's noble saying, that if God gave him the +choice between the knowledge of all truth and the search for it, he +would humbly take the latter. + + One must lead some life beyond, + Have a bliss to die with, _dim_-descried. + + + + +BROWNING'S REJECTED LOVERS + + + THE LOST MISTRESS + 1845 + + All's over, then; does truth sound bitter + As one at first believes? + Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter + About your cottage eaves! + + And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, + I noticed that, to-day; + One day more bursts them open fully + --You know the red turns gray. + + To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? + May I take your hand in mine? + Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest + Keep much that I resign: + + For each glance of the eye so bright and black + Though I keep with heart's endeavour,-- + Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, + Though it stay in my soul forever!-- + + Yet I will but say what mere friends say, + Or only a thought stronger; + I will hold your hand but as long as all may, + Or so very little longer! + + + + + + ONE WAY OF LOVE + 1855 + + + I + + All June I bound the rose in sheaves. + Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves + And strew them where Pauline may pass. + She will not turn aside? Alas! + Let them lie. Suppose they die? + The chance was they might take her eye, + + + II. + + How many a month I strove to suit + These stubborn fingers to the lute! + To-day I venture all I know. + She will not hear my music? So! + Break the string; fold music's wing: + Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! + + + III. + + My whole life long I learned to love. + This hour my utmost art I prove + And speak my passion--heaven or hell? + She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well! + Lose who may--I still can say, + Those who win heaven, blest are they! + + + + + THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER + + 1855 + + I + + I said--Then, dearest, since 'tis so, + Since now at length my fate I know, + Since nothing all my love avails, + Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, + Since this was written and needs must be-- + My whole heart rises up to bless + Your name in pride and thankfulness! + Take back the hope you gave,--I claim + Only a memory of the same, + --And this beside, if you will not blame, + Your leave for one more last ride with me. + + + II + + My mistress bent that brow of hers; + Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs + When pity would be softening through, + Fixed me a breathing-while or two + With life or death in the balance: right! + The blood replenished me again; + My last thought was at least not vain: + I and my mistress, side by side + Shall be together, breathe and ride, + So, one day more am I deified. + Who knows but the world may end to-night? + + + III + + Hush! if you saw some western cloud + All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed + By many benedictions--sun's + And moon's and evening-star's at once-- + And so, you, looking and loving best, + Conscious grew, your passion drew + Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, + Down on you, near and yet more near, + Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- + Thus leant she and lingered--joy and fear! + Thus lay she a moment on my breast. + + + IV + + Then we began to ride. My soul + Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll + Freshening and fluttering in the wind. + Past hopes already lay behind. + What need to strive with a life awry? + Had I said that, had I done this, + So might I gain, so might I miss. + Might she have loved me? just as well + She might have hated, who can tell! + Where had I been now if the worst befell? + And here we are riding, she and I. + + + V + + Fail I alone, in words and deeds? + Why, all men strive and who succeeds? + We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, + Saw other regions, cities new. + As the world rushed by on either side. + I thought,--All labour, yet no less + Bear up beneath their unsuccess. + Look at the end of work, contrast + The petty done, the undone vast, + This present of theirs with the hopeful past! + I hoped she would love me; here we ride. + + + VI + + What hand and brain went ever paired? + What heart alike conceived and dared? + What act proved all its thought had been? + What will but felt the fleshly screen? + We ride and I see her bosom heave. + There's many a crown for who can reach. + Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! + The flag stuck on a heap of bones, + A soldier's doing! what atones? + They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. + My riding is better, by their leave. + + + VII + + What does it all mean, poet? Well, + Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell + What we felt only; you expressed + You hold things beautiful the best, + And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. + 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, + Have you yourself what's best for men? + Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- + Nearer one whit your own sublime + Than we who never have turned a rhyme? + Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride. + + + VIII + + And you, great sculptor--so, you gave + A score of years to Art, her slave, + And that's your Venus, whence we turn + To yonder girl that fords the burn! + You acquiesce, and shall I repine? + What, man of music, you grown grey + With notes and nothing else to say, + Is this your sole praise from a friend, + "Greatly his opera's strains intend, + Put in music we know how fashions end!" + I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. + + + IX + + Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate + Proposed bliss here should sublimate + My being--had I signed the bond-- + Still one must lead some life beyond, + Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. + This foot once planted on the goal, + This glory-garland round my soul, + Could I descry such? Try and test! + I sink back shuddering from the quest. + Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? + Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. + + + X + + And yet--she has not spoke so long! + What if heaven be that, fair and strong + At life's best, with our eyes upturned + Whither life's flower is first discerned, + We, fixed so, ever should so abide? + What if we still ride on, we two + With life for ever old yet new, + Changed not in kind but in degree, + The instant made eternity,-- + And heaven just prove that I and she + Ride, ride together, for ever ride? + +Browning's lovers, as has been illustrated, are usually chivalrous, +whether their passions have or have not the sanction of law. The +poem _In a Gondola_, which has been more often translated into +foreign languages than perhaps any other of Browning's works, gives +us a picture of a night in Venice. The fluent rhythms of the verse +indicate the lazy glide of the gondola through the dark waters of the +canal. The lovers speak, sing, and muse; and their conversation is +full of the little language characteristic of those who are in +complete possession of each other, soul and body. They delight in +passionate reminiscences: they love to recall their first chance +meeting: + + Ah, the autumn day + I, passing, saw you overhead! + +The wind blew out the curtains of her apartment, and her pet parrot +escaped, giving the man his opportunity. They rehearse over again +the advancing stages of their drama. She asks him to kiss her like a +moth, then like a bee--in the attempt to recapture the first shy +sweetness of their dawning passion. They play little love-games. He +pretends he is a Jew, carrying her away from her family to a tribal +feast; then that they twain are spirits of stars, meeting in the +thin air aloft. The intensity of their bliss is sharpened by the +black cloud of danger in which they move: for if the Three, husband, +father, and brother of the lady become aware of this secret liaison, +there can be only one end to it--a tragedy of blood. The lighted +taper held in the window by the trusted maid shows that they are +"safe," and for the last time they play again their little comedy of +formality. She pretends to be the formal _grande dame_, the lady +with the colder breast than snow: he is the bashful gallant, who +hardly dares touch the tips of her fingers. In this laughing moment, +the dagger of the husband is driven deep into his back. Like all of +Browning's lovers, he gives, even on the edge of the eternal darkness, +no thought to himself, but only to her. Gathering his dying energies, +he speaks in a loud tone, so that the conspirators, invisible in the +Venetian night, may hear him: + + Care not for the cowards! Care + Only to put aside thy beauteous hair + My blood will hurt! + +And in the last agony, he comforts her with the thought that all this, +the joy of love and the separation by murder, have been ordained. + +In _Love Among the Ruins_, with which _Men and Women_ originally +opened, and which some believe to be Browning's masterpiece, Love is +given its place as the supreme fact in human history. This is a +scene in the Roman Campagna at twilight, and the picture in the +first stanza reminds us of Gray's _Elegy_ in the perfection of its +quiet silver tone. With a skill nothing short of genius, Browning +has maintained in this poem a double parallel. Up to the fifth stanza, +the contrast is between the present peace of the vast solitary plain, +and its condition years ago when it was the centre of a city's +beating heart: from the fifth stanza to the close, the contrast is +between this same vanished civilisation and the eternal quality of +Love. I do not remember any other work in literature where a double +parallel is given with such perfect continuity and beauty; the first +half of each stanza is in exact antithesis to the last. The +parenthesis--_so they say_--is a delicate touch of dramatic irony. +No one would dream that this quiet plain was once the site of a +great city, for no proofs remain: we have to take the word of the +archæologists for it. Some day a Japanese shepherd may pasture his +sheep on Manhattan Island. + +After a poetic discourse on the text _Sic transit gloria mundi_--the +love motive is suddenly introduced in the fifth stanza; and now the +contrast changes, and becomes a comparison between the ephemeral +nature of civilisation and the permanent fact of Love. At the exact +spot where the grandstand formerly stood at the finish of the +horse-race, where the King, surrounded by courtiers, watched the +whirling chariots, now remains motionless, breathless, a +yellow-haired girl. The proud King's eyes looked over the stadium +and beheld the domes and pinnacles of his city, the last word of +civilisation; the girl's eager eyes look over the silent plain +searching for the coming of her lover. And Browning would have us +believe that this latter fact is far more important historically +than the former. + +Suppose an American professor of archæology is working on the grassy +expanse, collecting material for his new book; he looks up for a +moment and sees a pair of rustic lovers kissing in the twilight; he +smiles, and resumes what seems to him his important labor. Little +does he imagine that this love-scene is more significant than all +the broken bits of pottery he digs out of the ground; yet such is the +fact. For all he can do at his very best is to reconstruct a +vanished past, while the lovers are acting a scene that belongs to +eternity. Love is best. + + + + + LOVE AMONG THE RUINS + + 1855 + + + I + + Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, + Miles and miles + On the solitary pastures where our sheep + Half-asleep + Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop + As they crop-- + Was the site once of a city great and gay, + (So they say) + Of our country's very capital, its prince + Ages since + Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far + Peace or war. + + + II + + Now,--the country does not even boast a tree + As you see, + To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills + From the hills + Intersect and give a name to, (else they run + Into one) + Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires + Up like fires + O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall + Bounding all, + Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, + Twelve abreast. + + + III + + And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass + Never was! + Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads + And embeds + Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, + Stock or stone-- + Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe + Long ago; + Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame + Struck them tame; + And that glory and that shame alike, the gold + Bought and sold. + + + IV + + Now,--the single little turret that remains + On the plains, + By the caper overrooted, by the gourd + Overscored, + While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks + Through the chinks-- + Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time + Sprang sublime, + And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced + As they raced, + And the monarch and his minions and his dames + Viewed the games. + + + V + + And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve + Smiles to leave + To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece + In such peace, + And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey + Melt away-- + That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair + Waits me there + In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul + For the goal, + When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb + Till I come. + + + VI + + But he looked upon the city, every side, + Far and wide, + All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' + Colonnades, + All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,--and then, + All the men! + When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, + Either hand + On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace + Of my face, + Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech + Each on each. + + + VII + + In one year they sent a million fighters forth + South and North, + And they built their gods a brazen pillar high + As the sky, + Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force-- + Gold, of course. + Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! + Earth's returns + For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! + Shut them in, + With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! + Love is best. + +In the poem _Respectability_ Browning gives us a more vulgar, but +none the less vital aspect of love. This is no peaceful twilit +harmony; this scene is set on a windy, rainy night in noisy Paris, +on the left bank of the Seine, directly in front of the Institute of +France. Two reckless lovers--either old comrades or picked-up +acquaintances of this very night, it matters not which--come +tripping along gaily, arm in arm. The man chaffs at worldly +conventions, at the dullness of society, at the hypocrisy of +so-called respectable people, and congratulates himself and his fair +companion on the fun they are having. What fools they would have +been had they waited through a long, formal courtship for the +sanction of an expensive marriage! The world, he says, does not +forbid kisses, only it says, you must see the magistrate first. My +finger must not touch your soft lips until it is covered with the +glove of marriage. Bah! what do we care for the world's good word? +At this moment they reach the lighted windows of the Institute, and +like a pair of sparrows, they glance within at the highly proper but +terribly tedious company. What do they see? They see Guizot +compelled by political exigency to shake hands hypocritically with +his enemy Montalembert. But before them down a dim court shine three +lamps, an all-night dance resort. Come on! run for it! that's the +place for us! no dull formalities, no hypocrisies there! Something +doing! + + + RESPECTABILITY + + 1855 + + I + + Dear, had the world in its caprice + Deigned to proclaim "I know you both, + Have recognized your plighted troth, + Am sponsor for you: live in peace!"-- + How many precious months and years + Of youth had passed, that speed so fast, + Before we found it out at last, + The world, and what it fears? + + + II + + How much of priceless life were spent + With men that every virtue decks, + And women models of their sex, + Society's true ornament,-- + Ere we dared wander, nights like this, + Thro' wind and rain, and watch the Seine, + And feel the Boulevart break again + To warmth and light and bliss? + + + III + + I know! the world proscribes not love; + Allows my finger to caress + Your lips' contour and downiness, + Provided it supply a glove. + The world's good word!--the Institute! + Guizot receives Montalembert! + Eh? Down the court three lampions flare: + Put forward your best foot! + +In the list of _Dramatis Personae_, Browning placed _Confessions_ +shortly after _A Death in the Desert_, as if to show the enormous +contrast in two death-bed scenes. After a presentation of the last +noble, spiritual, inspired moments of the apostle John, we have +portrayed for us the dying delirium of an old sinner, whose thought +travels back to the sweetest moments of his life, his clandestine +meetings with the girl he loved. The solemn voice of the priest is +like the troublesome buzzing of a fly. + + Do I view the world as a vale of tears? + +Not much! + +Like Matthew Arnold's _Wish_, the brother-doctor of the soul who is +called in + + To canvass with official breath + +is simply a nuisance in these last minutes of life. The row of +medicine bottles, all useless now for practical purposes, represents +to his fevered eyes the topography of the scene where the girl used +to come running to meet him. "I know, sir, it's improper,"--I ought +not to talk this way to a clergyman, my mind isn't right, I'm dying, +and this is all I can think of. + + How sad and bad and mad it was-- + But then, how it was sweet! + + CONFESSIONS + + 1864 + + What is he buzzing in my ears? + "Now that I come to die, + Do I view the world as a vale of tears?" + Ah, reverend sir, not I! + + What I viewed there once, what I view again + Where the physic bottles stand + On the table's edge,--is a suburb lane, + With a wall to my bedside hand. + + That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, + From a house you could descry + O'er the garden-wall; is the curtain blue + Or green to a healthy eye? + + To mine, it serves for the old June weather + Blue above lane and wall; + And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether" + Is the house o'ertopping all. + + At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, + There watched for me, one June, + A girl: I know, sir, it's improper, + My poor mind's out of tune. + + Only, there was a way ... you crept + Close by the side, to dodge + Eyes in the house, two eyes except: + They styled their house "The Lodge." + + What right had a lounger up their lane? + But, by creeping very close, + With the good wall's help,--their eyes might strain + And stretch themselves to Oes, + + Yet never catch her and me together, + As she left the attic, there, + By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether," + And stole from stair to stair, + + And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, + We loved, sir--used to meet: + How sad and bad and mad it was-- + But then, how it was sweet! + +We may close our considerations of the dramatic lyrics with three +love-poems. Whenever in his later years Browning was asked to write +a selection with his autograph, he used to say playfully that the +only one of his poems that he could remember was _My Star_; hence +more copies of this exist in manuscript than any other of his +productions. It was of course a tribute to his wife; she shone upon +his life like a star of various colors; but the moment the world +attempted to pry into the secret of her genius, she shut off the +light altogether. Let the world regard Saturn, the most wonderful +star in the heavens. My star shines for me alone. + +The first and best of the series of _Bad Dreams_ gives us again in +Browning's last volume his doctrine of love. Love is its own reward: +it may be sad not to have love returned, but the one unspeakable +tragedy is to lose the capacity for loving. In a terrible dream, the +face of the woman changes from its familiar tenderness to a glance +of stony indifference, and in response to his agonised enquiry, she +declares that her love for him is absolutely dead. Then comes a +twofold bliss: one was in the mere waking from such desolation, but +the other consisted in the fact that even if the dream were true, +his love for her knew no diminution. Thank God, I loved on the same! + +The most audacious poem of Browning's old age is _Summum Bonum_. +Since the dawn of human speculative thought, philosophers have asked +this question, What is the highest good? It has been answered in +various ways. Omar Khayyam said it was Wine: John Stuart Mill said +it was the greatest happiness of the greatest number: the Westminster +Catechism said it was to glorify God and enjoy Him forever. Browning +says it is the kiss of one girl. This kiss is the concentrated +essence of all the glory, beauty, and sweetness of life. In order to +understand such a paradox, we must remember that in Browning's +philosophy, Love is the engine of the whole universe. I have no +doubt that Love meant to him more than it has ever meant to any +other poet or thinker; just as I am sure that the word Beauty +revealed to Keats a vision entirely beyond the range of even the +greatest seers. Love is the supreme fact; and every manifestation of +it on earth, from the Divine Incarnation down to a chance meeting of +lovers, is more important than any other event or idea. Now we have +seen that it is Browning's way invariably to represent an abstract +thought by a concrete illustration. Therefore in this great and +daring lyric we find the imaginary lover calling the kiss of the +woman he loves the highest good in life. + + + + MY STAR + + 1855 + + All that I know + Of a certain star + Is, it can throw + (Like the angled spar) + Now a dart of red, + Now a dart of blue; + Till my friends have said + They would fain see, too, + My star that dartles the red and the blue! + Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled: + They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. + What matter to me if their star is a world? + Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it. + + + + + +BAD DREAMS + +1889 + + Last night I saw you in my sleep: + And how your charm of face was changed! + I asked "Some love, some faith you keep?" + You answered "Faith gone, love estranged." + + Whereat I woke--a twofold bliss: + Waking was one, but next there came + This other: "Though I felt, for this, + My heart break, I loved on the same." + + + + + +SUMMUM BONUM + +1889 + + 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. + + + + + + +V + +DRAMATIC MONOLOGUES + + +Although Browning was not a failure as a dramatist--_A Blot in the +'Scutcheon_ and _In a Balcony_ are the greatest verse tragedies in +the language since the Elizabethans--he found the true channel for +his genius in the Dramatic Monologue. He takes a certain critical +moment in one person's life, and by permitting the individual to +speak, his character, the whole course of his existence, and +sometimes the spirit of an entire period in the world's history are +revealed in a brilliant searchlight. With very few exceptions, one +of which will be given in our selections, a dramatic monologue is +not a meditation nor a soliloquy; it is a series of remarks, usually +confessional, addressed either orally or in an epistolary form to +another person or to a group of listeners. These other figures, +though they do not speak, are necessary to the understanding of the +monologue; we often see them plainly, and see their faces change in +expression as the monologue advances. At the dinner table of Bishop +Blougram, the little man Gigadibs is conspicuously there; and +Lucrezia is so vividly before us in _Andrea del Sarto_, that a +clever actress has actually assumed this silent rôle on the stage, +and exhibited simply by her countenance the effect of Andrea's +monologue. This species of verse is perhaps the highest form of +poetic art, as it is the most difficult; for with no stage setting, +no descriptions, no breaks in the conversation, the depths of the +human heart are exposed. + +One of the greatest dramatic monologues in all literature is _My +Last Duchess_, and it is astounding that so profound a life-drama +should have been conceived and faultlessly expressed by so young a +poet. The whole poem contains only fifty-six lines, but it could +easily be expanded into a three-volume novel. Indeed it exhibits +Browning's genius for condensation as impressively as _The Ring and +the Book_ proves his genius for expansion. The metre is interesting. +It is the heroic couplet, the same form exactly in which Pope wrote +his major productions. Yet the rime, which is as evident as the +recurring strokes of a tack-hammer in Pope, is scarcely heard at all +in _My Last Duchess_. Its effect is so muffled, go concealed, that I +venture to say that many who are quite familiar with the poem, could +not declare offhand whether it were written in rime or in blank verse. +This technical trick is accomplished by what the French call overflow, +the running on of the sense from one line to another, a device so +dear to the heart of Milton. Some one has well said that Dryden's +couplets are links in a chain, whilst Pope's are pearls on a string. +Pope enclosed nearly every couplet, so that they are quite separate, +which is one reason why he has given us such a vast number of +aphorisms. To see how totally different in effect the heroic couplet +is when it is closed and when it is open, one may compare almost any +selection from Pope with the opening lines of Keats's _Endymion_, +and then silently marvel that both poems are written in exactly the +same measure. + +POPE + + Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires + True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; + Blest with each talent and each art to please, + And born to write, converse, and live with ease: + Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, + Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, + View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, + And hate for arts that caused himself to rise. + +KEATS + + A thing of beauty is a joy forever: + Its loveliness increases; it will never + Pass into nothingness; but still will keep + A bower quiet for us, and a sleep + Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. + Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing + A flowery band to bind us to the earth. + +One has only to glance at the printed page of _My Last Duchess_, and +see how few of the lines end in punctuation points, to discover the +method employed when a poet wishes to write a very strict measure in +a very free manner. + +I have sometimes thought that George Eliot took a hint from this +poem in the composition of _Daniel Deronda_, for the relations +between Grandcourt and Gwendolen are exactly the same as existed +between the Duke and his late wife; a more recent, though not so +great an example, may be found in Mrs. Burnett's novel, _The Shuttle_. +The poem is a study in cold, systematic torture of a warm human soul +by an icy-hearted tyrant. + +Browning adopts one of his favorite methods of character-revelation +here. All that we know of the Duchess is the testimony given by her +worst enemy, her husband; and yet, in attempting to describe her, he +has succeeded in painting only his own narrow and hideous heart. +Slander is often greater in the recoil than in the discharge; when a +man attempts to give an unfavorable portrait of another, he usually +gives us an exact likeness of himself. Pope meant his picture of +Addison to be correct; but although he made the picture with +immortal art, it is no more like Addison than it resembles St. +Francis; it is, however, an absolutely faithful image of Pope himself. +This is one reason why slander is such an exceedingly dangerous +weapon to handle. + +The Duke tells the envoy that his late Duchess was flirtatious, +plebeian in her enthusiasm, not sufficiently careful to please her +husband; but the evident truth is that he had a Satanic pride, that +he was yellow with jealousy, that he was methodically cruel. His +jealousy is shown by the fact that he would allow only a monk to +paint her: "I said 'Frà Pandolf' by design," and he required the +monk to do the whole task in one day. His pride is shown in the fact +that although her expansive nature displeased him, he would never +stoop to remonstrate with her. His cruelty is shown in the fact that +he coldly repressed her little enthusiasms, and finally murdered her. +I suppose she was really a frank, charming girl, who came from a +happy home, a bright and eager bride; she was one of those lovely +women whose kindness and responsiveness are as natural as the +sunlight. She loved to watch the sunset from the terrace; she loved +to pet the white mule; she was delighted when some one brought her a +gift of cherries. Then she was puzzled, bewildered, when she found +that all her expressions of delight in life received a cold, +disapproving glance of scorn from her husband; her lively talk at +dinner, her return from a ride, flushed and eager, met invariably +this icy stare of hatred. She smiled too much to please him. + + Then all smiles stopped together. + +What difference does it make whether he deliberately poisoned her, +or whether he simply broke her heart by the daily chill of silent +contempt? For her, at all events, death must have been a release. +She would have been happier with a drunken husband, with a brute who +kicked her, rather than with this supercilious cold-hearted patrician. +Toward the end of the poem, in his remarks about the dowry, we see +that the Duke is as avaricious as he is cruel; though he says with a +disagreeable smile, that the woman herself is his real object. The +touch to make this terrible man complete comes at the very end. The +Duke and the envoy prepare to descend the staircase; the latter bows, +to give precedence to the man with the nine hundred years' old name: +but the Duke, with a purr like a tiger, places his arm around the +shoulder of the visitor, and they take the first step. Just then the +master of the palace calls attention casually to a group of statuary. +It is Neptune taming a sea-horse. That's the way I break them in! + +Throughout the whole monologue, the Duke speaks in a quiet, steady, +ironical tone; the line + + The depth and passion of its earnest glance + +is pronounced in intense irony, in ridicule of the conventional +remark made by previous visitors. Only once or twice do we see the +teeth of this monster flash, revealing his horrible heart. When he +speaks of the "officious fool" who brought the cherries, and when he +says "all smiles stopped together"; then the envoy looks at him with +a fearful question in his eyes, but the Duke's face immediately +resumes its mask of stone. + + + + MY LAST DUCHESS + + FERRARA + + 1842 + + That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, + Looking as if she were alive. I call + That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands + Worked busily a day, and there she stands. + Will't please you sit and look at her? I said + "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read + Strangers like you that pictured countenance, + The depth and passion of its earnest glance, + But to myself they turned (since none puts by + The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) + And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, + How such a glance came there; so, not the first + Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not + Her husband's presence only, called that spot + Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps + Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps + Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint + Must never hope to reproduce the faint + Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff + Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough + For calling up that spot of joy. She had + A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, + Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er + She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. + Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, + The dropping of the daylight in the West, + The bough of cherries some officious fool + Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule + She rode with round the terrace--all and each + Would draw from her alike the approving speech, + Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked + Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked + My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name + With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame + This sort of trifling? Even had you skill + In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will + Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this + Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, + Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let + Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set + Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, + --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose + Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, + Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without + Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; + Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands + As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet + The company below, then. I repeat, + The Count your master's known munificence + Is ample warrant that no just pretence + Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; + Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed + At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go + Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, + Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, + Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! + +To turn from _My Last Duchess_ to _Count Gismond_ is like coming out +of a damp cellar into God's own sunshine. Originally Browning called +these two poems _Italy_ and _France_; but he later fell madly in +love with Italy, and I suppose could not bear to have so +cold-blooded a tragedy represent the country graven on his heart. +The charm and brightness of _Count Gismond_ are properly connected +with one of the loveliest towns in the world, the old city of Aix in +Provence, a jewel on the hills rising from the Mediterranean Sea. + +Gismond is Browning's hero. He is the resolute man who does not +hesitate, who makes himself instantly master of the situation, who +appears like Lohengrin in the moment of Elsa's sharp distress, a +messenger from Heaven. + + Or, if virtue feeble were, + Heaven itself would stoop to her. + +When the lady was publicly accused by the scoundrel Gauthier, I +suppose many men said, "What a pity that so fair a woman should be +so foul!" Others said gravely, "This matter ought to be judicially +examined." Gismond was the only man who realised that a defenseless +orphan was insulted, and the words were hardly out of Gauthier's +mouth when he received "the fist's reply to the filth." The lovers +walked away from the "shouting multitude," the fickle, cowardly, +contemptible public, who did not dare to defend the lady in her need, +but had lungs enough for the victor, whoever he might be. It is +pleasant to notice the prayer of the lady for the dead Gauthier. +"I hope his soul is in heaven." This is no mere Christian forgiveness. +Gauthier had proved to be the means of her life-happiness. Had it +not been for his shameful accusation, she would never have met +Gismond. Out of her agony came her richest blessing. + +All this happened years ago, but when her husband appears with the +children she tells him a white lie. "I have just been boasting to +Adela about the skill of my hunting hawk." She has been doing +nothing of the kind; but she can not talk about the great event of +her life before the children. + + + COUNT GISMOND + + AIX IN PROVENCE + + 1842 + + I + + + Christ God who savest man, save most + Of men Count Gismond who saved me! + Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, + Chose time and place and company + To suit it; when he struck at length + My honour, 'twas with all his strength. + + + II + + + And doubtlessly ere he could draw + All points to one, he must have schemed! + That miserable morning saw + Few half so happy as I seemed, + While being dressed in queen's array + To give our tourney prize away. + + + III + + + I thought they loved me, did me grace + To please themselves; 'twas all their deed; + God makes, or fair or foul, our face; + If showing mine so caused to bleed + My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped + A word, and straight the play had stopped. + + + IV + + They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen + By virtue of her brow and breast; + Not needing to be crowned, I mean, + As I do. E'en when I was dressed, + Had either of them spoke, instead + Of glancing sideways with still head! + + + V + + But no: they let me laugh, and sing + My birthday song quite through, adjust + The last rose in my garland, fling + A last look on the mirror, trust + My arms to each an arm of theirs, + And so descend the castle-stairs-- + + + VI + + And come out on the morning-troop + Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, + And called me queen, and made me stoop + Under the canopy--(a streak + That pierced it, of the outside sun, + Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)-- + + + VII + + And they could let me take my state + And foolish throne amid applause + Of all come there to celebrate + My queen's-day--Oh I think the cause + Of much was, they forgot no crowd + Makes up for parents in their shroud! + + + VIII + + However that be, all eyes were bent + Upon me, when my cousins cast + Theirs down; 'twas time I should present + The victor's crown, but ... there, 'twill last + No long time ... the old mist again + Blinds me as then it did. How vain! + + + IX + + + See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk + With his two boys: I can proceed. + Well, at that moment, who should stalk + Forth boldly--to my face, indeed-- + But Gauthier, and he thundered "Stay!" + And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!" + + + X + + "Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet + About her! Let her shun the chaste, + Or lay herself before their feet! + Shall she whose body I embraced + A night long, queen it in the day? + For honour's sake no crowns, I say!" + + + XI + + I? What I answered? As I live, + I never fancied such a thing + As answer possible to give. + What says the body when they spring + Some monstrous torture-engine's whole + Strength on it? No more says the soul. + + + XII + + Till out strode Gismond; then I knew + That I was saved. I never met + His face before, but, at first view, + I felt quite sure that God had set + Himself to Satan; who would spend + A minute's mistrust on the end? + + + XIII + + He strode to Gauthier, in his throat + Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth + With one back-handed blow that wrote + In blood men's verdict there. North, South, + East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, + And damned, and truth stood up instead. + + + XIV + + This glads me most, that I enjoyed + The heart of the joy, with my content + In watching Gismond unalloyed + By any doubt of the event: + God took that on him--I was bid + Watch Gismond for my part: I did. + + + XV + + Did I not watch him while he let + His armourer just brace his greaves, + Rivet his hauberk, on the fret + The while! His foot ... my memory leaves + No least stamp out, nor how anon + He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. + + + XVI + + And e'en before the trumpet's sound + Was finished, prone lay the false knight, + Prone as his lie, upon the ground: + Gismond flew at him, used no sleight + O' the sword, but open-breasted drove, + Cleaving till out the truth he clove. + + + XVII + + Which done, he dragged him to my feet + And said "Here die, but end thy breath + In full confession, lest thou fleet + From my first, to God's second death! + Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied + To God and her," he said, and died. + + + XVIII + + Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked + --What safe my heart holds, though no word + Could I repeat now, if I tasked + My powers for ever, to a third + Dear even as you are. Pass the rest + Until I sank upon his breast. + + + XIX + + Over my head his arm he flung + Against the world; and scarce I felt + His sword (that dripped by me and swung) + A little shifted in its belt: + For he began to say the while + How South our home lay many a mile. + + + XX + + So 'mid the shouting multitude + We two walked forth to never more + Return. My cousins have pursued + Their life, untroubled as before + I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place + God lighten! May his soul find grace I + + + + XXI + + Our elder boy has got the clear + Great brow; tho' when his brother's black + Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here? + And have you brought my tercel back? + I just was telling Adela + How many birds it struck since May. + + +The _Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister_ differs from most of the +Dramatic Monologues in not being addressed to a listener; but the +difference is more apparent than real; for the other person is in +plain view all the time, and the Soliloquy would have no point were +it not for the peaceful activities of Friar Lawrence. This poem, +while it deals ostensibly with the lives of only two monks, gives us +a glimpse into the whole monastic system. When a number of men +retired into a monastery and shut out the world forever, certain +sins and ambitions were annihilated, while others were enormously +magnified. All outside interests vanished; but sin remained, for it +circulates in the human heart as naturally as blood in the body. The +cloister was simply a little world, with the nobleness and meanness +of human nature exceedingly conspicuous. When the men were once +enclosed in the cloister walls, they knew that they must live in +that circumscribed spot till the separation of death. Naturally +therefore political ambitions, affections, envies, jealousies, would +be writ large; human nature would display itself in a manner most +interesting to a student, if only he could live there in a detached +way. This is just what Browning tries to do; he tries to live +imaginatively with the monks, and to practise his profession as the +Chronicler of Life. + +The only way to realise what the monastic life really meant would be +to imagine a small modern college situated in the country, and the +passage of a decree that not a single student should leave the +college grounds until his body was committed to the tomb. The +outside interests of the world would quickly grow dim and eventually +vanish; and everything would be concentrated within the community. I +suppose that the passions of friendship, hatred, and jealousy would +be prodigiously magnified. There must have been friendships among +the monks of the middle ages compared to which our boasted college +friendships are thin and pale; and there must have been frightful +hatreds and jealousies. In all communities there are certain persons +that get on the nerves of certain others; the only way to avoid this +acute suffering is to avoid meeting the person who causes it. But +imagine a cloister where dwells a. man you simply can not endure: +every word he says, every motion he makes, every single mannerism of +walk and speech is intolerable. Now you must live with this man +until one of you dies: you must sit opposite to him at meals, you +can not escape constant contact. Your only resource is profane +soliloquies: but if you have a sufficiently ugly disposition, you +can revenge yourself upon him in a thousand secret ways. + +Friar Lawrence unconsciously and innocently fans the flames of +hatred in our speaker's heart, simply because he does not dream of +the effect he produces. Every time he talks at table about the +weather, the cork-crop, Latin names, and other trivialities, the man +sitting opposite to him would like to dash his plate in his face: +every time Friar Lawrence potters around among his roses, the other +looking down from his window, with a face distorted with hate, would +like to kill him with a glance. Poor Lawrence drives our soliloquist +mad with his deliberate table manners, with his deliberate method of +speech, with his care about his own goblet and spoon. And all the +time Lawrence believes that his enemy loves him! + +From another point of view, this poem resembles _My Last Duchess_ in +that it is a revelation of the speaker's heart. We know nothing +about Friar Lawrence except what his deadly enemy tells us; but it +is quite clear that Lawrence is a dear old man, innocent as a child; +while the speaker, simply in giving his testimony against him, +reveals a heart jealous, malicious, lustful; he is like a thoroughly +bad boy at school, with a pornographic book carefully concealed. +Just at the moment when his rage and hatred reach a climax, the +vesper bell sounds; and the speaker, who is an intensely strict +formalist and ritualist, presents to us an amusing spectacle; for +out of the same mouth proceed blessing and cursing. + + + SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER + + 1842 + + I + + Gr-r-r--there go, my heart's abhorrence! + Water your damned flower-pots, do! + If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, + God's blood, would not mine kill you! + What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? + Oh, that rose has prior claims-- + Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? + Hell dry you up with its flames! + + + II + + At the meal we sit together: + _Salve tibi_! I must hear + Wise talk of the kind of weather, + Sort of season, time of year: + _Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely + Dare me hope oak-galls, I doubt: + What's the Latin name for "parsley_?" + What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout? + + + III + + Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, + Laid with care on our own shelf! + With a fire-new spoon we're furnished, + And a goblet for ourself, + Rinsed like something sacrificial + Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps-- + Marked with L. for our initial! + (He-he! There his lily snaps!) + + + IV + + _Saint_, forsooth! While brown Dolores + Squats outside the Convent bank + With Sanchicha, telling stories, + Steeping tresses in the tank, + Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, + --Can't I see his dead eye glow, + Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? + (That is, if he'd let it show!) + + + V + + When he finishes refection, + Knife and fork he never lays + Cross-wise, to my recollection, + As do I, in Jesu's praise. + I the Trinity illustrate, + Drinking watered orange-pulp-- + In three sips the Arian frustrate; + While he drains his at one gulp. + + + VI + + Oh, those melons? If he's able + We're to have a feast! so nice! + One goes to the Abbot's table, + All of us get each a slice. + How go on your flowers? None double + Not one fruit-sort can you spy? + Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble, + Keep them close-nipped on the sly! + + + VII + + There's a great text in Galatians, + Once you trip on it, entails + Twenty-nine distinct damnations, + One sure, if another fails: + + If I trip him just a-dying, + Sure of heaven as sure can be, + Spin him round and send him flying + Off to hell, a Manichee? + + + VIII + + Or, my scrofulous French novel + On grey paper with blunt type! + Simply glance at it, you grovel + Hand and foot in Belial's gripe: + If I double down its pages + At the woeful sixteenth print, + When he gathers his greengages, + Ope a sieve and slip it in't? + + + IX + + Or, there's Satan!--one might venture + Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave + Such a flaw in the indenture + As he'd miss till, past retrieve, + Blasted lay that rose-acacia + We're so proud of! _Hy, Zy, Him_ ... + 'St, there's Vespers! _Plena gratiâ + Ave, Virgo_! Gr-r-r--you swine! + +Everybody loves Browning's _Ghent to Aix_ poem. Even those who can +not abide the poet make an exception here; and your thorough-going +Browningite never outgrows this piece. It is the greatest horseback +poem in the literature of the world: compared to this, _Paul +Revere's Ride_ is the amble of a splayfooted nag. It sounds as +though it had been written in the saddle: but it was really composed +during a hot day on the deck of a vessel in the Mediterranean, and +written off on the flyleaf of a printed book that the poet held in +his hand. Poets are always most present with the distant, as Mrs. +Browning said; and Browning, while at sea, thought with irresistible +longing of his good horse eating his head off in the stable at home. +Everything about this poem is imaginary; there never had been any +such good news brought, and it is probable that no horse could cover +the distance in that time. + +But the magnificent gallop of the verse: the change from moonset to +sunrise: the scenery rushing by: the splendid spirit of horse and man: +and the almost insane joy of the rider as he enters Aix--these are +more true than history itself. Browning is one of our greatest poets +of motion--whether it be the glide of a gondola, the swift running +of the Marathon professional Pheidippides, the steady advance of the +galleys over the sea in _Paracelsus_, the sharp staccato strokes of +the horse's hoofs through the Metidja, or the swinging stride of the +students as they carry the dead grammarian up the mountain. Not only +do the words themselves express the sound of movement; but the +thought, in all these great poems of motion, travels steadily and +naturally with the advance. It is interesting to compare a +madly-rushing poem like _Ghent to Aix_ with the absolute calm of +_Andrea del Sarto_. It gives one an appreciation of Browning's +purely technical skill. + +No one has ever, so far as I know, criticised _Ghent to Aix_ +adversely except Owen Wister's Virginian; and his strictures are +hypercritical. As Roland threw his head back fiercely to scatter the +spume-flakes, it would be easy enough for the rider to see the +eye-sockets and the bloodfull nostrils. Every one has noticed how a +horse will do the ear-shift, putting one ear forward and one back at +the same moment. Browning has an imaginative reason for it. One ear +is pushed forward to listen for danger ahead; the other bent back, +to catch his master's voice. Was there ever a greater study in +passionate cooperation between man and beast than this splendid poem? + + +"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX" + +1845 + + I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; + I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; + "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; + "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; + Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, + And into the midnight we galloped abreast. + Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace + Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; + I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, + Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, + Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, + Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit + + 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near + Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; + At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; + At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; + And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, + So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" + + At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, + And against him the cattle stood black every one, + To stare through the mist at us galloping past, + And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, + With resolute shoulders, each butting away + The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: + + And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back + For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; + And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance + O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! + And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon + His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. + + By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! + Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, + We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze + Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, + And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, + As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. + + So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, + Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; + The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, + 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; + Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, + And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" + + "How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan + Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; + And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight + Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, + With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, + And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. + + Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, + Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, + Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, + Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; + Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, + Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. + + And all I remember is--friends flocking round + As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; + And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, + As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, + Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) + Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. + +The monologue of the dying Bishop is as great a masterpiece as +_My Last Duchess_; it has not a superfluous word, and in only a +few lines gives us the spirit of the Italian Renaissance. Ruskin +said that Browning is "unerring in every sentence he writes about +the Middle Ages, always vital, right, and profound." He added, +"I know no other piece of modern English, prose or poetry, in which +there is so much told, as in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit." +Yet Browning had never seen Rome until a few months before this poem +was published. It is an example, not of careful study, but of the +inexplicable divination of genius. Browning permits a delirious old +Bishop to talk a few lines, and a whole period of history is written. + +The church of Saint Prassede is in a dirty little alley in Rome, +hard by the great church of Saint Maria Maggiore. You push through +the group of filthy, importunate beggars, open a leather door, and +you drop from the twentieth to the sixteenth century. It is one of +the most ornate churches in Rome; the mosaic angels in the choir are +precisely as the poet describes them. The tomb of the imaginary +Gandolf may be identified with a Bishop's tomb on the south side of +the church, and the Latin inscription under it, while it does not +contain the form "elucescebat," is not pure Tully, but rather +belongs to the Latin of Ulpian's time. The recumbent figure is in +exact accord with the description by Browning. + +Skeptics are essential to the welfare of the Church; it is only in +periods of sharp, skilful hostility that the Church becomes pure. In +the Middle Ages, when it ran riot with power, there were plenty of +churchmen as corrupt as our dying man. His love for a Greek +manuscript is as sensual as his love for his mistress; and having +lived a life of physical delight, it is natural that his last +thoughts should concern themselves with the abode of his body rather +than with the destination of his soul. Of course his mind is +wandering, or he would not speak with quite such shameless cynicism. +Browning has made him talk of Saint Praxed at _his_ sermon on the +mount, in order to prove the delirium. S. Praxed was a female saint. + +The constant confusion of Greek mythology with the ritual of the +Christian church is a characteristic feature both of this poem and +of the period of history it represents. + +Kipling is particularly fond of this work, and it will be remembered +what use he makes of it in _Stalky and Co_. + + + + +THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH + +ROME, 15-- + +1845 + + Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! + Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? + Nephews--sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well-- + She, men would have to be your mother once, + Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! + What's done is done, and she is dead beside, + Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, + And as she died so must we die ourselves, + And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. + Life, how and what is it? As here I lie + In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, + Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask + "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. + Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; + And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought + With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: + --Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; + Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South + He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! + Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence + One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, + And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, + And up into the aery dome where live + The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: + And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, + And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, + With those nine columns round me, two and two, + The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: + Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe + As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. + --Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, + Put me where I may look at him! True peach, + Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! + Draw close: that conflagration of my church + --What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! + My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig + The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, + Drop water gently till the surface sink, + And if ye find ... Ah God, I know not, I! ... + Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, + And corded up in a tight olive-frail, + Some lump, ah God, of _lapis lazuli_, + Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, + Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast ... + Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, + That brave Frascati villa with its bath, + So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, + Like God the Father's globe on both his hands + Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, + For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! + Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: + Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? + Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- + 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else + Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? + The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, + Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance + Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, + The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, + Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan + Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, + And Moses with the tables ... but I know + Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, + Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope + To revel down my villas while I gasp + Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine + Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! + Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! + Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. + My bath must needs be left behind, alas! + One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, + There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- + And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray + Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, + And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? + --That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, + Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, + No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-- + Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! + And then how I shall lie through centuries, + And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, + And see God made and eaten all day long, + And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste + Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! + For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, + Dying in state and by such slow degrees, + I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, + And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, + And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop + Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: + And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts + Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, + About the life before I lived this life, + And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, + Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, + Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, + And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, + And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, + --Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? + No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! + Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. + All _lapis_, all, sons! Else I give the Pope + My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? + Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, + They glitter like your mother's for my soul, + Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, + Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase + With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, + And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx + That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, + To comfort me on my entablature + Whereon I am to lie till I must ask + "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! + For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude + To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! Stone-- + Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat + As if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- + And no more _lapis_ to delight the world! + Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, + But in a row: and, going, turn your backs + --Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, + And leave me in my church, the church for peace, + That I may watch at leisure if he leers-- + Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone, + As still he envied me, so fair she was! + +Browning gives us a terrible study of jealousy in _The Laboratory_. +The chemist says nothing, but the contrast between the placid face +of the old scientist, intent only upon his work, and the wildly +passionate countenance of the little woman with him, is sufficiently +impressive. Those were the days when murder was a fine art. She +plans the public death of the woman she hates so that the lover will +never be able to forget the dying face. Radiant in queenly beauty, +with the smile of satisfaction that accompanies the inner assurance +of beauty and power--in a moment she will be convulsively rolling on +the floor, her swollen face purplish-black with the poison, her +mouth emitting foam like a mad dog. There is no doubt that the +little murderess intends to follow her rival to the tomb. She has +given the chemist her entire fortune as pay for the drop of poison; +he may kiss her, if he likes! All shame, all womanly reserve are gone: +what does anything matter now? It is a true study of jealousy, +because the little creature does not dream of attacking the _man_ +who deserted her; all her hellish energy is directed against the +woman. Indeed the poison that she buys will not transform her rival +more completely than the dreadful poison of jealousy has already +transformed her from what she was to what she is. + +The language and metre fit the thought. Tennyson passed a severe +judgment on the first line + + Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly + +saying that it lacked smoothness, that it was a very difficult +mouthful. But is this not intentional and absolutely right? The +woman is speaking slowly with compressed lips, her voice convulsed +with terrible hatred and the terrible resolution for revenge. + + + + + THE LABORATORY + + ANCIEN REGIME + + 1844 + + I + + Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, + May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, + As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy-- + Which is the poison to poison her, prithee? + + + II + + He is with her, and they know that I know + Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow + While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear + Empty church, to pray God in, for them!--I am here. + + + III + + Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, + Pound at thy powder,--I am not in haste! + Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things, + Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's. + + + IV + + That in the mortar--you call it a gum? + Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! + And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue, + Sure to taste sweetly,--is that poison too? + + + V + + Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, + What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures! + To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, + A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket! + + + VI + + Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give, + And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live! + But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her head + And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead! + + + VII + + Quick--is it finished? The colour's too grim! + Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim? + Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, + And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer! + + + VIII + + What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me! + That's why she ensnared him: this never will free + The soul from those masculine eyes,--say, "no!" + To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go. + + + IX + + For only last night, as they whispered, I brought + My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought + Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall + Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all! + + + X + + Not that I bid you spare her the pain; + Let death be felt and the proof remain: + Brand, burn up, bite into its grace-- + He is sure to remember her dying face! + + + XI + + Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose; + It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close: + The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee! + If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me? + + + XII + + Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, + You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will! + But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings + Ere I know it--next moment I dance at the King's! + +_Fra Lippo Lippi_ and _Andrea del Sarto_ are both great art poems, +and both in striking contrast. The former is dynamic, the latter +static. The tumultuous vivacity of the gamin who became a painter +contrasts finely with the great technician, a fellow almost damned +in a fair wife. Fra Lippo Lippi was a street mucker, like Gavroche; +he unconsciously learned to paint portraits by the absolute necessity +of studying human faces on the street. Nothing sharpens observation +like this. He had to be able to tell at a glance whether the man he +accosted would give him food or a kick. When they took him to the +cloister, he obtained a quite new idea about religion. He naturally +judged that, as he judged everything else in life, from the +practical point of view. Heretofore, like many small boys, he had +rather despised religion, and thought the monks were fools. +"Don't you believe it," he cries: "there is a lot in religion. You +get free clothes, free shelter, three meals a day, and you don't +have to work! Why, it's the easiest thing I know." The monks +discovered his talent with pencil and brush, and they made him +decorate the chapel. When the work was done, he called them in. To +their amazement and horror, the saints and angels, instead of being +ideal faces, were the living portraits of the familiar figures about +the cloister. "Why, there's the iceman! there's the laundress!" He +rebelled when they told him this was wicked: he said it was all a +part of God's world, that the business of the artist was to +interpret life; he wished they would let him enter the pulpit, take +the Prior's place, and preach a sermon that would make them all sit +up. + +The philosophy of æsthetics has never been more truly or more +succinctly stated than in these lines: + + Or say there's beauty with no soul at all-- + (I never saw it--put the case the same--) + If you get simple beauty and nought else, + You get about the best thing God invents: + That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed, + Within yourself, when you return him thanks. + +Contemplation of beautiful objects in nature, art, and literature, +which perhaps at first sight have no significance, gradually awakens +in our own hearts a dawning sense of what Beauty may mean; and thus +enlarges and develops our minds, and makes them susceptible to the +wonder and glory of life. The relation of art to life--art being the +teacher that makes us understand life--is perfectly well understood +by Fra Lippo Lippi. + + For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love + First when we see them painted, things we have passed + Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see. + +If one stands to-day in the Ancient and Modern Gallery in Florence, +and contemplates Fra Lippo Lippi's masterpiece, _The Coronation of +the Virgin_, and reads the lines about it in this poem, one will get +a new idea of the picture. It is a representation of the painter's +whole nature, half genius, half mucker--the painting is a glory of +form and color, and then in the corner the artist had the assurance +to place himself in his monk's dress among the saints and angels, +where he looks as much out of place as a Bowery Boy in a Fifth +Avenue drawing-room. Not content with putting himself in the picture, +he stuck a Latin tag on himself, which means, "This fellow did the +job." + +Browning loves Fra Lippo Lippi, in spite of the man's impudence and +debauchery; because the painter loved life, had a tremendous zest +for it, and was not ashamed of his enthusiasm. The words he speaks +came from the poet's own heart: + + The world and life's too big to pass for a dream.... + It makes me mad to see what men shall do + And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, + Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: + To find its meaning is my meat and drink. + +The change from _Fra Lippo Lippi_ to _Andrea del Sarto_ is the +change from a blustering March day to a mild autumn twilight. The +original picture in Florence which inspired the poem represents +Andrea and his wife sitting together, while she is holding the +letter from King Francis. This is a poem of acquiescence, as the +other is a poem of protest, and never was language more fittingly +adapted to the mood in each instance. One can usually recognise +Andrea's pictures clear across the gallery rooms; he has enveloped +them all in a silver-grey gossamer mist, and in some extraordinary +manner Browning has contrived to clothe his poem in the same +diaphanous garment. It is a poem of twilight, of calm, of failure in +success. Andrea's pictures are superior technically to those of his +great contemporaries--Rafael, Michel Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci--but +their imperfect works have a celestial glory, the glory of aspiration, +absent from his perfect productions. His work indeed is, + + Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, + Dead perfection, no more. + +It is natural, that he, whose paintings show perfection of form +without spirit, should have married a woman of physical beauty +devoid of soul. She has ruined him, but she could not have ruined him +had he been a different man. He understands her, however, in the +quiet light of his own failure. He tells her she must not treat him +so badly that he can not paint at all; and adds the necessary +explanation that his ceasing to paint would stop her supplies of cash. +For although it is incomprehensible to her, people are willing to +give large sums of money for her ridiculous husband's ridiculous +daubs. His mind, sensitive to beauty, is drunk with his wife's +loveliness of face and form; and like all confirmed drunkards, he +can not conquer himself now, though otherwise he knows it means +death and damnation. He has a complete knowledge of the whole range +of his powers, and of his limitations. He can not help feeling pride +in his marvellous technique, that he can do what other men dream of +doing; but he knows that without aspiration the soul is dead. + +Poor Andrea! History has treated him harshly. He is known throughout +all time as "the tailor's son," and Browning has given him in this +immortal poem a condemnation that much of his work does not really +deserve. For there is inspiration in many of Andrea's Madonnas. +Browning, with his fixed idea of the glory of the imperfect, the +divine evidence of perpetual development, could not forgive Andrea +for being called the "faultless painter." Thus Browning has made of +him a horrible example, has used him merely as the text for a sermon. + +There was just enough truth to give Browning his opportunity. The +superiority of Rafael over Andrea lies precisely in the aspiration +of the former's work. Schopenhauer says the whole Christian religion +is in the face of Rafael's _Saint Cecilia_, "an entire and certain +gospel." Andrea's virgins have more of the beauty of this world: +Rafael's have the beauty of holiness. + + + + +ANDREA DEL SARTO + (CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER") + +1855 + + But do not let us quarrel any more, + No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: + Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. + You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? + I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, + Treat his own subject after his own way, + Fix his own time, accept too his own price, + And shut the money into this small hand + When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? + Oh, I'll content him,--but to-morrow, Love! + I often am much wearier than you think, + This evening more than usual, and it seems + As if--forgive now--should you let me sit + Here by the window with your hand in mine + And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, + Both of one mind, as married people use, + Quietly, quietly the evening through, + I might get up to-morrow to my work + Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. + To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! + Your soft hand is a woman of itself, + And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. + Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve + For each of the five pictures we require: + It saves a model. So! keep looking so-- + My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! + --How could you ever prick those perfect ears, + Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet-- + My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, + Which everybody looks on and calls his, + And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, + While she looks--no one's: very dear, no less. + 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. + How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; + So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! + I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! + This chamber for example--turn your head-- + All that's behind us! You don't understand + Nor care to understand about my art, + But you can hear at least when people speak: + And that cartoon, the second from the door + --It is the thing, Love! so such things should be-- + Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say. + I can do with my pencil what I know, + What I see, what at bottom of my heart + I wish for, if I ever wish so deep-- + Do easily, too--when I say, perfectly, + I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, + Who listened to the Legate's talk last week, + And just as much they used to say in France. + At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! + No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: + I do what many dream of, all their lives, + --Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, + And fail in doing. I could count twenty such + On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, + Who strive--you don't know how the others strive + To paint a little thing like that you smeared + Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,-- + Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, + (I know his name, no matter)--so much less! + Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. + There burns a truer light of God in them, + In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, + Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt + This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. + Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, + Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, + Enter and take their place there sure enough, + Though they come back and cannot tell the world. + My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. + The sudden blood of these men! at a word-- + Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. + I, painting from myself and to myself, + Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame + Or their praise either. Somebody remarks + Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, + His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, + Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? + Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? + 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! + I know both what I want and what might gain, + And yet how profitless to know, to sigh + "Had I been two, another and myself, + Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt. + Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth + The Urbinate who died five years ago. + ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) + Well, I can fancy how he did it all, + Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, + Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, + Above and through his art--for it gives way; + That arm is wrongly put--and there again-- + A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, + Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, + He means right--that, a child may understand. + Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: + But all the play, the insight and the stretch-- + Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? + Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, + We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! + Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think-- + More than I merit, yes, by many times. + But had you--oh, with the same perfect brow, + And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, + And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird + The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare-- + Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! + Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged + "God and the glory! never care for gain, + The present by the future, what is that? + Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! + Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" + I might have done it for you. So it seems: + Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules. + Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; + The rest avail not. Why do I need you? + What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? + In this world, who can do a thing, will not; + And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: + Yet the will's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power-- + And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, + God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. + 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, + That I am something underrated here, + Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. + I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, + For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. + The best is when they pass and look aside; + But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. + Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time, + And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! + I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, + Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, + In that humane great monarch's golden look,-- + One finger in his beard or twisted curl + Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, + One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, + The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, + I painting proudly with his breath on me, + All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, + Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls + Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,-- + And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, + This in the background, waiting on my work, + To crown the issue with a last reward! + A good time, was it not, my kingly days? + And had you not grown restless ... but I know-- + "Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said; + Too live the life grew, golden and not grey, + And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt + Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. + How could it end in any other way? + You called me, and I came home to your heart. + The triumph was--to reach and stay there; since + I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? + Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, + You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! + Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; + The Roman's is the better when you pray, + But still the other's Virgin was his wife--" + Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge + Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows + My better fortune, I resolve to think. + For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, + Said one day Agnolo, his very self, + To Rafael ... I have known it all these years ... + (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts + Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, + Too lifted up in heart because of it) + "Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub + Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, + Who, were he set to plan and execute + As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, + Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" + To Rafael's!--And indeed the arm is wrong. + I hardly dare ... yet, only you to see, + Give the chalk here--quick, thus the line should go! + Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! + Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, + (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? + Do you forget already words like those?) + If really there was such a chance, so lost,-- + Is, whether you're--not grateful--but more pleased. + Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! + This hour has been an hour! Another smile? + If you would sit thus by me every night + I should work better, do you comprehend? + I mean that I should earn more, give you more. + See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; + Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, + The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. + Come from the window, love,--come in, at last, + Inside the melancholy little house + We built to be so gay with. God is just. + King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights + When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, + The walls become illumined, brick from brick + Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, + That gold of his I did cement them with! + Let us but love each other. Must you go? + That Cousin here again? he waits outside? + Must see you--you, and not with me? Those loans? + More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? + Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? + While hand and eye and something of a heart + Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? + I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit + The grey remainder of the evening out, + Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly + How I could paint, were I but back in France, + One picture, just one more--the Virgin's face, + Not yours this time! I want you at my side + To hear them--that is, Michel Agnolo-- + Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. + Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. + I take the subjects for his corridor, + Finish the portrait out of hand--there, there, + And throw him in another thing or two + If he demurs; the whole should prove enough + To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, + What's better and what's all I care about, + Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! + Love, does that please, you? Ah, but what does he, + The Cousin! what does he to please you more? + + I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. + I regret little, I would change still less. + Since there my past life lies, why alter it? + The very wrong to Francis!--it is true + I took his coin, was tempted and complied, + And built this house and sinned, and all is said. + My father and my mother died of want. + Well, had I riches of my own? you see + How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. + They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: + And I have laboured somewhat in my time + And not been paid profusely. Some good son + Paint my two hundred pictures--let him try! + No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, + You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. + This must suffice me here. What would one have? + In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- + Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, + Meted on each side by the angel's reed, + For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me + To cover--the three first without a wife, + While I have mine! So--still they overcome + Because there's still Lucrezia,--as I choose. + + Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love. + +_Karshish_ and _Cleon_ are studies of the early days of +Christianity. Each man writes a letter--one to a professor, one to a +king--which reveals both his own nature and the steady advance of +the kingdom of God. The contrast between the scientist and the man +of letters is not favorable to the latter. Karshish is an ideal +scientist, with a naturally skeptical mind, yet wide open, willing +to learn from any and every source, thankful for every new fact; +Cleon is an intellectual snob. His mind is closed by its own culture, +and he regards it as absurd that any man in humble circumstances can +teach him anything. Learning, which has made the scientist modest, +has made Cleon arrogant. Such is the difference between the ideal +man of science, and the typical man of culture. + +Young Karshish was the best student in his department at the +university; he has won a travelling fellowship, and writes letters +home to Professor Abib, the Dean of the Graduate School. This is the +twenty-second letter, and although we have not seen the others, we +may easily conjecture their style and contents. They resemble +Darwin's method of composition describing his tour around the +world--one fact is noted accurately and then another. This +particular letter is entrusted to a messenger who had the pink-eye; +the young doctor easily cured him, and the man having no money, +begged to give some service. He winks his eyes gladly in the strong +sunlight which had hurt him so cruelly until the doctor came to his +relief. Very well! he shall run with an epistle. + +Karshish has met Lazarus: and it is significant of Browning's method +that it is not the resurrection from the grave which interests him, +nor what happened to Lazarus in the tomb; it is the profound +spiritual change in the man. Lazarus does not act like a faker; he +is not sensational, does not care whether you believe his story or +not, is a thoroughly quiet, intelligent, sensible man. Only his +conduct has ceased to be swayed by any selfish interest, and there +is some tremendous force working in his life that puzzles the +physician. It is amusing how the latter tries to shake off his +obsession, how he tries to persuade himself that Lazarus had a +prolonged epileptic fit, or that he is now mad; how he tries to +interest himself once more in the fauna and flora of the country. +Impossible! the story of Lazarus dominates him. + +His letter is naturally full of apologies for writing to the great +Abib on such a theme. He is afraid Abib will be disgusted with him, +will call him home, as a disgrace to the university he represents. +What! my favorite student, carefully trained in science, to swallow +the story of the first madman or swindler he meets? A man raised +from the dead? Such cases are diurnal. What would a modern professor +think if one of his travelling fellows wrote home from South America +that he had met a man raised from the dead, and was really impressed +by his story? His fellowship would be instantly taken away from him. + +He anticipates Abib's suggestions. If you think there is really +anything interesting in the yarn, why don't you seek out the +magician who brought him back to life? Oh, naturally, I thought of +that the first thing. But I discovered that the doctor who wrought +the cure of Lazarus is dead, lost his life in some obscure tumult. + +It is with the utmost difficulty that Karshish finally brings +himself to write what will seem much worse even than the acceptance +of the story of Lazarus. But something impels him to out with it. +Lazarus says--God forgive me for uttering such nonsensical +blasphemy--that the doctor who cured him was no doctor at all--was ... +was ... was Almighty God Himself! He says God appeared on the earth +in human form, that Lazarus knew Him personally, spoke with Him, ate +meals with Him--and then suddenly in a revulsion of feeling at his +daring to write such trash to Abib, he tries to force his mind back +to report on scientific observations. + +He thinks indeed he has ended his letter; when the stupendous idea +of Jesus Christ rushes over his mind like a flood, and he adds a +postscript. Would it not be wonderful, Professor, if Lazarus were +right? If the Supreme Force we recognise were really a God of Love, +who died to save us? The madman saith He said so: it is strange, ... +it is strange ... + +And so we leave Karshish in a muse: but surely he is not far from +the Kingdom of God. + +As this poem indicates the manner in which Christianity in the early +days spread from man to man, while many are amazed and many doubt, +so _Cleon_ gives us the picture of the Gospel as carried over the +world by Paul, Cleon in his own distinguished person sums up the +last word of Greek culture, in its intellectual prowess, its serene +beauty, its many-sided charm, and its total inability to save the +world. Cleon is an absolute pessimist. He is sincere; such cant as +the "choir invisible" means nothing to him, for death will turn his +splendid mind into a pinch of dust. Death is far more horrible to +poets and artists than to the ignorant, he assures the king, who had +thought just the opposite: is it not dreadful to think that after my +death people will be singing the songs that I have written, while +all that remains of me is in a little urn? He does not deceive +himself with phrases. Death is the end of us, and therefore +self-consciousness is a mistake. The animals without it are happier +and better than we. How terrible it is to think that a man like me +who has developed steadily throughout my whole life should now face +the blank wall of annihilation just when my mind is at its best, +when my senses are most keen to profit by the richness and wonder of +life! The thought that individual development is thus meaningless is +so repugnant not merely to his heart's desire but to his mental +sense of the fitness of things, that it has sometimes seemed as if +there must be a future life where the soul can pursue its natural +course ahead. But he dismisses this thought as impossible; for if +there were a future life, I should be the first to know of it. It +would certainly have been revealed to a splendid mind like mine. It +is the mountain peak that catches the first flush of the dawn, not +the valley: it is the topmost branch of the great tree that gets the +first whisper of the coming breeze. It is a pity that Cleon had not +heard the Gospel. I thank thee, O Father, that Thou hast hidden these +things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes. +Even so, Father: for so it seemed good in Thy sight. It was not +through men like Cleon that the Gospel made its first advance. + +His postscript, like that of Karshish, is interesting, though +strikingly different. The king had enclosed a letter to Paul, but as +he did not know Paul's address, he wondered if Cleon would not be +kind enough to see that the evangelist obtained the letter. Cleon +was decidedly vexed. I neither know nor care where Paul may be. You +don't suppose for a moment that Paul knows anything I don't know? +You don't suppose anything Paul could say would have any weight for +men like me? Oh, I have heard of him; I was taking a constitutional +one day, and I saw a little group of persons listening to an orator. +I touched a man on the shoulder, and I said, What is that idiot +talking about? And he replied that the man said that a person named +Jesus Christ had risen from the dead, and could save all those who +believed on Him from death. What crazy nonsense people swallow! So +Cleon smiled in his wisdom and went on his way. But through the lines +of his speech we feel the rising tide of Christianity, where + + Far back, through creeks and inlets making, + Comes silent, flooding in, the main. + + + + +AN EPISTLE + +CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB +PHYSICIAN + +1855 + + Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, + The not-incurious in God's handiwork + (This man's-flesh he hath admirably made, + Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, + To coop up and keep down on earth a space + That puff of vapour from his mouth, man's soul) + --To Abib, all-sagacious in our art, + Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast; + Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks + Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, + Whereby the wily vapour fain would slip + Back and rejoin its source before the term,-- + And aptest in contrivance (under God) + To baffle it by deftly stopping such:-- + The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home + Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace) + Three samples of true snake-stone--rarer still, + One of the other sort, the melon-shaped, + (But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs) + And writeth now the twenty-second time. + + My journeyings were brought to Jericho: + Thus I resume. Who studious in our art + Shall count a little labour unrepaid? + I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone + On many a flinty furlong of this land. + Also, the country-side is all on fire + With rumours of a marching hitherward: + Some say Vespasian cometh, some, his son. + 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. + Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, + And once a town declared me for a spy; + But at the end, I reach Jerusalem, + Since this poor covert where I pass the night, + This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence + A man with plague-sores at the third degree + Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here! + 'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, + To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip + And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. + A viscid choler is observable + In tertians, I was nearly bold to say; + And falling-sickness hath a happier cure + Than our school wots of: there's a spider here + Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, + Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back; + Take five and drop them,.. but who knows his mind, + The Syrian runagate I trust this to? + His service payeth me a sublimate + Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. + Best wait: I reach Jerusalem at morn, + There set in order my experiences, + Gather what most deserves, and give thee all-- + Or I might add, Judaa's gum-tragacanth + Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained, + Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry, + In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease + Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy-- + Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar-- + But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end. + + Yet stay: my Syrian blinketh gratefully, + Protesteth his devotion is my price-- + Suppose I write what harms not, though he steal? + I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush, + What set me off a-writing first of all. + An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang! + For, be it this town's barrenness--or else + The Man had something in the look of him-- + His case has struck me far more than 'tis worth. + So, pardon if--(lest presently I lose + In the great press of novelty at hand + The care and pains this somehow stole from me) + I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, + Almost in sight--for, wilt thou have the truth? + The very man is gone from me but now, + Whose ailment is the subject of discourse. + Thus then, and let thy better wit help all! + + Tis but a case of mania--subinduced + By epilepsy, at the turning-point + Of trance prolonged unduly some three days: + When, by the exhibition of some drug + Or spell, exorcization, stroke of art, + Unknown to me and which 'twere well to know, + The evil thing out-breaking all at once + Left the man whole and sound of body indeed,-- + But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide, + Making a clear house of it too suddenly, + The first conceit that entered might inscribe + Whatever it was minded on the wall + So plainly at that vantage, as it were, + (First come, first served) that nothing subsequent + Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls + The just-returned and new-established soul + Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart + That henceforth she will read or these or none. + And first--the man's own firm conviction rests + That he was dead (in fact they buried him) + --That he was dead and then restored to life + By a Nazarene physician of his tribe: + --'Sayeth, the same bade "Rise," and he did rise. + "Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. + Not so this figment!--not, that such a fume, + Instead of giving way to time and health, + Should eat itself into the life of life, + As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones and all! + For see, how he takes up the after-life. + The man--it is one Lazarus a Jew, + Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, + The body's habit wholly laudable, + As much, indeed, beyond the common health + As he were made and put aside to show. + Think, could we penetrate by any drug + And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, + And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep! + Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? + This grown man eyes the world now like a child. + Some elders of his tribe, I should premise, + Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep, + To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, + Now sharply, now with sorrow,--told the case,-- + He listened not except I spoke to him, + But folded his two hands and let them talk, + Watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool. + And that's a sample how his years must go. + Look, if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, + Should find a treasure,--can he use the same + With straitened habits and with tastes starved small, + And take at once to his impoverished brain + The sudden element that changes things, + That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand + And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? + Is he not such an one as moves to mirth-- + Warily parsimonious, when no need, + Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? + All prudent counsel as to what befits + The golden mean, is lost on such an one: + The man's fantastic will is the man's law. + So here--we call the treasure knowledge, say, + Increased beyond the fleshly faculty-- + Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, + Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven: + The man is witless of the size, the sum, + The value in proportion of all things, + Or whether it be little or be much. + Discourse to him of prodigious armaments + Assembled to besiege his city now, + And of the passing of a mule with gourds-- + 'Tis one! Then take it on the other side, + Speak of some trifling fact,--he will gaze rapt + With stupour at its very littleness, + (Far as I see) as if in that indeed + He caught prodigious import, whole results; + And so will turn to us the bystanders + In ever the same stupour (note this point) + That we too see not with his opened eyes. + Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, + Preposterously, at cross purposes. + Should his child sicken unto death,--why, look + For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, + Or pretermission of the daily craft! + While a word, gesture, glance from that same child + At play or in the school or laid asleep + Will startle him to an agony of fear, + Exasperation, just as like. Demand + The reason why--"'tis but a word," object-- + "A gesture"--he regards thee as our lord + Who lived there in the pyramid alone, + Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young, + We both would unadvisedly recite + Some charm's beginning, from that book of his, + Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst + All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. + Thou and the child have each a veil alike + Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both + Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match + Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know I + He holds on firmly to some thread of life-- + (It is the life to lead perforcedly) + Which runs across some vast distracting orb + Of glory on either side that meagre thread, + Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet-- + The spiritual life around the earthly life: + The law of that is known to him as this, + His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. + So is the man perplext with impulses + Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, + Proclaiming what is right and wrong across, + And not along, this black thread through the blaze-- + "It should be" balked by "here it cannot be." + And oft the man's soul springs into his face + As if he saw again and heard again + His sage that bade him "Rise" and he did rise. + Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within + Admonishes: then back he sinks at once + To ashes, who was very fire before, + In sedulous recurrence to his trade + Whereby he earneth him the daily bread; + And studiously the humbler for that pride, + Professedly the faultier that he knows + God's secret, while he holds the thread of life. + Indeed the especial marking of the man + Is prone submission to the heavenly will-- + Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. + 'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last + For that same death which must restore his being + To equilibrium, body loosening soul + Divorced even now by premature full growth: + He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live + So long as God please, and just how God please. + He even seeketh not to please God more + (Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. + Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach + The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, + Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: + How can he give his neighbour the real ground, + His own conviction? Ardent as he is-- + Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old + "Be it as God please" reassureth him. + I probed the sore as thy disciple should: + "How, beast," said I, "this stolid carelessness + Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march + To stamp out like a little spark thy town, + Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" + He merely looked with his large eyes on me. + The man is apathetic, you deduce? + Contrariwise, he loves both old and young, + Able and weak, affects the very brutes + And birds--how say I? flowers of the field-- + As a wise workman recognises tools + In a master's workshop, loving what they make. + Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: + Only impatient, let him do his best, + At ignorance and carelessness and sin-- + An indignation which is promptly curbed: + As when in certain travel I have feigned + To be an ignoramus in our art + According to some preconceived design, + And happed to hear the land's practitioners, + Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, + Prattle fantastically on disease, + Its cause and cure-and I must hold my peace! + + Thou wilt object--Why have I not ere this + Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene + Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, + Conferring with the frankness that befits? + Alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech + Perished in a tumult many years ago, + Accused--our learning's fate--of wizardry, + Rebellion, to the setting up a rule + And creed prodigious as described to me. + His death, which happened when the earthquake fell + (Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss + To occult learning in our lord the sage + Who lived there in the pyramid alone) + Was wrought by the mad people--that's their wont! + On vain recourse, as I conjecture it, + To his tried virtue, for miraculous help-- + How could he stop the earthquake? That's their way! + The other imputations must be lies: + But take one, though I loathe to give it thee, + In mere respect for any good man's fame. + (And after all, our patient Lazarus + Is stark mad; should we count on what he says? + Perhaps not: though in writing to a leech + 'Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) + This man so cured regards the curer, then, + As--God forgive me! who but God himself, + Creator and sustainer of the world, + That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile! + --'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived, + Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house, + Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, + And yet was ... what I said nor choose repeat, + And must have so avouched himself, in fact, + In hearing of this very Lazarus + Who saith--but why all this of what he saith? + Why write of trivial matters, things of price + Calling at every moment for remark? + I noticed on the margin of a pool + Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort, + Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange! + + Thy pardon for this long and tedious case, + Which, now that I review it, needs must seem + Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth! + Nor I myself discern in what is writ + Good cause for the peculiar interest + And awe indeed this man has touched me with. + Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness + Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus: + 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. I send thee what is writ. + Regard it as a chance, a matter risked + To this ambiguous Syrian--he may lose, + Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. + Jerusalem's repose shall make amends + For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine; + Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell! + + The very God I 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 mayst 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. + +The poem _Childe Roland_ is unique among Browning's monologues. His +poetry usually is of the noonday and the market-place; but this +might have been written by Coleridge, or Maeterlinck, or Edgar Allan +Poe. It has indeed the "wizard twilight Coleridge knew." The +atmosphere is uncanny and ghoul-haunted: the scenery is a series of +sombre and horrible imaginings. No consistent allegory can be made +out of it, for which fact we should rejoice. It is a poem, not a +sermon; it is intended to stimulate the imagination, rather than +awaken the conscience. And as we accompany the knight on his lonely +and fearful journey, we feel thrills caused only by works of genius. + +The poem is an example of the power of creative imagination. Out of +one line from an old ballad quoted by Shakespeare, Browning has +built up a marvellous succession of vivid pictures. The twilight +deepens as Childe Roland advances; one can feel the darkness coming +on. + + .... hands unseen + Were hanging the night around us fast. + +Although the poem means nothing specifically except a triumphant +close to a heart-shaking experience, the close is so solemnly +splendid that it is difficult to repress a shout of physical +exultation. One lonely man, in the presence of all the Powers of the +Air, sends out an honest blast of defiance--the individual will +against the malignant forces of the whole universe. + +What happened when he blew his horn? Did the awful mountains in the +blood-red sunset dissolve as the walls of Jericho fell to a similar +sound? Did the round, squat Tower vanish like a dream-phantom? Or +was the sound of the horn the last breath of the hero? If we believe +the former, then Childe Roland is telling his experience to a +listener; it is the song of the man "who came whither he went." If +the latter, which seems to me more dramatic, and more like Browning, +then the monologue is murmured by the solitary knight as he advances +on his darkening path. + +Three entirely different interpretations may be made of the poem. +First, the Tower is the quest, and Success is found only in the +moment of Failure. Second, the Tower is the quest, and when found is +worth nothing: the hero has spent his life searching something that +in the end is seen to be only a round, squat, blind turret--for such +things do men throw away their lives! Third, the Tower is not the +quest at all--it is damnation, and when the knight turns _aside_ +from the true road to seek the Tower, he is a lost soul steadily +slipping through increasing darkness to hell. + +Whilst I do not believe this third interpretation, for it seems to +me contrary to the whole spirit of the piece, it is surprising that +if one reads through the poem with that idea and none other in mind, +how much support can be found for it. The hoary cripple is the devil, +meant to lead us into temptation; and the third stanza seems for the +moment to complete this thought. + + If at his counsel I should turn aside + Into that ominous tract, which, all agree + Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly + I did turn as he pointed: + +If all knew that the ominous tract contained the Dark Tower, why was +the knight outside of it, if the Tower were his quest? He turns aside, +acquiescingly: he has given up a life of noble aspiration, and now +hands over his despairing heart in surrender to the powers of +darkness. He goes on his way a beaten man, only hoping that the end +may not be long delayed. + +Much in the letter of the poem may support this view; but the whole +spirit of it is opposed to such an interpretation, and the ringing +close does not sound like spiritual failure. Nor do I believe in the +second interpretation; for it is quite unlike Browning to write a +magnificent poem with a cynical conclusion. + +No, I believe that once upon a time, Roland, Giles, Cuthbert, and +other knights in solemn assembly took an oath to go on the quest of +the Dark Tower: to find it or perish on the way. All but these three +have apparently kept their word; they have never returned, and when +Roland is on the last stages of his journey, he sees why; they have +died a horrible death. The quest is indeed an unspeakably perilous +thing: for all but Giles and Cuthbert are dead, and these two +suffered a fate worse than death--the awful fear inspired by +something hideous on the march changed these splendid specimens of +manhood into craven traitors. Roland remembers with cruel agony the +ruddy young face of Cuthbert, glowing under its yellow hair: was +there ever such a magnificent fellow? But the path to the Tower had +shaken his manhood, and disgraced him forever. How well Roland +remembers the morning when Giles took the oath to find the Tower! +That was ten years ago. The frank, manly young knight stepped forth, +and declared proudly that he dared do all that might become a man. +But he had some awful experience in the course of the quest that +changed him from the soul of honor to a whimpering coward. His own +companions spat upon him and cursed him. + +Roland alone is left. And he has experienced so many disappointments +that now all hope of finding the Tower is dead in his breast. Just +one spark of manhood remains. He can not succeed, but God grant that +he may be fit to fail. + + ... just to fail as they, seemed best, + And all the doubt was now--should I be fit? + +As he advances, the country becomes an abomination of desolation; +then appear evidences of struggle, the marks of monsters: then the +awful, boiling river, with the nerve-shattering shriek from its +depths as he thrust in his spear. On the other bank, fresh evidences +of fearful combats, followed farther along by the appearance of +engines of torture. Those of his companions who had survived the +beasts had there perished in this frightful manner. Nevertheless, +Roland advances, his eyes on the ground. Suddenly the wide wing of +some dreadful bird of the night brushed his cap, and he looked up--to +his overwhelming amazement, _he sees the Tower_! He sees it as the +sailor sees the rocks on a dark night, only when the ship is lost. +He sees it in a sudden glare of hell; the air is full of mocking +laughter, the scorn of fiends mingling with the sound of the names +of their victims, his peers and comrades, all lost! The ugly +misshapen mountains look like sinister giants, lying chin upon hand, +lazily awaiting his destruction. But this atom of humanity, in the +presence of all the material forces of this world and the +supernatural powers of darkness, places the horn to his lips, and +sends out on the evening air a shrill blast of utter defiance. He +that endureth to the end shall be saved. Not his possessions, not +his happiness, not his bodily frame--they all succumb: but _he_ +shall be saved. + +Thus we may take this wholly romantic poem as one more noble +illustration of Browning's favorite doctrine--Success in Failure. + + + + +"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME" + + (See Edgar's song in _Lear_) + + 1855 + + My first thought was, he lied in every word, + That hoary cripple, with malicious eye + Askance to watch the working of his lie + On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford + Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored + Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. + + What else should he be set for, with his staff? + What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare + All travellers who might find him posted there, + And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh + Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph + For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare, + + If at his counsel I should turn aside + Into that ominous tract which, all agree, + Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly + I did turn as he pointed: neither pride + Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, + So much as gladness that some end might be. + + For, what with thy whole world-wide wandering, + What with my search drawn out through years, my hope + Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope + With that obstreperous joy success would bring,-- + I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring + My heart made, finding failure in its scope. + + As when a sick man very near to death + Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end + The tears, and takes the farewell of each friend, + And hears one bid the other go, draw breath + Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith, + "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;") + + While some discuss if near the other graves + Be room enough for this, and when a day + Suits best for carrying the corpse away, + With care about the banners, scarves and staves: + And still the man hears all, and only craves + He may not shame such tender love and stay. + + Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, + Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ + So many times among "The Band"--to wit, + The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed + Their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best, + And all the doubt was now--should I be fit? + + So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, + That hateful cripple, out of his highway + Into the path he pointed. All the day + Had been a dreary one at best, and dim + Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim + Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. + + For mark! no sooner was I fairly found + Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, + Than, pausing to throw backward a last view + O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain all round: + Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. + I might go on; naught else remained to do. + + So, on I went. I think I never saw + Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: + For flowers--as well expect a cedar grovel + But cockle, spurge, according to their law + Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, + You'd think: a burr had been a treasure trove. + + No! penury, inertness and grimace, + In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See + Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, + "It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: + Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, + Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free." + + If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk + Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents + Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents + In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to balk + All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk + Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. + + As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair + In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud + Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood, + One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, + Stood stupefied, however he came there: + Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! + + Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, + With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, + And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; + Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; + I never saw a brute I hated so; + He must be wicked to deserve such pain. + + I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. + As a man calls for wine before he fights, + I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, + Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. + Think first, fight afterwards--the soldier's art: + One taste of the old time sets all to rights. + + Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face + Beneath its garniture of curly gold, + Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold + An arm in mine to fix me to the place, + That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! + Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. + + Giles then, the soul of honour--there he stands + Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. + What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. + Good--but the scene shifts--faugh! what hangman hands + Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands + Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! + + Better this present than a past like that; + Back therefore to my darkening path again! + No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. + Will the night send a howlet or a bat? + I asked: when something on the dismal flat + Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. + + A sudden little river crossed my path + As unexpected as a serpent comes. + No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; + This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath + For the fiend's glowing hoof--to see the wrath + Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. + + So petty yet so spiteful! All along, + Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; + Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit + Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: + The river which had done them all the wrong, + Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. + + Which, while I forded,--good saints, how I feared + To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, + Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek + For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! + --It may have been a water-rat I speared, + But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. + + Glad was I when I reached the other bank. + Now for a better country. Vain presage! + Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, + Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank + Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, + Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage-- + + The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. + What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? + No footprint leading to that horrid mews, + None out of it. Mad brewage set to work + Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk + Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews. + + And more than that--a furlong on--why, there! + What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, + Or brake, not wheel--that harrow fit to reel + Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air + Of Tophet's too!, on earth left unaware, + Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel. + + Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, + Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth + Desperate and done with: (so a fool finds mirth, + Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood + Changes and off he goes!) within a rood-- + Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. + + Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, + Now patches where some leanness of the soil's + Broke into moss or substances like boils; + Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him + Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim + Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. + + And just as far as ever from the end! + Naught in the distance but the evening, naught + To point my footstep further! At the thought, + A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, + Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned + That brushed my cap--perchance the guide I sought. + + For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, + 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place + All round to mountains--with such name to grace + Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. + How thus they had surprised me,--solve it, you! + How to get from them was no clearer case. + + Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick + Of mischief happened to me, God knows when-- + In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, + Progress this way. When, in the very nick + Of giving up, one time more, came a click + As when a trap shuts--you're inside the den! + + Burningly it came on me all at once, + This was the place! those two hills on the right, + Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; + While to the left, a tall scalped mountain ... Dunce, + Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, + After a life spent training for the sight! + + What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? + The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, + Built of brown stone, without a counterpart + In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf + Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf + He strikes on, only when the timbers start. + + Not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day + Came back again for that! 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,-- + "Now stab and end the creature--to the heft!" + + Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled + Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears, + Of all the lost adventurers my peers,-- + How such a one was strong, and such was bold, + And such was fortunate, yet each of old + Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. + + There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met + To view the last of me, a living frame + For one more picture in a sheet of flame + I saw them and I knew them all. And yet + Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, + And blew. "_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came_." + + + + +VI + + +POEMS OF PARADOX + +The word paradox comes from two Greek words, meaning simply, +"beyond belief." As every one ought to know, a paradox is something +that read literally is absurd, but if taken in the spirit in which +it is uttered, may contain profound truth. Paradox is simply +over-emphasis: and is therefore a favorite method of teaching. By +the employment of paradox the teacher wishes to stress forcibly some +aspect of the truth which otherwise may not be seen at all. Fine +print needs a magnifying-glass; and the deep truth hidden in a +paradox can not perhaps become clear unless enlarged by powerful +emphasis. All teachers know the value of _italics_. + +Socrates was very fond of paradox: the works of Ibsen, Nietzsche, +Shaw and Chesterton are full of paradoxes: Our Lord's utterances in +the New Testament are simply one paradox after another. No wonder +His disciples were often in a maze. It requires centuries for the +truth in some paradoxes to become manifest. + + "This was some time a paradox, but now the time gives it + proof." + +Browning loved a paradox with all his heart. The original nature of +his mind, his fondness for taking the other side, his over-subtlety, +all drove him toward the paradox. He would have made a wonderful +criminal lawyer. He loves to put some imaginary or historical +character on the stand, and permit him to speak freely in his own +defence; and he particularly loves to do this, when the person has +received universal condemnation. Browning seems to say, "I wonder if +the world is entirely right in this judgment: what would this +individual say if given an opportunity for apologetic oratory?" +Browning is the greatest master of special pleading in all literature. +Although he detested Count Guido, he makes him present his case in +the best possible light, so that for the moment he arouses our +intellectual sympathy. + +The Glove story is one of the best-known anecdotes in history; +besides its French source, it has been told in German by Schiller, +in English by Leigh Hunt, and has received thousands of allusory +comments--but always from one point of view. The hooting and +laughter that followed the Lady as she left the court, have been +echoed in all lands. Browning pondered over this story, and took the +woman's part. This may be accounted for by two causes. He is the +most chivalrous poet that ever lived, and would naturally defend the +Lady. What De Lorge ought to have done when he brought the glove back +was to remind the Lady that she had another, and permit him the +honor of retrieving that. But Browning saw also in this incident a +true paradox--the Lady was right after all! Right in throwing the +glove, right in her forecast of the event. + +Like a good lawyer, he first proves that the Knight's achievement +was slight. In the pit the Lion was not at that moment dangerous, +because he was desperately homesick. He was lost in thoughts of his +wild home, in imagination driving the flocks up the mountain, and +took not the slightest notice of the glove. Then a page had leaped +into the pit simply to recover his hat; and he had done that because +he could not afford to buy a new one. No one applauded him. Think of +the man who had originally caught the lion! He went out alone and +trapped a lion, simply that his rude boys might be amused at the +spectacle. In our degenerate days, we give our children a Teddy Bear. +But in those strenuous times, the father said to his boys, "Come out +into the back yard, and see the present I've got for you!" They came +eagerly, and found a live lion. That man and his children were a +hardy family. How they would have laughed at De Lorge's so-called +heroism! + +But the real truth of the matter is that De Lorge was a liar. The +Lady suspected it all the time, and was saddened to have her +judgment confirmed by the result. De Lorge had been boasting of his +love, and of his eagerness to prove it. He had begged the Lady to +test him--he would gladly die for her. Now it is important that a +woman should know before marriage rather than after whether a +lover's protestations are genuine or not--in short whether he is +sincere and reliable, or whether he is a liar. The reason why men +lie to women and not to men is because they know that a lie to a +woman can not be avenged, they can not be made to pay any penalty; +but when they lie to other men--in business affairs, for +example--the penalty is severe. + +How could the Lady satisfy her mind? How could she know whether De +Lorge was sincere or not? There was no war, there was no tournament, +there was no quest. Suddenly one method presented itself. She tossed +her glove into the pit. He had to go--he could never have held up +his head otherwise. But when he returned, he dashed the glove in the +Lady's face, ostensibly to teach her that a brave man's life should +not be risked by a woman's vanity. This was even a better +gallery-play than the recovery of the glove, and succeeded splendidly. +But the Lady turned sadly away. + + The blow a glove gives is but weak: + Does the mark yet discolour my cheek? + But when the heart suffers a blow, + Will the pain pass so soon, do you know? + +What was the pain in her heart? Her wounded vanity, her anguish at +the Court's ostracism? Not in the least. It was her pain at finding +her opinion of De Lorge justified. He was then, just as she thought, +a liar; he never meant to be taken at his word. All his +protestations of love and service were mere phrases. His anger at +the first test of his boasting proves this. The pain in her heart is +the pain we all feel at reading of some cowardly or disloyal act; +one more man unfaithful, one more man selfish, one more who lowers +the level of human nature. + +The paradox teaches us the very simple lesson that if we boast of +our prowess, we must not be angry when some one insists that we +prove it. + + + + +THE GLOVE + +1845 + + (PETER RONSARD _loquitur_) + + "Heigho!" yawned one day King Francis, + "Distance all value enhances! + When a man's busy, why, leisure + Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: + 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? + Straightway he wants to be busy. + Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm + Caught thinking war the true pastime. + Is there a reason in metre? + Give us your speech, master Peter!" + I who, if mortal dare say so, + Ne'er am at loss with my Naso, + "Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets: + Men are the merest Ixions"-- + Here the King whistled aloud, "Let's + --Heigho--go look at our lions!" + Such are the sorrowful chances + If you talk fine to King Francis. + + And so, to the courtyard proceeding, + Our company, Francis was leading, + Increased by new followers tenfold + Before he arrived at the penfold; + Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen + At sunset the western horizon. + And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost + With the dame he professed to adore most. + Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed + Her, and the horrible pitside; + For the penfold surrounded a hollow + Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, + And shelved to the chamber secluded + Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. + The King hailed his keeper, an Arab + As glossy and black as a scarab, + And bade him make sport and at once stir + Up and out of his den the old monster. + They opened a hole in the wire-work + Across it, and dropped there a firework, + And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; + A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, + The blackness and silence so utter, + By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; + Then earth in a sudden contortion + Gave out to our gaze her abortion. + Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot + (Whose experience of nature's but narrow, + And whose faculties move in no small mist + When he versifies David the Psalmist) + I should study that brute to describe you + _Illum Juda Leonem de Tribu._ + One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy + To see the black mane, vast and heapy, + The tail in the air stiff and straining, + The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, + As over the barrier which bounded + His platform, and us who surrounded + The barrier, they reached and they rested + On space that might stand him in best stead: + For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, + The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, + And if, in this minute of wonder, + No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, + Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, + The lion at last was delivered? + Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! + + And you saw by the flash on his forehead, + By the hope in those eyes wide and steady, + He was leagues in the desert already, + Driving the flocks up the mountain, + Or catlike couched hard by the fountain + To waylay the date-gathering negress: + So guarded he entrance or egress. + "How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear, + (No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere + And so can afford the confession,) + We exercise wholesome discretion + In keeping aloof from his threshold; + Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, + Their first would too pleasantly purloin + The visitor's brisket or sirloin: + But who's he would prove so fool-hardy? + Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!" + + The sentence no sooner was uttered, + Than over the rails a glove fluttered, + Fell close to the lion, and rested: + The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested + With life so, De Lorge had been wooing + For months past; he sat there pursuing + His suit, weighing out with nonchalance + Fine speeches like gold from a balance. + + Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! + De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, + Walked straight to the glove,--while the lion + Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on + The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, + And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,-- + Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, + Leaped back where the lady was seated, + And full in the face of its owner + Flung the glove. + + "Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?" + "So should I!"--cried the King--"'twas mere vanity, + Not love, set that task to humanity!" + Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing + From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. + + Not so, I; for I caught an expression + In her brow's undisturbed self-possession + Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,-- + As if from no pleasing experiment + She rose, yet of pain not much heedful + So long as the process was needful,-- + As if she had tried in a crucible, + To what "speeches like gold" were reducible, + And, finding the finest prove copper, + Felt the smoke in her face was but proper; + To know what she had _not_ to trust to, + Was worth all the ashes and dust too. + She went out 'mid hooting and laughter; + Clement Marot stayed; I followed after, + And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? + If she wished not the rash deed's recalment? + "For I"--so I spoke--"am a poet: + Human nature,--behoves that I know it!" + + She told me, "Too long had I heard + Of the deed proved alone by the word: + For my love--what De Lorge would not dare! + With my scorn--what De Lorge could compare! + And the endless descriptions of death + He would brave when my lip formed a breath, + I must reckon as braved, or, of course, + Doubt his word--and moreover, perforce, + For such gifts as no lady could spurn, + Must offer my love in return. + When I looked on your lion, it brought + All the dangers at once to my thought, + Encountered by all sorts of men, + Before he was lodged in his den,-- + From the poor slave whose club or bare hands + Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, + With no King and no Court to applaud, + By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, + Yet to capture the creature made shift, + That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, + --To the page who last leaped o'er the fence + Of the pit, on no greater pretence + Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, + Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. + So, wiser I judged it to make + One trial what 'death for my sake' + Really meant, while the power was yet mine, + Than to wait until time should define + Such a phrase not so simply as I, + Who took it to mean just 'to die.' + The blow a glove gives is but weak: + Does the mark yet discolour my cheek? + But when the heart suffers a blow, + Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?" + + I looked, as away she was sweeping, + And saw a youth eagerly keeping + As close as he dared to the doorway. + No doubt that a noble should more weigh + His life than befits a plebeian; + And yet, had our brute been Nemean-- + (I judge by a certain calm fervour + The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) + --He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn + If you whispered "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!" + And when, shortly after, she carried + Her shame from the Court, and they married, + To that marriage some happiness, maugre + The voice of the Court, I dared augur. + + For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, + Those in wonder and praise, these in envy; + And in short stood so plain a head taller + That he wooed and won ... how do you call her? + The beauty, that rose in the sequel + To the King's love, who loved her a week well. + And 'twas noticed he never would honour + De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) + With the easy commission of stretching + His legs in the service, and fetching + His wife, from her chamber, those straying + Sad gloves she was always mislaying, + While the King took the closet to chat in,-- + But of course this adventure came pat in. + And never the King told the story, + How bringing a glove brought such glory, + But the wife smiled--"His nerves are grown firmer: + Mine he brings now and utters no murmur." + + _Venienti occurrite morbo!_ + With which moral I drop my theorbo. + +Browning wrote two poems on pedantry; the former, in _Garden Fancies_, +takes the conventional view. How can a man with any blood in him pore +over miserable books, when life is so sweet? The other, _A +Grammarian's Funeral_, is the apotheosis of the scholar. The paradox +here is that Browning has made a hero out of what seems at first +blush impossible material. It is easy to make a hero out of a noble +character; it is equally easy to make a hero out of a thorough +scoundrel, a train-robber, or a murderer. Milton made a splendid +hero out of the Devil, But a hero out of a nincompoop? A hero out of +a dull, sexless pedant? + +But this is exactly what Browning has done, nay, he has made this +grammarian exactly the same kind of hero as a dashing cavalry +officer leading a forlorn hope. + +Observe that Browning has purposely made his task as difficult as +possible. Had the scholar been a great discoverer in science, a +great master in philosophical thought, a great interpreter in +literature--then we might all take off our hats: but this hero was a +grammarian. He spent his life not on Greek drama or Greek philosophy, +but on Greek Grammar. He is dead: his pupils carry his body up the +mountain, as the native disciples of Stevenson carried their beloved +Tusitala to the summit of the island peak. These students are not +weeping; they sing and shout as they march, for they are carrying +their idol on their shoulders. His life and his death were +magnificent, an inspiration to all humanity. Hurrah! Hurrah! + +The swinging movement of the young men is in exact accord with the +splendid advance of the thought. They tell us the history of their +Teacher from his youth to his last breath: + + This is our master, famous calm and dead, + Borne on our shoulders. + +It is a common error to suppose that missionaries, nuns, and +scholars follow their chosen callings because they are unfit for +anything else. The judgment of the wise world is not always correct. +It assumes that these strange folk never hear the call of the blood. +When John C. Calhoun was a student at Yale, his comrades, returning +at midnight from a wild time, found him at his books. "Why don't you +come out, John, and be a man? You'll never be young again." +"I regard my work as more important," said John quietly. Milton's +bitter cry + + Were it not better done, as others use, + To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, + Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? + +shows that it was not the absence of temptation, but a tremendously +powerful will, that kept him at his desk. When a spineless milksop +becomes a missionary, when a gawk sticks to his books, when an ugly +woman becomes a nun, the world makes no objection; but when a +socially prominent man goes in for missions or scholarship, when a +lovely girl takes the veil, the wise world says, "Ah, what a pity!" + +Browning's Grammarian did not take up scholarship as a last resort. +He could have done anything he liked. + + He was a man born with thy face and throat, + Lyric Apollo! + +He might have been an athlete, a social leader, a man of pleasure. +He chose Greek Grammar. In the pursuit of this prize, he squandered +his time and youth and health as recklessly as men squander these +treasures on wine and women. When a young man throws away his youth +and health in gambling, drink, and debauchery, the world expresses +no surprise; he is known as a "splendid fellow," and is often much +admired. But when a man spends all his gifts in scholarship, +scientific discovery, or altruistic aims, he is regarded as an +eccentric, lacking both blood and judgment. + +I say that Browning has given his Grammarian not only courage and +heroism, but the reckless, dashing, magnificent bravery of a cavalry +leader. In the march for learning, this man lost his youth and health, +and acquired painful diseases. Finally he comes to the end. When an +officer in battle falls, and his friends bend over him to catch his +last breath, he does not say, "I commend my soul to God," or +"Give my love to my wife,"--he says, "_Did we win_?" and we applaud +this passion in the last agony. So our Grammarian, full of diseases, +paralysed from the waist down, the death rattle in his throat--what +does he say to the faithful watchers? What are his last words? +_He dictates Greek Grammar_. + +The solitary student may be a paragon of courage, headstrong, +reckless, tenacious as a bulldog, with a resolution entirely beyond +the range of the children of this world. + + * * * * * + + + + +SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS + +1844 + + Plague take all your pedants, say I! + He who wrote what I hold in my hand, + Centuries back was so good as to die, + Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; + This, that was a book in its time, + Printed on paper and bound in leather, + Last month in the white of a matin-prime, + Just when the birds sang all together. + + Into the garden I brought it to read, + And under the arbute and laurustine + Read it, so help me grace in my need, + From title-page to closing line. + Chapter on chapter did I count, + As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge; + Added up the mortal amount; + And then proceeded to my revenge. + + Yonder's a plum-tree with a crevice + An owl would build in, were he but sage; + For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis + In a castle of the Middle Age, + Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber; + When he'd be private, there might he spend + Hours alone in his lady's chamber: + Into this crevice I dropped our friend. + + Splash, went he, as under he ducked, + --At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate; + Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked + To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; + Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf, + Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis; + Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf + Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. + + Now, this morning, betwixt the moss + And gum that locked our friend in limbo, + A spider had spun his web across, + And sat in the midst with arms akimbo: + So, I took pity, for learning's sake, + And, _de profundis, accentibus lætis, + Cantate_! quoth I, as I got a rake; + And up I fished his delectable treatise. + + Here you have it, dry in the sun, + With all the binding all of a blister, + And great blue spots where the ink has run, + And reddish streaks that wink and glister + O'er the page so beautifully yellow: + Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks! + Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow? + Here's one stuck in his chapter six! + + How did he like it when the live creatures + Tickled and toused and browsed him all over, + And worm, slug, eft, with serious features, + Came in, each one, for his right of trover? + --When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face + Made of her eggs the stately deposit, + And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface + As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet? + + All that life and fun and romping, + All that frisking and twisting and coupling, + While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping + And clasps were cracking and covers suppling! + As if you had carried sour John Knox + To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich, + Fastened him into a front-row box, + And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic. + + Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it? + Back to my room shall you take your sweet self. + Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft, _sufficit_! + See the snug niche I have made on my shelf! + A's book shall prop you up, B's shall cover you, + Here's C to be grave with, or D to be gay, + And with E on each side, and F right over you, + Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day! + + + * * * * * + + + + +A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL + +SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE + + +1855 + + Let us begin and carry up this corpse, + Singing together. + Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes + Each in its tether + Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, + Cared-for till cock-crow: + Look out if yonder be not day again + Rimming the rock-row! + That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, + Rarer, intenser, + Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, + Chafes in the censer. + Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; + Seek we sepulture + On a tall mountain, citied to the top, + Crowded with culture! + Air the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; + Clouds overcome it; + No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's + Circling its summit. + Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: + Wait ye the warning? + Our low life was the level's and the night's; + He's for the morning. + Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, + 'Ware the beholders! + This is our master, famous calm and dead, + Borne on our shoulders. + + "Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, + Safe from the weather! + He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, + Singing together, + He was a man born with thy face and throat, + Lyric Apollo! + Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note + Winter would follow? + Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! + Cramped and diminished," + Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! + My dance is finished?" + No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, + Make for the city!) + He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride + Over men's pity; + Left play for work, and grappled with the world + Bent on escaping: + "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? + Show me their shaping," + Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,-- + "Give!"--So, he gowned him, + Straight got by heart that book to its last page: + Learned, we found him. + Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, + Accents uncertain: + "Time to taste life," another would have said, + "Up with the curtain!" + + This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? + Patience a moment! + Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, + Still there's the comment. + Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, + painful or easy! + Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, + Ay, nor feel queasy." + Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, + When he had learned it, + When he had gathered all books had to give! + Sooner, he spurned it. + Image the whole, then execute the parts-- + Fancy the fabric + Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, + Ere mortar dab brick! + + (Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place + Gaping before us.) + Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace + (Hearten our chorus!) + That before living he'd learn how to live-- + No end to learning: + 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." + Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: + _Calculus_ racked him: + Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: + _Tussis_ attacked him. + "Now, master, take a little rest!"--not he! + (Caution redoubled, + Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) + Not a whit troubled + Back to his studies, fresher than at first, + Fierce as a dragon + He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) + Sucked at the flagon. + Oh, if we draw a circle premature, + Heedless of far gain, + Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure + Bad is our bargain! + Was it not great? did not he throw on God, + (He loves the burthen)-- + God's task to make the heavenly period + Perfect the earthen? + Did not he magnify the mind, show clear + Just what it all meant? + He would not discount life, as fools do here, + Paid by instalment + He ventured neck or nothing--heaven's success + Found, or earth's failure: + "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes: + Hence with life's pale lure!" + That low man seeks a little thing to do, + Sees it and does it: + This high man, with a great thing to pursue, + Dies ere he knows it. + That low man goes on adding one to one, + His hundred's soon hit: + This high man, aiming at a million, + Misses an unit. + That, has the world here--should he need the next, + Let the world mind him! + This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed + Seeking shall find him. + So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, + Ground he at grammar; + Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: + While he could stammer + He settled _Hoti's_ business--let it be!-- + Properly based _Oun_-- + Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_, + Dead from the waist down. + Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: + Hail to your purlieus, + All ye highfliers 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, + Lightnings 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. + +In the amusing poem, _Up at a Villa--Down in the City_, Browning +compares the beauty of city and country life from an unusual point +of view. It is generally assumed that the country is more poetical +than the city; but it would be difficult to prove this, if we were +put to the test. Natural scenery is now much admired, and mountains +are in the height of fashion; every one is forced to express raptures, +whether one feels them or not. But this has not always been the case. +When Addison travelled to Italy, he regarded the Alps as disgusting; +they were a disagreeable and dangerous barrier, that must be crossed +before he could reach the object of his journey. He wrote home from +Italy that he was delighted at the sight of a plain--a remark that +would damn a modern pilgrim. The first man in English literature to +bring out the real beauty of mountains was Thomas Gray. + +Very few people have a sincere and genuine love of the country--as +is proved by the way they flock to the cities. We love the country +for a change, for a rest, for its novelty: how many of us would be +willing to live there the year around? We know that Wordsworth loved +the country, for he chose to live among the lonely lakes when he +could have lived in London. But most intelligent persons live in +towns, and take to the country for change and recreation. + +The speaker in Browning's poem is an absolutely honest Philistine, +who does not know that every word he says spells artistic damnation. +He is disgusted with the situation of his house: + + .... stuck like the horn of a bull + Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull. + +In other words the site is so magnificent that to-day expensive +hotels are built there, and people come from all over the world to +enjoy the view. In fact it is just this situation which Browning +admires in the poem _De Gustibus_. + + What I love best in all the world + Is a castle, precipice-encurled, + In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. + +But our man does not know what he _ought_ to say; he says simply +what he really thinks. The views of a sincere Philistine on natural +scenery, works of art, pieces of music, are interesting because they +are sincere. The conventional admiration may or may not be genuine. + +This man says the city is much cooler in summer than the country: +that spring visits the city earlier: that what we call the +monotonous row of houses in a city street is far more beautiful than +the irregularity of the country. It appeals to his sense of beauty. + + Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry. + +But his real rapture over the city is because city life is +interesting. There is something going on every moment of the blessed +day. It is a perpetual theatre, admission free. This is undoubtedly +the real reason why the poor prefer crowded, squalid city tenements +to the space, fresh air and hygienic advantages of the country. Many +well-meaning folk wonder why men with their families remain in city +slums, when they could easily secure work on farms, where there +would be abundance of fresh air, wholesome food, and cool nights for +sleep. Our Italian gives the correct answer. People can not stand +dullness and loneliness: they crave excitement, and this is supplied +day and night by the city street. Indeed in some cases, where by the +Fresh Air Fund, children are taken for a vacation to the country, +they become homesick for the slums. + + * * * * * + + + + +UP AT A VILLA--DOWN IN THE CITY + + (AS DISTINGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY) + +1855 + + + I + + Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, + The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; + Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! + + + II + + Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! + There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; + While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. + + + III + + Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull + Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, + Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! + --I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. + + + IV + + But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why? + They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take + the eye! + Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; + You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; + Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; + And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. + + + V + + What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, + 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the + heights: + You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and + wheeze, + And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grey olive-trees. + + + VI + + Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; + In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. + 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, + The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell + Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and + sell. + + + VII + + Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and + splash! + In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows + flash + On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and + pash + Round the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash, + Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort + of sash. + + + VIII + + All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, + Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. + Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle, + Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. + Late August or early September, the stunning cicida is shrill, + And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous + firs on the hill. + Enough of the seasons,--I spare you the months of the fever + and chill. + + + IX + + Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells + begin: + No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: + You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. + By-and-by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, + draws teeth; + Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. + At the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping + hot! + And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves + were shot. + Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, + And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law + of the Duke's! + Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so + Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero, + "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of + Saint Paul has reached, + Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous + than ever he preached," + Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! + our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all + spangles, + and seven swords stuck in her heart! + _Bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife; + No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. + + + X + + But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the + rate. + They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing + the gate + It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! + Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity! + Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and + sandals, + And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow + candles; + One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with + handles, + And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention + of scandals: + _Bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife. + Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! + +No poem of Browning's has given more trouble to his whole-souled +admirers than _The Statue and the Bust_: and yet, if this is taken +as a paradox, its meaning is abundantly clear. + +The square spoken of in the poem is the Piazza Annunziata in Florence: +in the midst of the square stands the equestrian statue of the Duke: +and if one follows the direction of the bronze eyes of the man, it +will appear that they rest steadfastly on the right hand window in +the upper storey of the palace. This is the farthest window facing +the East. There is no bust there; but it is in this window that the +lady sat and regarded the daily passage of the Duke. + +The reason why this poem has troubled the minds of many good people +is because it seems (on a very superficial view) to sympathise with +unlawful love; even in certain circumstances to recommend the pursuit +of it to fruition. Let us see what the facts are. Before the Duke +saw the bride, he was, as Browning says, empty and fine like a +swordless sheath. This is a good description of many young men. They +are like an empty sheath. The sheath may be beautiful, it may be +exquisitely and appropriately enchased; but a sheath is no good +without a sword. So, many young men are attractive and accomplished, +their minds are cultivated by books and travel, but they have no +driving purpose in life, no energy directed to one aim, no end; and +therefore all their attractiveness is without positive value. They +are empty like a handsome sheath minus the sword. + +The moment the Duke saw the lady a great purpose filled his life: he +became temporarily a resolute, ambitious man, with capacity for +usefulness. No moral scruple kept the lovers apart; and they +determined to fly. This purpose was frustrated by procrastination, +trivial hindrances, irresolution, till it was forever too late. Now +the statue and the bust gaze at each other in eternal ironical +mockery, for these lovers in life might as well have been made of +bronze and stone; they never really lived. + +Contrary to his usual custom--it is only very seldom as in this poem +and in _Bishop Blougram's Apology_, and in both cases because he +knew he would otherwise be misunderstood--Browning added a personal +postscript. Where are these lovers now? How do they spend their time +in the spiritual world? I do not know where they are, says Browning, +but I know very well where they are _not_: they are not with God. No, +replies the reader, because they wanted to commit adultery. Ah, says +Browning, they are not exiled from God because they wanted to commit +adultery: they are exiled because they did not actually do it. This +is the paradox. + +Browning takes a crime to test character; for a crime can test +character as well as a virtue. We must draw a clear distinction here +between society and the individual. It is a good thing for society +that people are restrained from crime by what are really bad +motives--fear, presence of police, irresolution, love of ease, +selfishness: furthermore, society and the law do not consider men's +motives, but only their actual deeds. A white-souled girl and a +blackhearted villain with no criminal record are exactly equal in +the eyes of the law, both perfectly innocent. + +But from the point of view of the individual, or as a Christian +would say, in the sight of God, it is the heart that makes all the +difference between virtue and depravity. In the case of our lovers +delay was best for society, but bad for them: the purposed crime was +a test of their characters, and they added the sin of cowardice to +the sin of adultery, which they had already committed in their hearts. +Suppose four men agree to hold up a train. When the light of the +locomotive appears, three lose their courage: the fourth stops the +train, and single-handed takes the money from the express-car and +from the passengers, killing the conductor and the express-messenger. +After the train has been sent on its way, the three timid ones +divide up with the man who actually committed the crimes. Who is the +most virtuous among the four? Which has the best chance to be with +God? Manifestly the brave one, although he is a robber and a murderer. +From the point of view of the people who owned the money, from the +point of view of the families of the dead men, it would have been +better if all four of the would-be robbers had been cowards: but for +that criminal's individual soul, he was better than his mates, +because the crime tested his character and found him sound: he did +not add the sin of cowardice to the sins of robbery and murder. + +Browning changes the figure. If you choose to play a game--no one is +obliged to play, but if you do choose to play--then play with all +your energy, whether the stakes are money or worthless counters. Now +our lovers chose to play. The stake they played for was not the true +coin of marriage, but the false counter of adultery. Still, the game +was a real test of their characters, and it proved them lacking in +every true quality that makes men and women noble and useful. + +Even now Browning knew that some readers would not understand him: +so he added the last two lines, which ought to make his lesson clear. +You virtuous people (I see by your expression you disapprove and are +ready to quarrel with me) how strive you? _De te, fabula_! My whole +story concerns you. You say that the lovers should have remained +virtuous: you say that virtue should be the great aim of life. Very +well, do _you_ act as if you believed what you say? Is virtue the +greatest thing in _your_ life? Do you strive to the uttermost toward +that goal? Do you really prefer virtue to your own ease, comfort and +happiness? + +I find Browning's poem both clear and morally stimulating. My one +objection would be that he puts rather too much value on mere energy. +I do not believe that the greatest thing in life is striving, +struggle, and force: there are deep, quiet souls who accomplish much +in this world without being especially strenuous. But in the sphere +of virtue Browning was essentially a fighting man. + + + + +THE STATUE AND THE BUST + +1855 + + There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well, + And a statue watches it from the square, + And this story of both do our townsmen tell. + + Ages ago, a lady there, + At the farthest window facing the East + Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?" + + The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased; + She leaned forth, one on either hand; + They saw how the blush of the bride increased-- + + They felt by its beats her heart expand-- + As one at each ear and both in a breath + Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand." + + The selfsame instant, underneath, + The Duke rode past in his idle way, + Empty and fine like a swordless sheath. + + Gay he rode, with a friend as gay, + Till he threw his head back--"Who is she?" + --"A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day." + + Hair in heaps lay heavily + Over a pale brow spirit-pure-- + Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree, + + Crisped like a war-steed's encolure-- + And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes + Of the blackest black our eyes endure, + + And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise + Filled the fine empty sheath of a man,-- + The Duke grew straightway brave and wise. + + He looked at her, as a lover can; + She looked at him, as one who awakes: + The past was a sleep, and her life began. + + Now, love so ordered for both their sakes, + A feast was held that selfsame night + In the pile which the mighty shadow makes. + + (For Via Larga is three-parts light, + But the palace overshadows one, + Because of a crime, which may God requite! + + To Florence and God the wrong was done, + Through the first republic's murder there + By Cosimo and his cursed son.) + + The Duke (with the statue's face in the square) + Turned in the midst of his multitude + At the bright approach of the bridal pair. + + Face to face the lovers stood + A single minute and no more, + While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued-- + + Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor-- + For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, + As the courtly custom was of yore. + + In a minute can lovers exchange a word? + If a word did pass, which I do not think, + Only one out of a thousand heard. + + That was the bridegroom. At day's brink + He and his bride were alone at last + In a bed chamber by a taper's blink. + + Calmly he said that her lot was cast, + That the door she had passed was shut on her + Till the final catafalk repassed. + + The world meanwhile, its noise and stir, + Through a certain window facing the East + She could watch like a convent's chronicler. + + Since passing the door might lead to a feast, + And a feast might lead to so much beside, + He, of many evils, chose the least. + + "Freely I choose too," said the bride-- + "Your window and its world suffice," + Replied the tongue, while the heart replied-- + + "If I spend the night with that devil twice, + May his window serve as my loop of hell + Whence a damned soul looks on paradise!" + + "I fly to the Duke who loves me well, + Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow + Ere I count another ave-bell." + + "'Tis only the coat of a page to borrow, + And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim. + And I save my soul--but not to-morrow"-- + + (She checked herself and her eye grew dim) + "My father tarries to bless my state: + I must keep it one day more for him." + + "Is one day more so long to wait? + Moreover the Duke rides past, I know; + We shall see each other, sure as fate." + + She turned on her side and slept. Just so! + So we resolve on a thing and sleep: + So did the lady, ages ago. + + That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap + As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove + To body or soul, I will drain it deep." + + And on the morrow, bold with love, + He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call, + As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) + + And smiled "Twas a very funeral, + Your lady will think, this feast of ours,-- + A shame to efface, whate'er befall!" + + "What if we break from the Arno bowers, + And try if Petraja, cool and green, + Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?" + + The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen + On his steady brow and quiet mouth, + Said, "Too much favor for me so mean!" + + "But, alas! my lady leaves the South; + Each wind that comes from the Apennine + Is a menace to her tender youth:" + + "Nor a way exists, the wise opine, + If she quits her palace twice this year, + To avert the flower of life's decline." + + Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear. + Moreover Petraja is cold this spring: + Be our feast to-night as usual here!" + + And then to himself--"Which night shall bring + Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool-- + Or I am the fool, and thou art the king!" + + "Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool-- + For to-night the Envoy arrives from France + Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool." + + "I need thee still and might miss perchance + To-day is not wholly lost, beside, + With its hope of my lady's countenance:" + + "For I ride--what should I do but ride? + And passing her palace, if I list, + May glance at its window--well betide!" + + So said, so done: nor the lady missed + One ray that broke from the ardent brow, + Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed. + + Be sure that each renewed the vow, + No morrow's sun should arise and set + And leave them then as it left them now. + + But next day passed, and next day yet, + With still fresh cause to wait one day more + Ere each leaped over the parapet. + + And still, as love's brief morning wore, + With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh, + They found love not as it seemed before. + + They thought it would work infallibly, + But not in despite of heaven and earth: + The rose would blow when the storm passed by. + + Meantime they could profit in winter's dearth + By store of fruits that supplant the rose: + The world and its ways have a certain worth: + + And to press a point while these oppose + Were simple policy; better wait: + We lose no friends and we gain no foes. + + Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate, + Who daily may ride and pass and look + Where his lady watches behind the grate! + + And she--she watched the square like a book + Holding one picture and only one, + Which daily to find she undertook: + + When the picture was reached the book was done, + And she turned from the picture at night to scheme + Of tearing it out for herself next sun. + + So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam + The glory dropped from their youth and love, + And both perceived they had dreamed a dream; + + Which hovered as dreams do, still above: + But who can take a dream for a truth? + Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove! + + One day as the lady saw her youth + Depart, and the silver thread that streaked + Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth, + + The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked, + And wondered who the woman was, + Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked, + + Fronting her silent in the glass-- + "Summon here," she suddenly said, + "Before the rest of my old self pass," + + "Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, + Who fashions the clay no love will change, + And fixes a beauty never to fade." + + "Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange + Arrest the remains of young and fair, + And rivet them while the seasons range." + + "Make me a face on the window there, + Waiting as ever, mute the while, + My love to pass below in the square!" + + "And let me think that it may beguile + Dreary days which the dead must spend + Down in their darkness under the aisle," + + "To say, 'What matters it at the end? + I did no more while my heart was warm + Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.'" + + "Where is the use of the lip's red charm, + The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, + And the blood that blues the inside arm--" + + "Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, + The earthly gift to an end divine? + A lady of clay is as good, I trow." + + But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine, + With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, + Was set where now is the empty shrine-- + + (And, leaning out of a bright blue space, + As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky, + The passionate pale lady's face-- + + Eying ever, with earnest eye + And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch, + Some one who ever is passing by--) + + The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch + In Florence, "Youth--my dream escapes! + Will its record stay?" And he bade them fetch + + Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes-- + "Can the soul, the will, die out of a man + Ere his body find the grave that gapes?" + + "John of Douay shall effect my plan, + Set me on horseback here aloft, + Alive, as the crafty sculptor can," + + "In the very square I have crossed so oft: + That men may admire, when future suns + Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft," + + "While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze-- + Admire and say, 'When he was alive + How he would take his pleasure once!'" + + "And it shall go hard but I contrive + To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb + At idleness which aspires to strive." + + * * * * * + + So! While these wait the trump of doom, + How do their spirits pass, I wonder, + Nights and days in the narrow room? + + Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder + What a gift life was, ages ago, + Six steps out of the chapel yonder. + + Only they see not God, I know, + Nor all that chivalry of his, + The soldier-saints who, row on row, + + Burn upward each to his point of bliss-- + Since, the end of life being manifest, + He had burned his way through the world to this. + + I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, + For their end was a crime."--Oh, a crime will do + As well, I reply, to serve for a test, + + As a virtue golden through and through, + Sufficient to vindicate itself + And prove its worth at a moment's view! + + Must a game be played for the sake of pelf? + Where a button goes, 'twere an epigram + To offer the stamp of the very Guelph. + + The true has no value beyond the sham: + As well the counter as coin, I submit, + When your table's a hat, and your prize, a dram. + + Stake your counter as boldly every whit, + Venture as warily, use the same skill, + Do your best, whether winning or losing it, + + If you choose to play!--is my principle. + Let a man contend to the uttermost + For his life's set prize, be it what it will! + + The counter our lovers staked was lost + As surely as if it were lawful coin: + And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost + + Is--the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, + Though the end in sight was a vice, I say. + You of the virtue (we issue join) + How strive you? _De te, fabula_! + +The two volumes of _Dramatic Idyls_ are full of paradoxes, for +Browning became fonder and fonder of the paradox as he descended +into the vale of years. The Russian poem _Ivan Ivanovitch_ justly +condemns mothers who prefer their own safety to that of their +children. When a stranger gives up his life for another, as happens +frequently in crises of fire and shipwreck, we applaud: but when a +mother sacrifices her life for that of her child, she does the +natural and expected thing. The woman in this poem was a monster of +wickedness and did not deserve to live. She started with three +children and arrived with none. Now there are some things in life +for which no apology and no explanation suffice. What do we care +about her story? Who cares to hear her defence? What difference does +it make whether she actively threw out the children or allowed the +wolves to take them? She arrives safe and sound without them and +there is no mistaking the fact that she rejoices in her own salvation. +She does not rejoice long, however, for Ivan, who is Browning's +ideal of resolution, neatly removes her head. Practically and +literally Ivan is a murderer: but paradoxically he is God's servant, +for the woman is not fit to live, and he eliminates her. + +From the practical point of view there is a difficulty ahead. The +husband is due; when he hears that the children are lost, he will +suffer horribly, and will enquire anxiously as to the fate of his +wife. When he learns that she arrived in good condition and that +then Ivan knocked her head off, he may not fully appreciate the +ethical beauty of Ivan's deed. But this detail does not affect the +moral significance of the story. Yet I can not help thinking that a +man with such strong convictions as Ivan ought not to carry an axe. + +Ivan, however, is still needed in Russia. Two or three years ago, +immediately after a wedding ceremony, the bride and groom, with the +whole wedding party, set out in sledges for the next town. The +wolves attacked them and ate every member of the party except the +four in the first sledge--husband, wife, and two men. As the wolves +drew near, these two heroes advised the husband to throw out the +bride, for if he did so, the three left might be saved, as their +haven was almost in sight. Naturally the bridegroom declined. Then +the two men threw out both bride and groom, and just managed to reach +the town in safety, the sole survivors of the whole party. I wish +that Ivan had been there to give them the proper welcome. + +The poem _Clive_ is a psychological analysis of courage and fear, +two of the most interesting of human sensations. Clive seems to have +been an instrument in the hands of Destiny. When an obscure young man, +he twice tried to commit suicide, and both times the pistol missed +fire. A born gambler, he judged that he was reserved for something +great. He was: he conquered India. Then, after his life-work was +fully accomplished, his third attempt at suicide was successful. + +After describing the dramatic incident at card-play, which he gave +to the old buck as the only time in his life when he felt afraid, +his companion remarked that it was enough to scare anybody to face a +loaded pistol. But here comes the paradox. Clive was intensely angry +because his friend failed to see the point. "Why, I wasn't afraid he +would shoot, I was afraid he wouldn't." Suppose the general had said +contemptuously that young Clive was not worth the powder and ball it +would take to kill him--suppose he had sent him away wholly safe and +wholly disgraced. Then Clive would have instantly killed himself. +Either the general was not clever enough to play this trump, or the +clear unwinking eyes of his victim convicted him of sin. + +Clive was one of those exceedingly rare individuals who have never +known the sensation of physical fear. But I do not think he was +really so brave as those men, who, cursed with an imagination that +fills their minds with terror, nevertheless advance toward danger. +For your real hero is one who does not allow the desires of his body +to control his mind. The body, always eager for safety, comfort, and +pleasure, cries out against peril: but the mind, up in the +conning-tower of the brain, drives the protesting and shivering body +forward. Napoleon, who was a good judge of courage, called Ney the +bravest of the brave: and I admired Ney more intensely when I +learned that in battle he was in his heart always afraid. + +The courage of soldiers in the mass seems sublime, but it is the +commonest thing on earth: all nations show it: it is probably an +inexplicable compound of discipline, pride, shame, and rage: but +individuals differ from one another as sharply in courage as they do +in mental ability. In sheer physical courage dive has never been +surpassed, and Browning, who loved the manly virtues, saw in this +corrupt and cruel man a great hero. + +The poem _Muléykeh_, which is one of the oldest of Oriental stories, +is really an analysis of love. The mare was dearer to her owner than +life itself: yet he intentionally surrendered her to his rival +rather than have her disgraced. His friends called him an idiot and +a fool: but he replied, "You never have loved my Pearl." And indeed, +from his point of view, they did not know the meaning of love. What +is love? Simply the desire for possession, or the desire that the +beloved object should be incomparably pure and unsullied by defeat +and disgrace? The man who owned Muléykeh really loved her, since her +honor was more precious to him than his own happiness. + +The short poem _Which_? published on the last day of Browning's life, +is a splendid paradox. In the Middle Ages, when house-parties +assembled, an immense amount of time was taken up by the telling of +stories and by the subsequent discussions thereupon. The stock +subject was Love, and the ideal lover was a favorite point of debate. +In this instance, the three court ladies argue, and to complete the +paradox, a Priest is chosen for referee. Perhaps he was thought to +be out of it altogether, and thus ready to judge with an +unprejudiced mind. + +The Duchess declares that her lover must be a man she can respect: a +man of religion and patriotism. He must love his God, and his country; +then comes his wife, who holds the third place in his affections. + + I could not love thee, dear, so much, + Loved I not honour more. + +The Marquise insists that her lover must be a man who has done +something. He must not only be a man inspired by religious and +patriotic motives, but must have actually suffered in her service. +He has received wounds in combat, he is pointed out everywhere as +the man who has accomplished great deeds. I can not love him unless +I can be proud of his record. + +The Comtesse says that her ideal lover must love her first: he must +love her more than he loves God, more than he loves his country, +more than he loves his life--yes, more than he loves his own honor. +He must be willing, if necessary, not only to sacrifice his health +and life in her behalf, indeed, any true knight would do that: he +must be willing to sacrifice his good name, be false to his religion +and a traitor to his country. What do I care whether he be a coward, +a craven, a scoundrel, a hissing and a byword, so long as he loves +me most of all? + +This is a difficult position for the Abbé, the man of God: but he +does not flinch. His decision is that the third lover is the one of +whom Almighty God would approve. + +One thing is certain: the third man really loved his Lady. We do not +know whether the other two loved or not. When a man talks a great +deal about his honor, his self-respect, it is just possible that he +loves himself more than he loves any one else. But the man who would +go through hell to win a woman really loves that woman. Browning +abhors selfishness. He detests a man who is kept from a certain +course of action by thoughts of its possible results to his +reputation. Ibsen has given us the standard example of what the +first and second lover in this poem might sink to in a real moral +crisis. In _A Doll's House_, the husband curses his wife because she +has committed forgery, and his good name will suffer. She replied +that she committed the crime to save his life--her motive was Love: +and she had hoped that when the truth came out the miracle would +happen: her husband would step forward and take the blame all on +himself. "What fools you women are," said he, angrily: "you know +nothing of business. I would work my fingers to the bone for you: I +would give up my life for you: but you can't expect a man to +sacrifice his _honor_ for a woman." Her retort is one of the +greatest in literature. "Millions of women have done it." + + + + + + WHICH? + + 1889 + + So, the three Court-ladies began + Their trial of who judged best + In esteeming the love of a man: + Who preferred with most reason was thereby confessed + Boy-Cupid's exemplary catcher and cager; + An Abbé crossed legs to decide on the wager. + + First the Duchesse: "Mine for me-- + Who were it but God's for Him, + And the King's for--who but he? + Both faithful and loyal, one grace more shall brim + His cup with perfection: a lady's true lover, + He holds--save his God and his king--none above her." + + "I require"--outspoke the Marquise-- + "Pure thoughts, ay, but also fine deeds: + Play the paladin must he, to please + My whim, and--to prove my knight's service exceeds + Your saint's and your loyalist's praying and kneeling-- + Show wounds, each wide mouth to my mercy appealing." + + Then the Comtesse: "My choice be a wretch, + Mere losel in body and soul, + Thrice accurst! What care I, so he stretch + Arms to me his sole saviour, love's ultimate goal, + Out of earth and men's noise--names of 'infidel,' 'traitor,' + Cast up at him? Crown me, crown's adjudicator!" + + And the Abbé uncrossed his legs, + Took snuff, a reflective pinch, + Broke silence: "The question begs + Much pondering ere I pronounce. Shall I flinch? + The love which to one and one only has reference + Seems terribly like what perhaps gains God's preference." + + + + +VII + +BROWNING'S OPTIMISM + +Among all modern thinkers and writers, Browning is the foremost +optimist. He has left not the slightest doubt on this point; his +belief is stated over and over again, running like a vein of gold +through all his poems from _Pauline_ to _Asolando_. The shattered +man in _Pauline_ cries at the very last, + + I believe in God and Truth and Love. + +This staunch affirmation, "I believe!" is the common chord in +Browning's music. His optimism is in striking contrast to the +attitude of his contemporaries, for the general tone of nineteenth +century literature is pessimistic. Amidst the wails and lamentations +of the poets, the clear, triumphant voice of Browning is refreshing +even to those who are not convinced. + +Browning suffered for his optimism. It is generally thought that the +optimist must be shallow and superficial; whilst pessimism is +associated with profound and sincere thinking. Browning felt this +criticism, and replied to it with a scriptural insult in his poem +_At the Mermaid_. I cannot possibly be a great poet, he said +sneeringly, because I have never said I longed for death; I have +enjoyed life and loved it, and have never assumed a peevish attitude. +In another poem he declared that pessimists were liars, because they +really loved life while pretending it was all suffering. + +It is only fair to Browning to remember that his optimism has a +philosophical basis, and is the logical result of a firmly-held view +of the universe. Many unthinking persons declare that Browning, with +his jaunty good spirits, gets on their nerves; he dodges or leaps +over the real obstacles in life, and thinks he has solved +difficulties when he has only forgotten them. They miss in Browning +the note of sorrow, of internal struggle, of despair; and insist +that he has never accurately portrayed the real bitterness of the +heart's sufferings. These critics have never read attentively +Browning's first poem. + +The poem _Pauline_ shows that Browning had his _Sturm und Drang_, in +common with all thoughtful young men. Keats' immortal preface to +_Endymion_ would be equally applicable to this youthful work. +"The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of +a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the +soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life +uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness, +and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must +necessarily taste in going over the following pages." The +astonishing thing is, that Browning emerged from the slough of +despond at just the time when most young men are entering it. He not +only climbed out, but set his face resolutely toward the Celestial +City. + +The poem _Pauline_ shows that young Browning passed through +skepticism, atheism, pessimism, cynicism, and that particularly dark +state when the mind reacts on itself; when enthusiasms, high hopes, +and true faith seem childish; when wit and mockery take the place of +zeal, this diabolical substitution seeming for the moment to be an +intellectual advance. But although he suffered from all these +diseases of the soul, he quickly became convalescent and _Paracelsus_ +proves that his cure was complete. + +Browning's optimism is not based on any discount of the sufferings +of life, nor any attempt to overlook such gross realities as sin and +pain. No pessimist has realised these facts more keenly than he. The +Pope, who is the poet's mouthpiece, calls the world a dread +machinery of sin and sorrow. The world is full of sin and sorrow, +but it is machinery--and machinery is meant to make something; in +this instance the product is human character, which can not be made +without obstacles, struggles, and torment. In _Reverie_, Browning +goes even farther than this in his description of terrestrial +existence. + + Head praises, but heart refrains + From loving's acknowledgment + Whole losses outweigh half-gains: + Earth's good is with evil blent: + Good struggles but evil reigns. + +Such an appraisal of life can hardly be called a blind and jaunty +optimism. + +Browning declares repeatedly that the world shows clearly two +attributes of God: immense force and immense intelligence. We can +not worship God, however, merely because He is strong and wise; He +must be better than we are to win our respect and homage. The third +necessary attribute, Love, is not at all clear in the spectacle +furnished by science and history. Where then shall we seek it? His +answer is, in the revelation of God's love through Jesus Christ. + + What lacks then of perfection fit for God + But just the instance which this tale supplies + Of love without a limit? + +Browning's philosophy therefore is purely Christian. The love of God +revealed in the Incarnation and in our own ethical natures--our +imperfect souls containing here and now the possibilities of +infinite development--makes Browning believe that this is God's +world and we are God's children. He conceives of our life as an +eternal one, our existence here being merely probation. No one has +ever believed more rationally and more steadfastly in the future +life than our poet; and his optimism is based solidly on this faith. +The man who believes in the future life, he seems to say, may enjoy +whole-heartedly and enthusiastically the positive pleasures of this +world, and may endure with a firm mind its evils and its terrible +sufferings. Take Christianity out of Browning, and his whole +philosophy, with its cheerful outlook, falls to the ground. Of all +true English poets, he is the most definitely Christian, the most +sure of his ground. He wrote out his own evangelical creed in +_Christmas-Eve_ and _Easter Day_; but even if we did not have +these definite assurances, poems like _A Death in the Desert_ and +_Gold Hair_ would be sufficient. + +Sequels are usually failures: the sequel to _Saul_ is a notable +exception to the rule. The first part of the poem, including the +first nine stanzas, was published among the _Dramatic Romances_ in +1845: in 1855, among the _Men and Women_, appeared the whole work, +containing ten additional stanzas. This sequel is fully up to the +standard of the original in artistic beauty, and contains a quite +new climax, of even greater intensity. The ninth stanza closes with +the cry "King Saul!"--he represents the last word of physical manhood, +the finest specimen on earth of the athlete. The eighteenth stanza +closes with the cry "See the Christ stand!"--He represents the climax +of all human history, the appearance on earth of God in man. The +first man is of the earth, earthy: the second man is the Lord from +heaven. And as we have borne the image of the earthy, we shall also +bear the image of the heavenly. + +No modern Pagan has ever sung the joy of life with more gusto than +Browning trolls it out in the ninth stanza. The glorious play of the +muscles, the rapture of the chase, the delight of the plunge into +cold water, the delicious taste of food and wine, the unique +sweetness of deep sleep. No shame attaches to earthly delights: let +us rejoice in our health and strength, in exercise, recreation, +eating and sleeping. Saul was a cowboy before he was a King; and +young David in his music takes the great monarch back to the happy +carefree days on the pasture, before the responsibilities of the +crown had given him melancholia. The effect of music on patients +suffering from nervous depression is as well known now as it was in +Saul's day; Shakespeare knew something about it. His physicians are +sometimes admirable; the great nervous specialist called in on Lady +Macbeth's case is a model of wisdom and discretion: the specialist +that Queen Cordelia summoned to prescribe for her father, after +giving him trional, or something of that nature, was careful to have +his return to consciousness accompanied by suitable music. Such +terrible fits of melancholy as afflicted Saul were called in the Old +Testament the visitations of an evil spirit; and there is no better +diagnosis today. The Russian novelist Turgenev suffered exactly in +the manner in which Browning describes Saul's sickness of heart: for +several days he would remain in an absolute lethargy, like the +king-serpent in his winter sleep. And, as in the case of Saul, music +helped him more than medicine. + +When David had carried the music to its fullest extent, the spirit +of prophecy came upon him, as in the Messianic Psalms, and in the +eighteenth stanza, he joyfully infers from the combination of man's +love and man's weakness, that God's love is equal to God's power. +Man's will is powerless to change the world of atoms: from God's +will stream the stars. Yet if man's will were equal in power to his +benevolence, how quickly would I, David, restore Saul to happiness! +The fact that I love my King with such intensity, whilst I am +powerless to change his condition, makes me believe in the coming of +Him who shall have my wish to help humanity with the accompanying +power. Man is contemptible in his strength, but divine in his ideals. +'Tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do! + +The last stanza of the poem has been thought by some critics to be a +mistake, worse than superfluous. For my part, I am very glad that +Browning added it. Up to this point, we have had exhibited the +effect of the music on Saul: now we see the effect on the man who +produced it, David. While it is of course impossible even to imagine +how a genius must feel immediately after releasing some immortal work +that has swollen his heart, we can not help making conjectures. If +we are so affected by _hearing_ the Ninth Symphony, what must have +been the sensations of Beethoven at its birth? When Händel wrote the +Hallelujah Chorus, he declared that he saw the heavens opened, and +the Son of God sitting in glory, and I think he spoke the truth. +After Thackeray had written a certain passage in _Vanity Fair_, he +rushed wildly about the room, shouting "That's Genius!" + +Now no man in the history of literature has been more reticent than +Browning in describing his emotions after virtue had passed out of +him. He never talked about his poetry if he could help it; and the +hundreds of people who met him casually met a fluent and pleasant +conversationalist, who gave not the slightest sign of ever having +been on the heights. We know, for example, that on the third day of +January, 1852, Browning wrote in his Paris lodgings to the +accompaniment of street omnibuses the wonderful poem _Childe Roland_: +what a marvellous day that must have been in his spiritual life! In +what a frenzy of poetic passion must have passed the hours when he +saw those astounding visions, and heard the blast of the horn in the +horrible sunset! He must have been inspired by the very demon of +poetry. And yet, so far as we know, he never told any one about that +day, nor left any written record either of that or any other of the +great moments in his life. In _The Ring and the Book_, he tells us +of the passion, mystery and wonder that filled his soul on the night +of the day when he had found the old yellow volume: but he has said +nothing of his sensations when he wrote the speech of Pompilia. + +This is why I am glad he added the last stanza to _Saul_. It +purports to be a picture of David's drunken rapture, when, after the +inspiration had flowed through his soul, he staggered home through +the night. About him were angels, powers, unuttered, unseen, alive, +aware. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews; the +stars of night beat with emotion. David is Browning himself; and the +poet is trying to tell us, in the only way possible to a man like +Browning, how the floods of his own genius affected him. He gives a +somewhat similar picture in _Abt Vogler_. It is not in the least +surprising that he could not write or talk to his friends about such +marvellous experiences. Can a man who has looked on the face of God, +and dwelt in the heavenly places, talk about it to others? + +Furthermore this nineteenth stanza of _Saul_ contains a picture of +the dawn that has never been surpassed in poetry. Only those who +have spent nights in the great woods can really understand it. + + + + +SAUL + +1845-1855 + + + I + + Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, + Kiss my cheek, wish me well!" Then I wished it, and did kiss his + cheek. + And he: "Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent, + Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent + Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, + Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet + For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, + Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise, + To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife, + And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life." + + + II + + "Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew + On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue + Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat + Were now raging to torture the desert!" + + + III + + Then I, as was meet, + Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, + And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped; + I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped; + Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, + That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on + Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, + And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid + But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" And no voice replied. + At the first I saw naught but the blackness: but soon I descried + A something more black than the blackness--the vast, the upright + Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sight + Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. + Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-roof, showed Saul. + + + IV + + He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide + On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side; + He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs + And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs, + Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come + With the spring-time,--so agonized Saul, drear and stark, + blind and dumb. + + + V + + Then I tuned my harp,--took off the lilies we twine round + its chords + Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide--those sunbeams + like swords! + And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, + So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. + They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed + Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; + And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star + Into eve and the blue far above us,--so blue and so far! + + + VI + + --Then the tune for which quails on the corn-land will each leave + his mate + To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate + Till for boldness they fight one another; and then, what has weight + To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house-- + There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse! + God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, + To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. + + + VII + + Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when + hand + Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great + hearts expand + And grow one in the sense of this world's life.--And then, the + last song + When the dead man is praised on his journey--"Bear, bear him along, + With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm seeds + not here + To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier. + Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!"--And then, the glad + chaunt + Of the marriage,--first go the young maidens, next, she whom we + vaunt + As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.--And then, the great + march + Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch + Naught can break; who shall harm them, our friends? Then, the + chorus intoned + As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. + But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned. + + + VIII + + And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; + And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan + dart + From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start, + All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. + So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. + And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, + As I sang:-- + + + IX + + "Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste, + Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. + Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock, + The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver + shock + Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, + And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. + And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine, + And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of + wine, + And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell + That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. + How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ + All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy! + Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou + didst guard + When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? + Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung + The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongue + Joining in while it could to the witness, 'Let one more attest, + I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for + best'? + Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, + but the rest. + And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew + Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained + true: + And the friends of thy boyhood--that boyhood of wonder and hope, + Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,-- + Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine; + And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine! + On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the + throe + That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the gold go) + High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,--all + Brought to blaze on the head of one creature--King Saul!" + + + X + + And lo, with that leap of my spirit,--heart, hand, harp and voice, + Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice + Saul's fame in the light it was made for--as when, dare I say, + The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array, + And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot--"Saul!" cried I, and stopped, + And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung + propped + By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. + Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, + And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone, + While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of + stone + A year's snow bound about for a breastplate,--leaves grasp of the + sheet? + Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, + And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain + of old, + With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold-- + Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar + Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest--all hail, there + they are! + --Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest + Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest + For their food in the ardours of summer. One long shudder thrilled + All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled + At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. + What was gone, what remained? All to traverse 'twixt hope and + despair, + Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right hand + Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand + To their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul as before. + I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more + Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, we watch from the shore, + At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean--a sun's slow decline + Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine + Base with base to knit strength more intensely; so, arm folded arm + O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. + + + XI + + What spell or what charm, + (For awhile there was trouble within me,) what next should I urge + To sustain him where song had restored him?--one filled to the + verge + His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields + Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty; beyond, on what + fields, + Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye + And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? + He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not: he lets me praise life, + Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. + XII + + Then fancies grew rife + Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep + Fed in silence--above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep; + And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie + 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the + sky: + And I laughed--"Since my days are ordained to be passed with my + flocks, + Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, + Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show + Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know! + Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that + gains, + And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these + old trains + Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string + Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus-- + + + XIII + + "Yea, my King," + I began--"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring + From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute: + In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears + fruit. + Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,--how its stem trembled + first + Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely + outburst + The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in + turn, + Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to + learn, + E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall + we slight, + When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the + plight + Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem + and branch + Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine + shall stanch + Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. + Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! + By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy + More indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy. + Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast + done + Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun + Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though + tempests efface, + Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace + The results of his past summer-prime,--so, each ray of thy will, + Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill + Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give + forth + A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the + North + With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past! + But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last: + As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, + So with man--so his power and his beauty forever take flight. + No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years! + Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's! + Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb--bid arise + A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the + skies, + Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would + ye know? + Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go + In great characters cut by the scribe,--Such was Saul, so he did; + With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,-- + For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to + amend, + In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall + spend + (See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record + With the gold of the graver, Saul's story,--the statesman's great + word + Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's a-wave + With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave: + So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part + In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!" + + + XIV + + And behold while I sang ... but O Thou who didst grant me that day, + And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay, + Carry on and complete an adventure,--my shield and my sword + In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,-- + Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavour + And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as + ever + On the new stretch of heaven above me--till, mighty to save, + Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance--God's throne from + man's grave! + Let me tell out my tale to its ending--my voice to my heart + Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took + part, + As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, + And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! + For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves + The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron + retrieves + Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. + + + XV + + I say then,--my song + While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong + Made a proffer of good to console him--he slowly resumed + His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand re-plumed + His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes + Of his turban, and see--the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, + He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore, + And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. + He is Saul, ye remember in glory,--ere error had bent + The broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much + spent + Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did + choose, + To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. + So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pile + Of his armour and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile, + And sat out my singing,--one arm round the tent-prop, to raise + His bent head, and the other hung slack--till I touched on the + praise + I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; + And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware + That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees + Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which + please + To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know + If the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slow + Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care + Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: through my + hair + The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind + power-- + All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. + Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine-- + And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign? + I yearned--"Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, + I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this; + I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, + As this moment,--had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!" + + + XVI + + Then the truth came upon me. No harp more--no song more! outbroke-- + + + XVII + + "I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and I spoke: + I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain + And pronounced on the rest of his handwork--returned him again + His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw: + I report, as a man may of God's work--all's love, yet all's law. + Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked + To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked. + Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. + Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care! + Do I task any faculty highest, to image success? + I but open my eyes,--and perfection, no more and no less, + In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God + In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. + And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew + (With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) + The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete, + As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet. + Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, + I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. + There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, + I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think) + Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst + E'en the Giver in one gift--Behold, I could love if I durst! + But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake + God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake. + --What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and + small, + Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appall? + In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? + Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, + That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts + shift? + Here, the creature surpass the Creator,--the end, what Began? + Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, + And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? + Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, + To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower + Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, + Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole? + And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) + These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the + best? + Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height + This perfection,--succeed with life's day-spring, death's minute + of night? + Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake, + Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now,--and bid him awake + From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set + Clear and safe in new light and new life,--a new harmony yet + To be run, and continued, and ended--who knows?--or endure! + The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure; + By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, + And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this." + + + XVIII + + "I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive: + In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. + All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my + prayer + As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. + From thy will stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth: + _I_ will?--the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth + To look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dare + Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair? + This;--'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would + do! + See the King--I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through. + Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, + To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would--knowing which, + I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now! + Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou--so wilt thou! + So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown-- + And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down + One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath, + Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death! + As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved + Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved! + He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the + most weak. + 'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I + seek + In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be + A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me, + Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like this hand + Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ + stand!" + + + XIX + + I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. + There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, + Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware: + I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, + As a runner beset by the populace famished for news-- + Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her + crews; + And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot + Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but I fainted not, + For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed + All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, + Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. + Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth-- + Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth; + In the gathered intensity brought to the grey of the hills; + In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills; + In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling + still + Though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill + That rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe: + E'en the serpent that slid away silent,--he felt the new law. + The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; + The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers: + And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, + With their obstinate, all but hushed voices--"E'en so, it is so!" + +On a clear, warm day in March, 1912, I stood on the Piazza Michel +Angelo in Florence, with a copy of Browning in my hand, and gazed +with delight on the panorama of the fair city below. Then I read +aloud the first two stanzas of _Old Pictures in Florence_, and +realised for the thousandth time the definiteness of Browning's +poetry. This particular poem is a mixture of art and doggerel; but +even the latter is interesting to lovers of Florence. + + Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco? + +Did you ever stand in front of the picture by Lorenzo that Browning +had in mind, and observe the churlish saints? Most saints in Italian +pictures look either happy or complacent; because they have just +been elected to the society of heaven and are in for life. But for +some strange reason, Lorenzo's saints, although in the Presence, and +worshipping with music, look as if they were suffering from acute +indigestion. If one will wander about the galleries of Florence, and +take along Browning, one will find the poet more specifically +informing than Baedeker. + +The philosophy of this poem is Browning's favorite philosophy of +development. He compares the perfection of Greek art with the +imperfection of the real human body. We know what a man ought to +look like; and if we have forgotten, we may behold a representation +by a Greek sculptor. Stand at the corner of a city street, and watch +the men pass; they are caricatures of the manly form. Yet ludicrously +ugly as they are, the intention is clear; we see even in these +degradations, what the figure of a man ought to be. In Greek art: + + The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken, + Which the actual generations garble, + Was reuttered. + +_Which the actual generations garble_--men as we see them are +clumsy and garbled versions of the original. But there is no value +in lamenting this; it is idle for men to gaze with regret and +longing at the Apollo Belvedere. It is much better to remember that +Perfection and Completion spell Death: only Imperfection has a future. +What if the souls in our ridiculously ugly bodies become greater and +grander than the marble men of Pheidias? Giotto's unfinished +Campanile is nobler than the perfect zero he drew for the Pope. In +our imperfect minds, housed in our over-fat, over-lean, and always +commonplace bodies, exists the principle of development, for whose +steady advance eternity is not too long. Statues belong to time: man +has Forever. + +For some strange reason, no tourist ever goes to Fano. One reason +why I went there was simply because I had never met a person of any +nationality who had ever seen the town. Yet it is easily accessible, +very near Ancona, the scene of the _Grammarian's Funeral_, and the +place where Browning wrote _The Guardian Angel_. One day Mr. and +Mrs. Browning, walking about Fano, came to the church of San Agostino, +in no way a remarkable edifice, and there in the tiny chapel, over +the altar, they found Guercino's masterpiece. Its calm and serene +beauty struck an immortal poem out of Browning's heart; and thanks +to the poet, the picture is now one of the most familiar in the world. +But no copy comes near the ineffable charm of the original, as one +sees it in the dim light of the chapel. + +The child on the tomb is looking past the angel's face into the +glory of heaven; but the poet, who wishes that he might take the +place of the little child, declares that he would gaze, not toward +heaven, but into the gracious face of the bird of God. If we could +only see life as the angel sees it, if we could only see the whole +course of history, we should then realise that: + + All is beauty: + And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. + +We can not see the forest for the trees: the last place to obtain an +idea of the range, grandeur, and beauty of a forest, is in it: one +should climb a high mountain and look over its vast extent. So we, +in life, "where men sit and hear each other groan," believe that the +world is some dreadful mistake, full of meaningless anguish. This is +because we are in the midst of it all: we can not see far: the +nearest objects, though infinitesimal in size, loom enormous, as +with the palm of your hand you can cut off the sun. But if we could +only see the end from the beginning, if we could get the angel's +view-point, the final result would be beauty. Browning is not +satisfied with Keats's doctrine: + + "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all + Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. + +He shows us what happened to Aprile with this philosophy. Browning +adds the doctrine of love. The moment we realise that the universe +is conceived in terms of beauty, love fills our hearts: love for our +fellow-beings, who are making the journey through life with us; and +love for God, the author of it all, just as a child loves one who +gives it the gift of its heart's desire. That the supreme duty of +life is love is simply one more illustration of Browning's steadfast +adherence to the Gospel of Christ. + + + + + +THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL + +A PICTURE AT FANO + +1855 + + + I + + Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave + That child, when thou hast done with him, for me! + Let me sit all the day here, that when eve + Shall find performed thy special ministry, + And time come for departure, thou, suspending + Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending, + Another still, to quiet and retrieve. + + + II + + Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, + From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, + --And suddenly my head is covered o'er + With those wings, white above the child who prays + Now on that tomb--and I shall feel thee guarding + Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding + Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. + + + III + + I would not look up thither past thy head + Because the door opes, like that child, I know, + For I should have thy gracious face instead, + Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low + Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, + And lift them up to pray, and gently tether + Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? + + + IV + + If this was ever granted, I would rest + My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands + Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, + Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, + Back to its proper size again, and smoothing + Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, + And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. + + + V + + How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! + I think how I should view the earth and skies + And sea, when once again my brow was bared + After thy healing, with such different eyes. + O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: + And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. + What further may be sought for or declared? + + + VI + + Guercino drew this angel I saw teach + (Alfred, dear friend!)--that little child to pray, + Holding the little hands up, each to each + Pressed gently,--with his own head turned away + Over the earth where so much lay before him + Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, + And he was left at Fano by the beach. + + + VII + + We were at Fano, and three times we went + To sit and see him in his chapel there, + And drink his beauty to our soul's content + --My angel with me too: and since I care + For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power + And glory comes this picture for a dower, + Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)-- + + + VIII + + And since he did not work thus earnestly + At all times, and has else endured some wrong-- + I took one thought his picture struck from me, + And spread it out, translating it to song. + My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? + How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? + This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. + +The three poems, _Caliban on Setebos, Rabbi Ben Ezra_, and _A Death +in the Desert_, should be read in that order; for there is a logical +order in the thought. The first is God as an amphibious brute would +imagine him: the second is noble Hebrew theism: the third is the +Christian God of Love. Whilst the second is the finest poem of the +three, the first is the most original. The word "upon" is ironical: +it is Caliban's treatise on theology. We read Caliban on God, as we +read Mill on Political Economy: for Caliban, like many a human +theologian, does not scruple to speak the last word on the nature of +the Supreme Being. The citation from the Psalms is a rebuke to gross +anthropomorphism: Caliban, like the Puritans, has simply made God in +his own image. + +The difference between Shakespeare's and Browning's Caliban is +simply the difference between Shakespeare and Browning. Shakespeare +made the monster for decorative purposes, to satisfy his love of the +grotesque, as an architect placed gargoyles on a cathedral: the +grotesque is an organic part of romantic art. Browning is interested +not in Caliban's appearance, but in his processes of thought. +Suppose a monster, half fish, half beast, living with supreme +comfort in the slime, could think: what kind of God would he imagine +had created this world? + +Caliban speaks in the third person (does Browning make a slip when +he changes occasionally to the first?) in order to have indicated +the low order of his intelligence; just as a little child says, +"Don't hurt her: she hasn't done anything wrong." He is lying in +liquid refuse, with little lizards deliciously tickling his spine +(such things are entirely a matter of taste, what would be odious to +us would be heaven to a sow) and having nothing to do for the moment, +like a man in absolute leisure, turns his thoughts to God. He +believes that God is neither good nor bad, but simply capricious. +What's the use of being God, if you can't do what you like? He +treats earth's creatures as a wanton boy treats his toys; they belong +to me; why shouldn't I break them if I choose? No one ought to +complain of misfortunes: you can not expect God is going to reward +the virtuous and punish the guilty. He has no standards whatever. +Just as I, Caliban, sit here and watch a procession of crabs: I +might lazily make up my mind, in a kind of sporting interest, to +count them as they pass; to let twenty go in safety, and smash the +twenty-first, loving not, hating not, just choosing so. When I feel +like it, I help some creatures; if in another mood, I torment others; +that's the way God treats us, that's the way I would act if I were +God. + +As Caliban's theology has much of the human in it, so his practical +reasoning is decidedly human in its superstition. Granted that we +are in the hands of a childish and capricious God, who amuses himself +with torturing us, who laughs at our faces distorted with pain, what +is the thing we ought to do? How shall we best manage? Caliban's +advice is dear: don't let Him notice you: don't get prominent: above +all, never boast of your good fortune, for that will surely draw +God's attention, and He will put you where you belong. This +superstition, that God is against us, is deep-seated in human nature, +as the universal practice of "touching wood" sufficiently +demonstrates. If a man says, "I haven't had a cold this winter," his +friends will advise him to touch wood; and if he wakes up the next +morning snuffling, he will probably soliloquise, "What a fool I was! +Why couldn't I keep still? Why did I have to mention it? Now see +what I've got!" + +Caliban disagreed with his mother Sycorax on one important point. +She believed in the future life. Caliban says such a belief is absurd. +There can be nothing worse than this life. Its good moments are +simply devices of God to strengthen us so that He can torture us +again, just as in the good old times the executioners gave the +sufferers they were tormenting some powerful stimulant, so that they +might return to consciousness and suffer; for nothing cheated the +spectators worse than to have the victim die during the early stages +of the torture. The object was to keep the wretch alive as long as +possible. Thus in this life we have moments of comparative ease and +rest, wherein we recuperate a little, just as the cat lets the mouse +recover strength enough to imagine he is going to get away. + +Caliban is of course an absolute and convinced pessimist. A +malevolent giant is not so bad a God as an insane child. And +Browning means that pessimism is what we should naturally expect +from so rudimentary an intellect as Caliban's, which judges the +whole order of the universe from proximate and superficial evidences. + +The close of the poem is a good commentary on some human ideas of +what kind of service is pleasing to God. Poor Caliban! he had saved +up some quails, meaning to have a delicious meal. But in his fear he +cries to God, I will let them fly, if you will only spare me this +time! I will not eat whelks for a month, I will eat no chocolates +during Lent, anything to please God! + + + + + +CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS; OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND + +1864 + + "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself." + + ['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, + Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, + With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. + And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, + And feels about his spine small eft-things course, + Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: + And while above his head a pompion-plant, + Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, + Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, + And now a flower drops with a bee inside, + And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,-- + 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) + And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, + Touching that other, whom his dam called God. + Because to talk about Him, vexes--ha, + Could He but know! and time to vex is now, + When talk is safer than in winter-time. + Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep + In confidence he drudges at their task, + And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, + Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] + + Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! + 'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. + 'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, + But not the stars; the stars came otherwise; + Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: + Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, + And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. + 'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: + He hated that He cannot change His cold, + Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish + That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, + And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine + O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, + A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; + Only, she ever sickened, found repulse + At the other kind of water, not her life, + (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) + Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, + And in her old bounds buried her despair, + Hating and loving warmth alike: so He + 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--He made all these and more, + Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? + He could not, Himself, make a second self + To be His mate; as well have made Himself: + He would not make what he mislikes or slights, + An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains: + But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, + Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be-- + Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, + Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, + Things He admires and mocks too,--that is it. + Because, so brave, so better though they be, + It nothing skills if He begin to plague. + Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash, + Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived, + Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,-- + Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, + Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; + Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, + And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. + Put case, unable to be what I wish, + I yet could make a live bird out of clay: + Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban + Able to fly?--for, there, see, he hath wings, + And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, + And there, a sting to do his foes offence, + There, and I will that he begin to live, + Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns + Of grigs high up that make the merry din, + Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. + In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, + And he lay stupid-like,--why, I should laugh; + And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, + Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, + Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,-- + Well, as the chance were, this might take or else + Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, + And give the mankin three sound legs for one, + Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, + And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. + Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, + Drinking the mash, with brain become alive, + Making and marring clay at will? So He. + 'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, + Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. + 'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs + That march now from the mountain to the sea; + 'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first, + Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. + 'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots + Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; + 'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm, + And two worms he whose nippers end in red; + As it likes me each time, I do: so He. + + Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, + Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, + But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! + Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, + And envieth that, so helped, such things do more + Than He who made them! What consoles but this? + That they, unless through Him, do nought at all, + And must submit: what other use in things? + 'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint + That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay + When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: + Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay + Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: + Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth + "I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, + I make the cry my maker cannot make + With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!" + Would not I smash it with my foot? So He. + + But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? + Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, + What knows,--the something over Setebos + That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, + Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. + There may be something quiet o'er His head, + Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, + Since both derive from weakness in some way. + I joy because the quails come; would not joy + Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: + This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. + 'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, + But never spends much thought nor care that way. + It may look up, work up,--the worse for those + It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos + The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, + Who, making Himself feared through what He does, + Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar + To what is quiet and hath happy life; + Next looks down here, and out of very spite + Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, + These good things to match those as hips do grapes. + 'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. + Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books + Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: + Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, + Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; + Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; + Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe + The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; + And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, + A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, + Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, + And saith she is Miranda and my wife: + 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane + He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; + Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, + Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, + And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge + In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban; + A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. + 'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, + Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He. + + His dam held that the Quiet made all things + Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. + Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex, + Had He meant other, while His hand was in, + Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, + Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, + Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, + Like an orc's armour? Ay,--so spoil His sport! + He is the One now: only He doth all. + 'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. + Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? + 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast + Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, + But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate + Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes. + Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, + Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, + By no means for the love of what is worked. + 'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world + When all goes right, in this safe summer-time, + And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, + Than trying what to do with wit and strength. + 'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, + And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, + And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, + And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, + And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, + Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. + No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; + 'Shall some day knock it down again: so He. + 'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! + One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. + He hath a spite against me, that I know, + Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why? + So it is, all the same, as well I find. + 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm + With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises + Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, + Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, + Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, + And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite. + 'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) + Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: + Often they scatter sparkles: there is force! + 'Dug up a newt He may have envied once + And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone. + Please Him and hinder this?--What Prosper does? + Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He! + There is the sport: discover how or die! + All need not die, for of the things o' the isle + Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; + Those at His mercy,--why, they please Him most + When ... when ... well, never try the same way twice! + Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth. + You must not know His ways, and play Him off, + Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: + 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears + But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, + And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: + 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, + Curls up into a ball, pretending death + For fright at my approach: the two ways please. + But what would move my choler more than this, + That either creature counted on its life + To-morrow and next day and all days to come, + Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, + "Because he did so yesterday with me, + And otherwise with such another brute, + So must he do henceforth and always."--Ay? + Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means! + 'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He. + + 'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, + And we shall have to live in fear of Him + So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change, + If He have done His best, make no new world + To please Him more, so leave off watching this,-- + If He surprise not even the Quiet's self + Some strange day,--or, suppose, grow into it + As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we, + And there is He, and nowhere help at all. + + 'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. + His dam held different, that after death + He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: + Idly! He doth His worst in this our life, + Giving just respite lest we die through pain, + Saving last pain for worst,--with which, an end. + Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire + Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, + Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, + Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. + 'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball + On head and tail as if to save their lives: + Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. + + Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose + This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, + And always, above all else, envies Him; + Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, + Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, + And never speaks his mind save housed as now: + Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, + O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?" + 'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, + Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, + Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, + Or push my tame beast for the ore to taste: + While myself lit a fire, and made a song + And sung it, "_What I hate, be consecrate + To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate + For Thee; what see for envy in poor me_"? + Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, + Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, + That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch + And conquer Setebos, or likelier He + Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. + + * * * * * + + [What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once! + Crickets stop hissing; not a bird--or, yes, + There scuds His raven that has told Him all! + It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind + Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, + And fast invading fires begin! White blaze-- + A tree's head snaps--and there, there, there, there, there, + His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him! + Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos! + 'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip, + Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month + One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!] + +In the great poem _Rabbi Ben Ezra_, a quite different reason from +that of Caliban's is suggested for the drawbacks and sufferings of +life. They are a part of the divine machinery employed by infinite +wisdom to further human development, to make us ultimately fit to +see His face. There can be no true progress without obstacles: no +enjoyment without its opposite: no vacation without duties: no virtue +without sin. + +The second line of the poem is startling in its direct contradiction +of the language and lamentation of conventional poetry. Regret for +lost youth and terror before old age are stock ideas in poetry, and +in human meditation; but here we are invited to look forward to old +age as the best time of life. Not to grow old gracefully, in +resignation, but to grow old eagerly, in triumph--this is the +Rabbi's suggestion. There is not the slightest doubt that he is right, +provided one lives a mental, rather than an animal existence. A +short time ago, Mr. Joseph H. Choate was addressing a large company +in New York: he said, "Unquestionably the best period of life is the +time between seventy and eighty years of age: and I advise you all +to hurry up and get there as soon as you can." + +God loveth whom He chasteneth. Our doubts and fears, our sorrows and +pains, are spurs, stimulants to advance; rejoice that we have them, +for they are proofs that we are alive and moving! + +In the seventh stanza comes an audacious but cheering thought. Many +thinkers regard the deepest sorrow of life as rising from the +disparity between our ideals and our achievement; Schiller, in his +poem, _Das Ideal und das Leben_, has expressed this cause of woe in +beautiful language. Browning says boldly, + + What I aspired to be, + And was not, _comforts_ me: + +This paradox, which comforts while it mocks, means, "My achievements +are ridiculously small in comparison with my hopes, my ambitions, my +dreams: thank God for all this! Thank God I was not content with low +aims, thank God I had my aspirations and have them still: they point +to future development." + +In the twenty-third, twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth stanzas, +Browning suddenly returns to this idea: in the appraisement of the +human soul, efforts, which if unsuccessful, count for nothing in +worldly estimation, pay an enormous ultimate dividend, and must +therefore be rated high. The reason why the world counts only things +done and not things attempted, is because the world's standards are +too coarse: they are adapted only for gross and obvious results. You +can not weigh diamonds on hay scales: the indicator would show +precisely nothing. And yet one diamond, too fine for these huge +scales, might be of more value than thousands of tons of hay. + +From the twenty-sixth stanza to the end, Browning takes up the +figure of the Potter, the Wheel, and the Clay. I think that he was +drawn to use this metaphor, not from Scripture, but as a protest +against the use of it in Fitzgerald's _Omar Khayyám_. Fitzgerald +published his translation in 1859; and although it attracted no +public attention, it is certainly possible that Browning saw it. He +would have enjoyed its melodious beauty, but the philosophy of the +poem would have been to him detestable and abhorrent. Much is made +there of the Potter, meaning blind destiny: and the moral is, +"Drink! the Past gone, seize To-day!" Browning explicitly rejects +and scorns this teaching: it is propounded by fools for the benefit +of other fools. + + Fool! all that is, at all, + Lasts ever, past recall; + Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: + What entered into thee, + _That_ was, is, and shall be: + Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. + +In Browning's metaphor, the Potter is God: the Wheel is the whirling +course of life's experiences: the Clay is man. God holds us on the +wheel to turn us into the proper shape. Owing to our flaws, the +strain is sometimes too great, and some of us are warped and twisted +by this stern discipline: other characters, made of better material, +constantly grow more beautiful and more serviceable under the +treatment. Browning had suffered the greatest sorrow of his life +when he wrote this poem, and yet he had faith enough to say in the +thirty-first stanza, that _not even while the whirl was worst_, did +he, bound dizzily to the terrible wheel of life, once lose his belief +that he was in God's hands and that the deep cuttings were for his +ultimate benefit. + +In the making of a cup, the Potter engraved around the base lovely +images of youth and pleasure, and near the rim skulls and signs of +death: but what is a cup for? It is meant for the Master's lips. The +nearer therefore we approach to death, the nearer we are to God's +presence, who is making us fit to slake His thirst. Finished at last, +we are done forever with life's wheel: we come to the banquet, the +festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, the glorious +appearance of the Master. + + + + +RABBI BEN EZRA + +1864 + + + I + + Grow old along with me! + The best is yet to be, + The last of life, for which the first was made: + Our times are in His hand + Who saith "A whole I planned, + Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!" + + + II + + Not that, amassing flowers, + Youth sighed "Which rose make ours, + Which lily leave and then as best recall?" + Not that, admiring stars, + It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; + Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" + + + III + + Not for such hopes and fears + Annulling youth's brief years, + Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! + Rather I prize the doubt + Low kinds exist without, + Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. + + + IV + + Poor vaunt of life indeed, + Were man but formed to feed + On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: + Such feasting ended, then + As sure an end to men; + Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? + + + V + + Rejoice we are allied + To That which doth provide + And not partake, effect and not receive! + A spark disturbs our clod; + Nearer we hold of God + Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. + + + VI + + Then, welcome each rebuff + That turns earth's smoothness rough, + Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! + Be our joys three-parts pain! + Strive, and hold cheap the strain; + Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! + + + VII + + For thence,--a paradox + Which comforts while it mocks,-- + Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: + What I aspired to be, + And was not, comforts me: + A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. + + + VIII + + What is he but a brute + Whose flesh has soul to suit, + Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? + To man, propose this test-- + Thy body at its best, + How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? + + + IX + + Yet gifts should prove their use: + I own the Past profuse + Of power each side, perfection every turn: + Eyes, ears took in their dole, + Brain treasured up the whole; + Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?" + + + X + + Not once beat "Praise be Thine! + I see the whole design, + I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: + Perfect I call Thy plan: + Thanks that I was a man! + Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what Thou shalt do!" + + + XI + + For pleasant is this flesh; + Our soul, in its rose-mesh + Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest; + Would we some prize might hold + To match those manifold + Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best! + + + XII + + Let us not always say + "Spite of this flesh to-day + I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" + As the bird wings and sings, + Let us cry "All good things + Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" + + + XIII + + Therefore I summon age + To grant youth's heritage, + Life's struggle having so far reached its term: + Thence shall I pass, approved + A man, for aye removed + From the developed brute; a god though in the germ. + + + + XIV + + And I shall thereupon + Take rest, ere I be gone + Once more on my adventure brave and new: + Fearless and unperplexed, + When I wage battle next, + What weapons to select, what armour to indue. + + + XV + + Youth ended, I shall try + My gain or loss thereby; + Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: + And I shall weigh the same, + Give life its praise or blame: + Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. + + + XVI + + For note, when evening shuts, + A certain moment cuts + The deed off, calls the glory from the grey: + A whisper from the west + Shoots--"Add this to the rest, + Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." + + + XVII + + So, still within this life, + Though lifted o'er its strife, + Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, + "This rage was right i' the main, + That acquiescence vain: + The Future I may face now I have proved the Past" + + + XVIII + + For more is not reserved + To man, with soul just nerved + To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: + Here, work enough to watch + The Master work, and catch + Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. + + + XIX + + As it was better, youth + Should strive, through acts uncouth, + Toward making, than repose on aught found made: + So, better, age, exempt + From strife, should know, than tempt + Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid! + + + XX + + Enough now, if the Right + And Good and Infinite + Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, + With knowledge absolute, + Subject to no dispute + From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. + + + XXI + + Be there, for once and all, + Severed great minds from small, + Announced to each his station in the Past! + Was I, the world arraigned, + Were they, my soul disdained, + Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! + + + XXII + + Now, who shall arbitrate? + Ten men love what I hate, + Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; + Ten, who in ears and eyes + Match me: we all surmise, + They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe? + + + XXIII + + Not on the vulgar mass + Called "work," must sentence pass, + Things done, that took the eye and had the price; + O'er which, from level stand, + The low world laid its hand, + Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: + + + XXIV + + But all, the world's coarse thumb + And finger failed to plumb, + So passed in making up the main account; + All instincts immature, + All purposes unsure, + That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount: + + + XXV + + Thoughts hardly to be packed + Into a narrow act, + Fancies that broke through language and escaped; + All I could ever be, + All, men ignored in me, + This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. + + + XXVI + + Ay, note that Potter's wheel, + That metaphor! and feel + Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,-- + Thou, to whom fools propound, + When the wine makes its round, + "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" + + + XXVII + + Fool! All that is, at all, + Lasts ever, past recall; + Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: + What entered into thee, + _That_ was, is, and shall be: + Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. + + + XXVIII + + He fixed thee mid this dance + Of plastic circumstance, + This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: + Machinery just meant + To give thy soul its bent, + Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. + + + XXIX + + What though the earlier grooves + Which ran the laughing loves + Around thy base, no longer pause and press? + What though, about thy rim, + Scull-things in order grim + Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? + + + XXX + + Look not thou down but up! + To uses of a cup, + The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, + The new wine's foaming flow, + The Master's lips a-glow! + Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel? + + + XXXI + + But I need, now as then, + Thee, God, who mouldest men; + And since, not even while the whirl was worst, + Did I,--to the wheel of life + With shapes and colours rife, + Bound dizzily,--mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst: + + + + XXXII + + So, take and use Thy work: + Amend what flaws may lurk, + What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! + My times be in Thy hand! + Perfect the cup as planned! + Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! + +Browning wrote four remarkable poems dealing with music: _A Toccata +of Galuppi's_, _Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha_, _Abt Vogler_, and +_Charles Avison_. In _Abt Vogler_ the miracle of extemporisation +has just been accomplished. The musician sits at the keys, tears +running down his face: tears of weakness, because of the storm of +divine inspiration that has passed through him: tears of sorrow, +because he never can recapture the fine, careless rapture of his +unpremeditated music: tears of joy, because he knows that on this +particular day he has been the channel chosen by the Infinite God. + +If he had only been an architect, his dream would have remained in a +permanent form. The armies of workmen would have done his will, and +the world would have admired it for ages. If he had only been a poet +or a painter, his inspiration would have taken the form of fixed +type or enduring shape and color: but in the instance of music, the +armies of thoughts that have worked together in absolute harmony to +elevate the noble building of sound, which has risen like an +exhalation, have vanished together with the structure they animated. +It has gone like the wonderful beauty of some fantastic cloud. + +His sorrow at this particular irreparable loss gives way to rapture +as he reflects on the source whence came the inspiration. He could +not possibly have _constructed_ such wonderful music: it was the God +welling up within him: for this past hour divine inspiration has +spoken through him. He has had one glimpse at the Celestial Radiance. +How can he now think that the same God who expanded his heart lacks +the power to fill it? The Source from whence this river came must be +inexhaustible, and it was vouchsafed to him to feel for a short time +its infinite richness. The broken arcs on earth are the earnest of +the perfect round in heaven. + +Abt Vogler says that the philosophers may each make his guess at the +meaning of this earthly scheme of weal and woe: but the musicians, +the musicians who have felt in their own bosoms the presence of the +Divine Power and heard its marvellous voice,--why, the philosophers +may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know! + + + + + +ABT VOGLER + +(AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORISING UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT + OF HIS INVENTION) + +1864 + + + I + + Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, + Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, + Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon + willed + Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, + Man, brute, reptile, fly,--alien of end and of aim, + Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,-- + Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, + And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! + + + II + + Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, + This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! + Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine, + Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! + And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, + Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things, + Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, + Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. + + + III + + And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was, + Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, + Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, + Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: + For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, + When a great illumination surprises a festal night-- + Outlined round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) + Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in + sight. + + + IV + + In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's + birth, + Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I; + And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth, + As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: + Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, + Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star; + Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine, + For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. + + + V + + Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, + Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast, + Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, + Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last; + Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and + gone, + But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their + new: + What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; + And what is,--shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect + too. + + + VI + + All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, + All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, + All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole, + Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth: + Had I written the same, made verse--still, effect proceeds from + cause, + Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; + It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, + Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:-- + + + VII + + But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, + Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are! + And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, + That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. + Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught: + It is everywhere in the world--loud, soft, and all is said: + Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought: + And there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head! + + + VIII + + Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared; + Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; + For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, + That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. + Never to be again! But many more of the kind + As good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me? + To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind + To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall + be. + + + IX + + Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name. + Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! + What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? + Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? + There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; + The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; + What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; + On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round. + + + X + + 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. + + + XI + + And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence + For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? + 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 woe: + But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; + The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know. + + + XII + + 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. + +In the autumn following his wife's death Browning wrote the poem +_Prospice_, which title means _Look Forward_! This is the most +original poem on death in English Literature. It shows that Browning +strictly and consistently followed the moral appended to _The Glove_ +--_Venienti occurrite morbo_, run to meet approaching disaster! + +Although the prayer-book expresses the wish that the Good Lord will +deliver us from battle, murder, and sudden death, that hope was +founded on the old superstition that it was more important how a man +died than how he lived. If a man who had lived a righteous, sober +and godly life died while playing cards or in innocent laughter, +with no opportunity for the ministrations of a priest, his chances +for the next world were thought to be slim. On the other hand, a +damnable scoundrel on the scaffold, with the clergyman's assurances +assented to, was supposed to be jerked into heaven. This view of +life and death was firmly held even by so sincere and profound a +thinker as Hamlet: which explains his anguish at the fate of his +father killed in his sleep, and his own refusal to slay the villain +Claudius at prayer. + +It is probable that thousands of worshippers who now devoutly pray +to be delivered from sudden death, would really prefer that exit to +any other. The reason is clear enough: it is to avoid the pain of +slow dissolution, the sufferings of the death-bed, and the horrible +fear of the dark. Now Browning boldly asks that he may be spared +nothing of all these grim terrors. True to his conception of a poet, +as a man who should understand all human experiences, he hopes that +he may pass conscious and aware through the wonderful experience of +dying. Most sick folk become unconscious hours before death and slip +over the line in total coma: Browning wants to stay awake. + + I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, + And bade me creep past. + +I want to taste it all, the physical suffering, the fear of the abyss: +I want to hear the raving of the fiend-voices, to be in the very +thick of the fight. He adds the splendid line, + + For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave. + Brave hearts turn defeat into victory. + +Browning died twenty-eight years after he wrote this poem, and his +prayer was granted. He was conscious almost up to the last second, +and fully aware of the nearness of death. Even the manner of death, +as described in the first line of the poem, came to be his own +experience: for he died of bronchitis. + + + + +PROSPICE + +1864 + + 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! + +One can hardly repress a smile at Browning's thorough-going optimism, +when he reads the poem, _Apparent Failure_, and then glances back at +the title. _Apparent_ failure! Of all the defeated sons of earth, +the nameless suicides whose wretched bodies are taken to the public +morgue, ought surely, we should imagine, to be classed as absolute +failures. But Browning does not think so. It is possible, he says, +that the reason why these poor outcasts abandoned life, was because +their aspirations were so tremendously high that dull reality +overpowered their spirits. Goodness is better than badness: meekness +better than ferocity: calm sense than mad ravings. But, after all, +these poor fellows were God's creatures. His sun will eventually +pierce the darkest cloud earth can stretch. Somewhere, after many +ages in the next life, these men will develop into something better +under the sunshine of the smile of God. + + + + +APPARENT FAILURE + +1864 + + "We shall soon lose a celebrated building." + _Paris Newspaper_. + + I + + No, for I'll save it! Seven years since, + I passed through Paris, stopped a day + To see the baptism of your Prince; + Saw, made my bow, and went my way: + Walking the heat and headache off, + I took the Seine-side, you surmise, + Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff, + Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies, + So sauntered till--what met my eyes? + + + II + + Only the Doric little Morgue! + The dead-house where you show your drowned: + Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue, + Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned. + One pays one's debt in such a case; + I plucked up heart and entered,--stalked, + Keeping a tolerable face + Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked: + Let them! No Briton's to be baulked! + + + III + + First came the silent gazers; next, + A screen of glass, we're thankful for; + Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text, + The three men who did most abhor + Their life in Paris yesterday, + So killed themselves: and now, enthroned + Each on his copper couch, they lay + Fronting me, waiting to be owned. + I thought, and think, their sin's atoned. + + + IV + + Poor men, God made, and all for that! + The reverence struck me; o'er each head + Religiously was hung its hat, + Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, + Sacred from touch: each had his berth, + His bounds, his proper place of rest, + Who last night tenanted on earth + Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,-- + Unless the plain asphalte seemed best. + + + V + + How did it happen, my poor boy? + You wanted to be Buonaparte + And have the Tuileries for toy, + And could not, so it broke your heart? + You, old one by his side, I judge, + Were, red as blood, a socialist, + A leveller! Does the Empire grudge + You've gained what no Republic missed? + Be quiet, and unclench your fist! + + + VI + + And this--why, he was red in vain, + Or black,--poor fellow that is blue! + What fancy was it turned your brain? + Oh, women were the prize for you! + Money gets women, cards and dice + Get money, and ill-luck gets just + The copper couch and one clear nice + Cool squirt of water o'er your bust, + The right thing to extinguish lust! + + + VII + + It's wiser being good than bad; + It's safer being meek than fierce: + It's fitter being sane than mad. + My own hope is, a sun will pierce + The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; + That, after Last, returns the First, + Though a wide compass round be fetched; + That what began best, can't end worst, + Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst. + +The poem _Rephan_, the title of which was taken from the Book of Acts, +has the same pleasant teaching we find in the play by Ludwig Fulda, +called _Schlaraffenland_, published in 1899. In this drama, a boy, +ragged, cold, and chronically hungry, falls asleep in a miserable +room, and dreams that he is in a country of unalloyed delight. +Broiled chickens fly slowly by, easy to clutch and devour: expensive +wardrobes await his immediate pleasure, and every conceivable wish +is instantly and completely fulfilled. For a short time the boy is +in ecstasies of joy: then the absence of effort, of counterbalancing +privation, begins to make his heart dull: finally the paradise +becomes so intolerable that he wakes with a scream--wakes in a dark, +cold room, wakes in rags with his belly empty: and wakes in rapture +at finding the good old earth of struggle and toil around him. + +Contentment is stagnation: development is happiness. The mystery of +life, its uncertainty, its joys paid for by effort, these make human +existence worth while. + +Browning delights to prove that the popular longing for static +happiness would result in misery: that the sharp sides of life sting +us into the real joy of living. He loves to take popular proverbs, +which sum up the unconscious pessimism of humanity, and then show +how false they are to fact. For example, we hear every day the +expression, "No rose without a thorn," and we know very well what is +meant. In _The Ring and the Book_, Browning says: + + So a thorn comes to the aid of and completes the rose. + + + + +REPHAN + +1889 + + How I lived, ere my human life began + In this world of yours,--like you, made man,-- + When my home was the Star of my God Rephan? + + Come then around me, close about, + World-weary earth-born ones! Darkest doubt + Or deepest despondency keeps you out? + + Nowise! Before a word I speak, + Let my circle embrace your worn, your weak, + Brow-furrowed old age, youth's hollow cheek-- + + Diseased in the body, sick in soul, + Pinched poverty, satiate wealth,--your whole + Array of despairs! Have I read the roll? + + All here? Attend, perpend! O Star + Of my God Rephan, what wonders are + In thy brilliance fugitive, faint and far! + + Far from me, native to thy realm, + Who shared its perfections which o'erwhelm + Mind to conceive. Let drift the helm, + + Let drive the sail, dare unconfined + Embark for the vastitude, O Mind, + Of an absolute bliss! Leave earth behind! + + Here, by extremes, at a mean you guess: + There, all's at most--not more, not less: + Nowhere deficiency nor excess. + + No want--whatever should be, is now: + No growth--that's change, and change comes--how + To royalty born with crown on brow? + + Nothing begins--so needs to end: + Where fell it short at first? Extend + Only the same, no change can mend! + + I use your language: mine--no word + Of its wealth would help who spoke, who heard, + To a gleam of intelligence. None preferred, + + None felt distaste when better and worse + Were uncontrastable: bless or curse + What--in that uniform universe? + + Can your world's phrase, your sense of things + Forth-figure the Star of my God? No springs, + No winters throughout its space. Time brings + + No hope, no fear: as to-day, shall be + To-morrow: advance or retreat need we + At our stand-still through eternity? + + All happy: needs must we so have been, + Since who could be otherwise? All serene: + What dark was to banish, what light to screen? + + Earth's rose is a bud that's checked or grows + As beams may encourage or blasts oppose: + Our lives leapt forth, each a full-orbed rose-- + + Each rose sole rose in a sphere that spread + Above and below and around--rose-red: + No fellowship, each for itself instead. + + One better than I--would prove I lacked + Somewhat: one worse were a jarring fact + Disturbing my faultlessly exact. + + How did it come to pass there lurked + Somehow a seed of change that worked + Obscure in my heart till perfection irked?-- + + Till out of its peace at length grew strife-- + Hopes, fears, loves, hates,--obscurely rife,-- + My life grown a-tremble to turn your life? + + Was it Thou, above all lights that are, + Prime Potency, did Thy hand unbar + The prison-gate of Rephan my Star? + + In me did such potency wake a pulse + Could trouble tranquillity that lulls + Not lashes inertion till throes convulse + + Soul's quietude into discontent? + As when the completed rose bursts, rent + By ardors till forth from its orb are sent + + New petals that mar--unmake the disc-- + Spoil rondure: what in it ran brave risk, + Changed apathy's calm to strife, bright, brisk, + + Pushed simple to compound, sprang and spread + Till, fresh-formed, facetted, floretted, + The flower that slept woke a star instead? + + No mimic of Star Rephan! How long + I stagnated there where weak and strong, + The wise and the foolish, right and wrong, + + Are merged alike in a neutral Best, + Can I tell? No more than at whose behest + The passion arose in my passive breast, + + And I yearned for no sameness but difference + In thing and thing, that should shock my sense + With a want of worth in them all, and thence, + + Startle me up, by an Infinite + Discovered above and below me-height + And depth alike to attract my flight, + + Repel my descent: by hate taught love. + Oh, gain were indeed to see above + Supremacy ever--to move, remove, + + Not reach--aspire yet never attain + To the object aimed at! Scarce in vain-- + As each stage I left nor touched again. + + To suffer, did pangs bring the loved one bliss, + Wring knowledge from ignorance,--just for this-- + To add one drop to a love-abyss! + + Enough: for you doubt, you hope, O men, + You fear, you agonize, die: what then? + Is an end to your life's work out of ken? + + Have you no assurance that, earth at end, + Wrong will prove right? Who made shall mend + In the higher sphere to which yearnings tend? + + Why should I speak? You divine the test. + When the trouble grew in my pregnant breast + A voice said "So wouldst thou strive, not rest?" + + "Burn and not smoulder, win by worth, + Not rest content with a wealth that's dearth? + Thou art past Rephan, thy place be Earth!" + +Browning was an optimist with his last breath. In the _Prologue_ to +_Asolando_, a conventional person is supposed to be addressing the +poet: he says, "Of course your old age must be sad, because you have +now lost all your youthful illusions. Once you looked on the earth +with rose-colored spectacles, but now you see the naked and +commonplace reality of the things you used to think so radiant." + +Browning's answer is significant, and the figure he uses wonderfully +apt. Suppose you are going to travel in Europe: you go to the +optician, and you ask for a first-rate magnifying-glass, that you +may scan the ocean, and view the remote corners of cathedrals. Now +imagine him saying that he has for you something far better than that: +he has a lovely kaleidoscope: apply your eye to the orifice, turn a +little wheel, and you will behold all sorts of pretty colored +rosettes. You would be naturally indignant. "Do you take me for a +child to be amused with a rattle? I don't want pretty colors: I want +something that will bring the object, _exactly as it is_, as near to +my eyes as it can possibly be brought." + +Indeed, when one buys a glass for a telescope, if one has sufficient +cash, one buys a glass made of crown and flint glass placed together, +which destroys color, which produces what is called an _achromatic_ +lens. Now just as we judge of the value of a glass by its ability to +bring things as they are within the range of our vision, so, says +Browning, old age is much better than youth. In age our old eyes +become achromatic. The rosy illusions of youth vanish, thank God for +it! The colors which we imagined belonged to the object were in +reality in our imperfect eyes--as we grow older these pretty colors +disappear and we see what? We see life itself. Life is a greater and +grander thing than any fool's illusion about it. The world of nature +and man is infinitely more interesting and wonderful as it is than +in any mistaken view of it. Therefore old age is better than youth. + + + + +PROLOGUE + +1889 + + The Poet's age is sad: for why? + In youth, the natural world could show + No common object but his eye + At once involved with alien glow-- + His own soul's iris-bow. + + "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." + + Friend, did you need an optic glass, + Which were your choice? A lens to drape + In ruby, emerald, chrysopras, + Each object--or reveal its shape + Clear outlined, past escape, + + The naked very thing?--so clear + That, when you had the chance to gaze, + You found its inmost self appear + Through outer seeming-truth ablaze, + Not falsehood's fancy-haze? + + How many a year, my Asolo, + Since--one step just from sea to land-- + I found you, loved yet feared you so-- + For natural objects seemed to stand + Palpably fire-clothed! No-- + + No mastery of mine o'er these! + Terror with beauty, like the Bush + Burning but unconsumed. Bend knees, + Drop eyes to earthward! Language? Tush! + Silence 'tis awe decrees. + + 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. + + Hill, vale, tree, flower--they stand distinct, + Nature to know and name. What then? + A Voice spoke thence which straight unlinked + Fancy from fact: see, all's in ken: + Has once my eyelid winked? + + 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." + +It is an interesting and dramatic parallel in literary history that +Tennyson and Browning should each have published the last poem that +appeared in his life-time in the same month of the same year, and +that each farewell to the world should be so exactly characteristic +of the poetic genius and spiritual temperament of the writer. In +December, 1889, came from the press _Demeter and Other Poems_, +closing with _Crossing the Bar_--came also _Asolando_, closing with +the _Epilogue_. Tennyson's lyric is exquisite in its tints of sunset, +a serene close to a long and calmly beautiful day. It is the perfect +tone of dignified departure, with the admonition to refrain from +weeping, with the quiet assurance that all is well. Browning's +_Epilogue_ is full of excitement and strenuous rage: there is no +hint of acquiescence; it is a wild charge with drum and trumpet on +the hidden foe. Firm in the faith, full of plans for the future, he +looks not on the darkening night, but on to-morrow's sunrise. + +He tells us not to pity him. He is angry at the thought that people +on the streets of London, when they hear of his death will say, +"Poor Browning! He's gone! How he loved life!" Rather he wishes that +just as in this life when a friend met him in the city with a face +lighted up by the pleasure of the sudden encounter, with a shout of +hearty welcome--so now, when your thoughts perhaps turn to me, let +it not be with sorrow or pity, but with eager recognition. I shall +be striving there as I strove here: greet me with a cheer! + + + + +EPILOGUE + +1889 + + 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!" + + + + +INDEX + + _Abt Vogler_. + Addison, J., disgust for the Alps. + _Andrea del Sarto_. + _Another Way of Love_. + _Apparent Failure_. + _Artemis Prologises_. + _Asolando, Prologue and Epilogue_. + Asolo: Browning's visits to, its place in his work; + last summer passed there. + Austin, Alfred, compared with F. Thompson. + + _Bad Dreams_. + _Bells and Pomegranates_, meaning of title. + _Bishop Blougram's Apology_. + _Bishop Orders His Tomb, The_. + _Blot in the 'Scutcheon, A_. + _Boy and the Angel, The_. + Browning, Elizabeth Barrett: engagement; + her sonnets; + described by her son; + her ill health; + invented name "Dramatic Lyric;" + her assistance in R. Browning's poems. + Browning, Robert: parentage and early life; + education; + visit to Russia; + play-writing; + first visit to Italy; + marriage; + travels in Italy and lives at Paris; + domestic life in Florence described by Hawthorne; + death; + personal habits; + peculiarities; + piano-playing; + enthusiasm; + friendship with Tennyson; + normality in appearance; + excellence in character; + his theory of poetry; + his sonnets; + his favorite feature the brow; + fondness for yellow hair; + his "rejected lovers,". + Browning, Robert Barrett: death at Asolo; + my conversation with. + Bryant, W. C., visits Browning. + Byron, Lord, lyrical power. + _By the Fireside_. + + _Caliban on Setebos_. + Campion, T., his lyrical power compared with Donne's. + + Carlyle, T.: travels to Paris with the Brownings; + his smoking. + _Cavalier Tunes_. + _Charles Avison_. + "_Childe Roland_." + Choate, J. H., his remark on old age. + _Christmas-Eve_. + _Cleon_. + _Clive_. + _Confessions_. + _Count Gismond_. + _Cristina_. + + _Death in the Desert, A_. + _De Gustibus_. + _Dis Aliter Visum_. + Donne, J.: compared with Browning; + compared with Campion. + Dramatic Lyric, origin of name. + _Dramatic Lyrics_. + _Dramatic Romances_. + _Dramatis Persons_. + + Eliot, George, _Daniel Deronda and My Last Duchess_. + Emerson, R. W.: pie and optimism; + his opinion of Tennyson's _Ulysses_. + _Epistle, An, Containing Strange Medical Experience of + Karshish_. + _Eurydice_. + _Evelyn Hope_. + "_Eyes Calm Beside Thee_". + + _Face, A_. + Fano: seldom visited; + scene of picture of _Guardian Angel_. + _Fifine at the Fair_; + _Epilogue to_. + Forster, J., his praise of _Paracelsus_. + _Fra Lippo Lippi_. + Fulda, L., his play _Schlaraffenland_ compared with _Rephan_. + + _Garden Fancies, Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis_. + _Glove, The_ + Goethe, doctrine of elective affinities. + _Gold Hair_. + _Grammarian's Funeral, A_. + Gray, T., early appreciation of mountain scenery. + _Guardian Angel, The_, + + Hallam, A. H., home in Wimpole Street. + Hawthorne, N., visits Browning in Florence. + _Holy Cross Day_. + _Home-Thoughts, from, Abroad_. + _Home-Thoughts, from the Sea_. + _How It Strikes a Contemporary_. + "_How They Brought the Good News_." + + Ibsen, H.: an original genius; + _When We Dead Awaken_, + _A Doll's House_. + _In a Balcony_. + _In a Gondola_. + _Incident of the French Camp_. + _Ivàn Ivanovitch_. + + _James Lee's Wife_. + _Jocoseria, Prologue to_. + _Johannes Agricola in Meditation_. + Jonson, B., his remarks on Donne. + + _Karshish (see Epistle, An_). + Keats, J.: prosody in _Endymion_; + _Bright Star_; + his conception of Beauty; + preface to _Endymion_; + his doctrine; of beauty. + Kipling, R., allusions to Browning in _Stalky and Co_. + + _Laboratory, The_. + Landor, W. S., his poetic tribute to Browning. + Lanier, S., his criticism of _The Ring and the Book_. + _La Saisiag, Prologue_ to. + _Last Ride Together, The_. + LeMoyne, Sarah Gowell, her reading aloud _Meeting at Night_. + Lessing, G. E., his: remark about truth. + Longfellow, H. W.: a better sonneteer than either Tennyson + or Browning; + _Paul Revere's Ride_ compared with "_How They Brought," etc_. + _Lost Leader, The_. + _Lost Mistress, The_. + _Love Among the Ruins_. + _Lover's Quarrel, A_. + _Luria_. + + _Macbeth_: German translation of; + pessimistic speech by. + Macready, W. C., relations with Browning. + Maeterlinck, M.: scene in _Monna Vanna_ taken from _Luria_; + his praise of Browning's poetry. + + _Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha_ + _Meeting at Night_ + _Men and Women_ + _Mesmerism_ + Mill, J. S., his opinion of _Pauline_ + _Mulèykeh_ + _My Last Duchess_ + _My Star_ + + _Nationality in Drinks_ + + _Old Pictures in Florence_ + Omar Khayyam, his figure of the Potter compared with Browning's, + _One Way of Love_ + _One Word More_ + + _Pacchiarotto_: + _Epilogue_ to, + _Prologue_ to, + _Paracelsus_ + _Parting at Morning (see Meeting at Night_) + _Pauline_ + _Pippa Passes_ + Pope: popularity of _Essay on Man_, + his prosody compared with that of Keats. + _Porphyria's Lover_ + _Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau_ + _Prospice_ + + _Rabbi Ben Ezra_ + _Rephan_ + _Respectability_ + _Reverie_ + _Ring and the Book, The_ + Rossetti, D. G.: draws picture of Tennyson; + his opinion of _Pauline_. + Rossetti, W. M., meets the Brownings and the Tennysons. + _Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli_ + Ruskin, J., his remark on _The Bishop Orders His Tomb_. + + _Saul_ + Schiller, F.: his poem _Der Handschuh_; + his poem _Das Ideal und das Leben_. + Schopenhauer, A.: father's financial help similar to Browning's; + his late-coming fame similar to Browning's, + his remark on Rafael's _St. Cecilia_. + Schumann, R. and Mrs., presentation to the Scandinavian king. + Shakespeare, W., Browning declares him to be the supreme poet. + Sharp, W., characterization of _Sordello_. + Shelley, P. B.: his vegetarianism imitated by Browning; + his lyrical power. + _Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis_ (see _Garden Fancies_). + _Sludge (Mr. ) the Medium_. + _Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister_. + _Soul's Tragedy, A_. + _Sordello_. + _Statue and the Bust, The_. + Stedman (mother of the poet, E.C.), her remarks on the health of + Mrs. Browning in Florence. + _Summum Bonum_. + + Tennyson, A.: reading aloud from _Maud_; + Browning's letter to him; + a genius for adaptation; + wrote to please critics; + compared with Browning; + his lyrical power; + his lyrics compared with Browning's; + wrote no good sonnets; + _Lotos-Eaters_; + _Ulysses_; + _Crossing the Bar_; + _St. Agnes' Eve_ compared with _Johannes Agricola_; + _Locksley Hall_; + his "rejected lovers" compared with Browning's; + his criticism of _The Laboratory_; + _Crossing the Bar_ compared with _Epilogue to Asolando_. + Thackeray, _Vanity Fair_. + Thompson, F., his poetry compared with Austin's. + _Time's Revenges_. + _Toccata of Galuppi's_. + _Transcendentalism_. + _Twins, The_. + _Two Poets of Croisic_, the _Epilogue_ to. + _Up at a Villa--Down in the City_. + Wagner, R.: his originality; + his slow-coming fame; + his operas. + _Which_. + Wister, O., criticism of Browning's poetry in his novel _The + Virginian_. + Wordsworth, W.: served as model for _The Lost Leader_; + his sincere love of the country. + + _Youth and Art_. + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Robert Browning: How To Know Him +by William Lyon Phelps + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT BROWNING: HOW TO KNOW HIM *** + +This file should be named 9067-8.txt or 9067-8.zip + +Produced by C. 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