Chapter 9

"ImmersedIn thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps—Still plain I seem to see!—about his headThe idle cloak,—about his heart (insteadOf cuirass) some fond hope he may eludeMy vengeance in the cloister's solitude?Hardly, I think! As little helped his browThe cloak then, Father—as your grate helps now!"

"Immersed

In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?

For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps

—Still plain I seem to see!—about his head

The idle cloak,—about his heart (instead

Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude

My vengeance in the cloister's solitude?

Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow

The cloak then, Father—as your grate helps now!"

The poem is by far the greatest thing in the volume; it is, indeed, one of the very finest examples of Browning's psychological subtlety and concentrated dramatic power.[52]

The ballad ofHervé Rielwhich has no rival but Tennyson'sRevengeamong modern sea-ballads, was written at Croisic, 30th September 1867, and was published in theCornhill Magazinefor March, 1871 in, order that the £100 which had been offered for it might be sent to the Paris Relief Fund. It may be named, with the "Ride from Ghent to Aix," as a proof of how simply and graphically Browning can write if he likes; how promptly he can stir the blood and thrill the heart. The facts of the story, telling how, after the battle of the Hogue, a simple Croisic sailor saved all that was left of the French fleet by guiding the vessels into theharbour, are given in the Croisic guide-books; and Browning has followed them in everything but the very effective end:—

"'Since 'tis ask and have, I may—Since the others go ashore—Come! A good whole holiday!Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!'That he asked and that he got,—nothing more."

"'Since 'tis ask and have, I may—

Since the others go ashore—

Come! A good whole holiday!

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!'

That he asked and that he got,—nothing more."

"Ce brave homme," says the account, "ne demanda pour récompense d'un service aussi signalé, qu'unconge absolupour rejoindre sa femme, qu'il nomma la Belle Aurore."

Cenciaja, the only blank verse piece in the volume, is of the nature of a note or appendix to Shelley's "superb achievement"The Cenci. It serves to explain the allusion to the case of Paolo Santa Croce (Cenci, Act V. sc. iv.). Browning obtained the facts from a MS. volume of memorials of Italian crime, in the possession of Sir John Simeon, who published it in the series of the Philobiblon Society.[53]

Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege of Burial, a grotesque and humorously-told "reminiscence of A.D. 1670," is, up to stanza 35, the versification of an anecdote recorded by Baldinucci, the artist and art critic (1624-1696), in his History of Painters. The incident with which it concludes is imaginary.

FOOTNOTES:

[51]

The jocose vindictiveness with which Browning returns again and again to the assault of the bad grammar and worse rhetoric of Byron's once so much belauded address to the ocean is very amusing. The above is only one out of four or five instances.

[52]

It is worth comparingA Forgivenesswith a poem of very similar motive by Leconte de Lisle:Le Jugement de Komor(Poèmes Barbares). Each is a fine example of its author, in just those qualities for which both poets are eminent: originality and subtlety of subject, pregnant picturesqueness of phrase and situation, and grimly tragic power. The contrast no less than the likeness which exists between them will be evident on a comparison of the two poems.

[53]

In reference to the titleCenciaja, and the Italian proverb which follows it,Ogni cencio vuol entrare in bucato, Browning stated, in a letter to Mr. H.B. Forman (printed in hisShelley, 1880, ii. 419), that "'aia' is generally an accumulative yet depreciative termination: 'Cenciaja'—a bundle of rags—a trifle. The proverb means, 'Every poor creature will be pressing into the company of his betters,' and I used it to deprecate the notion that I intended anything of the kind."

25. THE AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLUS.

[Published in October, 1877 (Poetical Works, 1889, Vol. XIII. pp. 259-357).]

Browning prefaces his transcript of theAgamemnonwith a brief introduction, in which he thus sets forth his theory of translation:—

"If, because of the immense fame of the following Tragedy, I wished to acquaint myself with it, and could only do so by the help of a translator, I should require him to be literal at every cost save that of absolute violence to our language. The use of certain allowable constructions which, happening to be out of daily favour, are all the more appropriate to archaic workmanship, is no violence: but I would be tolerant for once,—in the case of so immensely famous an original,—of even a clumsy attempt to furnish me with the very turn of each phrase in as Greek a fashion as English will bear: while, with respect to amplifications and embellishments, anything rather than, with the good farmer, experience that most signal of mortifications, 'to gape for Æschylus and get Theognis.' I should especially decline,—what may appear to brighten up a passage,—the employment of a new word for some old one—[Greek: phonos], or [Greek: megas], or [Greek: telos], with its congeners, recurring four times in three lines.... Further,—if I obtained a mere strict bald version of thing by thing, or at least word pregnant with thing, I should hardly look for an impossible transmission of the reputed magniloquence and sonority of the Greek; and this with the less regret, inasmuch as there is abundant musicality elsewhere, but nowhere else than in his poem the ideas of the poet. And lastly, when presented with these ideas I should expect the result to prove very hard reading indeed if it were meant to resemble Æschylus."

Every condition here laid down has been carried out with unflinching courage. Browning has rendered word by word and line by line; with, indeed, someslight inevitable expansion in the rhymed choruses, very slight, infinitely slighter than every other translator has found needful. Throughout, there are numberless instances of minute and happy accuracy of phrase, re-creations of the very thoughts of Æschylus. An incomparable dexterity is shown in fitting phrase upon phrase, forcing line to bear the exact weight of line, rendering detail by detail. But for this very reason, as a consequence of this very virtue, there is no denying that Browning's version is certainly "very hard reading," so hard reading that it is sometimes necessary to turn to the Greek in order to fully understand the English. Browning has anticipated, but not altogether answered, this objection. For, besides those passages which in their fidelity to every "minute particular," simply reproduce the obscurity of the original, there is much that seems either obscure or harsh, and is so simply because it gives "the turn of each phrase," not merely "in as Greek a fashion as English will bear," but beyond it: phrases which are native to Greek, foreign to English. The choruses, which are attempted in metre as close as English can come to Greek metre, suggest the force, but not the dignity of the original; and seem often to be content to drop much of the poem by the way in getting at "the ideas of the poet." It is a Titan's version of an Olympian, and it is thus no doubt the scholar rather than the general reader who will find most to please him in "this attempt to give our language the similitude of Greek by close and sustained grappling, word to word, with so sublime and difficult a masterpiece."[54]

FOOTNOTES:

[54]

J.A. Symonds,Academy, Nov. 10, 1877.

26. LA SAISIAZ: THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC.

[Published in May, 1878.La Saisiaz(written November, 1877), pp. 1-82;The Two Poets of Croisic, pp. 83-201. (Poetical Works, 1889, Vol. XIV. pp. 153-204, 205-279).]

InLa SaisiazBrowning reasons of God and the soul, of life here and of life to come. The poem is addressed to a friend of old date, who died suddenly while she was staying with Browning and his sister, in the summer of 1877, at a villa called La Saisiaz (The Sun) in the mountains near Geneva. The first twenty pages tell the touching story; the rest of the poem records the argument which it called forth. "Was ending ending once and always, when you died?" Browning asks himself, and he attempts to answer the question, not on traditional grounds, or on the authority of a creed, but by honest reasoning. He assumes two postulates, and two only, that God exists and that the soul exists; and he proceeds to show, very forcibly, the unsatisfactory nature of life if consciousness ends with death, and its completely satisfactory nature if the soul's existence continues.

"Without the want,Life, now human, would be brutish: just that hope, however scant,Makes the actual life worth leading; take the hope therein away,All we have to do is surely not endure another day.This life has its hopes for this life, hopes that promise joy: life done—Out of all the hopes, how many had complete fulfilment? none.'But the soul is not the body': and the breath is not the flute;Both together make the music: either marred and all is mute."

"Without the want,

Life, now human, would be brutish: just that hope, however scant,

Makes the actual life worth leading; take the hope therein away,

All we have to do is surely not endure another day.

This life has its hopes for this life, hopes that promise joy: life done—

Out of all the hopes, how many had complete fulfilment? none.

'But the soul is not the body': and the breath is not the flute;

Both together make the music: either marred and all is mute."

This hypothesis is purely personal, and as such he holds it. But, to his own mind at least, he finds that

"Sorrow did and joy did nowise,—life well weighed—preponderate.By necessity ordained thus? I shall bear as best I can;By a cause all-good, all-wise, all-potent? No, as I am man!"

"Sorrow did and joy did nowise,—life well weighed—preponderate.

By necessity ordained thus? I shall bear as best I can;

By a cause all-good, all-wise, all-potent? No, as I am man!"

Yet, if only the assumption of a future life may be made, he will thankfully acquiesce in an earthly failure, which will then be only relative, and the earnest of a heavenly gain. Having arrived at this point, Browning proceeds to argue out the question yet further, under the form of a dialogue between "Fancy" (or the soul's instinct) and "Reason." He here shows that not merely is life explicable only as a probation, but that probation is only possible under our present conditions, in our present uncertainty. If it were made certain that there is a future life in which we shall be punished or rewarded, according as we do evil or good, we should have no choice of action, hence no virtue in doing what were so manifestly to our own advantage. Again, if we were made certain of this future life of higher faculties and greater happiness, should we hesitate to rush to it at the first touch of sorrow, before our time? He ends, therefore, with a "hope—no more than hope, but hope—no less than hope," which amounts practically to the assurance that, as he puts it in the last line—

"He at least believed in Soul, was very sure of God!"

The Two Poets of Croisicis a comedy in narrative, dealing mainly with the true tale of Paul Desforges-Maillard, whose story furnished Piron with the matter of hisMétromanie. The first of the "two poets" is one René Gentilhomme, born 1610, once page to the Prince of Condé, afterwards court-poet to Louis XIII. His story, by an easy transition, leads into the richer record of Desforges, which Browning gives with not a few variations, evidently intentional, from the facts of the case. Paul-Briand Maillard, self-surnamed Desforges, was born at Croisic, April 24, 1699: he died at the age of seventy-three. His memory has survived that of better poets on account of the famous hoax which he played on the Paris of his day, including no less a person than Voltaire. The first part of the story is told pretty literally in Browning's pages:—how Desforges, unsuccessful as a poet in his own person, assumed the title of a woman, and as Mlle. Malcrais de la Vigne (his verses being copied by an obliging cousin, Mme. Mondoret) obtained an immediate and astonishing reputation. The sequel is somewhat altered. Voltaire's revenge when the cheat was discovered, so far from being prompt and immediate, was treacherously dissimulated, and its accomplishment deferred for more than one long-subsequent occasion. Desforges lived to have the last word, in assisting at the first representation of Piron'sMétromanie, in which Voltaire's humiliation and the Croisic poet's clever trick are perpetuated for as long as that sprightly and popular comedy shall be remembered.

In his graphic and condensed version of the tale, Browning has used a poet's licence to heighten the effect and increase the piquancy of the narrative. The poemis written inottava rima, but, very singularly, there is not one double rhyme from beginning to end. It is difficult to see why Browning, a finer master of grotesque compound rhymes than Byron, should have so carefully avoided them in a metre which, as in Byron's hands, owes no little of its effect to a clever introduction of such rhymes. The lines (again of set purpose, it is evident) overlap one another without an end-pause where in Italian it is almost universal, namely, after the sixth line. The result of the innovation is far from successful: it destroys the flow of the verse and gives it an air of abruptness. Of the liveliness, vivacity and pungency of the tale, no idea can be given by quotation: two of the stanzas in which the moral is enforced, the two finest, perhaps, in the poem, are, however, severable from their context:—

"Who knows most, doubts most; entertaining hope,Means recognizing fear; the keener senseOf all comprised within our actual scopeRecoils from aught beyond earth's dim and dense.Who, grown familiar with the sky, will gropeHenceforward among groundlings? That's offenceJust as indubitably: stars aboundO'erhead, but then—what flowers made glad the ground!So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force:What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteerThe palm, his hope be in the vivid horseWhose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steerSluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse,Despair: but ever 'mid the whirling fear,Let, through the tumult, break the poet's faceRadiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!"

"Who knows most, doubts most; entertaining hope,

Means recognizing fear; the keener sense

Of all comprised within our actual scope

Recoils from aught beyond earth's dim and dense.

Who, grown familiar with the sky, will grope

Henceforward among groundlings? That's offence

Just as indubitably: stars abound

O'erhead, but then—what flowers made glad the ground!

So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force:What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteerThe palm, his hope be in the vivid horseWhose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steerSluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse,Despair: but ever 'mid the whirling fear,Let, through the tumult, break the poet's faceRadiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!"

So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force:

What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteer

The palm, his hope be in the vivid horse

Whose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steer

Sluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse,

Despair: but ever 'mid the whirling fear,

Let, through the tumult, break the poet's face

Radiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!"

The poem is followed by an exquisite Epilogue, oneof the most delicately graceful and witty and tender of Browning's lyrics. The briefer Prologue is not less beautiful:—

"Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May-morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!Sky—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!World—how it walled aboutLife with disgraceTill God's own smile came out:That was thy face!"

"Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May-morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!

"Such a starved bank of moss

Till, that May-morn,

Blue ran the flash across:

Violets were born!

Sky—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!

Sky—what a scowl of cloud

Till, near and far,

Ray on ray split the shroud:

Splendid, a star!

World—how it walled aboutLife with disgraceTill God's own smile came out:That was thy face!"

World—how it walled about

Life with disgrace

Till God's own smile came out:

That was thy face!"

27. DRAMATIC IDYLS.

[Published in May 1879 (Poetical Works, 1889, Vol. XV. pp. 1-80).]

In theDramatic IdylsBrowning may almost be said to have broken new ground. His idyls are short poems of passionate action, presenting in a graphic and concentrated way a single episode or tragic crisis. Not only by their concreteness and popular effectiveness, their extraordinary vigour of conception and expression, are they distinguished from much of Browning's later writing: they have in addition this significant novelty of interest, that here for the first time Browning has found subjects for his poetry among the poor, that here for the first time he has painted, with all his close and imaginative realism, the human comedy of the lower classes. That he hasnever done so before, though rather surprising, comes, I suppose, from his preponderating interest in intellectual problems, and from the difficulty of finding such among what Léon Cladel has calledtragiques histoires plébéiennes. But the happy instinct has at last come to him, and we are permitted to watch the humours of that delicious pair of sinners saved, "Publican Black Ned Bratts and Tabby his big wife too," as a relief to the less pleasant and profitable spectacle of His Majesty Napoleon III., or of even the two poets of Croisic. All the poems in the volume (with the exception of a notable and noble protest against vivisection, in the form of a touching little true tale of a dog) are connected together by a single motive, on which every poem plays a new variation. The motto of the book might be:—

"There is a tide in the affairs of men,Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;Omitted, all the voyage of his lifeIs bound in shallows and in miseries."

"There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of his life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries."

This idea of a turning-point or testing-time in the lives of men is more or less expressed or implied in very much of Browning's poetry, but nowhere is it expressed so completely, so concisely, or so consecutively, as here. InMartin Relph(which "embodies," says Mrs. Orr, "a vague remembrance of something read by Mr. Browning when he was himself a boy") we have an instance of the tide "omitted," and a terrible picture of the remorse which follows. Martin Relph has the chance presented to him of saving two lives, that of the girl he loves and of his rival whom she loves. The chance is but of an instant's duration. He hesitates, and the moment is for ever lost. In that one moment his true soul, with itsinstinctive selfishness, has leapt to light, and the knowledge of it torments him with an inextinguishable agony. InIvàn Ivànovitch(founded on a popular Russian story of a woman throwing her children to the wolves to save her own life) we have a twofold illustration of the theme. The testing-moment comes to the mother, Loùscha, and again to Ivàn Ivànovitch. While the woman fails terribly in her duty, and meets a terrible reward, the man rises to a strange and awful nobility of action, and "acts for God."Halbert and Hob, a grim little tragedy (suggested by a passage in the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle), presents us with the same idea in a singularly concrete form. The crisis has a saving effect, but it is an incomplete, an unwilling or irresistible, act of grace, and it bears but sorry fruit. InNed Bratts(suggested by the story of "Old Tod," in Bunyan'sLife and Death of Mr. Badman[55]) we have a prompt and quite hurried taking of the tide: the sudden conversion, repentance, and expiation of the "worst couple, rogue and quean, unhanged."Pheidippides(the legend of the runner who brought the news of Marathon to Athens, and died inthe utterance) illustrates the idea in a more obvious but less individual way.

Perhaps for sheer perfection of art, for fundamental tragedy, for a quality of compassionate and unflinching imaginative vision, nothing in the book quite comes up toHalbert and Hob. There is hardly in Browning a more elemental touch than that of: "A boy threw stones: he picked them up and stored them in his breast."Martin Relph, besides being a fine tale splendidly told, is among the most masterly of all renderings of remorse, of the terrors and torments of conscience. Every word is like a drop of agony wrung out of a tortured soul.Ivàn Ivànovitchis, as a narrative, still finer: as a piece of story-telling Browning has perhaps never excelled it. Nothing could be more graphic and exciting than the description of the approach of the wolves: the effective change from iambs to anapæsts gives their very motion.

"Was that—wind?Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs,Snorts,—never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough'sOnly the wind: yet, no—our breath goes up too straight!Still the low sound,—less low, loud, louder, at a rateThere's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out—look—learnThe truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn—'Tis the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge!An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge:They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side,Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wideThe four-footed steady advance. The foremost—none may pass:They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye—green-glowing brass!But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best:Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,—one reaches....How utter the rest?"

"Was that—wind?

Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs,

Snorts,—never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough's

Only the wind: yet, no—our breath goes up too straight!

Still the low sound,—less low, loud, louder, at a rate

There's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out—look—learn

The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn—

'Tis the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge!

An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge:

They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side,

Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide

The four-footed steady advance. The foremost—none may pass:

They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye—green-glowing brass!

But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best:

Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,—one reaches....

How utter the rest?"

The setting of the story, the vast motionless Russian landscape, the village life, the men and women, has a singular expressiveness; and the revelation of the woman's character, the exposure of her culpable weakness, seen in the very excuses by which she endeavours to justify herself, is brought about with singularly masterly art. There are moments of essential drama, not least significantly in the last lines, above all in those two pregnant words: "How otherwise? asked he."

Ned Brattstakes almost the same position among Browning's humorous poems thatIvàn Ivànovitchdoes among his narratives. It is a whole comedy in itself. Surroundings and atmosphere are called up with perfect art and the subtlest sympathy. What opening could be a better preparation for the heated and grotesque utterances of Ned Bratts than the wonderful description of the hot day? It serves to put us into precisely the right mood for seeing and feeling the comic tragedy that follows. Dickens himself never painted a more riotously realistic scene, nor delineated a better ruffian than the murderous rascal precariously converted by Bunyan and his book.

In the midst of these realistic tragedies and comedies,Pheidippides, with its clear Greek outline and charm and heroical grace, stands finely contrasted. The measure is of Browning's invention, and is finely appropriate to the character of the poem.

"So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of saluteIs still 'Rejoice!'—his word which brought rejoicing indeed.So is Pheidippides happy for ever,—the noble strong manWho could race like a God, bear the face of a God, whom a God loved so wellHe saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tellSuch tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began,So to end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute:'Athens is saved!' Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed."

"So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute

Is still 'Rejoice!'—his word which brought rejoicing indeed.

So is Pheidippides happy for ever,—the noble strong man

Who could race like a God, bear the face of a God, whom a God loved so well

He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell

Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began,

So to end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute:

'Athens is saved!' Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed."

FOOTNOTES:

[55]

At a summer Assizes holden atHartfort, while the Judge was sitting upon the Bench, comes this oldTodinto the Court, cloathed in a green Suit with his Leathern Girdle in his hand, his bosom open, and all on a dung sweat, as if he had run for his Life; and, being come in, he spake aloud as follows:My Lord, said he,Here is the veryest Rogue that breaths upon the face of the earth, ... My Lord, there has not been a Robbery committed this many years, within so many miles of this place but I have either been at it or privy to it."The Judge thought the fellow was mad, but after some conference with some of the Justices, they agreed to Indict him; and so they did, of several felonious Actions; to all of which he heartily confessed Guilty, and so was hanged with his wife at the same time...."As for the truth of this Story, the Relator told me that he was at the same time himself in the Court, and stood within less than two yards of oldTod, when he heard him aloud to utter the words."—Bunyan'sLife and Death of Mr. Badman, 1680.

"The Judge thought the fellow was mad, but after some conference with some of the Justices, they agreed to Indict him; and so they did, of several felonious Actions; to all of which he heartily confessed Guilty, and so was hanged with his wife at the same time....

"As for the truth of this Story, the Relator told me that he was at the same time himself in the Court, and stood within less than two yards of oldTod, when he heard him aloud to utter the words."—Bunyan'sLife and Death of Mr. Badman, 1680.

28. DRAMATIC IDYLS. Second Series.

[Published in July, 1880.Poetical Works, 1889, Vol. XV. pp. 81-163.]

The second series ofDramatic Idylsis bound together, like the first, though somewhat less closely, by a leading idea, which, whether consciously or not, is hinted at in a pointed little prologue: the idea of the paradox of human action, and the apparent antagonism between motive and result. The volume differs considerably from its precursor, and it contains nothing quite equal to the best of the earlier poems. There is more variety, perhaps, but the human interest is less intense, the stories less moving and absorbing. With less humour, there is a much more pronounced element of the grotesque. And most prominent of all is that characteristic of Browning which a great critic has called agility of intellect.

The first poem,Echetlos, is full of heroical ardour and firm, manly vigour of movement. LikePheidippides, it is a legend of Marathon. It sings of the mysterioushelper who appeared to the Greeks, in rustic garb and armed with a plough.

"But one man kept no rank and his sole arm plied no spear,As a flashing came and went, and a form i' the van, the rear,Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here.Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need,The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed,As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede."

"But one man kept no rank and his sole arm plied no spear,As a flashing came and went, and a form i' the van, the rear,Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here.

"But one man kept no rank and his sole arm plied no spear,

As a flashing came and went, and a form i' the van, the rear,

Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here.

Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need,The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed,As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede."

Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need,

The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed,

As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede."

After the battle, the man was nowhere to be seen, and inquiry was made of the oracle.

"How spake the Oracle? 'Care for no name at all!Say but just this: We praise one helpful whom we callThe Holder of the Ploughshare. The great deed ne'er grows small.'"

"How spake the Oracle? 'Care for no name at all!

Say but just this: We praise one helpful whom we call

The Holder of the Ploughshare. The great deed ne'er grows small.'"

WithEchetlosmay be mentioned the Virgilian legend ofPan and Luna, a piece of graceful fancy, with its exquisite burden, that

"Verse of five words, each a boon:Arcadia, night, a cloud, Pan, and the moon."

"Verse of five words, each a boon:

Arcadia, night, a cloud, Pan, and the moon."

Clive, the most popular in style, and certainly one of the finest poems in the volume, is a dramatic monologue very much akin, in subject, treatment and form, to the narratives in the first series. The story deals with an episode in the life of Clive, when, as a young man, he first proved his courage in the face of a bully whom he had caught cheating at cards. The poem is full of fire and brilliance, and is a subtle analysis and presentation of the character of Clive. Its structure is quite in Browning's best manner: a central situation, illuminedby "what double and treble reflection and refraction!" Like Balzac (whoseHonorine, for instance, is constructed on precisely similar lines) Browning often increases the effect of his picture by setting it in a framework, more or less elaborate, by placing the central narrative in the midst of another slighter and secondary one, related to it in some subtle way. The story ofCliveobtains emphasis, and is rendered more impressive, by the lightly but strongly sketched-in figure of the old veteran who tells the tale. Scarcely anything in the poem seems to me so fine as this pathetic portrait of the lonely old man, sitting, like Colonel Newcome, solitary in his house among his memories, with his boy away: "I and Clive were friends."

The Arabian tale ofMuléykehis the most perfect and pathetic piece in the volume. It is told in singularly fine verse, and in remarkably clear, simple, yet elevated style. The end is among the great heroic things in poetry. Hóseyn, though he has neither herds nor flocks, is the richest and happiest of men, for he possesses the peerless mare, Muléykeh the Pearl, whose speed has never been outstripped. Duhl, the son of Sheybán, who envies Hóseyn and has endeavoured by every means, but without success, to obtain the mare, determines at last to steal her. He enters Hóseyn's tent noiselessly by night, saddles Muléykeh, and gallops away. In an instant Hóseyn is on the back of Buhéyseh, the Pearl's sister, only less fleet than herself, and in pursuit.

"And Hóseyn—his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride,And Buhéyseh does her part,—they gain—they are gaining fastOn the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Dárraj to cross and quit,And to reach the ridge El-Sabán,—no safety till that be spied!And Buhéyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last,For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit.She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer:Buhéyseh is mad with hope—beat sister she shall and must,Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank.She is near now, nose by tail—they are neck by croup—joy! fear!What folly makes Hóseyn shout 'Dog Duhl, Damned son of the Dust,Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank!'And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muléykeh as prompt perceivedWho was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey,And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore.And Hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved,Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may:Then he turned Buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore.And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hóseyn upon the groundWeeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of Bénu-AsádIn the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief;And he told them from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had woundHis way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad!And how Buhéyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief.And they jeered him, one and all: 'Poor Hóseyn is crazed past hope!How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite!To have simply held the tongue were a task for a boy or girl,And here were Muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope,The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!''And the beaten in speed!' wept Hóseyn: 'You never have loved my Pearl!'"

"And Hóseyn—his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride,

And Buhéyseh does her part,—they gain—they are gaining fast

On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Dárraj to cross and quit,

And to reach the ridge El-Sabán,—no safety till that be spied!

And Buhéyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last,

For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit.

She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer:Buhéyseh is mad with hope—beat sister she shall and must,Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank.She is near now, nose by tail—they are neck by croup—joy! fear!What folly makes Hóseyn shout 'Dog Duhl, Damned son of the Dust,Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank!'

She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer:

Buhéyseh is mad with hope—beat sister she shall and must,

Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank.

She is near now, nose by tail—they are neck by croup—joy! fear!

What folly makes Hóseyn shout 'Dog Duhl, Damned son of the Dust,

Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank!'

And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muléykeh as prompt perceivedWho was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey,And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore.And Hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved,Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may:Then he turned Buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore.

And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muléykeh as prompt perceived

Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey,

And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore.

And Hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved,

Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may:

Then he turned Buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore.

And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hóseyn upon the groundWeeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of Bénu-AsádIn the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief;And he told them from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had woundHis way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad!And how Buhéyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief.

And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hóseyn upon the ground

Weeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of Bénu-Asád

In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief;

And he told them from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had wound

His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad!

And how Buhéyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief.

And they jeered him, one and all: 'Poor Hóseyn is crazed past hope!How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite!To have simply held the tongue were a task for a boy or girl,And here were Muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope,The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!''And the beaten in speed!' wept Hóseyn: 'You never have loved my Pearl!'"

And they jeered him, one and all: 'Poor Hóseyn is crazed past hope!

How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite!

To have simply held the tongue were a task for a boy or girl,

And here were Muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope,

The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!'

'And the beaten in speed!' wept Hóseyn: 'You never have loved my Pearl!'"

There remainPietro of Abano[56]andDoctor——. The latter, a Talmudic legend, is probably the poorest of Browning's poems: it is rather farce than humour. The former is a fine piece of genuine grotesque art, full of pungent humour, acuteness, worldly wisdom, and clever phrasing and rhyming. It is written in an elaborate comic metre of Browning's invention, indicated at the end by eight bars of music. The poem is one of the most characteristic examples of that "Teutonic grotesque, which lies in the expression of deep ideas through fantastic forms," a grotesque of noble and cultivated art, of which Browning is as great a master in poetry as Carlyle in prose.

The volume ends with a charming lyrical epilogue, not without its personal bearing, though it has sometimes, very unfairly, been represented as a piece of mere self-gratulation.

"Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters,"

Browning tells us in some album-verses which have found their way into print, and he naturally complains that what he wrote of Dante should be foisted upon himself. Indeed, he has quite as much the characteristics of the "spontaneous" as of the "brooding" poet of his parable.

"'Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke:Soil so quick-receptive,—not one feather-seed,Not one flower-dust fell, but straight its fall awokeVitalising virtue: song would song succeedSudden as spontaneous—prove a poet soul!'Indeed?Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare:Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rageVainly both expend,—few flowers awaken there:Quiet in its cleft broods—what the after ageKnows and names a pine, a nation's heritage."

"'Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke:

Soil so quick-receptive,—not one feather-seed,

Not one flower-dust fell, but straight its fall awoke

Vitalising virtue: song would song succeed

Sudden as spontaneous—prove a poet soul!'

Indeed?

Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare:

Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage

Vainly both expend,—few flowers awaken there:

Quiet in its cleft broods—what the after age

Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage."

FOOTNOTES:

[56]

Pietro of Abano was an Italian physician, alchemist and philosopher, born at Abano, near Padua, in 1246, died about 1320. He had the reputation of a wizard, and was imprisoned by the Inquisition. He was condemned to be burnt; he died in prison, and his dead body was ordered to be burnt; but as that had been taken away by his friends, the Inquisition burnt his portrait. His reputed antipathy to milk and cheese, with its natural analogy, suggested the motive of the poem. The book referred to in it is his principal work,Conciliator differentiarum quæ inter philosophos et medicos versantur. Mantua, 1472.

29. JOCOSERIA.

[Published in March, 1883 (Poetical Works, 1889, pp. 165-266).]

The nameJocoseria(mentioned by Browning in its original connection, Melander's "Jocoseria," in the notes toParacelsus) expresses very cleverly the particular nature of the volume, in its close union and fusion of grave and gay. The book is not, as a whole, so intense or sobrilliant as the first and second series ofDramatic Idyls, but one or two of the shorter poems are, in their way, hardly excelled by anything in either volume.

The longest poem, though by no means the best is the imaginary Rabbinical legend ofJochanan Hakkadosh(John the Saint), which Browning, with a touch of learned quizzicalness, states in his note[57]"to have no better authority than that of the treatise, existing dispersedly, in fragments of Rabbinical writing, [the name, 'Collection of many Lies,' follows in Hebrew,] from which I might have helped myself more liberally." It is written interza rima, likeDoctor—— in the second series ofDramatic Idyls, and is supposed to be told by "the Jew aforesaid" in order to "make amends and justify our Mishna." That it may to some extent do, but it seems to me that its effectiveness as an example of the serio-grotesque style would have been heightened by some metre less sober and placid than theterza rima; by rhythm and rhyme as audacious and characteristic as the rhythm and the rhymes ofPietro of Abano, for instance.

Ixion, a far finer poem thanJochanan Hakkadosh, is, no doubt, an equally sincere utterance of personal belief. The poem is a monologue, in unrhymed hexameters and pentameters. It presents the old myth in a new light. Ixion is represented as the Prometheus of man's righteous revolt against the tyranny of an unjust God. The poem is conceived in a spirit of intense earnestness, and worked out with great vigour and splendour of diction. For passion and eloquence nothing in it surpasses thefinely culminating last lines, of which I can but tear a few, only too barbarously, from their context:—

"What is the influence, high o'er Hell, that turns to a rapturePain—and despair's murk mists blends in a rainbow of hope?What is beyond the obstruction, stage by stage tho' it baffle?Back must I fall, confess 'Ever the weakness I fled'?No, for beyond, far, far is a Purity all-unobstructed!Zeus was Zeus—not Man: wrecked by his weakness I whirl.Out of the wreck I rise—past Zeus to the Potency o'er him!I—to have hailed him my friend! I—to have clasped her—my love!Pallid birth of my pain,—where light, where light is, aspiringThither I rise, whilst thou—Zeus, keep the godship and sink!"

"What is the influence, high o'er Hell, that turns to a rapture

Pain—and despair's murk mists blends in a rainbow of hope?

What is beyond the obstruction, stage by stage tho' it baffle?

Back must I fall, confess 'Ever the weakness I fled'?

No, for beyond, far, far is a Purity all-unobstructed!

Zeus was Zeus—not Man: wrecked by his weakness I whirl.

Out of the wreck I rise—past Zeus to the Potency o'er him!

I—to have hailed him my friend! I—to have clasped her—my love!

Pallid birth of my pain,—where light, where light is, aspiring

Thither I rise, whilst thou—Zeus, keep the godship and sink!"

WhileIxionis the noblest and most heroically passionate of these poems,Adam, Lilith, and Eve, is the most pregnant and suggestive. Browning has rarely excelled it in certain qualities, hardly found in any other poet, of pungency, novelty, and penetrating bitter-sweetness.

"ADAM, LILITH, AND EVE.One day it thundered and lightened.Two women, fairly frightened,Sank to their knees, transformed, transfixed,At the feet of the man who sat betwixt;And 'Mercy!' cried each, 'If I tell the truthOf a passage in my youth!'Said This: 'Do you mind the morningI met your love with scorning?As the worst of the venom left my lips,I thought, "If, despite this lie, he stripsThe mask from my soul with a kiss—I crawl,His slave,—soul, body and all!"'Said That: 'We stood to be married;The priest, or someone, tarried;"If Paradise-door prove locked?" smiled you.I thought, as I nodded, smiling too,"Did one, that's away, arrive—nor lateNor soon should unlock Hell's gate!"'It ceased to lighten and thunder.Up started both in wonder,Looked round, and saw that the sky was clear,Then laughed, 'Confess you believed us, Dear!''I saw through the joke!' the man repliedThey seated themselves beside."

"ADAM, LILITH, AND EVE.

One day it thundered and lightened.Two women, fairly frightened,Sank to their knees, transformed, transfixed,At the feet of the man who sat betwixt;And 'Mercy!' cried each, 'If I tell the truthOf a passage in my youth!'

One day it thundered and lightened.

Two women, fairly frightened,

Sank to their knees, transformed, transfixed,

At the feet of the man who sat betwixt;

And 'Mercy!' cried each, 'If I tell the truth

Of a passage in my youth!'

Said This: 'Do you mind the morningI met your love with scorning?As the worst of the venom left my lips,I thought, "If, despite this lie, he stripsThe mask from my soul with a kiss—I crawl,His slave,—soul, body and all!"'

Said This: 'Do you mind the morning

I met your love with scorning?

As the worst of the venom left my lips,

I thought, "If, despite this lie, he strips

The mask from my soul with a kiss—I crawl,

His slave,—soul, body and all!"'

Said That: 'We stood to be married;The priest, or someone, tarried;"If Paradise-door prove locked?" smiled you.I thought, as I nodded, smiling too,"Did one, that's away, arrive—nor lateNor soon should unlock Hell's gate!"'

Said That: 'We stood to be married;

The priest, or someone, tarried;

"If Paradise-door prove locked?" smiled you.

I thought, as I nodded, smiling too,

"Did one, that's away, arrive—nor late

Nor soon should unlock Hell's gate!"'

It ceased to lighten and thunder.Up started both in wonder,Looked round, and saw that the sky was clear,Then laughed, 'Confess you believed us, Dear!''I saw through the joke!' the man repliedThey seated themselves beside."

It ceased to lighten and thunder.

Up started both in wonder,

Looked round, and saw that the sky was clear,

Then laughed, 'Confess you believed us, Dear!'

'I saw through the joke!' the man replied

They seated themselves beside."

Much of the same power is shown inCristina and Monaldeschi,[58]a dramatic monologue with all the old vigour of Browning's early work of that kind; not only keen and subtle, but charged with a sharp electrical quality, which from time to time darts out with a sudden and unexpected shock. The style and tone are infused with a peculiar fierce irony. The metre is rapid and stinging, like the words of the vindictive queen as she hurries her treacherous victim into the hands of the assassins. There is dramatic invention in the very cadence:

"Ah, but how each loved each, Marquis!Here's the gallery they trodBoth together, he her god,She his idol,—lend your rod,Chamberlain!—ay, there they are—'QuisSeparabit?'—plain those twoTouching words come into view,Apposite for me and you!"

"Ah, but how each loved each, Marquis!

Here's the gallery they trod

Both together, he her god,

She his idol,—lend your rod,

Chamberlain!—ay, there they are—'Quis

Separabit?'—plain those two

Touching words come into view,

Apposite for me and you!"

Mary Wollstonecraft and Fuseli, a dramatic lyric of three verses, the pathetic utterance of an unloved loving woman's heart, is not dissimilar in style toCristina and Monaldeschi. It would be unjust to Fuseli to name him Bottom, but only fair to Mary Wollstonecraft to call her Titania.

Of the remaining poems,Donald("a true story, repeated to Mr. Browning by one who had heard it from its hero, the so-called Donald, himself,"[59]) is a ballad, not at all in Browning's best style, but certainly vigorous and striking, directed against the brutalising influences of sport, asTraywas directed against the infinitely worse brutalities of ignorant and indiscriminate vivisection. Its noble human sympathies and popular style appeal to a ready audience.Solomon and Balkis, though by no means among the best of Browning's comic poems, is a witty enough little tale from that inexhaustible repository, the Talmud. It is a dialogue between Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, not "solely" nor at all "of things sublime."Pambois a bit of pointed fun, a mock-modest apology to critics. Finally, besides a musical little love-song namedWanting is—What?we have inNever the Time and the Placeone of the great love-songs, not easily to be excelled, even in the work of Browning, for strength of spiritual passion and intensity of exultant and certain hope.

"NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE.Never the time and the placeAnd 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 bleakWhere, outside, rain and wind combineWith 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 PastThus firm and fastYet doubt if the Future hold I can?This path so soft to pace shall leadThro' the magic of May to herself indeed!Or narrow if needs the house must be,Outside are the storms and strangers: we—Oh, close, safe, warm, sleep I and she,—I and she!"

"NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE.

Never the time and the placeAnd 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 bleakWhere, outside, rain and wind combineWith 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 PastThus firm and fastYet doubt if the Future hold I can?This path so soft to pace shall leadThro' the magic of May to herself indeed!Or narrow if needs the house must be,Outside are the storms and strangers: we—Oh, close, safe, warm, sleep I and she,—I and she!"

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 be,

Outside are the storms and strangers: we—

Oh, close, safe, warm, sleep I and she,

—I and she!"

FOOTNOTES:

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