The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDramatic RomancesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Dramatic RomancesAuthor: Robert BrowningRelease date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4253]Most recently updated: February 1, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Richard Adicks, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRAMATIC ROMANCES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Dramatic RomancesAuthor: Robert BrowningRelease date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4253]Most recently updated: February 1, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Richard Adicks, and David Widger
Title: Dramatic Romances
Author: Robert Browning
Author: Robert Browning
Release date: July 1, 2003 [eBook #4253]Most recently updated: February 1, 2013
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Richard Adicks, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DRAMATIC ROMANCES ***
Transcriber's Note:Stanza and section numbers have been moved to the left margin, and periods that follow them have been removed.Periods have been omitted after Roman numerals in the titles of popes and nobles.Quotation marks have been left only at the beginning and end of a multi-line quotation, and at the beginning of each stanza within the quotation, instead of at the beginning of every line, as in the printed text.
Transcriber's Note:
Stanza and section numbers have been moved to the left margin, and periods that follow them have been removed.
Periods have been omitted after Roman numerals in the titles of popes and nobles.
Quotation marks have been left only at the beginning and end of a multi-line quotation, and at the beginning of each stanza within the quotation, instead of at the beginning of every line, as in the printed text.
CONTENTSINTRODUCTIONINCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMPTHE PATRIOTMY LAST DUCHESSCOUNT GISMONDTHE BOY AND THE ANGELINSTANS TYRANNUSMESMERISMTHE GLOVETIME'S REVENGESTHE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALYIN A GONDOLAWARINGTHE TWINSA LIGHT WOMANTHE LAST RIDE TOGETHERTHE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN:THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESSA GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL,THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDYHOLY-CROSS DAYPROTUSTHE STATUE AND THE BUSTPORPHYRIA'S LOVER"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME."
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP
THE PATRIOT
MY LAST DUCHESS
COUNT GISMOND
THE BOY AND THE ANGEL
INSTANS TYRANNUS
MESMERISM
THE GLOVE
TIME'S REVENGES
THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY
IN A GONDOLA
WARING
THE TWINS
A LIGHT WOMAN
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN:
THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS
A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL,
THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY
HOLY-CROSS DAY
PROTUS
THE STATUE AND THE BUST
PORPHYRIA'S LOVER
"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME."
[The Dramatic Romances,...] enriched by some of the poems originally printed in Men and Women, and a few from Dramatic Lyrics as first printed, include some of Browning's finest and most characteristic work. In several of them the poet displays his familiarity with the life and spirit of the Renaissance—a period portrayed by him with a fidelity more real than history—for he enters into the feelings that give rise to action, while the historian is busied only with the results growing out of the moving force of feeling.
The egotism of the Ferrara husband outraged at the gentle wife because she is as gracious toward those who rendered her small courtesies, and seemed as thankful to them as she was to him for his gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name, opens up for inspection the heart of a husband at a time when men exercised complete control over their wives, and could satisfy their jealous, selfish instincts by any cruel methods they chose to adopt, with no one to say them "nay." The highly developed artistic sense shown by this husband is not incompatible with his consummate selfishness and cruelty, as many tales of that time might be brought forward to illustrate. The husband in "The Statue and the Bust" belongs to the same type, and the situation there is the inevitable outcome of a civilization in which women were not consulted as to whom they would marry, and naturally often fell a prey to love if it should come to them afterwards. Weakness of will in the case of the lovers in this poem wrecked their lives; for they were not strong enough to follow either duty or love. Another glimpse is caught of this period when husbands and brothers and fathers meted out what they considered justice to the women in "In a Gondola." "The Grammarian's Funeral" gives also an aspect of Renaissance life—the fervor for learning characteristic of the earlier days of the Renaissance when devoted pedants, as Arthur Symons says in referring to this poem, broke ground in the restoration to the modern world of the civilization and learning of ancient Greece and Rome. Again, "The Heretic's Tragedy" and "Holy-Cross Day" picture most vividly the methods resorted to by the dying church in its attempts to keep control of the souls of a humanity seething toward religious tolerance.
With only a small space at command, it is difficult to decide on the poems to be touched upon, especially where there is not one but would repay prolonged attention, due no less to the romantic interest of the stories, the marvellous penetration into human motives, the grasp of historical atmospheres, than to the originality and perfection of their artistry.
A word must be said of "The Flight of the Duchess" and "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," both poems which have been productive of many commentaries, and both holding their own amid the bray [sic] of critics as unique and beautiful specimens of poetic art. Certainly no two poems could be chosen to show wider diversity in the poet's genius than these.
The story told by the huntsman in "The Flight of the Duchess" is interesting enough simply as a story, but the telling of it is inimitable. One can see before him the devoted, kindly man, somewhat clumsy of speech, as indicated by the rough rhymes, and characteristically drawing his illustrations from the calling he follows. Keen in his critical observation of the Duke and other members of the household, he, nevertheless, has a tender appreciation of the difficulties of the young Duchess in this unloving artificial environment.
When the Gypsy Queen sings her song through his memory of it, the rhymes and rhythm take on a befitting harmoniousness and smoothness contrasting finely with the remainder of the poem.
By means of this song, moreover, the horizon is enlarged beyond the immediate ken of the huntsman. The race-instinct, which has so strong a hold upon the Gypsies, is exalted into a wondrous sort of love which carries everything before it. This loving reality is also set over against the unloving artificiality of the first part of the poem. The temptation is too strong for the love-starved little Duchess, and even the huntsman and Jacinth come under her hypnotic spell.
Very different in effect is "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came." The one, rich in this lay of human emotion, couched in the simple language of reality; the other, a symbolic picture of the struggle and aspiration of the soul. Interpreters have tried to pin this latter poem down to the limits of an allegory, and find a specific meaning for every phrase and picture, but it has too much the quality of the modern symbolistic writing to admit of any treatment so prosaic. In this respect it resembles music. Each mind will draw from it an interpretation suited to its own attitude and experiences. Reduced to the simplest possible lines of interpretation, it symbolizes the inevitable fate which drives a truth-seeking soul to see the falsity of ideals once thought absolute, yet in the face of the ruin of those ideals courage toward the continuance of aspiration is never for a moment lost.
As a bit of art, it is strikingly imaginative, and suggests the picture-quality of the tapestried horse, which Browning himself says was the chief inspiration of the poem. It is a fine example of the way in which the "strange and winged" fancy of the poet may take its flight from so simple an object as this tapestried horse, evidently a sorry beast too, in its needled presentment, or the poetic impulse would not have expressed itself in the vindictive, "I never saw a horse [sic] I hated so."
IYou know, we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.IIJust as perhaps he mused, "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall, 10Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall."Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.IIIThen off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect 20(So tight he kept his lips compressedScarce any blood came through)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.IV"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace"We've got you Ratisbon!"The Marshal's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire, 30Perched him—" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.VThe chief's eye flashed, but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle's-eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes,"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,Smiling the boy fell dead. 40NOTES:"Incident of the French Camp." A story of modest heroism.The incident related is said by Mrs. Orr to be a true oneof the siege of Ratisbon by Napoleon in 1809—exceptthat the real hero was a man.I. Ratisbon: (German Regensburg), an ancient cityof Bavaria on the right bank of the Danube, has enduredseventeen sieges since the tenth century, the last one beingthat of Napoleon, 1809.II. Lannes: Duke of Montebello, one of Napoleon's generals.
AN OLD STORYIIt was roses, roses, all the way,With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,A year ago on this very day.IIThe air broke into a mist with bells,The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels—But give me your sun from yonder skies!"They had answered, "And afterward, what else?" 10IIIAlack, it was I who leaped at the sunTo give it my loving friends to keep!Nought man could do, have I left undone:And you see my harvest, what I reapThis very day, now a year is run.IVThere's nobody on the house-tops now—Just a palsied few at the windows set;For the best of the sight is, all allow,At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet,By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 20VI go in the rain, and, more than needs,A rope cuts both my wrists behind;And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,For they fling, whoever has a mind,Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.VIThus I entered, and thus I go!In triumphs, people have dropped down dead."Paid by the world, what dost thou oweMe?"—God might question; now instead,'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. 30NOTES:"The Patriot" is a hero's story of the reward and punishmentdealt him for his services within one year. To actregardless of praise or blame, save God's, seems safer.
FerraraThat's my last Duchess painted on the wall,Looking as if she were alive. I callThat piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.Will't please you sit and look at her? I said"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never readStrangers like you that pictured countenance,The depth and passion of its earnest glance,But to myself they turned (since none puts bythe curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,How such a glance came there; so, not the firstAre you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas notHer husband's presence only, called that spotOf joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhapsFra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle lapsOver my lady's wrist too much," or "PaintMust never hope to reproduce the faintHalf-flush that dies along her throat"; such stuffWas courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20For calling up that spot of joy. She hadA heart—how shall I say—too soon made glad,Too easily impressed; she liked whate'erShe 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 foolBroke in the orchard for her, the white muleShe rode with round the terrace—all and eachWould draw from her alike the approving speech, 30Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thankedSomehow—I know not how—as if she rankedMy gift of a nine-hundred-years-old nameWith anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blameThis sort of trifling? Even had you skillIn speech (which I have not) to make your willQuite clear to such an one, and say, "Just thisOr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,Or there exceed the mark"—and if she letHerself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,E'en that would be some stooping; and I chooseNever to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,Whene'er I passed her; but who passed withoutMuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meetThe company below, then. I repeat,The Count your master's known munificenceIs ample warrant that no just pretence 50Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowedAt starting, is my object. Nay, we'll goTogether down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!NOTES:"My Last Duchess" puts in the mouth of a Duke of Ferrara,a typical husband and art patron of the Renaissance, adescription of his last wife, whose happy nature and universalkindliness were a perpetual affront to his exactingself-predominance, and whose suppression, by his command,has made the vacancy he is now, in his interviewwith the envoy for a new match, taking precaution to fillmore acceptably.3. Fra Pandolf, and 56. Claus of Innsbruck, are imaginary.
AIX EN PROVENCEIChrist God who savest man, save mostOf men Count Gismond who saved me!Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,Chose time and place and companyTo suit it; when he struck at lengthMy honour, 'twas with all his strength.IIAnd doubtlessly ere he could drawAll points to one, he must have schemed!That miserable morning sawFew half so happy as I seemed, 10While being dressed in queen's arrayTo give our tourney prize away.IIII thought they loved me, did me graceTo please themselves; 'twas all their deed;God makes, or fair or foul, our face;If showing mine so caused to bleedMy cousins' hearts, they should have droppedA word, and straight the play had stopped.IVThey, too, so beauteous! Each a queenBy virtue of her brow and breast; 20Not needing to be crowned, I mean,As I do. E'en when I was dressed,Had either of them spoke, insteadOf glancing sideways with still head!VBut no: they let me laugh, and singMy birthday song quite through, adjustThe last rose in my garland, flingA last look on the mirror, trustMy arms to each an arm of theirs,And so descend the castle-stairs— 30VIAnd come out on the morning-troopOf merry friends who kissed my cheek,And called me queen, and made me stoopUnder the canopy—a streakThat pierced it, of the outside sun,Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun—VIIAnd they could let me take my stateAnd foolish throne amid applauseOf all come there to celebrateMy queen's-day—Oh I think the cause 40Of much was, they forgot no crowdMakes up for parents in their shroud!VIIIHowever that be, all eyes were bentUpon me, when my cousins castTheirs down; 'twas time I should presentThe victor's crown, but... there, 'twill lastNo long time... the old mist againBlinds me as then it did. How vain!IXSee! Gismond's at the gate, in talkWith his two boys: I can proceed. 50Well, at that moment, who should stalkForth 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-sheetAbout her! Let her shun the chaste,Or lay herself before their feet!Shall she whose body I embracedA night long, queen it in the day?For honour's sake no crowns, I say!" 60XII? What I answered? As I live,I never fancied such a thingAs answer possible to give.What says the body when they springSome monstrous torture-engine's wholeStrength on it? No more says the soul.XIITill out strode Gismond; then I knewThat I was saved. I never metHis face before, but, at first view,I felt quite sure that God had set 70Himself to Satan; who would spendA minute's mistrust on the end?XIIIHe strode to Gauthier, in his throatGave him the lie, then struck his mouthWith one back-handed blow that wroteIn blood men's verdict there. North, South,East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,And damned, and truth stood up instead.XIVThis glads me most, that I enjoyedThe heart of the joy, with my content 80In watching Gismond unalloyedBy any doubt of the event:God took that on him—I was bidWatch Gismond for my part: I did.XVDid I not watch him while he letHis armourer just brace his greaves,Rivet his hauberk, on the fretThe while! His foot... my memory leavesNo least stamp out, nor how anonHe pulled his ringing gauntlets on. 90XVIAnd e'en before the trumpet's soundWas finished, prone lay the false knight,Prone as his lie, upon the ground:Gismond flew at him, used no sleightO' the sword, but open-breasted drove,Cleaving till out the truth he clove.XVIIWhich done, he dragged him to my feetAnd said "Here die, but end thy breathIn full confession, lest thou fleetFrom my first, to God's second death! 100Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have liedTo God and her," he said, and died.XVIIIThen Gismond, kneeling to me, askedWhat safe my heart holds, though no wordCould I repeat now, if I taskedMy powers for ever, to a thirdDear even as you are. Pass the restUntil I sank upon his breast.XIXOver my head his arm he flungAgainst the world; and scarce I felt 110His sword (that dripped by me and swung)A little shifted in its belt:For he began to say the whileHow South our home lay many a mile.XXSo 'mid the shouting multitudeWe two walked forth to never moreReturn. My cousins have pursuedTheir life, untroubled as beforeI vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-placeGod lighten! May his soul find grace! 120XXIOur elder boy has got the clearGreat brow; tho' when his brother's blackFull eye shows scorn, it... Gismond here?And have you brought my tercel back?I just was telling AdelaHow many birds it struck since May.
NOTES:"Count Gismond: Aix in Provence" illustrates, in the personof the woman who relates to a friend an episode of herown life, the power of innate purity to raise up forher a defender when caught in the toils woven bythe unsuspected envy and hypocrisy of her cousinsand Count Gauthier, who attempt to bring dishonorupon her, on her birthday, with the seeming intentionof honoring her. Her faith that the trial by combatbetween Gauthier and Gismond must end in Gismond'svictory and her vindication reflects most truly, as ArthurSymons has pointed out, the medieval atmosphere ofchivalrous France.124. Tercel: a male falcon.
Morning, evening, noon and night,"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.Then to his poor trade he turned,Whereby the daily meal was earned.Hard he laboured, long and well;O'er his work the boy's curls fell.But ever, at each period,He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"Then back again his curls he threw,And cheerful turned to work anew. 10Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;I doubt not thou art heard, my son:As well as if thy voice to-dayWere praising God, the Pope's great way.This Easter Day, the Pope at RomePraises God from Peter's dome."Said Theocrite, "Would God that IMight praise him, that great way, and die!"Night passed, day shone,And Theocrite was gone. 20With God a day endures alway,A thousand years are but a day.God said in heaven, "Nor day nor nightNow brings the voice of my delight."Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birthSpread his wings and sank to earth;.Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,Lived there, and played the craftsman well;And morning, evening, noon and night,Praised God in place of Theocrite. 30And from a boy, to youth he grew:The man put off the stripling's hue:The man matured and fell awayInto the season of decay:And ever o'er the trade he bent,And ever lived on earth content.(He did God's will; to him, all oneIf on the earth or in the sun.)God said, "A praise is in mine ear;There is no doubt in it, no fear: 40So sing old worlds, and soNew worlds that from my footstool go.Clearer loves sound other ways:I miss my little human praise."Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fellThe flesh disguise, remained the cell.'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,And paused above Saint Peter's dome.In the tiring-room close byThe great outer gallery, 50With his holy vestments dight,Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:And all his past careerCame back upon him clear,Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,Till on his life the sickness weighed;And in his cell, when death drew near,An angel in a dream brought cheer:And rising from the sickness drearHe grew a priest, and now stood here. 60To the East with praise he turned,And on his sight the angel burned."I bore thee from thy craftsman's cellAnd set thee here; I did not well."Vainly I left my angel-sphere,Vain was thy dream of many a year."Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped—Creation's chorus stopped!"Go back and praise againThe early way, while I remain. 70"With that weak voice of our disdain,Take up creation's pausing strain."Back to the cell and poor employ:Resume the craftsman and the boy!"Theocrite grew old at home;A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.One vanished as the other died:They sought God side by side.NOTES:"The Boy and the Angel." An imaginary legend illustratingthe worth of humble, human love to God, who missed inthe praise of the Pope, Theocrite, and of the AngelGabriel, the precious human quality in the song of thepoor boy, Theocrite.
IOf the million or two, more or lessI rule and possess,One man, for some cause undefined,Was least to my mind.III struck him, he grovelled of course—For, what was his force?I pinned him to earth with my weightAnd persistence of hate:And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,As his lot might be worse. 10III"Were the object less mean, would he standAt the swing of my hand!For obscurity helps him and blotsThe hole where he squats."So, I set my five wits on the stretchTo inveigle the wretch.All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,Still he couched there perdue;I tempted his blood and his flesh,Hid in roses my mesh, 20Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:Still he kept to his filth.IVHad he kith now or kin, were accessTo his heart, did I press:Just a son or a mother to seize!No such booty as these.Were it simply a friend to pursue'Mid my million or two,Who could pay me in person or pelfWhat he owes me himself! 30No: I could not but smile through my chafe:For the fellow lay safeAs his mates do, the midge and the nit,—Through minuteness, to wit.VThen a humour more great took its placeAt the thought of his face,The droop, the low cares of the mouth,The trouble uncouth'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fainTo put out of its pain. 40And, "no!" I admonished myself,"Is one mocked by an elf,Is one baffled by toad or by rat?The gravamen's in that!How the lion, who crouches to suitHis back to my foot,Would admire that I stand in debate!But the small turns the greatIf it vexes you, that is the thing!Toad or rat vex the king? 50Though I waste half my realm to unearthToad or rat, 'tis well worth!"VISo, I soberly laid my last planTo extinguish the man.Round his creep-hole, with never a breakRan my fires for his sake;Over-head, did my thunder combineWith my underground mine:Till I looked from my labour contentTo enjoy the event. 60VIIWhen sudden... how think ye, the end?Did I say "without friend"?Say rather, from marge to blue margeThe whole sky grew his targeWith the sun's self for visible boss,While an Arm ran acrossWhich the earth heaved beneath like a breastWhere the wretch was safe prest!Do you see? Just my vengeance complete,The man sprang to his feet, 70Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!—So,Iwas afraid!NOTES:"Instans Tyrannus" is a despot's confession of one of hisown experiences which showed him the inviolability of theweakest man who is in the right and who can call thespiritual force of good to his aid against the utmost violenceor cunning.—"Instans Tyrannus," or the threatening tyrant,suggested by Horace, third Ode in Book III:"Justum et tenacem proposti vlrum,Non civium ardor prava jubentium,Non vultus instantis tyranni," etc.[The just man tenacious of purpose is not to be turnedaside by the heat of the populace nor the brow of thethreatening tyrant.]
IAll I believed is true!I am able yetAll I want, to getBy a method as strange as new:Dare I trust the same to you?IIIf at night, when doors are shut,And the wood-worm picks,And the death-watch ticks,And the bar has a flag of smut,And a cat's in the water-butt— 10IIIAnd the socket floats and flares,And the house-beams groan,And a foot unknownIs surmised on the garret-stairs,And the locks slip unawares—IVAnd the spider, to serve his ends,By a sudden thread,Arms and legs outspread,On the table's midst descends,Comes to find, God knows what friends!— 20VIf since eve drew in, I say,I have sat and brought(So to speak) my thoughtTo bear on the woman away,Till I felt my hair turn grey—VITill I seemed to have and hold,In the vacancy'Twixt the wall and me,From the hair-plait's chestnut goldTo the foot in its muslin fold— 30VIIHave and hold, then and there,Her, from head to footBreathing and mute,Passive and yet aware,In the grasp of my steady stare—VIIIHold and have, there and then,All her body and soulThat completes my whole,All that women add to men,In the clutch of my steady ken— 40IXHaving and holding, tillI imprint her fastOn the void at lastAs the sun does whom he willBy the calotypist's skill—XThen,—if my heart's strength serve,And through all and eachOf the veils I reachTo her soul and never swerve,Knitting an iron nerve— 50XICommand her soul to advanceAnd inform the shapeWhich has made escapeAnd before my countenanceAnswers me glance for glance—XIII, still with a gesture fitOf my hands that bestDo my soul's behest,Pointing the power from it,While myself do steadfast sit— 60XIIISteadfast and still the sameOn my object bent,While the hands give ventTo my ardour and my aimAnd break into very flame—XIVThen I reach, I must believe,Not her soul in vain,For to me againIt reaches, and past retrieveIs wound in the toils I weave; 70XVAnd must follow as I require,As befits a thrall,Bringing flesh and all,Essence and earth-attireTo the source of the tractile fire:XVITill the house called hers, not mine,With a growing weightSeems to suffocateIf she break not its leaden lineAnd escape from its close confine. 80XVIIOut of doors into the night!On to the mazeOf the wild wood-ways,Not turning to left nor rightFrom the pathway, blind with sight—XVIIIMaking thro' rain and windO'er the broken shrubs,'Twixt the stems and stubs,With a still, composed, strong mind,Nor a care for the world behind— 90XIXSwifter and still more swift,As the crowding peaceDoth to joy increaseIn the wide blind eyes upliftThro' the darkness and the drift!XXWhile I—to the shape, I tooFeel my soul dilateNor a whit abate,And relax not a gesture due,As I see my belief come true. 100XXIFor, there! have I drawn or noLife to that lip?Do my fingers dipIn a flame which again they throwOn the cheek that breaks a-glow?XXIIHa! was the hair so first?What, unfilleted,Made alive, and spreadThrough the void with a rich outburst,Chestnut gold-interspersed? 110XXIIILike the doors of a casket-shrine,See, on either side,Her two arms divideTill the heart betwixt makes sign,Take me, for I am thine!XXIV"Now—now"—the door is heard!Hark, the stairs! and near—Nearer—and here—"Now!" and at call the thirdShe enters without a word. 120XXVOn doth she march and onTo the fancied shape;It is, past escape,Herself, now: the dream is doneAnd the shadow and she are one.XXVIFirst I will pray. Do ThouThat ownest the soul,Yet wilt grant controlTo another, nor disallowFor a time, restrain me now! 130XXVIII admonish me while I may,Not to squander guilt,Since require Thou wiltAt my hand its price one day!What the price is, who can say?NOTES:"Mesmerism." With a continuous tension of will, whoseunbroken concentration impregnates the very structure ofthe poem, a mesmerist describes the processes of the actby which he summons shape and soul of the woman hedesires; and then reverent perception of the sacrednessof the soul awes him from trespassing upon another'sindividuality.
(Peter Ronsard, loquitur)"Heigho!" yawned one day King Francis,"Distance all value enhances.When a man's busy, why, leisureStrikes 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'mCaught thinking war the true pastime.Is there a reason in metre?Give us your speech, master Peter!" 10I 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 chancesIf you talk fine to King Francis.And so, to the courtyard proceeding,Our company, Francis was leading, 20Increased by new followers tenfoldBefore he arrived at the penfold;Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizenAt sunset the western horizon.And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremostWith the dame he professed to adore most.Oh, what a face! One by fits eyedHer, and the horrible pitside;For the penfold surrounded a hollowWhich led where the eye scarce dared follow 30And shelved to the chamber secludedWhere Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.The King hailed his keeper, an ArabAs glossy and black as a scarab,And bade him make sport and at once stirUp and out of his den the old monster.They opened a hole in the wire-workAcross it, and dropped there a firework,And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, 40The blackness and silence so utter,By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;Then earth in a sudden contortionGave out to our gaze her abortion.Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot(Whose experience of nature's but narrowAnd whose faculties move in no small mistWhen he versifies David the Psalmist)I should study that brute to describe youIllum Juda Leonem de Tribu. 50One's whole blood grew curdling and creepyTo see the black mane, vast and heapy,The tail in the air stiff and strainingThe wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,As over the barrier which boundedHis platform, and us who surroundedThe barrier, they reached and they restedOn space that might stand him in best stead:For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, 60And 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 alreadyDriving the flocks up the mountainOr catlike couched hard by the fountain 70To 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 elsewhereAnd so can afford the confession)We exercise wholesome discretionIn keeping aloof from his threshold;Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,Their first would too pleasantly purloinThe visitor's brisket or surloin: 80But 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 jestedWith life so, De Lorge had been wooingFor months past; he sat there pursuingHis suit, weighing out with nonchalanceFine speeches like gold from a balance. 90Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,Walked straight to the glove—while the lionNe'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye onThe 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 ownerFlung the glove."Your heart's queen, you dethrone her? 100So should I!"—cried the King—"'twas mere vanityNot love set that task to humanity!"Lords and ladies alike turned with loathingFrom such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.Not so, I; for I caught an expressionIn her brow's undisturbed self-possessionAmid the Court's scoffing and merriment,As if from no pleasing experimentShe rose, yet of pain not much heedfulSo long as the process was needful,— 110As 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? 120For I"—so I spoke—"am a poet:Human nature,—behoves that I know it!"She told me, "Too long had I heardOf 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 deathHe would brave when my lip formed a breath,I must reckon as braved, or, of course,Doubt his word—and moreover, perforce, 130For such gifts as no lady could spurn,Must offer my love in return.When I looked on your lion, it broughtAll 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 handsDug the trap, set the snare on the sands,With no King and no Court to applaud,By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, 140Yet to capture the creature made shift,That his rude boys might laugh at the gift—To the page who last leaped o'er the fenceOf the pit, on no greater pretenceThan to get back the bonnet he dropped,Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.So, wiser I judged it to makeOne trial what 'death for my sake'Really meant, while the power was yet mine,Than to wait until time should define 150Such 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 keepingAs close as he dared to the doorway.No doubt that a noble should more weigh 160His life than befits a plebeian;And yet, had our brute been Nemean—(I judge by a certain calm fervourThe youth stepped with, forward to serve her)—He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turnIf you whispered "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!"And when, shortly after, she carriedHer shame from the Court, and they married,To that marriage some happiness, maugreThe voice of the Court, I dared augur. 170For 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 sequelTo the King's love, who loved her a week well.And 'twas noticed he never would honourDe Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)With the easy commission of stretchingHis legs in the service, and fetching 180His wife, from her chamber, those strayingSad 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. 190NOTES:"The Glove" gives a transcript from Court life, in Paris,under Francis I. In making Ronsard the mouthpiece fora deeper observation of the meaning of the incident he issupposed to witness and describe than Marot and the restsaw, characteristic differences between these two poets ofthe time are brought out, the genuineness of courtly loveand chivalry is tested, and to the original story of the gloveis added a new view of the lady's character; a sketch ofher humbler and truer lover, and their happiness; and apendent scene showing the courtier De Lorges, havingwon a beauty for his wife, in the ignominious position ofassisting the king to enjoy her favors and of submitting topleasantries upon his discomfiture. The original story astold by Poullain de St. Croix in his Essais Historiques surParis ran thus: "One day whilst Francis I amused himselfwith looking at a combat between his lions, a lady,having let her glove drop, said to De Lorges, 'If youwould have me believe that you love me as much as youswear you do, go and bring back my glove.' De Lorgeswent down, picked up the glove from amidst the ferociousbeasts, returned, and threw it in the lady's face; and inspite of all her advances and cajoleries would never lookat her again.'' Schiller running across this anecdote ofSt. Croix, in 1797, as he writes Goethe, wrote a poemon it which adds nothing to the story. Leigh Hunt's'The Glove and the Lions' adds some traits. It characterizesthe lady as shallow and vain, with smiles andeyes which always seem'd the same.'' She calculatessince "king, ladies, lovers, all look on," that "the occasionis divine" to drop her glove and "prove his love,then look at him and smile"; and after De Lorges hasreturned and thrown the glove, "but not with love, rightin the lady's face,'' Hunt makes the king rise and swear"rightly done! No love, quoth he, but vanity, sets lovea task like that!'' This is the material Browning workedon; he makes use of this speech of the king's, but remodelsthe lady's character wholly, and gives her an appreciativelover, and also a keen-eyed young poet to tell herstory afresh and to reveal through his criticism the narrownessof the Court and the Court poets.12. Naso: Ovid. Love of the classics and curiosity asto human nature were both characteristic of Peter Ronsard(1524-1585), at one time page to Francis I, themost erudite and original of French medieval poets.45. Clement Marot: (1496-1544), Court poet to Francis I.His nature and verse were simpler than Ronsard's,and he belonged more peculiarly to his own day.48. Versifies David: Marot was suspected of Protestantleanings which occasioned his imprisonment twice, and puthim in need of the protection Francis and his sister gavehim. Among his works were sixty-five epistles addressedto grandees, attesting his courtiership, and the paraphraseof forty-nine of the Psalms to which Ronsard alludes.50. Illum Juda, etc.: that lion of the tribe of Judah.89. Venienti, etc.: Meet the coming disease; that is,if evil be anticipated, don't wait till it seizes you, butdare to assure yourself and then forestall it as the lady did.190. Theorbo: an old Italian stringed instrument such aspages used.