1855
Let us begin and carry up this corpse,Singing together.Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpesEach in its tetherSleeping safe on the bosom of the plain,Cared-for till cock-crow:Look out if yonder be not day againRimming 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 sepultureOn 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'sCircling 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 noteWinter 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 prideOver men's pity;Left play for work, and grappled with the worldBent 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 fabricQuite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,Ere mortar dab brick!
(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-placeGaping 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 contriveUse 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:Calculusracked him:Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:Tussisattacked him."Now, master, take a little rest!"—not he!(Caution redoubled,Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)Not a whit troubledBack to his studies, fresher than at first,Fierce as a dragonHe (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, sureBad is our bargain!Was it not great? did not he throw on God,(He loves the burthen)—God's task to make the heavenly periodPerfect the earthen?Did not he magnify the mind, show clearJust what it all meant?He would not discount life, as fools do here,Paid by instalmentHe ventured neck or nothing—heaven's successFound, 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 unperplexedSeeking 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 stammerHe settledHoti'sbusiness—let it be!—Properly basedOun—Gave us the doctrine of the encliticDe,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 belowLive, 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 poemDe Gustibus.
What I love best in all the worldIs a castle, precipice-encurled,In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.
But our man does not know what heoughtto 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.
* * * * *
1855
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!
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.
Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bullJust 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.
But the city, oh the city—the square with the houses! Why?They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to takethe 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.
What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off theheights:You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam andwheeze,And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grey olive-trees.
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 bellLike a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick andsell.
Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout andsplash!In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bowsflashOn the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle andpashRound the lady atop in her conch—fifty gazers do not abash,Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sortof sash.
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 resinousfirs on the hill.Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the feverand chill.
Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bellsbegin: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, pipinghot!And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieveswere shot.Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new lawof the Duke's!Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-soWho is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero,"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts ofSaint Paul has reached,Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuousthan ever he preached,"Noon strikes,—here sweeps the procession!our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown allspangles,and seven swords stuck in her heart!Bang-whang-whanggoes the drum,tootle-te-tootlethe fife;No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.
But bless you, it's dear—it's dear! fowls, wine, at double therate.They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passingthe gateIt'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 andsandals,And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellowcandles;One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross withhandles,And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better preventionof scandals:Bang-whang-whanggoes the drum,tootle-te-tootlethe 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 thanThe 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 inBishop 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 arenot: 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, doyouact as if you believed what you say? Is virtue the greatest thing inyourlife? 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.
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 EastAsked, "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 breathWhispered, "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 heavilyOver 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 eyesOf the blackest black our eyes endure,
And lo, a blade for a knight's empriseFilled 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 nightIn 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 thereBy Cosimo and his cursed son.)
The Duke (with the statue's face in the square)Turned in the midst of his multitudeAt the bright approach of the bridal pair.
Face to face the lovers stoodA 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 brinkHe and his bride were alone at lastIn 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 herTill the final catafalk repassed.
The world meanwhile, its noise and stir,Through a certain window facing the EastShe 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 hellWhence a damned soul looks on paradise!"
"I fly to the Duke who loves me well,Sit by his side and laugh at sorrowEre 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 cheapAs the cost of this cup of bliss may proveTo 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 seenOn 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 ApennineIs 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 bringThy 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 FranceWhose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool."
"I need thee still and might miss perchanceTo-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 missedOne 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 setAnd leave them then as it left them now.
But next day passed, and next day yet,With still fresh cause to wait one day moreEre 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 dearthBy store of fruits that supplant the rose:The world and its ways have a certain worth:
And to press a point while these opposeWere 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 lookWhere his lady watches behind the grate!
And she—she watched the square like a bookHolding 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 schemeOf tearing it out for herself next sun.
So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleamThe 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 youthDepart, and the silver thread that streakedHer 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 strangeArrest 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 beguileDreary days which the dead must spendDown in their darkness under the aisle,"
"To say, 'What matters it at the end?I did no more while my heart was warmThan 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 eyeAnd quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch,Some one who ever is passing by—)
The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretchIn 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 manEre 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 sunsShall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,"
"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze—Admire and say, 'When he was aliveHow he would take his pleasure once!'"
"And it shall go hard but I contriveTo listen the while, and laugh in my tombAt 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 ponderWhat 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 doAs well, I reply, to serve for a test,
As a virtue golden through and through,Sufficient to vindicate itselfAnd prove its worth at a moment's view!
Must a game be played for the sake of pelf?Where a button goes, 'twere an epigramTo 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 uttermostFor his life's set prize, be it what it will!
The counter our lovers staked was lostAs 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 ofDramatic Idylsare full of paradoxes, for Browning became fonder and fonder of the paradox as he descended into the vale of years. The Russian poemIvan Ivanovitchjustly 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 poemCliveis 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 poemMuléykeh, 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 poemWhich? 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. InA 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 hishonorfor a woman." Her retort is one of the greatest in literature. "Millions of women have done it."