1835
Over the sea our galleys went,With cleaving prows in order braveTo a speeding wind and a bounding wave,A gallant armament:Each bark built out of a forest-treeLeft leafy and rough as first it grew,And nailed all over the gaping sides,Within and without, with black bull-hides,Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,To bear the playful billows' game:So, each good ship was rude to see,Rude and bare to the outward view,But each upbore a stately tentWhere cedar pales in scented rowKept out the flakes of the dancing brine,And an awning drooped the mast below,In fold on fold of the purple fine,That neither noontide nor starshineNor moonlight cold which maketh mad,Might pierce the regal tenement.When the sun dawned, oh, gay and gladWe set the sail and plied the oar;But when the night-wind blew like breath,For joy of one day's voyage more,We sang together on the wide sea,Like men at peace on a peaceful shore;Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,Each helm made sure by the twilight star,And in a sleep as calm as death,We, the voyagers from afar,Lay stretched along, each weary crewIn a circle round its wondrous tentWhence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent,And with light and perfume, music too:So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past,And at morn we started beside the mast,And still each ship was sailing fast.
Now, one morn, land appeared—a speckDim trembling betwixt sea and sky:"Avoid it," cried our pilot, "checkThe shout, restrain the eager eye!"But the heaving sea was black behindFor many a night and many a day,And land, though but a rock, drew nigh;So, we broke the cedar pales away,Let the purple awning flap in the wind,And a statue bright was on every deck!We shouted, every man of us,And steered right into the harbour thus,With pomp and paean glorious.
A hundred shapes of lucid stone!All day we built its shrine for each,A shrine of rock for every one,Nor paused till in the westering sunWe sat together on the beachTo sing because our task was done.When lo! what shouts and merry songs!What laughter all the distance stirs!A loaded raft with happy throngsOf gentle islanders!"Our isles are just at hand," they cried,"Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping:Our temple-gates are opened wide,Our olive-groves thick shade are keepingFor these majestic forms"—they cried.Oh, then we awoke with sudden startFrom our deep dream, and knew, too late,How bare the rock, how desolate,Which had received our precious freight:Yet we called out—"Depart!Our gifts, once given, must here abide.Our work is done; we have no heartTo mar our work,"—we cried,
1855
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!Sit and watch by her side an hour.That is her book-shelf, this her bed;She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,Beginning to die too, in the glass;Little has yet been changed, I think:The shutters are shut, no light may passSave two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.
Sixteen years old when she died!Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;It was not her time to love; beside,Her life had many a hope and aim,Duties enough and little cares,And now was quiet, now astir,Till God's hand beckoned unawares,—And the sweet white brow is all of her.
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?What, your soul was pure and true,The good stars met in your horoscope,Made you of spirit, fire and dew—And, just because I was thrice as oldAnd our paths in the world diverged so wide,Each was nought to each, must I be told?We were fellow mortals, nought beside?
No, indeed! for God aboveIs great to grant, as mighty to make,And creates the love to reward the love:I claim you still, for my own love's sake!Delayed it may be for more lives yet,Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:Much is to learn, much to forgetEre the time be come for taking you.
But the time will come,—at last it will,When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)In the lower earth, in the years long still,That body and soul so pure and gay?Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,And your mouth of your own geranium's red—And what you would do with me, in fine,In the new life come in the old one's stead.
I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,Given up myself so many times,Gained me the gains of various men,Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,Either I missed or itself missed me:And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!What is the issue? let us see!
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while.My heart seemed full as it could hold?There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.So, hush,—I will give you this leaf to keep:See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!There, that is our secret: go to sleep!You will wake, and remember, and understand.
The dramatic lyric in two parts calledMeeting at NightandParting at Morningcontains only sixteen lines and is a flawless masterpiece. Of the four dimensions of mathematics, one only has nothing to do with poetry. The length of a poem is of no importance in estimating its value. I do not fully understand what is meant by saying that a poem is too long or too short. It depends entirely on the art with which the particular subject is treated. A short poem of no value is too long; a long poem of genius is not too long. Richardson'sClarissain eight volumes is not too long, as is proved by the fact that the numerous attempts to abridge it are all failures; whereas many short stories in our magazines are far too long. Browning'sNight and Morningis not too short, because it contains in sixteen lines everything necessary;The Ring and the Bookis not too long, because the twenty thousand and odd lines are all needed to make the study of testimony absolutely complete. But whilst the mathematical dimension of length is not a factor in poetry, the dimensions of breadth and depth are of vital importance, and the mysterious fourth dimension is the quality that determines whether or not a poem is a work of genius. Poems of the highest imagination can not be measured at all except in the fourth dimension. The first part of Browning's lyric is notable for its shortness, its breadth and its depth; the second part possesses these qualities even more notably, and also takes the reader's thoughts into a world entirely outside the limits of time and space.
Browning has often been called a careless writer and although he maintained that the accusation was untrue, the condition of some of the manuscripts he sent to the press—notablyMr. Sludge, the Medium—is proof positive that he did not work at each one of his poems at his highest level of patient industry. He was however in general a fastidious artist; much more so than is commonly supposed. He was one of our greatest impromptu poets, like Shakespeare, writing hot from the brain; he was not a polisher and reviser, like Chaucer and Tennyson. But he studied with care the sound of his words. Many years ago, Mrs. Le Moyne, who has done so much to increase the number of intelligent Browning lovers in America, met the poet in Europe, and told him she would like to recite to him one of his own poems. "Go ahead, my dear." So she began to repeat in her beautiful voiceMeeting at Night; she spoke the third line
And the little startled waves that leap
"Stop!" said Browning, "that isn't right." She then learned from him the sharp difference between "little startled waves" as she read it, and "startled little waves" as he wrote it. He was trying to produce the effect of a warm night on the beach with no wind, where the tiny wavelets simply crumble in a brittle fashion on the sand. "Startled little waves" produces this effect; "little startled waves" does not.
The impressionistic colors in this poem add much to its effect; the grey sea, the black land, the yellow moon, the fiery ringlets, the blue spurt of the match, the golden light of morning. The sounds and smells are realistic; one hears the boat cut harshly into the slushy sand; the sharp scratch of the match; one inhales the thick, heavy odor radiating from the sea-scented beach that has absorbed all day the hot rays of the sun.
It is probable that the rendezvous is not at dusk, as is commonly supposed, but at midnight. Owen Wister, in his fine novel,The Virginian, speaks of the lover's journey as taking place at dusk. Now the half-moon could not scientifically be low at that early hour, and although most poets care nothing at all for the moon except as a decorative object, Browning was generally precise in such matters. An American poet submitted to theCentury Magazinea poem that was accepted, the last line of each stanza reading
And in the west the waning moon hangs low.
One of the editorial staff remembered that the waning moon does not hang low in the west; he therefore changed the word to "weary," which made the poet angry. He insisted that he was a poet, not a man of science, and vowed that he would place his moon exactly where he chose. The editors replied, "You can have a waning moon in the west in some magazines, perhaps, but you can not have it there in theCentury." So it was published "weary," as any one may see who has sufficient time and patience.
Furthermore the contrast in this poem is not between evening and morning, but between night and morning. The English commonly draw a distinction between evening and night that we do not observe in America.Pippa Passesis divided into four sections, Morning, Noon, Evening, Night. Furthermore the meeting is a clandestine one; not the first one, for the man's soliloquy of his line of march shows how often he has travelled this way before, and now his eager mind, leaping far ahead of his feet, repeats to him each stage of the journey. The cottage is shrouded in absolute darkness until the lover's tap is heard; then comes the sound and the sight of the match, and the sudden thrill of the mad embrace, when the wild heart-beats are louder than the love-whispers.
The dramatic contrast in this poem is between the man's feelings at night, and his mood in the morning. Both parts of the lyric, therefore, come from the man's heart. It is absurd to suppose, as many critics seem to think, that the second part is uttered by the woman. Such a mistake could never have arisen if it had not been for the word "him" in the penultimate line, which does not of course, refer to the man, but to the sun. To have the woman repeat in her heart these lines not only destroys the true philosophy of life set forth in the lyric, but the last reflection,
And the need of a world of men for me
would seem to make her taste rather catholic for an ideal sweetheart.
The real meaning of the poem is simply this: The passionate intensity of love can not be exaggerated; in the night's meeting all other thoughts, duties, and pleasures are as though they were not; but with the day comes the imperious call of life and even if the woman could be content to live forever with her lover in the lonely cottage, he could not; he loves her honestly with fervor and sincerity, but he simply must go out into the world where men are, and take his share of the excitement and the struggle; he would soon be absolutely miserable if marooned from life, even with the woman he loves. Those novels that represent a man as having no interest in life but love are false to human nature. In this poem Browning represents facts as they are; it is not simply that the man wants to go out and live among other men, it is a natural law that he must, as truly a natural law as gravitation.
And straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.
Just as the sun must take his prescribed course through the sky, so must I run my circle of duties in the world of men. It is not a moral call of duty; it is the importunate pull of necessity.
There is still the possibility of another interpretation of the last line, though I think the one just given is correct, "I need the world of men; it is a natural law." Now it is just possible that we could interpret "need" in another sense, with an inversion; "the world of men needs me, and I must go to do my share." This would make the man perhaps nobler, but surely not so natural; indeed it would sound like a priggish excuse to leave his mistress. I have never quite surrendered to the cavalier's words
I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not Honour more.
Are we sure it is honor, and not himself, he loves more?
It is impossible to improve on the Cowboy's comment on these lines in Mr. Wister'sVirginian; after Molly has read them aloud to the convalescing male, he remarks softly, "That is very, very true." Molly does not see why the Virginian admires these verses so much more than the others. "I could scarcely explain," says he, "but that man does know something." Molly wants to know if the lovers had quarrelled. "Oh, no! he will come back after he has played some more of the game." "The game?" "Life, ma'am. Whatever he was adoin' in the world of men. That's a bed-rock piece, ma'am."
The Virginian is much happier in his literary criticism of this lyric than he is of theGood Newsor of theIncident of the French Camp; in the latter instance, he misses the point altogether. The boy was not a poseur. The boy was so happy to think he had actually given his life for his master that he smilingly corrected Napoleon's cry "You're wounded!" It is as though one should congratulate an athletic contestant, and say "My felicitations! you won the second prize!" "No, indeed: I won the First."
Night and Morningsuggests so many thoughts that we could continue our comments indefinitely; but time suffices for only one more. The nature picture of the dawn is absolutely perfect.
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea.
He does not say that finally the cape became visible, but that the sea suddenly came round the cape. Any one who has stood on the ocean-shore before dawn, and gazed along the indented coast in the grey light, has observed the precise effect mentioned in these words. At first one sees only the blur of land where the cape is, and nothing beyond it; suddenly the light increases, and the sea actually appears to come around the point.
1845
The grey sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:And straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.
It is interesting to remember that Browning, of all poets most intellectual, should be so predominantly the poet of Love. This passion is the motive power of his verse, as he believed it to be the motive power of the universe. He exhibits the love of men and women in all its manifestations, from baseness and folly to the noblest heights of self-renunciation. It is natural that the most masculine and the most vigorous and the most intellectual of all our poets should devote his powers mainly to the representation of love. For love is the essence of force, and does not spring from effeminate weakness or febrile delicacy. Any painter can cover a huge canvas, but, as has been observed, only the strong hand can do the fine and tender work. To discuss at length the love-poems of Browning would take us far beyond the limits of this volume; but certain of the dramatic lyrics may be selected to illustrate salient characteristics. As various poets in making portraits emphasise what is to them the most expressive features, the eyes or the lips, so Browning, the poet of the mind, loves best of all in his women and men, the Brow.
InEvelyn Hope,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
InThe Last Ride Together,
My mistress bent that brow of hers.
InBy the Fireside,
Reading by firelight, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it.
InThe Statue and the Bust,
Hair in heaps lay heavilyOver a pale brow spirit-pure.
InCount Gismond,
They, too, so beauteous! Each a queenBy virtue of her brow and breast.
And the wonderful description of Pompilia by Caponsacchi:
Her brow had not the right line, leaned too much,Painters would say; they like the straight-up Greek:This seemed bent somewhat with an invisible crownOf martyr and saint, not such as art approves.
InEurydice,
But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow!
InCount Gismond,
Our elder boy has got the clearGreat brow.
InThe Statue and the Bust,
On his steady brow and quiet mouth.
His ideally beautiful women generally have yellow hair. The ladyIn a Gondolahad coiled hair, "a round smooth cord of gold." InEvelyn Hope, the "hair's young gold:" inLove Among the Ruins, "eager eyes and yellow hair:" inA Toccata,
Dear dead women, with such hair, too—what's become of all the goldUsed to hang and brush their bosoms?
And we must not forget his poem,Gold Hair. His descriptions of women's faces are never conventional, rosy cheeks and bright eyes, but always definite and specific. InTime's Revenges, the unfortunate lover is maddened by the vision of the girl's face:
So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,Filled full, eaten out and inWith the face of her, the eyes of her,The lips, the little chin, the stirOf shadow round her mouth.
Browning's rejected lovers are such splendid fellows that one wonders at their ill luck. Tennyson's typical lovers, as seen inLocksley Hall,Lady Clara Vere de Vere, and the first part ofMaud, behave in a manner that quite justifies the woman. They whine, they rave, and they seem most of all to be astonished at the woman's lack of judgment in not recognising their merits. Instead of a noble sorrow, they exhibit peevishness; they seem to say, "You'll be sorry some day." Browning's rejected lovers never think of themselves and their own defeat; they think only of the woman, who is now more adorable than ever. It never occurs to them that the woman is lacking in intelligence because of her refusal; nor that the man she prefers is a lowbrowed scoundrel. They are chivalrous; they do their best to win. When they lose, they would rather have been rejected by this woman than accepted by any other; and they are always ready to congratulate the man more fortunate than they. They are in fact simply irresistible, and one can not help believing in their ultimate success. InThe Lost Mistress, which Swinburne said was worth a thousandLost Leaders, the lover has just been rejected, and instead of thinking of his own misery, he endeavours to make the awkward situation easier for the girl by small-talk about the sparrows and the leaf-buds. She has urged that their friendship continue; that this episode need not put an end to their meetings, and that he can come to see her as often as he likes, only there must be no nonsense; he must promise to be sensible, and treat her only as a friend. Instead of rejecting this suggestion with scorn, he accepts, and agrees to do his best.
Tomorrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we …Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
"I will do my best to please you, but remember I'm made of flesh and blood."
InOne Way of Love, the same kind of man appears. Pauline likes flowers, music, and fine speeches. He is just a mere man, who has never noticed a flower in his life, who is totally indifferent to music, and never could talk with eloquence. But if Pauline likes these things, he must endeavor to impress her, if not with his skill, at all events with his devotion. He sends her a beautiful bouquet; she does not even notice it. For months he tries to learn the instrument, until finally he can play "his tune." She does not even listen; he throws the lute away, for he cares nothing for music except for her sake. At last comes the supreme moment when he makes his declaration, on which the whole happiness of his life depends.
This hour my utmost art I proveAnd speak my passion-heaven or hell?
Many lovers, on being rejected, would simply repeat the last word just quoted. This fine sportsmanlike hero remarks,
She will not give me heaven? 'Tis wellLose who may—I still can say,Those who win heaven, blest are they!
"I can not reproach myself, for I did my best, and lost: still less can I reproach her; all I can say is, the man who gets her is lucky."
Finally, the same kind of character appears in one of the greatest love-poems in all literature,The Last Ride Together. The situation just before the opening lines is an exact parallel to that ofThe Lost Mistress. Every day this young pair have been riding together. The man has fallen in love, and has mistaken the girl's camaraderie for a deeper feeling. He has just discovered his error, and without minimising the force of the blow that has wrecked his life's happiness, this is what he says:
Then, dearest, since 'tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must be—My whole heart rises up to(curse, oh, no!)rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame,Your leave for one more last ride with me.
What does the rejected lover mean by such brave words as "pride" and "thankfulness"? He means that it is a great honor to be rejected by such a woman, as Mr. Birrell says it is better to be knocked down by Doctor Johnson than to be picked up by Mr. Froude. He is thankful, too, to have known such a wonderful woman; and to show that he can control himself, and make the situation easier for her, he requests that to-day for the last time they ride just as usual—indeed they had met for that purpose, are properly accoutred, and were about to start, when he astonished her with his sudden and no longer controllable declaration. Right! We shall ride together. I am not yet banished from the sight of her. Perhaps the world will end to-night.
In the course of this poem, Browning develops one of his favorite ideas, that Life is always greater than Art. A famous poet may sit at his desk, and write of love in a way to thrill the hearts of his readers; but we should place him lower than rustic sweethearts meeting in the moonlight, because they are having in reality something which exists for the poet only in dreams. The same is true of sculpture and all pictorial art; men will turn from the greatest masterpiece of the chisel or the brush to look at a living woman.
And you, great sculptor,—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that's your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!
I was once seated in the square room in the gallery at Dresden that holds the most famous picture in the world, Rafael's Sistine Madonna. A number of tourists were in the place, and we were all gazing steadfastly at the immortal Virgin, when a pretty, fresh-colored young American girl entered the room. Every man's head twisted away from the masterpiece of art, and every man's eyes stared at the commonplace stranger, because she was alive! I was much amused, and could not help thinking of Browning's lines.
This doctrine, that Life is greater than Art, is repeated by Browning inCleon, and it forms the whole content of Ibsen's last drama,When We Dead Awaken.
The lover's reasoning at the close of Browning's poem, that rejection may be better for him because now he has an unrealised ideal, and that the race itself is better than the victor's garland, reminds us of Lessing's noble saying, that if God gave him the choice between the knowledge of all truth and the search for it, he would humbly take the latter.
One must lead some life beyond,Have a bliss to die with,dim-descried.
THE LOST MISTRESS1845
All's over, then; does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns gray.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:
For each glance of the eye so bright and blackThough I keep with heart's endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul forever!—
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
ONE WAY OF LOVE1855
All June I bound the rose in sheaves.Now, rose by rose, I strip the leavesAnd strew them where Pauline may pass.She will not turn aside? Alas!Let them lie. Suppose they die?The chance was they might take her eye,
How many a month I strove to suitThese stubborn fingers to the lute!To-day I venture all I know.She will not hear my music? So!Break the string; fold music's wing:Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!
My whole life long I learned to love.This hour my utmost art I proveAnd speak my passion—heaven or hell?She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!Lose who may—I still can say,Those who win heaven, blest are they!
1855
I said—Then, dearest, since 'tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must be—My whole heart rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame,Your leave for one more last ride with me.
My mistress bent that brow of hers;Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fixed me a breathing-while or twoWith life or death in the balance: right!The blood replenished me again;My last thought was at least not vain:I and my mistress, side by sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?
Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosomed, over-bowedBy many benedictions—sun'sAnd moon's and evening-star's at once—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,Down on you, near and yet more near,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and lingered—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
Then we began to ride. My soulSmoothed itself out, a long-cramped scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind.What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss.Might she have loved me? just as wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive and who succeeds?We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new.As the world rushed by on either side.I thought,—All labour, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
What hand and brain went ever paired?What heart alike conceived and dared?What act proved all its thought had been?What will but felt the fleshly screen?We ride and I see her bosom heave.There's many a crown for who can reach.Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!The flag stuck on a heap of bones,A soldier's doing! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.My riding is better, by their leave.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you expressedYou hold things beautiful the best,And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then,Have you yourself what's best for men?Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—Nearer one whit your own sublimeThan we who never have turned a rhyme?Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that's your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown greyWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,"Greatly his opera's strains intend,Put in music we know how fashions end!"I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy being—had I signed the bond—Still one must lead some life beyond,Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.This foot once planted on the goal,This glory-garland round my soul,Could I descry such? Try and test!I sink back shuddering from the quest.Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
And yet—she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life's best, with our eyes upturnedWhither life's flower is first discerned,We, fixed so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, for ever ride?
Browning's lovers, as has been illustrated, are usually chivalrous, whether their passions have or have not the sanction of law. The poemIn a Gondola, which has been more often translated into foreign languages than perhaps any other of Browning's works, gives us a picture of a night in Venice. The fluent rhythms of the verse indicate the lazy glide of the gondola through the dark waters of the canal. The lovers speak, sing, and muse; and their conversation is full of the little language characteristic of those who are in complete possession of each other, soul and body. They delight in passionate reminiscences: they love to recall their first chance meeting:
Ah, the autumn dayI, passing, saw you overhead!
The wind blew out the curtains of her apartment, and her pet parrot escaped, giving the man his opportunity. They rehearse over again the advancing stages of their drama. She asks him to kiss her like a moth, then like a bee—in the attempt to recapture the first shy sweetness of their dawning passion. They play little love-games. He pretends he is a Jew, carrying her away from her family to a tribal feast; then that they twain are spirits of stars, meeting in the thin air aloft. The intensity of their bliss is sharpened by the black cloud of danger in which they move: for if the Three, husband, father, and brother of the lady become aware of this secret liaison, there can be only one end to it—a tragedy of blood. The lighted taper held in the window by the trusted maid shows that they are "safe," and for the last time they play again their little comedy of formality. She pretends to be the formalgrande dame, the lady with the colder breast than snow: he is the bashful gallant, who hardly dares touch the tips of her fingers. In this laughing moment, the dagger of the husband is driven deep into his back. Like all of Browning's lovers, he gives, even on the edge of the eternal darkness, no thought to himself, but only to her. Gathering his dying energies, he speaks in a loud tone, so that the conspirators, invisible in the Venetian night, may hear him:
Care not for the cowards! CareOnly to put aside thy beauteous hairMy blood will hurt!
And in the last agony, he comforts her with the thought that all this, the joy of love and the separation by murder, have been ordained.
InLove Among the Ruins, with whichMen and Womenoriginally opened, and which some believe to be Browning's masterpiece, Love is given its place as the supreme fact in human history. This is a scene in the Roman Campagna at twilight, and the picture in the first stanza reminds us of Gray'sElegyin the perfection of its quiet silver tone. With a skill nothing short of genius, Browning has maintained in this poem a double parallel. Up to the fifth stanza, the contrast is between the present peace of the vast solitary plain, and its condition years ago when it was the centre of a city's beating heart: from the fifth stanza to the close, the contrast is between this same vanished civilisation and the eternal quality of Love. I do not remember any other work in literature where a double parallel is given with such perfect continuity and beauty; the first half of each stanza is in exact antithesis to the last. The parenthesis—so they say—is a delicate touch of dramatic irony. No one would dream that this quiet plain was once the site of a great city, for no proofs remain: we have to take the word of the archæologists for it. Some day a Japanese shepherd may pasture his sheep on Manhattan Island.
After a poetic discourse on the textSic transit gloria mundi—the love motive is suddenly introduced in the fifth stanza; and now the contrast changes, and becomes a comparison between the ephemeral nature of civilisation and the permanent fact of Love. At the exact spot where the grandstand formerly stood at the finish of the horse-race, where the King, surrounded by courtiers, watched the whirling chariots, now remains motionless, breathless, a yellow-haired girl. The proud King's eyes looked over the stadium and beheld the domes and pinnacles of his city, the last word of civilisation; the girl's eager eyes look over the silent plain searching for the coming of her lover. And Browning would have us believe that this latter fact is far more important historically than the former.
Suppose an American professor of archæology is working on the grassy expanse, collecting material for his new book; he looks up for a moment and sees a pair of rustic lovers kissing in the twilight; he smiles, and resumes what seems to him his important labor. Little does he imagine that this love-scene is more significant than all the broken bits of pottery he digs out of the ground; yet such is the fact. For all he can do at his very best is to reconstruct a vanished past, while the lovers are acting a scene that belongs to eternity. Love is best.
1855
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,Miles and milesOn the solitary pastures where our sheepHalf-asleepTinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stopAs they crop—Was the site once of a city great and gay,(So they say)Of our country's very capital, its princeAges sinceHeld his court in, gathered councils, wielding farPeace or war.
Now,—the country does not even boast a treeAs you see,To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rillsFrom the hillsIntersect and give a name to, (else they runInto one)Where the domed and daring palace shot its spiresUp like firesO'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wallBounding all,Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,Twelve abreast.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grassNever was!Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreadsAnd embedsEvery vestige of the city, guessed alone,Stock or stone—Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woeLong ago;Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shameStruck them tame;And that glory and that shame alike, the goldBought and sold.
Now,—the single little turret that remainsOn the plains,By the caper overrooted, by the gourdOverscored,While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winksThrough the chinks—Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient timeSprang sublime,And a burning ring, all round, the chariots tracedAs they raced,And the monarch and his minions and his damesViewed the games.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eveSmiles to leaveTo their folding, all our many-tinkling fleeceIn such peace,And the slopes and rills in undistinguished greyMelt away—That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hairWaits me thereIn the turret whence the charioteers caught soulFor the goal,When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumbTill I come.
But he looked upon the city, every side,Far and wide,All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'Colonnades,All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then,All the men!When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,Either handOn my shoulder, give her eyes the first embraceOf my face,Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speechEach on each.
In one year they sent a million fighters forthSouth and North,And they built their gods a brazen pillar highAs the sky,Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—Gold, of course.Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!Earth's returnsFor whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!Shut them in,With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!Love is best.
In the poemRespectabilityBrowning gives us a more vulgar, but none the less vital aspect of love. This is no peaceful twilit harmony; this scene is set on a windy, rainy night in noisy Paris, on the left bank of the Seine, directly in front of the Institute of France. Two reckless lovers—either old comrades or picked-up acquaintances of this very night, it matters not which—come tripping along gaily, arm in arm. The man chaffs at worldly conventions, at the dullness of society, at the hypocrisy of so-called respectable people, and congratulates himself and his fair companion on the fun they are having. What fools they would have been had they waited through a long, formal courtship for the sanction of an expensive marriage! The world, he says, does not forbid kisses, only it says, you must see the magistrate first. My finger must not touch your soft lips until it is covered with the glove of marriage. Bah! what do we care for the world's good word? At this moment they reach the lighted windows of the Institute, and like a pair of sparrows, they glance within at the highly proper but terribly tedious company. What do they see? They see Guizot compelled by political exigency to shake hands hypocritically with his enemy Montalembert. But before them down a dim court shine three lamps, an all-night dance resort. Come on! run for it! that's the place for us! no dull formalities, no hypocrisies there! Something doing!
1855
Dear, had the world in its capriceDeigned to proclaim "I know you both,Have recognized your plighted troth,Am sponsor for you: live in peace!"—How many precious months and yearsOf youth had passed, that speed so fast,Before we found it out at last,The world, and what it fears?
How much of priceless life were spentWith men that every virtue decks,And women models of their sex,Society's true ornament,—Ere we dared wander, nights like this,Thro' wind and rain, and watch the Seine,And feel the Boulevart break againTo warmth and light and bliss?
I know! the world proscribes not love;Allows my finger to caressYour lips' contour and downiness,Provided it supply a glove.The world's good word!—the Institute!Guizot receives Montalembert!Eh? Down the court three lampions flare:Put forward your best foot!
In the list ofDramatis Personae, Browning placedConfessionsshortly afterA Death in the Desert, as if to show the enormous contrast in two death-bed scenes. After a presentation of the last noble, spiritual, inspired moments of the apostle John, we have portrayed for us the dying delirium of an old sinner, whose thought travels back to the sweetest moments of his life, his clandestine meetings with the girl he loved. The solemn voice of the priest is like the troublesome buzzing of a fly.
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?
Not much!
Like Matthew Arnold'sWish, the brother-doctor of the soul who is called in
To canvass with official breath
is simply a nuisance in these last minutes of life. The row of medicine bottles, all useless now for practical purposes, represents to his fevered eyes the topography of the scene where the girl used to come running to meet him. "I know, sir, it's improper,"—I ought not to talk this way to a clergyman, my mind isn't right, I'm dying, and this is all I can think of.
How sad and bad and mad it was—But then, how it was sweet!
1864
What is he buzzing in my ears?"Now that I come to die,Do I view the world as a vale of tears?"Ah, reverend sir, not I!
What I viewed there once, what I view againWhere the physic bottles standOn the table's edge,—is a suburb lane,With a wall to my bedside hand.
That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,From a house you could descryO'er the garden-wall; is the curtain blueOr green to a healthy eye?
To mine, it serves for the old June weatherBlue above lane and wall;And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether"Is the house o'ertopping all.
At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,There watched for me, one June,A girl: I know, sir, it's improper,My poor mind's out of tune.
Only, there was a way … you creptClose by the side, to dodgeEyes in the house, two eyes except:They styled their house "The Lodge."
What right had a lounger up their lane?But, by creeping very close,With the good wall's help,—their eyes might strainAnd stretch themselves to Oes,
Yet never catch her and me together,As she left the attic, there,By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether,"And stole from stair to stair,
And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,We loved, sir—used to meet:How sad and bad and mad it was—But then, how it was sweet!
We may close our considerations of the dramatic lyrics with three love-poems. Whenever in his later years Browning was asked to write a selection with his autograph, he used to say playfully that the only one of his poems that he could remember wasMy Star; hence more copies of this exist in manuscript than any other of his productions. It was of course a tribute to his wife; she shone upon his life like a star of various colors; but the moment the world attempted to pry into the secret of her genius, she shut off the light altogether. Let the world regard Saturn, the most wonderful star in the heavens. My star shines for me alone.
The first and best of the series ofBad Dreamsgives us again in Browning's last volume his doctrine of love. Love is its own reward: it may be sad not to have love returned, but the one unspeakable tragedy is to lose the capacity for loving. In a terrible dream, the face of the woman changes from its familiar tenderness to a glance of stony indifference, and in response to his agonised enquiry, she declares that her love for him is absolutely dead. Then comes a twofold bliss: one was in the mere waking from such desolation, but the other consisted in the fact that even if the dream were true, his love for her knew no diminution. Thank God, I loved on the same!
The most audacious poem of Browning's old age isSummum Bonum. Since the dawn of human speculative thought, philosophers have asked this question, What is the highest good? It has been answered in various ways. Omar Khayyam said it was Wine: John Stuart Mill said it was the greatest happiness of the greatest number: the Westminster Catechism said it was to glorify God and enjoy Him forever. Browning says it is the kiss of one girl. This kiss is the concentrated essence of all the glory, beauty, and sweetness of life. In order to understand such a paradox, we must remember that in Browning's philosophy, Love is the engine of the whole universe. I have no doubt that Love meant to him more than it has ever meant to any other poet or thinker; just as I am sure that the word Beauty revealed to Keats a vision entirely beyond the range of even the greatest seers. Love is the supreme fact; and every manifestation of it on earth, from the Divine Incarnation down to a chance meeting of lovers, is more important than any other event or idea. Now we have seen that it is Browning's way invariably to represent an abstract thought by a concrete illustration. Therefore in this great and daring lyric we find the imaginary lover calling the kiss of the woman he loves the highest good in life.
1855
All that I knowOf a certain starIs, it can throw(Like the angled spar)Now a dart of red,Now a dart of blue;Till my friends have saidThey would fain see, too,My star that dartles the red and the blue!Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.What matter to me if their star is a world?Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.