In each of these plays* the lover of Browning will recall passage after passage of superbly dramatic effect. But supreme in his remembrance will be the wonderful scene in “The Return of the Druses”, where the Prefect, drawing a breath of relief, is almost simultaneously assassinated; and that where Anael, with every nerve at tension in her fierce religious resolve, with a poignant, life-surrendering cry, hails Djabal as `Hakeem’ — as Divine — and therewith falls dead at his feet. Nor will he forget that where, in “A Blot in the ‘Scutcheon”, Mildred, with a dry sob in her throat, stammeringly utters —
”I — I — was so young!
Besides I loved him, Thorold — and I had
No mother; God forgot me: so I fell — — ”
or that where, “at end of the disastrous day,” Luria takes the phial of poison from his breast, muttering —
”Strange! This is all I brought from my own land
To help me.”
—
* “Strafford”, 1837; “King Victor and King Charles”, 1842;
”The Return of the Druses”, and “A Blot in the ‘Scutcheon”, 1843;
”Colombe’s Birthday”, 1844; “Luria”, and “A Soul’s Tragedy”, 1845.
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Before passing on from these eight plays to Browning’s most imperishable because most nearly immaculate dramatic poem, “Pippa Passes”, and to “Sordello”, that colossal derelict upon the ocean of poetry, I should like — out of an embarrassing quantity of alluring details — to remind the reader of two secondary matters of interest, pertinent to the present theme. One is that the song in “A Blot in the ‘Scutcheon”, “There’s a woman like a dew-drop”, written several years before the author’s meeting with Elizabeth Barrett, is so closely in the style of “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship”, and other ballads by the sweet singer who afterwards became a partner in the loveliest marriage of which we have record in literary history, that, even were there nothing to substantiate the fact, it were fair to infer that Mertoun’s song to Mildred was the electric touch which compelled to its metric shape one of Mrs. Browning’s best-known poems.
The further interest lies in the lordly acknowledgment of the dedication to him of “Luria”, which Landor sent to Browning — lines pregnant with the stateliest music of his old age: —
”Shakespeare is not our poet but the world’s,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale
No man has walked along our roads with step
So active, so enquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.”
Chapter 5.
In my allusion to “Pippa Passes”, towards the close of the preceding chapter, as the most imperishable because the most nearly immaculate of Browning’s dramatic poems, I would not have it understood that its pre-eminence is considered from the standpoint of technical achievement, of art, merely. It seems to me, like all simple and beautiful things, profound enough for the searching plummet of the most curious explorer of the depths of life. It can be read, re-read, learned by heart, and the more it is known the wider and more alluring are the avenues of imaginative thought which it discloses. It has, more than any other long composition by its author, that quality of symmetry, that `symmetria prisca’ recorded of Leonardo da Vinci in the Latin epitaph of Platino Piatto; and, as might be expected, its mental basis, what Rossetti called fundamental brain-work, is as luminous, depth within depth, as the morning air. By its side, the more obviously “profound” poems, Bishop Blougram and the rest, are mere skilled dialectics.
The art that is most profound and most touching must ever be the simplest. Whenever Aeschylus, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, are at white heat they require no exposition, but meditation only — the meditation akin to the sentiment of little children who listen, intent upon every syllable, and passionately eager of soul, to hearthside tragedies. The play of genius is like the movement of the sea. It has its solemn rhythm: its joy, irradiate of the sun; its melancholy, in the patient moonlight: its surge and turbulence under passing tempests: below all, the deep oceanic music. There are, of course, many to whom the sea is but a waste of water, at best useful as a highway and as the nursery of the winds and rains. For them there is no hint “of the incommunicable dream” in the curve of the rising wave, no murmur of the oceanic undertone in the short leaping sounds, invisible things that laugh and clap their hands for joy and are no more. To them it is but a desert: obscure, imponderable, a weariness. The “profundity” of Browning, so dear a claim in the eyes of the poet’s fanatical admirers, exists, in their sense, only in his inferior work. There is more profound insight in Blake’s Song of Innocence, “Piping down the valleys wild,” or in Wordsworth’s line, “Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,” or in Keats’ single verse, “There is a budding morrow in midnight,” or in this quatrain on Poetry, by a young living poet —
”She comes like the husht beauty of the night,
But sees too deep for laughter;
Her touch is a vibration and a light
From worlds before and after — — ”
there is more “profundity” in any of these than in libraries of “Sludge the Medium” literature. Mere hard thinking does not involve profundity, any more than neurotic excitation involves spiritual ecstasy. `De profundis’, indeed, must the poet come: there must the deep rhythm of life have electrified his “volatile essence” to a living rhythmic joy. In this deep sense, and this only, the poet is born, not made. He may learn to fashion anew that which he hath seen: the depth of his insight depends upon the depth of his spiritual heritage. If wonder dwell not in his eyes and soul there can be no “far ken” for him. Here it seems apt to point out that Browning was the first writer of our day to indicate this transmutive, this inspired and inspiring wonder-spirit, which is the deepest motor in the evolution of our modern poetry. Characteristically, he puts his utterance into the mouth of a dreamy German student, the shadowy Schramm who is but metaphysics embodied, metaphysics finding apt expression in tobacco-smoke: “Keep but ever looking, whether with the body’s eye or the mind’s, and you will soon find something to look on! Has a man done wondering at women? — there follow men, dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering at men? — there’s God to wonder at: and the faculty of wonder may be, at the same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its novel one.”
This wonder is akin to that `insanity’ of the poet which is but impassioned sanity. Plato sums the matter when he says, “He who, having no touch of the Muse’s madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks he will get into the temple by the help of Art — he, I say, and his poetry, are not admitted.”
In that same wood beyond Dulwich to which allusion has already been made, the germinal motive of “Pippa Passes” flashed upon the poet. No wonder this resort was for long one of his sacred places, and that he lamented its disappearance as fervently as Ruskin bewailed the encroachment of the ocean of bricks and mortar upon the wooded privacies of Denmark Hill.
Save for a couple of brief visits abroad, Browning spent the years, between his first appearance as a dramatic writer and his marriage, in London and the neighbourhood. Occasionally he took long walks into the country. One particular pleasure was to lie beside a hedge, or deep in meadow-grasses, or under a tree, as circumstances and the mood concurred, and there to give himself up so absolutely to the life of the moment that even the shy birds would alight close by, and sometimes venturesomely poise themselves on suspicious wings for a brief space upon his recumbent body. I have heard him say that his faculty of observation at that time would not have appeared despicable to a Seminole or an Iro
quois: he saw and watched everything, the bird on the wing, the snail dragging its shell up the pendulous woodbine, the bee adding to his golden treasure as he swung in the bells of the campanula, the green fly darting hither and thither like an animated seedling, the spider weaving her gossamer from twig to twig, the woodpecker heedfully scrutinising the lichen on the gnarled oak-bole, the passage of the wind through leaves or across grass, the motions and shadows of the clouds, and so forth. These were his golden holidays. Much of the rest of his time, when not passed in his room in his father’s house, where he wrote his dramas and early poems, and studied for hours daily, was spent in the Library of the British Museum, in an endless curiosity into the more or less unbeaten tracks of literature. These London experiences were varied by whole days spent at the National Gallery, and in communion with kindred spirits. At one time he had rooms, or rather a room, in the immediate neighbourhood of the Strand, whither he could go when he wished to be in town continuously for a time, or when he had any social or theatrical engagement.
Browning’s life at this period was distraught by more than one episode of the heart. It would be strange were it otherwise. He had in no ordinary degree a rich and sensuous nature, and his responsiveness was so quick that the barriers of prudence were apt to be as shadowy to him as to the author of “The Witch of Atlas”. But he was the earnest student for the most part, and, above all, the poet. His other pleasure, in his happy vagrant days, was to join company with any tramps, gipsies, or other wayfarers, and in good fellowship gain much knowledge of life that was useful at a later time. Rustic entertainments, particularly peripatetic “Theatres Royal”, had a singular fascination for him, as for that matter had rustic oratory, whether of the alehouse or the pulpit. At one period he took the keenest interest in sectaries of all kinds: and often he incurred a gentle reproof from his mother because of his nomad propensities in search of “PASTORS new”. There was even a time when he seriously deliberated whether he should not combine literature and religious ministry, as Faraday combined evangelical fervour with scientific enthusiasm. “‘Twas a girl with eyes like two dreams of night” that saved him from himself, and defrauded the Church Independent of a stalwart orator.
It was, as already stated, while he strolled through Dulwich Wood one day that the thought occurred to him which was to find development and expression in “Pippa Passes”. “The image flashed upon him,” writes his intimate friend, Mrs. Sutherland Orr, “of some one walking thus alone through life; one apparently too obscure to leave a trace of his or her passage, yet exercising a lasting though unconscious influence at every step of it; and the image shaped itself into the little silk-winder of Asolo, Felippa or Pippa.”
It has always seemed to me a radical mistake to include “Pippa Passes” among Browning’s dramas. Not only is it absolutely unactable, but essentially undramatic in the conventional sense. True dramatic writing concerns itself fundamentally with the apt conjunction of events, and the more nearly it approximates to the verity of life the more likely is it to be of immediate appeal. There is a `vraie verite’ which only the poet, evolving from dramatic concepts rather than attempting to concentrate these in a quick, moving verisimilitude, can attempt. The passing hither and thither of Pippa, like a beneficent Fate, a wandering chorus from a higher amid the discordant medley of a lower world, changing the circumstances and even the natures of certain more or less heedless listeners by the wild free lilt of her happy song of innocence, is of this `vraie verite’. It is so obviously true, spiritually, that it is unreal in the commonplace of ordinary life. Its very effectiveness is too apt for the dramatist, who can ill afford to tamper further with the indifferent banalities of actual existence. The poet, unhampered by the exigencies of dramatic realism, can safely, and artistically, achieve an equally exact, even a higher verisimilitude, by means which are, or should be, beyond adoption by the dramatist proper.
But over and above any `nice discrimination’, “Pippa Passes” is simply a poem, a lyrical masque with interspersed dramatic episodes, and subsidiary interludes in prose. The suggestion recently made that it should be acted is a wholly errant one. The finest part of it is unrepresentable. The rest would consist merely of a series of tableaux, with conversational accompaniment.
The opening scene, “the large mean airy chamber,” where Pippa, the little silk-winder from the mills at Asolo, springs from bed, on her New Year’s Day `festa’, and soliloquises as she dresses, is as true as it is lovely when viewed through the rainbow glow of the poetic atmosphere: but how could it succeed on the stage? It is not merely that the monologue is too long: it is too inapt, in its poetic richness, for its purpose. It is the poet, not Pippa, who evokes this sweet sunrise-music, this strain of the “long blue solemn hours serenely flowing.” The dramatic poet may occupy himself with that deeper insight, and the wider expression of it, which is properly altogether beyond the scope of the playwright. In a word, he may irradiate his theme with the light that never was on sea or land, nor will he thereby sacrifice aught of essential truth: but his comrade must see to it that he is content with the wide liberal air of the common day. The poetic alchemist may turn a sword into pure gold: the playwright will concern himself with the due usage of the weapon as we know it, and attribute to it no transcendent value, no miraculous properties. What is permissible to Blake, painting Adam and Eve among embowering roses and lilies, while the sun, moon, and stars simultaneously shine, is impermissible to the portrait-painter or the landscapist, who has to idealise actuality to the point only of artistic realism, and not to transmute it at the outset from happily-perceived concrete facts to a glorified abstract concept.
In this opening monologue the much-admired song, “All service ranks the same with God,” is no song at all, properly, but simply a beautiful short poem. From the dramatist’s point of view, could anything be more shaped for disaster than the second of the two stanzas? —
”Say not `a small event’! Why `small’?
Costs it more pain than this, ye call
A `great event’, should come to pass,
Than that? Untwine me from the mass
Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power shall fall short in or exceed!”
The whole of this lovely prologue is the production of a dramatic poet, not of a poet writing a drama. On the other hand, I cannot agree with what I read somewhere recently — that Sebald’s song, at the opening of the most superb dramatic writing in the whole range of Victorian literature, is, in the circumstances, wholly inappropriate. It seems to me entirely consistent with the character of Ottima’s reckless lover. He is akin to the gallant in one of Dumas’ romances, who lingered atop of the wall of the prison whence he was escaping in order to whistle the concluding bar of a blithe chanson of freedom. What is, dramatically, disastrous in the instance of Mertoun singing “There’s a woman like a dew-drop”, when he ought to be seeking Mildred’s presence in profound stealth and silence, is, dramatically, electrically startling in the mouth of Sebald, among the geraniums of the shuttered shrub-house, where he has passed the night with Ottima, while her murdered husband lies stark in the adjoining room.
It must, however, be borne in mind that this thrilling dramatic effect is fully experienced only in retrospection, or when there is knowledge of what is to follow.
A conclusive objection to the drama as an actable play is that three of the four main episodes are fragmentary. We know nothing of the fate of Luigi: we can but surmise the future of Jules and Phene: we know not how or when Monsignor will see Pippa righted. Ottima and Sebald reach a higher level in voluntary death than they ever could have done in life.
It is quite unnecessary, here, to dwell upon this exquisite flower of genius in detail. Every one who knows Browning at all knows “Pippa Passes”. Its lyrics have been unsurpassed, for birdlike spontaneity and a rare high music, by any other Victorian poet: its poetic insight is such as no other poet than the author of “The Ring and the Book” and “The Inn Album” c
an equal. Its technique, moreover, is superb. From the outset of the tremendous episode of Ottima and Sebald, there is a note of tragic power which is almost overwhelming. Who has not know what Jakob Boehme calls “the shudder of a divine excitement” when Luca’s murderer replies to his paramour,
“morning? It seems to me a night with a sun added.”
How deep a note, again, is touched when Sebald exclaims, in allusion to his murder of Luca, that he was so “wrought upon”, though here, it may be, there is an unconscious reminiscence of the tenser and more culminative cry of Othello, “but being wrought, perplext in the extreme.” Still more profound a touch is that where Ottima, daring her lover to the “one thing that must be done; you know what thing: Come in and help to carry,” says, with affected lightsomeness, “This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass,” and simultaneously exclaims, as she throws them rejectingly from her nervous fingers, “Three, four — four grey hairs!” then with an almost sublime coquetry of horror turns abruptly to Sebald, saying with a voice striving vainly to be blithe —
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 390