—
* One account says `Childe Roland’ was written in three days;
another, that it was composed in one. Browning’s rapidity in composition
was extraordinary. “The Return of the Druses” was written in five days,
an act a day; so, also, was “A Blot in the ‘Scutcheon”.
—
Montaigne, in one of his essays, says that to stop gracefully is sure proof of high race in a horse: certainly to stop in time is imperative upon the poet. Of Browning may be said what Poe wrote of another, that his genius was too impetuous for the minuter technicalities of that elaborate ART so needful in the building up of monuments for immortality. But has not a greater than Poe declared that “what distinguishes the artist from the amateur is `architectonike’ in the highest sense; that power of execution which creates, forms, and constitutes: not the profoundness of single thoughts, not the richness of imagery, not the abundance of illustration.” Assuredly, no “new definition” can be an effective one which conflicts with Goethe’s incontrovertible dictum.
But this much having been admitted, I am only too willing to protest against the uncritical outcry against Browning’s musical incapacity.
A deficiency is not incapacity, otherwise Coleridge, at his highest the most perfect of our poets, would be lowly estimated.
”Bid shine what would, dismiss into the shade
What should not be — and there triumphs the paramount
Surprise o’ the master.” . . .
Browning’s music is oftener harmonic than melodic: and musicians know how the general ear, charmed with immediately appellant melodies, resents, wearies of, or is deaf to the harmonies of a more remote, a more complex, and above all a more novel creative method. He is, among poets, what Wagner is among musicians; as Shakespeare may be likened to Beethoven, or Shelley to Chopin. The common assertion as to his incapacity for metric music is on the level of those affirmations as to his not being widely accepted of the people, when the people have the chance; or as to the indifference of the public to poetry generally — and this in an age when poetry has never been so widely understood, loved, and valued, and wherein it is yearly growing more acceptable and more potent!
A great writer is to be adjudged by his triumphs, not by his failures: as, to take up Montaigne’s simile again, a famous race-horse is remembered for its successes and not for the races which it lost. The tendency with certain critics is to reverse the process. Instead of saying with the archbishop in Horne’s “Gregory VII.”, “He owes it all to his Memnonian voice! He has no genius:” or of declaring, as Prospero says of Caliban in “The Tempest”, “He is as disproportioned in his manners as in his shape:” how much better to affirm of him what Ben Jonson wrote of Shakespeare, “Hee redeemed his vices with his vertues: there was ever more in him to bee praysed than to bee pardoned.” In the balance of triumphs and failures, however, is to be sought the relative measure of genius — whose equipoise should be the first matter of ascertainment in comparative criticism.
For those who would discriminate between what Mr. Traill succinctly terms his GENERIC greatness as thinker and man of letters, and his SPECIFIC power as poet, it is necessary to disabuse the mind of Browning’s “message”. The question is not one of weighty message, but of artistic presentation. To praise a poem because of its optimism is like commending a peach because it loves the sunshine, rather than because of its distinguishing bloom and savour. The primary concern of the artist must be with his vehicle of expression. In the instance of a poet, this vehicle is language emotioned to the white-heat of rhythmic music by impassioned thought or sensation. Schopenhauer declares it is all a question of style now with poetry; that everything has been sung, that everything has been duly cursed, that there is nothing left for poetry but to be the glowing forge of words. He forgets that in quintessential art there is nothing of the past, nothing old: even the future has part therein only in that the present is always encroaching upon, becoming, the future. The famous pessimistic philosopher has, in common with other critics, made, in effect, the same remark — that Style exhales the odour of the soul: yet he himself has indicated that the strength of Shakespeare lay in the fact that `he had no taste,’ that `he was not a man of letters.’ Whenever genius has displayed epic force it has established a new order. In the general disintegration and reconstruction of literary ideals thus involved, it is easier to be confused by the novel flashing of strange lights than to discern the central vivifying altar-flame. It may prove that what seem to us the regrettable accidents of Browning’s genius are no malfortunate flaws, but as germane thereto as his Herculean ruggednesses are to Shakespeare, as the laboured inversions of his blank verse are to Milton, as his austere concision is to Dante. Meanwhile, to the more exigent among us at any rate, the flaws seem flaws, and in nowise essential.
But when we find weighty message and noble utterance in union, as we do in the magnificent remainder after even the severest ablation of the poor and mediocre portion of Browning’s life-work, how beneficent seem the generous gods! Of this remainder most aptly may be quoted these lines from “The Ring and the Book”,
”Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore;
Prime nature with an added artistry.”
How gladly, in this dubious hour — when, as an eminent writer has phrased it, a colossal Hand, which some call the hand of Destiny and others that of Humanity, is putting out the lights of Heaven one by one, like candles after a feast — how gladly we listen to this poet with his serene faith in God, and immortal life, and the soul’s unending development! “Hope hard in the subtle thing that’s Spirit,” he cries in the Prologue to “Pacchiarotto”: and this, in manifold phrasing, is his `leit-motif’, his fundamental idea, in unbroken line from the “Pauline” of his twenty-first to the “Asolando” of his seventy-sixth year. This superb phalanx of faith — what shall prevail against it?
How winsome it is, moreover: this, and the humanity of his song. Profoundly he realised that there is no more significant study than the human heart. “The development of a soul: little else is worth study,” he wrote in his preface to “Sordello”: so in his old age, in his last “Reverie” —
”As the record from youth to age
Of my own, the single soul —
So the world’s wide book: one page
Deciphered explains the whole
Of our common heritage.”
He had faith also that “the record from youth to age” of his own soul would outlast any present indifference or neglect — that whatever tide might bear him away from our regard for a time would ere long flow again. The reaction must come: it is, indeed, already at hand. But one almost fancies one can hear the gathering of the remote waters once more. We may, with Strafford,
”feel sure
That Time, who in the twilight comes to mend
All the fantastic day’s caprice, consign
To the low ground once more the ignoble Term,
And raise the Genius on his orb again, —
That Time will do me right.” . . .
Indeed, Browning has the grand manner, for all it is more that of the Scandinavian Jarl than of the Italian count or Spanish grandee.
And ever, below all the stress and failure, below all the triumph of his toil, is the beauty of his dream. It was “a surpassing Spirit” that went from out our midst.
”One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake.”
“Speed, fight on, fare ever There as here!” are the last words of this brave soul. In truth, “the air seems bright with his past presence yet.”
”Sun-treader — life and light be thine for ever;
Thou art gone from us — years go by — and spring
Gladdens, and the young earth is be
autiful,
Yet thy songs come not — other bards arise,
But none like thee — they stand — thy majesties,
Like mighty works which tell some Spirit there
Hath sat regardless of neglect and scorn,
Till, its long task completed, it hath risen
And left us, never to return.”
LIFE AND LETTERS OF ROBERT BROWNING by Mrs. Sutherland Orr
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Conclusion
Chapter 1
Origin of the Browning Family — Robert Browning’s Grandfather — His position and Character — His first and second Marriage — Unkindness towards his eldest Son, Robert Browning’s Father — Alleged Infusion of West Indian Blood through Robert Browning’s Grandmother — Existing Evidence against it — The Grandmother’s Portrait.
A belief was current in Mr. Browning’s lifetime that he had Jewish blood in his veins. It received outward support from certain accidents of his life, from his known interest in the Hebrew language and literature, from his friendship for various members of the Jewish community in London. It might well have yielded to the fact of his never claiming the kinship, which could not have existed without his knowledge, and which, if he had known it, he would, by reason of these very sympathies, have been the last person to disavow. The results of more recent and more systematic inquiry have shown the belief to be unfounded.
Our poet sprang, on the father’s side, from an obscure or, as family tradition asserts, a decayed branch, of an Anglo-Saxon stock settled, at an early period of our history, in the south, and probably also south-west, of England. A line of Brownings owned the manors of Melbury-Sampford and Melbury-Osmond, in north-west Dorsetshire; their last representative disappeared — or was believed to do so — in the time of Henry VII., their manors passing into the hands of the Earls of Ilchester, who still hold them.* The name occurs after 1542 in different parts of the country: in two cases with the affix of ‘esquire’, in two also, though not in both coincidently, within twenty miles of Pentridge, where the first distinct traces of the poet’s family appear. Its cradle, as he called it, was Woodyates, in the parish of Pentridge, on the Wiltshire confines of Dorsetshire; and there his ancestors, of the third and fourth generations, held, as we understand, a modest but independent social position.
* I am indebted for these facts, as well as for some others
referring to, or supplied by, Mr. Browning’s uncles,
to some notes made for the Browning Society by Dr. Furnivall.
This fragment of history, if we may so call it, accords better with our impression of Mr. Browning’s genius than could any pedigree which more palpably connected him with the ‘knightly’ and ‘squirely’ families whose name he bore. It supplies the strong roots of English national life to which we instinctively refer it. Both the vivid originality of that genius and its healthy assimilative power stamp it as, in some sense, the product of virgin soil; and although the varied elements which entered into its growth were racial as well as cultural, and inherited as well as absorbed, the evidence of its strong natural or physical basis remains undisturbed.
Mr. Browning, for his own part, maintained a neutral attitude in the matter. He neither claimed nor disclaimed the more remote genealogical past which had presented itself as a certainty to some older members of his family. He preserved the old framed coat-of-arms handed down to him from his grandfather; and used, without misgiving as to his right to do so, a signet-ring engraved from it, the gift of a favourite uncle, in years gone by. But, so long as he was young, he had no reason to think about his ancestors; and, when he was old, he had no reason to care about them; he knew himself to be, in every possible case, the most important fact in his family history.
Roi ne suis, ni Prince aussi,
Suis le seigneur de Conti,
he wrote, a few years back, to a friend who had incidentally questioned him about it.
Our immediate knowledge of the family begins with Mr. Browning’s grandfather, also a Robert Browning, who obtained through Lord Shaftesbury’s influence a clerkship in the Bank of England, and entered on it when barely twenty, in 1769. He served fifty years, and rose to the position of Principal of the Bank Stock Office, then an important one, and which brought him into contact with the leading financiers of the day. He became also a lieutenant in the Honourable Artillery Company, and took part in the defence of the Bank in the Gordon Riots of 1789. He was an able, energetic, and worldly man: an Englishman, very much of the provincial type; his literary tastes being limited to the Bible and ‘Tom Jones’, both of which he is said to have read through once a year. He possessed a handsome person and, probably, a vigorous constitution, since he lived to the age of eighty-four, though frequently tormented by gout; a circumstance which may help to account for his not having seen much of his grandchildren, the poet and his sister; we are indeed told that he particularly dreaded the lively boy’s vicinity to his afflicted foot. He married, in 1778, Margaret, daughter of a Mr. Tittle by his marriage with Miss Seymour; and who was born in the West Indies and had inherited property there. They had three children: Robert, the poet’s father; a daughter, who lived an uneventful life and plays no part in the family history; and another son who died an infant. The Creole mother died also when her eldest boy was only seven years old, and passed out of his memory in all but an indistinct impression of having seen her lying in her coffin. Five years later the widower married a Miss Smith, who gave him a large family.
This second marriage of Mr. Browning’s was a critical event in the life of his eldest son; it gave him, to all appearance, two step-parents instead of one. There could have been little sympathy between his father and himself, for no two persons were ever more unlike, but there was yet another cause for the systematic unkindness under which the lad grew up. Mr. Browning fell, as a hard man easily does, greatly under the influence of his second wife, and this influence was made by her to subserve the interests of a more than natural jealousy of her predecessor. An early instance of this was her banishing the dead lady’s portrait to a garret, on the plea that her husband did not need two wives. The son could be no burden upon her because he had a little income, derived from his mother’s brother; but this, probably, only heightened her ill-will towards him. When he was old enough to go to a University, and very desirous of going — when, moreover, he offered to do so at his own cost — she induced his father to forbid it, because, she urged, they could not afford to send their other sons to college. An earlier ambition of his had been to become an artist; but when he showed his first completed picture to his father, the latter turned away and refused to look at it. He gave himself the finishing stroke in the parental eyes, by throwing up a lucrative employment which he had held for a short time on his mother’s West Indian property, in disgust at the system of slave labour which was still in force there; and he paid for this unpractical conduct as soon as he was of age, by the compulsory reimbursement of all the expenses which his father, up to that date, had incurred for him; and by the loss of his mother’s fortune, which, at the time of her marriage, had not been settled upon her. It was probably in despair of doing anything better, that, soon after this, in his twenty-second year, he also became a clerk in the Bank of England. He married and settled in Camberwell, in 1811; his son and daughter were born, respectively, in 1812 and 1814. He became a widower in 1849; and when, four years later, he had completed his term of
service at the Bank, he went with his daughter to Paris, where they resided until his death in 1866.
Dr. Furnivall has originated a theory, and maintains it as a conviction, that Mr. Browning’s grandmother was more than a Creole in the strict sense of the term, that of a person born of white parents in the West Indies, and that an unmistakable dash of dark blood passed from her to her son and grandson. Such an occurrence was, on the face of it, not impossible, and would be absolutely unimportant to my mind, and, I think I may add, to that of Mr. Browning’s sister and son. The poet and his father were what we know them, and if negro blood had any part in their composition, it was no worse for them, and so much the better for the negro. But many persons among us are very averse to the idea of such a cross; I believe its assertion, in the present case, to be entirely mistaken; I prefer, therefore, touching on the facts alleged in favour of it, to passing them over in a silence which might be taken to mean indifference, but might also be interpreted into assent.
We are told that Mr. Browning was so dark in early life, that a nephew who saw him in Paris, in 1837, mistook him for an Italian. He neither had nor could have had a nephew; and he was not out of England at the time specified. It is said that when Mr. Browning senior was residing on his mother’s sugar plantation at St. Kitt’s, his appearance was held to justify his being placed in church among the coloured members of the congregation. We are assured in the strongest terms that the story has no foundation, and this by a gentleman whose authority in all matters concerning the Browning family Dr. Furnivall has otherwise accepted as conclusive. If the anecdote were true it would be a singular circumstance that Mr. Browning senior was always fond of drawing negro heads, and thus obviously disclaimed any unpleasant association with them.
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 400