Chapter 8

The dramatic lyric in two parts called _Meeting at Night_ and _Parting at Morning_ contains 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's _Clarissa_ in 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's _Night and Morning_ is not too short, because it contains in sixteen lines everything necessary; _The Ring and the Book_ is 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--notably _Mr. 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 voice _Meeting 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 the _Century Magazine_ a 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 the _Century_." 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 Passes_ is 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's _Virginian_; 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 the _Good News_ or of the _Incident 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 Morning_ suggests 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.

MEETING AT NIGHT

1845

The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In 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 scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!

PARTING AT MORNING

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.

In _Evelyn Hope_,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

In _The Last Ride Together_,

My mistress bent that brow of hers.

In _By the Fireside_,

Reading by firelight, that great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.

In _The Statue and the Bust_,

Hair in heaps lay heavily Over a pale brow spirit-pure.

In _Count Gismond_,

They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen By 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 crown Of martyr and saint, not such as art approves.

In _Eurydice_,

But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow!

In _Count Gismond_,

Our elder boy has got the clear Great brow.

In _The Statue and the Bust_,

On his steady brow and quiet mouth.

His ideally beautiful women generally have yellow hair. The lady _In a Gondola_ had coiled hair, "a round smooth cord of gold." In _Evelyn Hope_, the "hair's young gold:" in _Love Among the Ruins_, "eager eyes and yellow hair:" in _A Toccata_,

Dear dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold Used 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. In _Time'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 in With the face of her, the eyes of her, The lips, the little chin, the stir Of 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 in _Locksley Hall_, _Lady Clara Vere de Vere_, and the first part of _Maud_, 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. In _The Lost Mistress_, which Swinburne said was worth a thousand _Lost 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."

In _One 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 prove And 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 well Lose 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 of _The 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 bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,--I claim Only 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 gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To 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 in _Cleon_, 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.

BROWNING'S REJECTED LOVERS

THE LOST MISTRESS 1845

All's over, then; does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About 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 merest Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black Though 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 LOVE 1855

I

All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And 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,

II.

How many a month I strove to suit These 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!

III.

My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And 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!

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

1855

I

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 bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,--I claim Only a memory of the same, --And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me.

II

My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With 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 side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?

III

Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions--sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once-- And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, 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.

IV

Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening 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 well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.

V

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 less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

VI

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.

VII