Robert Browning: How to Know Him Part 31

When the picture was reached the book was done, And she turned from the picture at night to scheme Of tearing it out for herself next sun.

So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam The glory dropped from their youth and love, And both perceived they had dreamed a dream;

Which hovered as dreams do, still above: But who can take a dream for a truth?

Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove!

One day as the lady saw her youth Depart, and the silver thread that streaked Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth,

The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked, And wondered who the woman was, Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,

Fronting her silent in the gla.s.s-- "Summon here," she suddenly said, "Before the rest of my old self pa.s.s,"

"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, Who fas.h.i.+ons the clay no love will change, And fixes a beauty never to fade."

"Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange Arrest the remains of young and fair, And rivet them while the seasons range."

"Make me a face on the window there, Waiting as ever, mute the while, My love to pa.s.s below in the square!"

"And let me think that it may beguile Dreary days which the dead must spend Down in their darkness under the aisle,"

"To say, 'What matters it at the end?

I did no more while my heart was warm Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.'"

"Where is the use of the lip's red charm, The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, And the blood that blues the inside arm--"

"Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, The earthly gift to an end divine?

A lady of clay is as good, I trow."

But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine, With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, Was set where now is the empty shrine--

(And, leaning out of a bright blue s.p.a.ce, As a ghost might lean from a c.h.i.n.k of sky, The pa.s.sionate pale lady's face--

Eying ever, with earnest eye And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch, Some one who ever is pa.s.sing by--)

The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch In Florence, "Youth--my dream escapes!

Will its record stay?" And he bade them fetch

Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes-- "Can the soul, the will, die out of a man Ere his body find the grave that gapes?"

"John of Douay shall effect my plan, Set me on horseback here aloft, Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,"

"In the very square I have crossed so oft: That men may admire, when future suns Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,"

"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze-- Admire and say, 'When he was alive How he would take his pleasure once!'"

"And it shall go hard but I contrive To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb At idleness which aspires to strive."

So! While these wait the trump of doom, How do their spirits pa.s.s, I wonder, Nights and days in the narrow room?

Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder What a gift life was, ages ago, Six steps out of the chapel yonder.

Only they see not G.o.d, I know, Nor all that chivalry of his, The soldier-saints who, row on row,

Burn upward each to his point of bliss-- Since, the end of life being manifest, He had burned his way through the world to this.

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime."--Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test,

As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view!

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf?

Where a b.u.t.ton goes, 'twere an epigram To offer the stamp of the very Guelph.

The true has no value beyond the sham: As well the counter as coin, I submit, When your table's a hat, and your prize, a dram.

Stake your counter as boldly every whit, Venture as warily, use the same skill, Do your best, whether winning or losing it,

If you choose to play!--is my principle.

Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will!

The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin: And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost

Is--the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

You of the virtue (we issue join) How strive you? _De te, fabula_!

The two volumes of _Dramatic Idyls_ are full of paradoxes, for Browning became fonder and fonder of the paradox as he descended into the vale of years. The Russian poem _Ivan Ivanovitch_ justly condemns mothers who prefer their own safety to that of their children. When a stranger gives up his life for another, as happens frequently in crises of fire and s.h.i.+pwreck, we applaud: but when a mother sacrifices her life for that of her child, she does the natural and expected thing. The woman in this poem was a monster of wickedness and did not deserve to live. She started with three children and arrived with none. Now there are some things in life for which no apology and no explanation suffice. What do we care about her story? Who cares to hear her defence? What difference does it make whether she actively threw out the children or allowed the wolves to take them? She arrives safe and sound without them and there is no mistaking the fact that she rejoices in her own salvation.

She does not rejoice long, however, for Ivan, who is Browning's ideal of resolution, neatly removes her head. Practically and literally Ivan is a murderer: but paradoxically he is G.o.d's servant, for the woman is not fit to live, and he eliminates her.

From the practical point of view there is a difficulty ahead. The husband is due; when he hears that the children are lost, he will suffer horribly, and will enquire anxiously as to the fate of his wife. When he learns that she arrived in good condition and that then Ivan knocked her head off, he may not fully appreciate the ethical beauty of Ivan's deed. But this detail does not affect the moral significance of the story. Yet I can not help thinking that a man with such strong convictions as Ivan ought not to carry an axe.

Ivan, however, is still needed in Russia. Two or three years ago, immediately after a wedding ceremony, the bride and groom, with the whole wedding party, set out in sledges for the next town. The wolves attacked them and ate every member of the party except the four in the first sledge--husband, wife, and two men. As the wolves drew near, these two heroes advised the husband to throw out the bride, for if he did so, the three left might be saved, as their haven was almost in sight. Naturally the bridegroom declined. Then the two men threw out both bride and groom, and just managed to reach the town in safety, the sole survivors of the whole party. I wish that Ivan had been there to give them the proper welcome.

The poem _Clive_ is a psychological a.n.a.lysis of courage and fear, two of the most interesting of human sensations. Clive seems to have been an instrument in the hands of Destiny. When an obscure young man, he twice tried to commit suicide, and both times the pistol missed fire. A born gambler, he judged that he was reserved for something great. He was: he conquered India. Then, after his life-work was fully accomplished, his third attempt at suicide was successful.

After describing the dramatic incident at card-play, which he gave to the old buck as the only time in his life when he felt afraid, his companion remarked that it was enough to scare anybody to face a loaded pistol. But here comes the paradox. Clive was intensely angry because his friend failed to see the point. "Why, I wasn't afraid he would shoot, I was afraid he wouldn't." Suppose the general had said contemptuously that young Clive was not worth the powder and ball it would take to kill him--suppose he had sent him away wholly safe and wholly disgraced. Then Clive would have instantly killed himself.

Either the general was not clever enough to play this trump, or the clear unwinking eyes of his victim convicted him of sin.

Clive was one of those exceedingly rare individuals who have never known the sensation of physical fear. But I do not think he was really so brave as those men, who, cursed with an imagination that fills their minds with terror, nevertheless advance toward danger.

For your real hero is one who does not allow the desires of his body to control his mind. The body, always eager for safety, comfort, and pleasure, cries out against peril: but the mind, up in the conning-tower of the brain, drives the protesting and s.h.i.+vering body forward. Napoleon, who was a good judge of courage, called Ney the bravest of the brave: and I admired Ney more intensely when I learned that in battle he was in his heart always afraid.

The courage of soldiers in the ma.s.s seems sublime, but it is the commonest thing on earth: all nations show it: it is probably an inexplicable compound of discipline, pride, shame, and rage: but individuals differ from one another as sharply in courage as they do in mental ability. In sheer physical courage dive has never been surpa.s.sed, and Browning, who loved the manly virtues, saw in this corrupt and cruel man a great hero.

The poem _Muleykeh_, which is one of the oldest of Oriental stories, is really an a.n.a.lysis of love. The mare was dearer to her owner than life itself: yet he intentionally surrendered her to his rival rather than have her disgraced. His friends called him an idiot and a fool: but he replied, "You never have loved my Pearl." And indeed, from his point of view, they did not know the meaning of love. What is love? Simply the desire for possession, or the desire that the beloved object should be incomparably pure and unsullied by defeat and disgrace? The man who owned Muleykeh really loved her, since her honor was more precious to him than his own happiness.

The short poem _Which_? published on the last day of Browning's life, is a splendid paradox. In the Middle Ages, when house-parties a.s.sembled, an immense amount of time was taken up by the telling of stories and by the subsequent discussions thereupon. The stock subject was Love, and the ideal lover was a favorite point of debate.

In this instance, the three court ladies argue, and to complete the paradox, a Priest is chosen for referee. Perhaps he was thought to be out of it altogether, and thus ready to judge with an unprejudiced mind.

The d.u.c.h.ess declares that her lover must be a man she can respect: a man of religion and patriotism. He must love his G.o.d, and his country; then comes his wife, who holds the third place in his affections.