The first is a drama of an idea, the second of the immediate6 and remote consequences of a single act, the third of the tyranny of the passions.
I understand the general opinion among lovers and earnest students of Browning's poetry to be that the highest peaks of his genius tower from the vast tableland of "The Ring and the Book"; that thenceforth there was declension. But Browning is not to be measured by common estimates. It is easy to indicate, in the instances of many poets, just where the music reaches its sweetest, its noblest, just where the extreme glow wanes8, just where the first shadows come leaping like greyhounds, or steal almost imperceptibly from slow-closing horizons.
But with Browning, as with Shakspere, as with Victor Hugo, it is difficult for our vision to penetrate9 the glow irradiating the supreme10 heights of accomplishment11. Like Balzac, like Shakspere again, he has revealed to us a territory so vast, that while we bow down before the sun westering athwart distant Andes, the gold of sunrise is already flashing behind us, upon the shoulder of Atlas12.
It is certain that "The Ring and the Book" is unique. Even Goethe's masterpiece had its forerunners13, as in Marlowe's "Faustus," and its ambitious offspring, as in Bailey's "Festus." But is it a work of art? Here is the only vital question which at present concerns us.
It is altogether useless to urge, as so many admirers of Browning do, that "The Ring and the Book" is as full of beauties as the sea is of waves. Undeniably it is, having been written in the poet's maturity15. But, to keep to the simile16, has this epical17 poem the unity18 of ocean? Does it consist of separate seas, or is it really one, as the wastes which wash from Arctic to Antarctic, through zones temperate19 and equatorial, are yet one and indivisible? If it have not this unity it is still a stupendous accomplishment, but it is not a work of art. And though art is but the handmaiden of genius, what student of Comparative Literature will deny that nothing has survived the ruining breath of Time--not any intellectual greatness nor any spiritual beauty, that is not clad in perfection, be it absolute or relative--for relative perfection there is, despite the apparent paradox20.
The mere21 bulk of "The Ring and the Book" is, in point of art, nothing. One day, after the publication of this poem, Carlyle hailed the author with enthusiastic praise in which lurked22 damning irony23: "What a wonderful fellow you are, Browning: you have written a whole series of 'books' about what could be summed up in a newspaper paragraph!" Here, Carlyle was at once right and wrong. The theme, looked at dispassionately, is unworthy of the monument in which it is entombed for eternity25. But the poet looked upon the central incident as the inventive mechanician regards the tiny pivot26 remote amid the intricate maze27 of his machinery28. Here, as elsewhere, Browning's real subject is too often confounded with the accidents of the subject. His triumph is not that he has created so huge a literary monument, but rather that, notwithstanding its bulk, he has made it shapely and impressive. Stress has frequently been laid on the greatness of the achievement in the writing of twelve long poems in the exposition of one theme. Again, in point of art, what significance has this? None. There is no reason why it should not have been in nine or eleven parts; no reason why, having been demonstrated in twelve, it should not have been expanded through fifteen or twenty. Poetry ever looks askance at that gipsy-cousin of hers, "Tour-de-force."
Of the twelve parts--occupying in all about twenty-one thousand lines--the most notable as poetry are those which deal with the plea of the implicated29 priest, Caponsacchi, with the meditation30 of the Pope, and with the pathetic utterance31 of Pompilia. It is not a dramatic poem in the sense that "Pippa Passes" is, for its ten Books (the first and twelfth are respectively introductory and appendical) are monologues32. "The Ring and the Book," in a word, consists, besides the two extraneous33 parts, of ten monodramas, which are as ten huge facets34 to a poetic Koh-i-Noor.
The square little Italian volume, in its yellow parchment and with its heavy type, which has now found a haven35 in Oxford36, was picked up by Browning for a lira (about eightpence), on a second-hand38 bookstall in the Piazza39 San Lorenzo at Florence, one June day, 1865. Therein is set forth7, in full detail, all the particulars of the murder of his wife Pompilia, for her supposed adultery, by a certain Count Guido Franceschini; and of that noble's trial, sentence, and doom40. It is much the same subject matter as underlies41 the dramas of Webster, Ford37, and other Elizabethan poets, but subtlety42 of insight rather than intensity43 of emotion and situation distinguishes the Victorian dramatist from his predecessors44. The story fascinated Browning, who, having in this book and elsewhere mastered all the details, conceived the idea of writing the history of the crime in a series of monodramatic revelations on the part of the individuals more or less directly concerned. The more he considered the plan the more it shaped itself to a great accomplishment, and early in 1866 he began the most ambitious work of his life.
An enthusiastic admirer has spoken of the poem as "one of the most extraordinary feats47 of which we have any record in literature." But poetry is not mental gymnastics. All this insistence48 upon "extraordinary feats" is to be deprecated: it presents the poet as Hercules, not as Apollo: in a word, it is not criticism. The story is one of vulgar fraud and crime, romantic to us only because the incidents occurred in Italy, in the picturesque49 Rome and Arezzo of two centuries ago. The old bourgeois50 couple, Pietro and Violante Comparini, manage to wed51 their thirteen-year-old putative52 daughter to a middle-aged53 noble of Arezzo. They expect the exquisite54 repute of an aristocratic connection, and other tangible55 advantages. He, impoverished56 as he is, looks for a splendid dowry. No one thinks of the child-wife, Pompilia. She becomes the scapegoat57, when the gross selfishness of the contracting parties stands revealed. Count Guido has a genius for domestic tyranny. Pompilia suffers. When she is about to become a mother she determines to leave her husband, whom she now dreads58 as well as dislikes. Since the child is to be the inheritor of her parents' wealth, she will not leave it to the tender mercies of Count Guido. A young priest, a canon of Arezzo, Giuseppe Caponsacchi, helps her to escape. In due course she gives birth to a son. She has scarce time to learn the full sweetness of her maternity59 ere she is done to death like a trampled60 flower. Guido, who has held himself thrall61 to an imperative62 patience, till his hold upon the child's dowry should be secure, hires four assassins, and in the darkness of night betakes himself to Rome. He and his accomplices63 enter the house of Pietro Comparini and his wife, and, not content with slaying64 them, also murders Pompilia. But they are discovered, and Guido is caught red-handed. Pompilia's evidence alone is damnatory, for she was not slain65 outright66, and lingers long enough to tell her story. Franceschini is not foiled yet, however. His plea is that he simply avenged67 the wrong done to him by his wife's adulterous connection with the priest Caponsacchi. But even in the Rome of that evil day justice was not extinct. Guido's motive is proved to be false; he himself is condemned68 to death. An appeal to the Pope is futile69. Finally, the wretched man pays the too merciful penalty of his villainy.
There is nothing grand, nothing noble here: at most only a tragic70 pathos71 in the fate of the innocent child-wife Pompilia. It is clear, therefore, that the greatness of "The Ring and the Book" must depend even less upon its subject, its motive, than upon its being "an extraordinary feat46" in the gymnastics of verse.
In a sense, Browning's longest work is akin72 to that of his wife. Both "The Ring and the Book" and "Aurora73 Leigh" are metrical novels. The one is discursive74 in episodes and spiritual experiences: the other in intricacies of evidence. But there the parallel ends. If "The Ring and the Book" were deflowered of its blooms of poetry and rendered into a prose narrative75, it might interest a barrister "getting up" a criminal case, but it would be much inferior to, say, "The Moonstone"; its author would be insignificant76 beside the ingenious M. Gaboriau. The extraordinariness of the feat would then be but indifferently commented upon.
As neither its subject, nor its extraordinariness as a feat, nor its method, will withstand a searching examination, we must endeavour to discern if transcendent poetic merit be discoverable in the treatment. To arrive at a just estimate it is needful to free the mind not merely from preconceptions, but from that niggardliness77 of insight which can perceive only the minor78 flaws and shortcomings almost inevitable79 to any vast literary achievement, and be blind to the superb merits. One must prepare oneself to listen to a new musician, with mind and body alert to the novel harmonies, and oblivious80 of what other musicians have done or refrained from doing.
"The Ring and the Book," as I have said, was not begun in the year of its imagining.[15] It is necessary to anticipate the biographical narrative, and state that the finding of the parchment-booklet happened in the fourth year of the poet's widowerhood, for his happy married period of less than fifteen years came to a close in 1861.
[15] The title is explained as follows:--"The story of the Franceschini case, as Mr. Browning relates it, forms a circle of evidence to its one central truth; and this circle was constructed in the manner in which the worker in Etruscan gold prepares the ornamental81 circlet which will be worn as a ring. The pure metal is too soft to bear hammer or file; it must be mixed with alloy83 to gain the necessary power of resistance. The ring once formed and embossed, the alloy is disengaged, and a pure gold ornament82 remains84. Mr. Browning's material was also inadequate85 to his purpose, though from a different cause. It was too hard. It was 'pure crude fact,' secreted86 from the fluid being of the men and women whose experience it had formed. In its existing state it would have broken up under the artistic87 attempt to weld and round it. He supplied an alloy, the alloy of fancy, or--as he also calls it--of one fact more: this fact being the echo of those past existences awakened88 within his own. He breathed into the dead record the breath of his own life; and when his ring of evidence had re-formed, first in elastic89 then in solid strength, here delicately incised, there broadly stamped with human thought and passion, he could cast fancy aside, and bid his readers recognise in what he set before them unadulterated human truth."--Mrs. Orr.
On the afternoon of the day on which he made his purchase he read the book from end to end. "A Spirit laughed and leapt through every limb." The midsummer heats had caused thunder-clouds to congregate90 above Vallombrosa and the whole valley of Arno: and the air in Florence was painfully sultry. The poet stood by himself on his terrace at Casa Guidi, and as he watched the fireflies wandering from the enclosed gardens, and the sheet-lightnings quivering through the heated atmosphere, his mind was busy in refashioning the old tale of loveless marriage and crime.
"Beneath
I' the street, quick shown by openings of the sky
When flame fell silently from cloud to cloud,
Richer than that gold snow Jove rained on Rhodes,
The townsmen walked by twos and threes, and talked,
Drinking the blackness in default of air--
A busy human sense beneath my feet:
While in and out the terrace-plants, and round
One branch of tall datura, waxed and waned91
The lamp-fly lured92 there, wanting the white flower."
Scene by scene was re-enacted, though of course only in certain essential details. The final food for the imagination was found in a pamphlet of which he came into possession of in London, where several important matters were given which had no place in the volume he had picked up in Florence.
Much, far the greater part, of the first "book" is--interesting! It is mere verse. As verse, even, it is often so involved, so musicless occasionally, so banal93 now and again, so inartistic in colour as well as in form, that one would, having apprehended94 its explanatory interest, pass on without regret, were it not for the noble close--the passionate24, out-welling lines to "the truest poet I have ever known," the beautiful soul who had given her all to him, whom, but four years before he wrote these words, he had laid to rest among the cypresses95 and ilexes of the old Florentine garden of the dead.
"O lyric96 Love, half angel and half bird
And all a wonder and a wild desire,--
Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,
Took sanctuary97 within the holier blue,
And sang a kindred soul out to his face,--
Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart--
When the first summons from the darkling earth
Reached thee amid thy chambers98, blanched99 their blue,
And bared them of the glory--to drop down,
To toil100 for man, to suffer or to die,--
This is the same voice: can thy soul know change?
Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!
Never may I commence my song, my due
To God who best taught song by gift of thee,
Except, with bent101 head and beseeching102 hand--
That still, despite the distance and the dark,
What was, again may be; some interchange
Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought,
Some benediction103 anciently thy smile:
--Never conclude, but raising hand and head
Thither104 where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn105
For all hope, all sustainment, all reward,
Their utmost up and on,--so blessing106 back
In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home,
Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud,
Some wanness107 where, I think, thy foot may fall!"
Thereafter, for close upon five thousand words, the poem descends108 again to the level of a versified tale. It is saved from ruin by subtlety of intellect, striking dramatic verisimilitude, an extraordinary vigour109, and occasional lines of real poetry. Retrospectively, apart from the interest, often strained to the utmost, most readers, I fancy, will recall with lingering pleasure only the opening of "The Other Half Rome," the description of Pompilia, "with the patient brow and lamentable110 smile," with flower-like body, in white hospital array--a child with eyes of infinite pathos, "whether a flower or weed, ruined: who did it shall account to Christ."
In these three introductory books we have the view of the matter taken by those who side with Count Guido, of those who are all for Pompilia, and of the "superior person," impartial111 because superciliously112 indifferent, though sufficiently113 interested to "opine."
In the ensuing three books a much higher poetic level is reached. In the first, Guido speaks; in the second, Caponsacchi; the third, that lustrous114 opal set midway in the "Ring," is Pompilia's narrative. Here the three protagonists115 live and move before our eyes. The sixth book may be said to be the heart of the whole poem. The extreme intellectual subtlety of Guido's plea stands quite unrivalled in poetic literature. In comparing it, for its poetic beauty, with other sections, the reader must bear in mind that in a poem of a dramatic nature the dramatic proprieties116 must be dominant117. It would be obviously inappropriate to make Count Guido Franceschini speak with the dignity of the Pope, with the exquisite pathos of Pompilia, with the ardour, like suppressed molten lava118, of Caponsacchi. The self-defence of the latter is a superb piece of dramatic writing. Once or twice the flaming volcano of his heart bursts upward uncontrollably, as when he cries--
"No, sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!
That erect119 form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye,
That voice immortal120 (oh, that voice of hers!)--
That vision of the pale electric sword
Angels go armed with--that was not the last
O' the lady. Come, I see through it, you find,
Know the manoeuvre121! Also herself said
I had saved her: do you dare say she spoke45 false?
Let me see for myself if it be so!"
Than the poignant122 pathos and beauty of "Pompilia," there is nothing more exquisite in our literature. It stands alone. Here at last we have the poet who is the Lancelot to Shakspere's Arthur. It takes a supreme effort of genius to be as simple as a child. How marvellously, after the almost sublime123 hypocrisy124 of the end of Guido's defence, after the beautiful dignity of Caponsacchi's closing words, culminating abruptly125 in the heart-wrung cry, "O great, just, good God! miserable126 me!"--how marvellously comes upon the reader the delicate, tearful tenderness of the innocent child-wife--
"I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'Tis writ14 so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
--Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini--laughable!"
Only two writers of our age have depicted127 women with that imaginative insight which is at once more comprehensive and more illuminative128 than women's own invision of themselves--Robert Browning and George Meredith, but not even the latter, most subtle and delicate of all analysts129 of the tragi-comedy of human life, has surpassed "Pompilia." The meeting and the swift uprising of love between Lucy and Richard, in "The Ordeal130 of Richard Feveral," is, it is true, within the highest reach of prose romance: but between even the loftiest height of prose romance and the altitudes of poetry, there is an impassable gulf131.
And as it is with simplicity132 so it is with tenderness. Only the sternly strong can be supremely133 tender. And infinitely134 tender is the poetry of "Pompilia"--
"Oh, how good God is that my babe was born,
--Better than born, baptised and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself----"
or the lines which tell how as a little girl she gave her roses not to the spick and span Madonna of the Church, but to the poor, dilapidated Virgin135, "at our street-corner in a lonely niche," with the babe that had sat upon her knees broken off: or that passage, with its exquisite na?veté, where Pompilia relates why she called her boy Gaetano, because she wished "no old name for sorrow's sake," so chose the latest addition to the saints, elected only twenty-five years before--
"So, carefuller, perhaps,
To guard a namesake than those old saints grow,
Tired out by this time,--see my own five saints!"
or these--
"Thus, all my life,
I touch a fairy thing that fades and fades.
--Even to my babe! I thought, when he was born,
Something began for once that would not end,
Nor change into a laugh at me, but stay
For evermore, eternally quite mine----"
once more--
"One cannot judge
Of what has been the ill or well of life
The day that one is dying....
Now it is over, and no danger more ...
To me at least was never evening yet
But seemed far beautifuller than its day,
For past is past----"
Lovely, again, are the lines in which she speaks of the first "thrill of dawn's suffusion136 through her dark," the "light of the unborn face sent long before:" or those unique lines of the starved soul's Spring (ll. 1512-27): or those, of the birth of her little one--
"A whole long fortnight; in a life like mine
A fortnight filled with bliss137 is long and much.
All women are not mothers of a boy....
I never realised God's birth before--
How he grew likest God in being born.
This time I felt like Mary, had my babe
Lying a little on my breast like hers."
When she has weariedly, yet with surpassing triumph, sighed out her last words--
"God stooping shows sufficient of His light
For us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise----"
who does not realise that to life's end he shall not forget that plaintive138 voice, so poignantly139 sweet, that ineffable140 dying smile, those wistful eyes with so much less of earth than heaven?
But the two succeeding "books" are more tiresome141 and more unnecessary than the most inferior of the three opening sections--the first of the two, indeed, is intolerably wearisome, a desolate142 boulder-strewn gorge143 after the sweet air and sunlit summits of "Caponsacchi" and "Pompilia." In the next "book" Innocent XII. is revealed. All this section has a lofty serenity144, unsurpassed in its kind. It must be read from first to last for its full effect, but I may excerpt145 one passage, the high-water mark of modern blank-verse:--
"For the main criminal I have no hope
Except in such a suddenness of fate.
I stood at Naples once, a night so dark
I could have scarce conjectured146 there was earth
Anywhere, sky or sea or world at all:
But the night's black was burst through by a blaze--
Thunder struck blow on blow, earth groaned147 and bore,
Through her whole length of mountain visible:
There lay the city thick and plain with spires148,
And, like a ghost disshrouded, white the sea.
So may the truth be flashed out by one blow,
And Guido see, one instant, and be saved."
Finally comes that throbbing149, terrible last "book" where the murderer finds himself brought to bay and knows that all is lost. Who can forget its unparalleled close, when the wolf-like Guido suddenly, in his supreme agony, transcends150 his lost manhood in one despairing cry--
"Abate,--Cardinal,--Christ,--Maria,--God, ...
Pompilia, will you let them murder me?"
Lastly, the Epilogue rounds off the tale. But is this Epilogue necessary? Surely the close should have come with the words just quoted?
It will not be after a first perusal151 that the reader will be able to arrive at a definite conviction. No individual or collective estimate of to-day can be accepted as final. Those who come after us, perhaps not the next generation, nor the next again, will see "The Ring and the Book" free of all the manifold and complex considerations which confuse our judgment152. Meanwhile, each can only speak for himself. To me it seems that "The Ring and the Book" is, regarded as an artistic whole, the most magnificent failure in our literature. It enshrines poetry which no other than our greatest could have written; it has depths to which many of far inferior power have not descended153. Surely the poem must be judged by the balance of its success and failure? It is in no presumptuous154 spirit, but out of my profound admiration155 of this long-loved and often-read, this superb poem, that I, for one, wish it comprised but the Prologue156, the Plea of Guido, "Caponsacchi," "Pompilia," "The Pope," and Guido's last Defence. I cannot help thinking that this is the form in which it will be read in the years to come. Thus circumscribed157, it seems to me to be rounded and complete, a great work of art void of the dross158, the mere débris which the true artist discards. But as it is, in all its lordly poetic strength and flagging impulse, is it not, after all, the true climacteric of Browning's genius?
"The Inn Album," a dramatic poem of extraordinary power, has so much more markedly the defects of his qualities that I take it to be, at the utmost, the poise159 of the first gradual refluence. This analogy of the tidal ebb160 and flow may be observed with singular aptness in Browning's life-work--the tide that first moved shoreward in the loveliness of "Pauline," and, with "long withdrawing roar," ebbed161 in slow, just perceptible lapse162 to the poet's penultimate volume. As for "Asolando," I would rather regard it as the gathering163 of a new wave--nay164, again rather, as the deep sound of ocean which the outward surge has reached.
But for myself I do not accept "The Inn Album" as the first hesitant swing of the tide. I seem to hear the resilient undertone all through the long slow poise of "The Ring and the Book." Where then is the full splendour and rush of the tide, where its culminating reach and power?
I should say in "Men and Women"; and by "Men and Women" I mean not merely the poems comprised in the collection so entitled, but all in the "Dramatic Romances," "Lyrics," and the "Dramatis Person?," all the short pieces of a certain intensity of note and quality of power, to be found in the later volumes, from "Pacchiarotto" to "Asolando."
And this because, in the words of the poet himself when speaking of Shelley, I prefer to look for the highest attainment165, not simply the high--and, seeing it, to hold by it. Yet I am not oblivious of the mass of Browning's lofty achievement, "to be known enduringly among men,"--an achievement, even on its secondary level, so high, that around its imperfect proportions, "the most elaborated productions of ordinary art must arrange themselves as inferior illustrations."
How am I to convey concisely166 that which it would take a volume to do adequately--an idea of the richest efflorescence of Browning's genius in these unfading blooms which we will agree to include in "Men and Women"? How better--certainly it would be impossible to be more succinct--than by the enumeration167 of the contents of an imagined volume, to be called, say "Transcripts168 from Life"?
It would be to some extent, but not rigidly169, arranged chronologically170. It would begin with that masterpiece of poetic concision171, where a whole tragedy is burned in upon the brain in fifty-six lines, "My Last Duchess." Then would follow "In a Gondola172," that haunting lyrical drama in petto, where the lover is stabbed to death as his heart is beating against that of his mistress; "Cristina," with its keen introspection; those delightfully173 stirring pieces, the "Cavalier-Tunes," "Through the Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr," and "The Pied Piper of Hamelin"; "The Flower's Name"; "The Flight of the Duchess"; "The Tomb at St. Praxed's," the poem which educed174 Ruskin's enthusiastic praise for its marvellous apprehension175 of the spirit of the Middle Ages; "Pictor Ignotus," and "The Lost Leader." But as there is not space for individual detail, and as many of the more important are spoken of elsewhere in this volume, I must take the reader's acquaintance with the poems for granted. So, following those first mentioned, there would come "Home Thoughts from Abroad"; "Home Thoughts from the Sea"; "The Confessional"; "The Heretic's Tragedy"; "Earth's Immortalities"; "Meeting at Night: Parting at Morning"; "Saul"; "Karshish"; "A Death in the Desert"; "Rabbi Ben Ezra"; "A Grammarian's Funeral"; "Love Among the Ruins"; Song, "Nay but you"; "A Lover's Quarrel"; "Evelyn Hope"; "A Woman's Last Word"; "Fra Lippo Lippi"; "By the Fireside"; "Any Wife to Any Husband"; "A Serenade at the Villa"; "My Star"; "A Pretty Woman"; "A Light Woman"; "Love in a Life"; "Life in a Love"; "The Last Ride Together"; "A Toccata of Galuppi's"; "Master Hugues of Saxe Gotha"; "Abt Vogler"; "Memorabilia"; "Andrea Del Sarto"; "Before"; "After"; "In Three Days"; "In a Year"; "Old Pictures in Florence"; "De Gustibus"; "Women and Roses"; "The Guardian176 Angel"; "Cleon"; "Two in the Campagna"; "One Way of Love"; "Another Way of Love"; "Misconceptions"; "May and Death"; "James Lee's Wife"; "D?s Aliter Visum"; "Too Late"; "Confessions"; "Prospice"; "Youth and Art"; "A Face"; "A Likeness"; "Apparent Failure." Epilogue to Part I.--"O Lyric Voice," etc., from end of First Part of "The Ring and the Book." Part II.--"Hervé Riel"; "Amphibian"; "Epilogue to Fifine"; "Pisgah Sights"; "Natural Magic"; "Magical Nature"; "Bifurcation"; "Numpholeptos"; "Appearances"; "St. Martin's Summer"; "A Forgiveness"; Epilogue to Pacchiarotto volume; Prologue to "La Saisiaz"; Prologue to "Two Poets of Croisic"; "Epilogue"; "Pheidippides"; "Halbert and Hob"; "Ivàn Ivànovitch"; "Echetlos"; "Muléykeh"; "Pan and Luna"; "Touch him ne'er so lightly"; Prologue to "Jocoseria"; "Cristina and Monaldeschi"; "Mary Wollstonecraft and Fuseli"; "Ixion"; "Never the Time and the Place"; Song, "Round us the wild creatures "; Song, "Wish no word unspoken "; Song, "You groped your way"; Song:, "Man I am"; Song, "Once I saw"; "Verse-making"; "Not with my Soul Love"; "Ask not one least word of praise"; "Why from the world"; "The Round of Day" (Pts. 9, 10, 11, 12 of Gérard de Lairesse); Prologue to "Asolando"; "Rosny"; "Now"; "Poetics"; "Summum Bonum"; "A Pearl"; "Speculative"; "Inapprehensiveness"; "The Lady and the Painter;" "Beatrice Signorini"; "Imperante Augusto"; "Rephan"; "Reverie"; Epilogue to "Asolando" (in all, 122).
But having drawn177 up this imaginary anthology, possibly with faults of commission and probably with worse errors of omission178, I should like to take the reader into my confidence concerning a certain volume, originally compiled for my own pleasure, though not without thought of one or two dear kinsmen179 of a scattered180 Brotherhood--a volume half the size of the projected Transcripts, and rare as that star in the tip of the moon's horn of which Coleridge speaks.
Flower o' the Vine, so it is called, has for double-motto these two lines from the Epilogue to the Pacchiarotto volume--
"Man's thoughts and loves and hates!
Earth is my vineyard, these grew there--"
and these words, already quoted, from the Shelley Essay, "I prefer to look for the highest attainment, not simply the high."
I. From "Pauline"[16]--1. "Sun-treader, life and light be thine for ever!" 2. The Dawn of Beauty; 3. Andromeda; 4. Morning. II. "Heap Cassia, Sandal-buds," etc. (song from "Paracelsus"). III. "Over the Sea our Galleys182 went" (song from "Paracelsus"). IV. The Joy of the World ("Paracelsus").[17] V. From "Sordello"--1. Sunset;[18] 2. The Fugitive183 Ethiop;[19] 3. Dante.[20] VI. Ottima and Sebald (Pt. i., "Pippa Passes"). VII. Jules and Phene (Pt. ii., "Pippa Passes"). VIII. My Last Duchess. IX. In a Gondola. X. Home Thoughts from Abroad (i. and ii.). XI. Meeting at Night: Parting at Morning. XII. A Grammarian's Funeral. XIII. Saul. XIV. Rabbi Ben Ezra. XV. Love among the Ruins. XVI. Evelyn Hope. XVII. My Star. XVIII. A Toccata of Galuppi's. XIX. Abt Vogler. XX. Memorabilia. XXI. Andrea del Sarto. XXI. Two in the Campagna. XXII. James Lee's Wife. XXIII. Prospice. XXIV. From "The Ring and the Book"--1. O Lyric Love (The Invocation: 26 lines); 2. Caponsacchi (ll. 2069 to 2103); 3. Pompilia (ll. 181 to 205); 4. Pompilia (ll. 1771 to 1845); 5. The Pope (ll. 2017 to 2228); 6. Count Guido (Book XI., ll. 2407 to 2427). XXV. Prologue to "La Saisiaz." XXVI. Prologue to "Two Poets of Croisic." XXVII. Epilogue to "Two Poets of Croisic." XXVIII. Never the Time and Place. XXIX. "Round us the Wild Creatures," etc. (song from "Ferishtah's Fancies"). XXX. "The Walk" (Pts. ix., x., xi., xii., of "Gérard de Lairesse.") XXXI. "One word more" (To E.B.B.).[21]
[16] The first, from the line quoted, extends through 55 lines--"To see thee for a moment as thou art." No. 2 consists of the xviii ll. beginning, "They came to me in my first dawn of life." No. 3, the xi ll. of the Andromeda picture. No. 4, the lix ll. beginning, "Night, and one single ridge181 of narrow path" (to "delight").
[17] No. IV. comprises the xxix ll. beginning, "The centre fire heaves underneath184 the earth," down to "ancient rapture185."
[18] No. V. The vi. ll. beginning, "That autumn ere has stilled."
[19] The xxii ll. beginning, "As, shall I say, some Ethiop."
[20] The xxix ll. beginning, "For he,--for he."
[21] To these XXXI selections there must now be added "Now," "Summum Bonum," "Reverie" and the "Epilogue," from "Asolando."
It is here--I will not say in Flower o' the Vine, nor even venture to restrictively affirm it of that larger and fuller compilation186 we have agreed, for the moment, to call "Transcripts from Life"--it is here, in the worthiest187 poems of Browning's most poetic period, that, it seems to me, his highest greatness is to be sought. In these "Men and Women" he is, in modern times, an unparalleled dramatic poet. The influence he exercises through these, and the incalculably cumulative188 influence which will leaven189 many generations to come, is not to be looked for in individuals only, but in the whole thought of the age, which he has moulded to new form, animated190 anew, and to which he has imparted a fresh stimulus191. For this a deep debt is due to Robert Browning. But over and above this shaping force, this manipulative power upon character and thought, he has enriched our language, our literature, with a new wealth of poetic diction, has added to it new symbols, has enabled us to inhale192 a more liberal if an unfamiliar193 air, has, above all, raised us to a fresh standpoint, a standpoint involving our construction of a new definition.
Here, at least, we are on assured ground: here, at any rate, we realise the scope and quality of his genius. But, let me hasten to add, he, at his highest, not being of those who would make Imagination the handmaid of the Understanding, has given us also a Dorado of pure poetry, of priceless worth. Tried by the severest tests, not merely of substance, but of form, not merely of the melody of high thinking, but of rare and potent194 verbal music, the larger number of his "Men and Women" poems are as treasurable acquisitions, in kind, to our literature, as the shorter poems of Milton, of Shelley, of Keats, and of Tennyson. But once again, and finally, let me repeat that his primary importance--not greatness, but importance--is in having forced us to take up a novel standpoint, involving our construction of a new definition.
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1
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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complexities
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| 复杂性(complexity的名词复数)； 复杂的事物 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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epical
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| adj.叙事诗的，英勇的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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monologues
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| n.（戏剧）长篇独白( monologue的名词复数 )；滔滔不绝的讲话；独角戏 | |
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extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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facets
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| n.（宝石或首饰的）小平面( facet的名词复数 )；（事物的）面；方面 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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40
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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underlies
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的第三人称单数 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起 | |
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42
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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43
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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45
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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46
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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47
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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48
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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49
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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50
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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51
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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52
putative
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| adj.假定的 | |
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53
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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54
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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55
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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56
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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57
scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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58
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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63
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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65
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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67
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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68
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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niggardliness
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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81
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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82
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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83
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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84
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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85
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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87
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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89
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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91
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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92
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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97
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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98
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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99
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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100
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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102
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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103
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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104
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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105
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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106
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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107
wanness
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| n.虚弱 | |
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108
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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110
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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111
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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112
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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113
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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114
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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115
protagonists
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| n.（戏剧的）主角( protagonist的名词复数 )；（故事的）主人公；现实事件（尤指冲突和争端的）主要参与者；领导者 | |
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116
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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117
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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118
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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119
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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120
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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121
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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122
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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123
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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124
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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125
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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126
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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127
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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128
illuminative
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| adj.照明的，照亮的，启蒙的 | |
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129
analysts
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| 分析家，化验员( analyst的名词复数 ) | |
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130
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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131
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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132
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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133
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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134
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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135
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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136
suffusion
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| n.充满 | |
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137
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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138
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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139
poignantly
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140
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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141
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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142
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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143
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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144
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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145
excerpt
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| n.摘录，选录，节录 | |
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146
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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148
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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149
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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150
transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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151
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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152
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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153
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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154
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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155
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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156
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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157
circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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158
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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159
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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160
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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161
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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162
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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163
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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164
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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165
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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166
concisely
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| adv.简明地 | |
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167
enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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168
transcripts
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| n.抄本（ transcript的名词复数 ）；转写本；文字本；副本 | |
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169
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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170
chronologically
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| ad. 按年代的 | |
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171
concision
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| n.简明，简洁 | |
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172
gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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173
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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174
educed
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| v.引出( educe的过去式和过去分词 )；唤起或开发出（潜能）；推断（出）；从数据中演绎（出） | |
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175
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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176
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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177
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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178
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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179
kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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180
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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181
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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182
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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183
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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184
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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185
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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186
compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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187
worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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188
cumulative
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| adj.累积的，渐增的 | |
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189
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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190
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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191
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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192
inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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193
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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194
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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