"We shouted, every man of us, And steered right into the harbour thus, With pomp and paean glorious."
It is, however, too long for present quotation, and as an example of Browning"s early lyrics I select rather the rich and delicate second of these "Paracelsus" songs, one wherein the influence of Keats is so marked, and yet where all is the poet"s own:--
"Heap ca.s.sia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-b.a.l.l.s, Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain.
"And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian"s fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, With mothed and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young."
With this music in our ears we can well forgive some of the prosaic commonplaces which deface "Paracelsus"--some of those lapses from rhythmic energy to which the poet became less and less sensitive, till he could be so deaf to the vanishing "echo of the fleeting strand" as to sink to the level of doggerel such as that which closes the poem called "Popularity."
"Paracelsus" is not a great, but it is a memorable poem: a notable achievement, indeed, for an author of Browning"s years. Well may we exclaim with Festus, when we regard the poet in all the greatness of his maturity--
"The sunrise Well warranted our faith in this full noon!"
CHAPTER IV.
The _Athenaeum_ dismissed "Paracelsus" with a half contemptuous line or two. On the other hand, the _Examiner_ acknowledged it to be a work of unequivocal power, and predicted for its author a brilliant career. The same critic who wrote this review contributed an article of about twenty pages upon "Paracelsus" to the _New Monthly Magazine_, under the heading, "Evidences of a New Dramatic Poetry." This article is ably written, and remarkable for its sympathetic insight. "Mr. Browning," the critic writes, "is a man of genius, he has in himself all the elements of a great poet, philosophical as well as dramatic."
The author of this enthusiastic and important critique was John Forster.
When the _Examiner_ review appeared the two young men had not met: but the encounter, which was to be the seed of so fine a flower of friendship, occurred before the publication of the _New Monthly_ article. Before this, however, Browning had already made one of the most momentous acquaintanceships of his life.
His good friend and early critic, Mr. Fox, asked him to his house one evening in November, a few months after the publication of "Paracelsus."
The chief guest of the occasion was Macready, then at the height of his great reputation. Mr. Fox had paved the way for the young poet, but the moment he entered he carried with him his best recommendation. Every one who met Browning in those early years of his buoyant manhood seems to have been struck by his comeliness and simple grace of manner. Macready stated that he looked more like a poet than any man he had ever met. As a young man he appears to have had a certain ivory delicacy of colouring, what an old friend perhaps somewhat exaggeratedly described to me as an almost flower-like beauty, which pa.s.sed ere long into a less girlish and more robust complexion. He appeared taller than he was, for he was not above medium height, partly because of his rare grace of movement, and partly from a characteristic high poise of the head when listening intently to music or conversation. Even then he had that expressive wave o" the hand, which in later years was as full of various meanings as the _Ecco_ of an Italian. A swift alertness pervaded him, noticeable as much in the rapid change of expression, in the deepening and illuming colours of his singularly expressive eyes, and in his sensitive mouth, with the upper lip ever so swift to curve or droop in response to the most fluctuant emotion, as in his greyhound-like apprehension, which so often grasped the subject in its entirety before its propounder himself realised its significance. A lady, who remembers Browning at that time, has told me that his hair--then of a brown so dark as to appear black--was so beautiful in its heavy sculpturesque waves as to attract frequent notice. Another, and more subtle, personal charm was his voice, then with a rare flute-like tone, clear, sweet, and resonant. Afterwards, though always with precise clarity, it became merely strong and hearty, a little too loud sometimes, and not infrequently as that of one simulating keen immediate interest while the attention was almost wholly detached.
Macready, in his Journal,[11] about a week later than the date of his first meeting with the poet, wrote--"Read "Paracelsus," a work of great daring, starred with poetry of thought, feeling, and diction, but occasionally obscure: the writer can scarcely fail to be a leading spirit of his time." The tragedian"s house, whither he went at week-ends and on holidays, was at Elstree, a short distance to the northward of Hampstead: and there he invited Browning, among other friends, to come on the last day of December and spend New Year"s Day (1836).[12] When alluding, in after years, to this visit, Browning always spoke of it as one of the red-letter days of his life. It was here he first met Forster, with whom he at once formed what proved to be an enduring friendship; and on this occasion, also, that he was urged by his host to write a poetic play.
[Footnote 11: For many interesting particulars concerning Macready and Browning, and the production of "Strafford," etc., _vide_ the _Reminiscences_, vol. i.]
[Footnote 12: It was for Macready"s eldest boy, William Charles, that Browning wrote one of the most widely popular of his poems, "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." It is said to have been an impromptu performance, and to have been so little valued by the author that he hesitated about its inclusion in "Bells and Pomegranates." It was inserted at the last moment, in the third number, which was short of "copy." Some one (anonymous, but whom I take to be Mr. Nettleship) has publicly alluded to his possession of a rival poem (ent.i.tled, simply, "Hamelin") by Robert Browning the elder, and of a letter which he had sent to a friend along with the verses, in which he writes: "Before I knew that Robert had begun the story of the "Rats" I had contemplated a tale on the same subject, and proceeded with it as far as you see, but, on hearing that Robert had a similar one on hand, I desisted." This must have been in 1842, for it was in that year that the third part of _Bells and Pomegranates_ was published. In 1843, however, he finished it.
Browning"s "Pied Piper" has been translated into French, Russian, Italian, and German. The latter (or one German) version is in prose. It was made in 1880, for a special purpose, and occupied the whole of one number of the local paper of Hameln, which is a quaint townlet in Hanover.]
Browning promised to consider the suggestion. Six weeks later, in company with Forster, with whom he had become intimate, he called upon Macready, to discuss the plot of a tragedy which he had pondered. He told the tragedian how deeply he had been impressed by his performance of "Oth.e.l.lo," and how this had deflected his intention from a modern and European to an Oriental and ancient theme. "Browning said that I had _bit_ him by my performance of "Oth.e.l.lo," and I told him I hoped I should make the blood come." The "blood" had come in the guise of a drama-motive based on the crucial period in the career of Na.r.s.es, the eunuch-general of Justinian. Macready liked the suggestion, though he demurred to one or two points in the outline: and before Browning left he eagerly pressed him to "go on with "Na.r.s.es."" But whether Browning mistrusted his own interest in the theme, or was dubious as to the success with which Macready would realise his conception, or as to the reception a play of such a nature would win from an auditory no longer reverent of high dramatic ideals, he gave up the idea. Some three months later (May 26th) he enjoyed another eventful evening. It was the night of the first performance of Talfourd"s "Ion," and he was among the personal friends of Macready who were invited to the supper at Talfourd"s rooms. After the fall of the curtain, Browning, Forster, and other friends sought the tragedian and congratulated him upon the success both of the play and of his impersonation of the chief character. They then adjourned to the house of the author of "Ion." To his surprise and gratification Browning found himself placed next but one to his host, and immediately opposite Macready, who sat between two gentlemen, one calm as a summer evening, and the other with a tempestuous youth dominating his sixty years, whom the young poet at once recognised as Wordsworth and Walter Savage Landor. Every one was in good spirits: the host perhaps most of all, who was celebrating his birthday as well as the success of "Ion." Possibly Macready was the only person who felt at all bored--unless it was Landor--for Wordsworth was not, at such a function, an entertaining conversationalist. There is much significance in the succinct entry in Macready"s journal concerning the Lake-poet--"Wordsworth, who pinned me." ... When Talfourd rose to propose the toast of "The Poets of England" every one probably expected that Wordsworth would be named to respond. But with a kindly grace the host, after flattering remarks upon the two great men then honouring him by sitting at his table, coupled his toast with the name of the youngest of the poets of England--"Mr. Robert Browning, the author of "Paracelsus."" It was a very proud moment for Browning, singled out among that brilliant company: and it is pleasant to know, on the authority of Miss Mitford, who was present, that "he performed his task with grace and modesty," looking, the amiable lady adds, even younger than he was. Perhaps, however, he was prouder still when Wordsworth leaned across the table, and with stately affability said, "I am proud to drink your health, Mr. Browning:" when Landor, also, with a superbly indifferent and yet kindly smile, also raised his gla.s.s to his lips in courteous greeting.
Of Wordsworth Browning saw not a little in the ensuing few years, for on the rare visits the elderly poet paid to London, Talfourd never failed to ask the author of "Paracelsus," for whom he had a sincere admiration, to meet the great man. It was not in the nature of things that the two poets could become friends, but though the younger was sometimes annoyed by the elder"s pooh-poohing his republican sympathies, and contemptuously waiving aside as a mere n.o.body no less an individual than Sh.e.l.ley, he never failed of respect and even reverence. With what tenderness and dignity he has commemorated the great poet"s falling away from his early ideals, may be seen in "The Lost Leader," one of the most popular of Browning"s short poems, and likely to remain so. For several reasons, however, it is best as well as right that Wordsworth should not be more than merely nominally identified with the Lost Leader. Browning was always imperative upon this point.
Towards Landor, on the other hand, he entertained a sentiment of genuine affection, coupled with a profound sympathy and admiration: a sentiment duly reciprocated. The care of the younger for the elder, in the old age of the latter, is one of the most beautiful incidents in a beautiful life.
But the evening was not to pa.s.s without another memorable incident, one to which we owe "Strafford," and probably "A Blot on the "Scutcheon."
Just as the young poet, flushed with the triumphant pleasure of the evening, was about to leave, Macready arrested him by a friendly grip of the arm. In unmistakable earnestness he asked Browning to write him a play. With a simplicity equal to the occasion, the poet contented himself with replying, "Shall it be historical and English? What do you say to a drama on Strafford?"
Macready was pleased with the idea, and hopeful that his friend would be more successful with the English statesman than with the eunuch Na.r.s.es.
A few months elapsed before the poet, who had set aside the long work upon which he was engaged ("Sordello"), called upon Macready with the ma.n.u.script of "Strafford." The latter hoped much from it. In March the MS. was ready. About the end of the month Macready took it to Covent Garden Theatre, and read it to Mr. Osbaldiston, "who caught at it with avidity, and agreed to produce it without delay."
It was an eventful first of May--an eventful twelvemonth, indeed, for it was the initial year of the Victorian era, notable, too, as that wherein the Electric Telegraph was established, and, in letters, wherein a new dramatic literature had its origin. For "Strafford," already significant of a novel movement, and destined, it seems to me, to be still more significant in that great dramatic period towards which we are fast converging, was not less important to the Drama in England, as a new departure in method and radically indicative of a fresh standpoint, than "Hernani" was in France. But in literary history the day itself is doubly memorable, for in the forenoon Carlyle gave the first of his lectures in London. The play was a success, despite the shamefully inadequate acting of some of those entrusted with important parts. There was once, perhaps there were more occasions than one, where success poised like the soul of a Mohammedan on the invisible thread leading to Paradise, but on either side of which lies perdition. There was none to cry _Timbul_ save Macready, except Miss Helen Faucit, who gained a brilliant triumph as Lady Carlisle. The part of Charles I. was enacted so execrably that d.a.m.nation for all was again and again within measurable distance. "The Younger Vane" ranted so that a hiss, like an embodied scorn, vibrated on vagrant wings throughout the house. There was not even any extraneous aid to a fortunate impression. The house was in ill repair: the seats dusty, the "scenery" commonplace and sometimes noticeably inappropriate, the costumes and accessories almost sordid.
But in the face of all this, a triumph was secured. For a brief while Macready believed that the star of regeneration had arisen.
Unfortunately "twas, in the words of a contemporary dramatic poet, "a rising sorrow splendidly forlorn." The financial condition of Covent Garden Theatre was so ruinous that not even the most successful play could have restored its doomed fortunes.
After the fifth night one of the leading actors, having received a better offer elsewhere, suddenly withdrew.
This was the last straw. A collapse forthwith occurred. In the scramble for shares in the few remaining funds every one gained something, except the author, who was to have received 12 for each performance for the first twenty-five nights, and, 10 each for ten nights further. This disaster was a deep disappointment to Browning, and a by no means transitory one, for three or four years later he wrote (_Advt._ of "Bells and Pomegranates"): "Two or three years ago I wrote a play, about which the chief matter I much care to recollect at present is, that a pitful of good-natured people applauded it. Ever since, I have been desirous of doing something in the same way that should better reward their attention." But, except in so far as its abrupt declension from the stage hurt its author in the eyes of the critics, and possibly in those of theatrical managers, "Strafford" was certainly no failure. It has the elements of a great acting play. Everything, even the language (and here was a stumbling-block with most of the critics and criticasters), was subordinated to dramatic exigencies: though the subordination was in conformity with a novel shaping method. "Strafford"
was not, however, allowed to remain unknown to those who had been unable to visit Covent Garden Theatre.[13] Browning"s name had quite sufficient literary repute to justify a publisher in risking the issue of a drama by him; one, at any rate, that had the advantage of a.s.sociation with Macready"s name. The Longmans issued it, and the author had the pleasure of knowing that his third poetic work was not produced at the expense of a relative, but at that of the publishers. It had but an indifferent reception, however.
[Footnote 13: "It is time to deny a statement that has been repeated _ad nauseam_ in every notice that professes to give an account of Mr.
Browning"s career. Whatever is said or not said, it is always that his plays have "failed" on the stage. In point of fact, the three plays which he has brought out have all succeeded, and have owed it to fortuitous circ.u.mstances that their tenure on the boards has been comparatively short."--E.W. GOSSE, in article in _The Century Magazine._]
Most people who saw the performance of "Strafford" given in 1886, under the auspices of the Browning Society, were surprised as well as impressed: for few, apparently, had realised from perusal the power of the play as made manifest when acted. The secret of this is that the drama, when privily read, seems hard if not heavy in its diction, and to be so inornate, though by no means correspondingly simple, as to render any comparison between it and the dramatic work of Shakspere out of the question. But when acted, the artistry of the play is revealed. Its intense naturalness is due in great part to the stern concision of the lines, where no word is wasted, where every sentence is fraught with the utmost it can convey. The outlines which disturbed us by their vagueness become more clear: in a word, we all see in enactment what only a few of us can discern in perusal. The play has its faults, but scarcely those of language, where the diction is n.o.ble and rhythmic, because it is, so to speak, the genuine rind of the fruit it envelops. But there are dramatic faults--primarily, in the extreme economy of the author in the presentment of his _dramatis personae_, who are embodied abstractions--monomaniacs of ideas, as some one has said of Hugo"s personages--rather than men as we are, with manifold complexities in endless friction or fusion. One cardinal fault is the lack of humour, which to my mind is the paramount objection to its popular acceptance.
Another, is the misproportionate length of some of the speeches. Once again, there is, as in the greater portion of Browning"s longer poems and dramas, a baneful equality of emphasis. The conception of Charles I.
is not only obviously weak, but strangely prejudiced adversely for so keen an a.n.a.lyst of the soul as Browning. For what a fellow-dramatist calls this "Sunset Shadow of a King," no man or woman could abase every hope and energy. Shakspere would never have committed the crucial mistake of making Charles the despicable deformity he is in Browning"s drama. Strafford himself disappears too soon: in the fourth act there is the vacuum abhorred of dramatic propriety.
When he again comes on the scene, the charm is partly broken. But withal the play is one of remarkable vigour and beauty. It seems to me that too much has been written against it on the score of its metrical rudeness.
The lines are beat out by a hammer, but in the process they are wrought clear of all needless alloy. To urge, as has been lately urged, that it lacks all human touch and is a mere intellectual fanfaronade, and that there is not once a line of poignant insight, is altogether uncritical.
Readers of this mind must have forgotten or be indifferent to those lines, for example, where the wretched Charles stammeringly excuses himself to his loyal minister for his death-warrant, crying out that it was wrung from him, and begging Strafford not to curse him: or, again, that wonderfully significant line, so full of a too tardy knowledge and of concentrated scorn, where Strafford first begs the king to "be good to his children," and then, with a contempt that is almost sublime, implores, "Stay, sir, do not promise, do not swear!" The whole of the second scene in the fifth act is pure genius. The reader, or spectator, knows by this time that all hope is over: that Strafford, though all unaware, is betrayed and undone. It is a subtle dramatic ruse, that of Browning"s representing him sitting in his apartment in the Tower with his young children, William and Anne, blithely singing.
Can one read and ever forget the lines giving the gay Italian rhyme, with the boy"s picturesquely childish prose-accompaniment? Strafford is seated, weary and distraught:--
"_O bell"andare Per barca in mare, Verso la sera Di Primavera!_
_William_. The boat"s in the broad moonlight all this while--
_Verso la sera Di Primavera!_
And the boat shoots from underneath the moon Into the shadowy distance; only still You hear the dipping oar--
_Verso la sera,_
And faint, and fainter, and then all"s quite gone, Music and light and all, like a lost star.
_Anne_. But you should sleep, father: you were to sleep.
_Strafford_. I do sleep, Anne; or if not--you must know There"s such a thing as ...
_William_. You"re too tired to sleep.
_Strafford_. It will come by-and-by and all day long, In that old quiet house I told you of: We sleep safe there.
_Anne_. Why not in Ireland?
_Strafford_. No!
Too many dreams!--"
To me this children"s-song and the fleeting and now plaintive echo of it, as "Voices from Within"--"_Verso la sera, Di Primavera_"--in the terrible scene where Strafford learns his doom, is only to be paralleled by the song of Mariana in "Measure for Measure," wherein, likewise, is abduced in one thrilling poignant strain the quintessential part of the tense life of the whole play.
So much has been written concerning the dramas of Robert Browning--though indeed there is still room for a volume of careful criticism, dealing solely with this theme--that I have the less regret in having so inadequately to pa.s.s in review works of such poetic magnitude as those enumerated above.
But it would be impossible, in so small a book as this, to examine them in detail without incurring a just charge of misproportion. The greatness and the shortcomings of the dramas and dramatic poems must be noted as succinctly as practicable; and I have dwelt more liberally upon "Pauline," "Paracelsus," and "Strafford," partly because (certainly without more than one exception, "Sordello") these are the three least read of Browning"s poems, partly because they indicate the sweep and reach of his first orient eagle-flight through new morning-skies, and mainly because in them we already find Browning at his best and at his weakest, because in them we hear not only the rush of his sunlit pinions, but also the low earthward surge of dullard wings.