Biographical and critical studies by James Thomson ("B.V.")/Browning's "Pacchiarotto"
BROWNING'S "PACCHIAROTTO"[1]
Mr. Browning, as he ages, seems but to work the more strenuously and produce the more abundantly, having, since the colossal "The Ring and the Book," issued no less than six volumes, of which two at least, "Balaustion's Adventure" and "Aristophanes' Apology," may be accounted of first-rate importance. He has accumulated such immense stores of knowledge, and much of it recondite knowledge, of literature, of art, and of things in general; he has gathered such wealth of manifold reflections on some of the abstrusest problems of life, that he appears to be anxious to disburthen himself of as much as possible ere death overtake him, that the treasures of his learning and thought may not perish with him. The present volume differs from the others of recent date in being written almost wholly in rhyme instead of blank verse, and differs from all previous ones in dealing much with personal matters, and these the author's relations to the public and the critics, instead of being mainly dramatic. During about thirty years the bulk of the critics pronounced him unintelligible, and the mass of the public ignored him, yet he possessed his soul in patience; but during the last dozen years or so the poor puzzled critics (I mean the professional book-tasters) have treated him with respect if not with understanding, and the poor bewildered public (I mean the small public that reads poetry) has looked into his books, though for the most part with glances of mere despair, yet now he bursts out upon both with almost savage scorn. One cannot say that he has no right to be angry, supposing that mere human stupidity ought ever to move to anger; one cannot help thinking that the anger is postdated. It would not have been surprising had he lashed out merrily and fiercely when a fatuous Edinburgh Reviewer, among other choice grievances, complained that he had not rendered the burning of the last Master of the Templars in a pleasing manner! But the time is past when any reviewers, Edinburgh, Quarterly or other, could venture such imbecility; yet here we have the poet castigating them with a will:—
And these in the drabs, blues and yellows.
Are surely the privileged fellows;
So, saltbox and bones, tongs and bellows!
(I threw up the window) 'Your pleasure?'
An old friend—put leg forward nimbly,
We critics as sweeps out your chimbly!
Much soot to remove from your flue, sir!
Who spares coal in kitchen an't you, sir!
And neighbours complain it's no joke, sir,
—You ought to consume your own smoke, sir!
Ah, rogues, but my housemaid suspects you—
Is confident oft she detects you
In bringing more filth into my house
Than ever you found there! I'm pious
However: 'twas God made you dingy."
And so on through several more pages of infinite contempt, quite justifiable, but scarcely worth the while of so great a thinker and poet to fling at such pigmies.
As for the public which complains that though he brews stiff drink, the deuce a flavour of grape is there, and alleges against him Shakespeare and Milton, whose wines are both strong and sweet, he turns on it with bitter disdain, and reminds it that it drinks only the leakage and leavings of these, sups the single scene, sips the single verse: —
Some five or six are abroach; the rest
Stand spigoted, fauceted.
••••••There are four big butts of Milton's brew.
How comes it you make old drips and drops
Do duty, and there devotion stops?"
And he concludes his rough rasping with the following stanza:—
Wholesome for blood grown lazy and thick?
Maws out of sorts make mouths out of taste.
My Thirty-four Port—no need to waste
On a tongue that's fur and a palate—paste!
A magnum for friends who are sound! the sick
I'll posset and cosset them, nothing loth,
Henceforward with nettle-broth!"
Thus, instead of being at all penitent for the sins of harshness and obscurity of which he has been persistently accused from the appearance of "Sordello" even until now, he not only vindicates himself with a haughty and jovial self-confidence, but overwhelms his accusers with counter-charges of imbecility and humbug.
He moreover emphatically assures the public that it shall not penetrate into his inner personal history or nature; it may peep through his window, but shall not put foot over his threshold; he will not unlock his heart with a sonnet-key, and if Shakespeare did so he was thereby the less Shakespeare.
Another prominent feature in this book, and one which appears rather incongruous with the lip of scorn shot out at critics and public, is the lesson that it is no use trying to alter men, that it is best to let men remain as they are by nature, without troubling one's head with attempts to improve them. Thus: —
To what was prescribed them at starting!
Once planted as fools—no departing
From folly one inch, sæculorum
In sacula!"
And again:—
Quick one or slow one,
Just a discerner,
I would teach no one.
I am earth's native:
No re-arranging it!
I be creative,
Chopping and changing it?"
Lastly I must note the cordial love of life, and the cheerful confidence in death: —
My life did and does taste sweet.
Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?
Mine I saved and hold complete.
Do your joys with age diminish?
When mine fail me, I'll complain.
Must in death your daylight finish?
My sun sets to rise again,"
I have dwelt thus at length on these personal characteristics, not only because they are very interesting in themselves, on account of the greatness of the personality they help to characterise, but also because they have not, so far as I am aware, been so plainly discovered in any of the author's previous works. There is not space left to speak at all sufficiently, even were it in my power so to speak, of the impersonal or dramatic poems. Some of the shorter pieces are very fine, and two or three will take place with his best. Here is the shortest, entitled "Magical Nature":—
Bright I see and soft I feel the outside of a flower,
Save but glow inside and—jewel, I should guess you,
Dim to sight and rough to touch: the glory is the dower.
Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime!
Time may fray the flower-face: kind be time or cruel
Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time."
There is a piece of grim ironical humour, "Filippo Baldinucci on the Privilege of Burial," turning on the old persecution of the Jews, and similar in spirit to the "Holy Cross Day" in "Men and Women." The "Cenciaja" condenses from an old chronicle the story of that matricide by Paolo Santa Croce, which determined the execution of Beatrice Cenci when there was good hope that she would be pardoned. There is the spirited ballad of Hervé Riel, a true history, republished from the Cornhill Magazine. Lastly there are two pieces, "Numpholeptos" and "A Forgiveness," which it seems to me will rank not far beneath the loftiest of his poems of moderate length.
THE END
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
Edinburgh and London
- ↑ "Pacchiarotto and How he Worked in Distemper: with other Poems." By Robert Browning. London: Smith, Elder, and Co., 1876.