Browning's England Part 40

Two personages occupy this room Shabby-genteel, that's parlor to the inn Perched on a view-commanding eminence; --Inn which may be a veritable house Where somebody once lived and pleased good taste Till tourists found his coign of vantage out, And fingered blunt the individual mark And vulgarized things comfortably smooth.

On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there brays Complaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag; His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds; They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World.

Grim o'er the mirror on the mantlepiece, Varnished and coffined, _Salmo ferox_ glares --Possibly at the List of Wines which, framed And glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg.

So much describes the stuffy little room-- Vulgar flat smooth respectability: Not so the burst of landscape surging in, Sunrise and all, as he who of the pair Is, plain enough, the younger personage Draws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloft The sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wall Shutter and shutter, shows you England's best.

He leans into a living glory-bath Of air and light where seems to float and move The wooded watered country, hill and dale And steel-bright thread of stream, a-smoke with mist, A-sparkle with May morning, diamond drift O' the sun-touched dew. Except the red-roofed patch Of half a dozen dwellings that, crept close For hill-side shelter, make the village-clump This inn is perched above to dominate-- Except such sign of human neighborhood, (And this surmised rather than sensible) There's nothing to disturb absolute peace, The reign of English nature--which mean art And civilized existence. Wildness' self Is just the cultured triumph. Presently Deep solitude, be sure, reveals a Place That knows the right way to defend itself: Silence hems round a burning spot of life.

Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood, And where a village broods, an inn should boast-- Close and convenient: here you have them both.

This inn, the Something-arms--the family's-- (Don't trouble Guillim; heralds leave our half!) Is dear to lovers of the picturesque, And epics have been planned here; but who plan Take holy orders and find work to do.

Painters are more productive, stop a week, Declare the prospect quite a Corot,--ay, For tender sentiment,--themselves incline Rather to handsweep large and liberal; Then go, but not without success achieved --Haply some pencil-drawing, oak or beech, Ferns at the base and ivies up the bole, On this a slug, on that a b.u.t.terfly.

Nay, he who hooked the _salmo_ pendent here, Also exhibited, this same May-month, '_Foxgloves: a study_'--so inspires the scene, The air, which now the younger personage Inflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fain Sigh forth a satisfaction might bestir Even those tufts of tree-tops to the South I' the distance where the green dies off to grey, Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place; He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek.

His fellow, the much older--either say A youngish-old man or man oldish-young-- Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deep In wax, to detriment of plated ware; Above--piled, strewn--is store of playing-cards, Counters and all that's proper for a game.

Circ.u.mstantial as the description of this parlor and the situation of the inn is, it is impossible to say which out of the many English inns Browning had in mind. Inns date back to the days of the Romans, who had ale-houses along the roads, the most interesting feature of which was the ivy garland or wreath of vine-leaves in honor of Bacchus, wreathed around a hoop at the end of a long pole to point out the way where good drink could be had. A curious survival of this in early English times was the "ale-stake," a tavern so called because it had a long pole projecting from the house front wreathed like the old Roman poles with furze, a garland of flowers or an ivy wreath. This decoration was called the "bush," and in time the London taverners so vied with each other in their attempt to attract attention by very long poles and very prominent bushes that in 1375 a law was pa.s.sed according to which all taverners in the city of London owning ale-stakes projecting or extending over the King's highway more than seven feet in length, at the utmost, should be fined forty pence, and compelled to remove the sign. Here is the origin, too, of the proverb, "good wine needs no bush." In the later development of the inn the signs lost their Bacchic character and became most elaborate, often being painted by artists.

The poet says this inn was the "Something-arms," and had perhaps once been a house. Many inns were the "Something (?) arms" and certainly many inns had been houses. One such is the Pounds Bridge Inn on a secluded road between Speldhurst and Penshurst in Kent. It was built by the rector of Penshurst, William Darkenoll, who lived in it only three years, when it became an inn. The inn of the poem might have been a combination in Browning's memory of this and the "White Horse" at Woolstone, which is described as a queerly pretty little inn with a front distantly resembling a Chippendale bureau-bookcase. "It is tucked away under the mighty sides of White Horse Hill, Berkshire, and additionally overhung with trees and encircled with shrubberies and under-woods, and is finally situated on a narrow road that presently leads, as it would seem, to the end of the known world." So writes the enthusiastic lover of inns, Charles Harper. Or, perhaps, since there is a river to be seen from the inn of the poem the "Swan" at Sandleford Water, where a foot bridge and a water splash on the river Enborne mark the boundaries of Hampshire and Berkshire. Here "You have the place wholly to yourself, or share it only with the squirrels and the birds of the overarching trees." The ill.u.s.tration given of the Black Bear Inn, Tewksbury, is a quite typical example of inn architecture, and may have helped the picture in Browning's mind, though its situation is not so rural as that described in the poem.

Inns have, from time immemorial, been the scenes of romances and tragedies and crimes. There have been inns like the "Castle" where the "quality" loved to congregate. The "inn alb.u.m" of this establishment had inscribed in it almost every eighteenth-century name of any distinction.

There have been inns which were noted as the resort of the wits of the day. Ben Jonson loved to take "mine ease in mine inn," and Dr. Johnson declared that a seat in a tavern chair was the height of human felicity.

"He was thinking," as it has been pertinently put, "not only of a comfortable sanded parlor, a roaring fire, and plenty of good cheer and good company, but also of the circle of humbly appreciative auditors who gathered round an accepted wit, hung upon his words, offered themselves as b.u.t.ts for his ironic or satiric humor, and--stood treat." Or there was the inn of sinister aspect where highwaymen might congregate, or inns with hosts who let their guests down through trap-doors in the middle of the night to rob and murder them--or is this only a vague remembrance of a fanciful inn of d.i.c.kens? Then there was the pilgrim's inn in the days when Chaucerian folks loved to go on pilgrimages, and in the last century the cyclists inn, and to-day the inn of the automobilist. The particular inn in the poem belongs to the cla.s.s, rural inn, and in spite of its pictures by noted masters was "stuffy" as to the atmosphere.

[Ill.u.s.tration: An English Inn]

The "inn alb.u.m" or visitors' book is a feature of inns. In this country we simply sign our names in the visitors' book, but the "alb.u.m" feature of the visitors' book of an English inn is its glory and too often its shame, for as Mr. Harper says, "Bathos, inept.i.tude, and lines that refuse to scan are the stigmata of visitors' book verse. There is no worse poetry on earth than that which lurks between those covers, or in the pages of young ladies' alb.u.ms." He declares that "The interesting pages of visitors' books are generally those that are not there, as an Irishman might say; for the world is populated very densely with those appreciative people who, whether from a love of literature, or with an instinct for collecting autographs that may have a realizable value, remove the signatures of distinguished men, and with them anything original they may have written."

Browning pokes fun at the poetry of his inn alb.u.m, but at the same time uses it as an important part of the machinery in the action. His English "Iago" writes in it the final d.a.m.nation of his own character--the threat by means of which he hopes to ruin his victims, but which, instead, causes the lady to take poison and the young man to murder "Iago."

The presence of the two men at this particular inn is explained in the following bit of conversation between them.

"You wrong your poor disciple. Oh, no airs!

Because you happen to be twice my age And twenty times my master, must perforce No blink of daylight struggle through the web There's no unwinding? You entoil my legs, And welcome, for I like it: blind me,--no!

A very pretty piece of shuttle-work Was that--your mere chance question at the club-- '_Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide?

I'm off for Paris, there's the Opera--there's The Salon, there's a china-sale,--beside Chantilly; and, for good companionship, There's Such-and-such and So-and-so. Suppose We start together?_' '_No such holiday!_'

I told you: '_Paris and the rest be hanged!

Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights?

I'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours?

On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowse The week away down with the Aunt and Niece?

No help: it's leisure, loneliness and love.

Wish I could take you; but fame travels fast,-- A man of much newspaper-paragraph, You scare domestic circles; and beside Would not you like your lot, that second taste Of nature and approval of the grounds!

You might walk early or lie late, so shirk Week-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er, And morning church is obligatory: No mundane garb permissible, or dread The butler's privileged monition! No!

Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!_'

Whereon how artlessly the happy flash Followed, by inspiration! '_Tell you what-- Let's turn their flank, try things on t'other side!

Inns for my money! Liberty's the life!

We'll lie in hiding: there's the crow-nest nook, The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about, Inn that's out--out of sight and out of mind And out of mischief to all four of us-- Aunt and niece, you and me. At night arrive; At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-view Of my friend's Land of Promise; then depart.

And while I'm whizzing onward by first train, Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulks And says I shun him like the plague) yourself-- Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gay Despite the sleepless journey,--love lends wings,-- Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, wait The faithful advent! Eh?_' '_With all my heart_,'

Said I to you; said I to mine own self: '_Does he believe I fail to comprehend He wants just one more final friendly snack At friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth, Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?_'

And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,--nay, grave?

Your pupil does you better credit! No!

I parleyed with my pa.s.s-book,--rubbed my pair At the big balance in my banker's hands,-- Folded a cheque cigar-case-shape,--just wants Filling and signing,--and took train, resolved To execute myself with decency And let you win--if not Ten thousand quite, Something by way of wind-up-farewell burst Of firework-nosegay! Where's your fortune fled?

Or is not fortune constant after all?

You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost half Or half that, I should bite my lips, I think.

You man of marble! Strut and stretch my best On tiptoe, I shall never reach your height.

How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!"

The more refined man smiles a frown away.

On the way to the station where the older man is to take the train they have another talk, in which each tells the other of his experience, but they do not find out yet that they have both loved the same woman.

"Stop, my boy!

Don't think I'm stingy of experience! Life --It's like this wood we leave. Should you and I Go wandering about there, though the gaps We went in and came out by were opposed As the two poles, still, somehow, all the same, By nightfall we should probably have chanced On much the same main points of interest-- Both of us measured girth of mossy trunk, Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped hands At squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow, And so forth,--never mind what time betwixt.

So in our lives; allow I entered mine Another way than you: 't is possible I ended just by knocking head against That plaguy low-hung branch yourself began By getting b.u.mp from; as at last you too May stumble o'er that stump which first of all Bade me walk circ.u.mspectly. Head and feet Are vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure, Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise.

I, early old, played young man four years since And failed confoundedly: so, hate alike Failure and who caused failure,--curse her cant!"

"Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime, Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah-- But how should chits distinguish? She admired Your marvel of a mind, I'll undertake!

But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is, When years have told on face and figure...."

"Thanks, Mister _Sufficiently-Instructed_! Such No doubt was bound to be the consequence To suit your self-complacency: she liked My head enough, but loved some heart beneath Some head with plenty of brown hair a-top After my young friend's fashion! What becomes Of that fine speech you made a minute since About the man of middle age you found A formidable peer at twenty-one?

So much for your mock-modesty! and yet I back your first against this second sprout Of observation, insight, what you please.

My middle age, Sir, had too much success!

It's odd: my case occurred four years ago-- I finished just while you commenced that turn I' the wood of life that takes us to the wealth Of honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach.

Now, I don't boast: it's bad style, and beside, The feat proves easier than it looks: I plucked Full many a flower unnamed in that bouquet (Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!) Good nature sticks into my b.u.t.ton-hole.

Therefore it was with nose in want of snuff Rather than Ess or Psidium, that I chanced On what--so far from '_rosebud beauty_'.... Well-- She's dead: at least you never heard her name; She was no courtly creature, had nor birth Nor breeding--mere fine-lady-breeding; but Oh, such a wonder of a woman! Grand As a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that, Style that a d.u.c.h.ess or a Queen,--you know, Artists would make an outcry: all the more, That she had just a statue's sleepy grace Which broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault (Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for suppose Only the little flaw, and I had peeped Inside it, learned what soul inside was like.

At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneath A Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife-- I wish,--now,--I had played that brute, brought blood To surface from the depths I fancied chalk!

As it was, her mere face surprised so much That I stopped short there, struck on heap, as stares The c.o.c.kney stranger at a certain bust With drooped eyes,--she's the thing I have in mind,-- Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize-- Such outside! Now,--confound me for a prig!-- Who cares? I'll make a clean breast once for all!

Beside, you've heard the gossip. My life long I've been a woman-liker,--liking means Loving and so on. There's a lengthy list By this time I shall have to answer for-- So say the good folk: and they don't guess half-- For the worst is, let once collecting-itch Possess you, and, with perspicacity, Keeps growing such a greediness that theft Follows at no long distance,--there's the fact!

I knew that on my Leporello-list Might figure this, that, and the other name Of feminine desirability, But if I happened to desire inscribe, Along with these, the only Beautiful-- Here was the unique specimen to s.n.a.t.c.h Or now or never. 'Beautiful' I said-- 'Beautiful' say in cold blood,--boiling then To tune of '_Haste, secure whate'er the cost This rarity, die in the act, be d.a.m.ned, So you complete collection, crown your list!_'

It seemed as though the whole world, once aroused By the first notice of such wonder's birth, Would break bounds to contest my prize with me The first discoverer, should she but emerge From that safe den of darkness where she dozed Till I stole in, that country-parsonage Where, country-parson's daughter, motherless, Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen years She had been vegetating lily-like.

Her father was my brother's tutor, got The living that way: him I chanced to see-- Her I saw--her the world would grow one eye To see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!

'_Secure her!_' cried the devil: '_afterward Arrange for the disposal of the prize!_'

The devil's doing! yet I seem to think-- Now, when all's done,--think with '_a head reposed_'

In French phrase--hope I think I meant to do All requisite for such a rarity When I should be at leisure, have due time To learn requirement. But in evil day-- Bless me, at week's end, long as any year, The father must begin '_Young Somebody, Much recommended--for I break a rule-- Comes here to read, next Long Vacation_.' '_Young!_'

That did it. Had the epithet been '_rich_,'

'_n.o.ble_,' '_a genius_,' even '_handsome_,'--but --'_Young!_'"

"I say--just a word! I want to know-- You are not married?"

"I?"

"Nor ever were?"

"Never! Why?"

"Oh, then--never mind! Go on!

I had a reason for the question."

"Come,-- You could not be the young man?"

"No, indeed!

Certainly--if you never married her!"

"That I did not: and there's the curse, you'll see!

Nay, all of it's one curse, my life's mistake Which, nourished with manure that's warranted To make the plant bear wisdom, blew out full In folly beyond field-flower-foolishness!

The lies I used to tell my womankind, Knowing they disbelieved me all the time Though they required my lies, their decent due, This woman--not so much believed, I'll say, As just antic.i.p.ated from my mouth: Since being true, devoted, constant--she Found constancy, devotion, truth, the plain And easy commonplace of character.

No mock-heroics but seemed natural To her who underneath the face, I knew Was fairness' self, possessed a heart, I judged Must correspond in folly just as far Beyond the common,--and a mind to match,-- Not made to puzzle conjurers like me Who, therein, proved the fool who fronts you, Sir, And begs leave to cut short the ugly rest!

'_Trust me!_' I said: she trusted. '_Marry me!_'