life of robert browning(罗伯特·布朗宁传)-第37部分
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lips of the dead poet a mockery of death's vanity a brave assertion of the
glory of life。 〃Death； death！ It is this harping on death I despise so much；〃
he remarked with emphasis of gesture as well as of speech the inclined
head and body； the right hand lightly placed upon the listener's knee； the
abrupt change in the inflection of the voice； all so characteristic of him
〃this idle and often cowardly as well as ignorant harping！ Why should we
not change like everything else？ In fiction； in poetry； in so much of both；
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French as well as English； and； I am told； in American art and literature；
the shadow of death call it what you will； despair； negation； indifference
is upon us。 But what fools who talk thus！ Why； ‘amico mio'； you know
as well as I that death is life； just as our daily； our momentarily dying body
is none the less alive and ever recruiting new forces of existence。 Without
death； which is our crapelike churchyardy word for change； for growth；
there could be no prolongation of that which we call life。 Pshaw！ it is
foolish to argue upon such a thing even。 For myself； I deny death as an
end of everything。 Never say of me that I am dead！〃
On the evening of Thursday； the 12th of December （1889）； he was in
bed； with exceeding weakness。 In the centre of the lofty ceiling of the
room in which he lay； and where it had been his wont to work； there is a
painting by his son。 It depicts an eagle struggling with a serpent； and is
illustrative of a superb passage in Shelley's 〃Revolt of Islam〃。 What
memories； what deep thoughts； it must have suggested； how significant； to
us； the circumstance！ But weak as the poet was； he yet did not see the
shadow which had begun to chill the hearts of the watchers。 Shortly before
the great bell of San Marco struck ten； he turned and asked if any news
had come concerning 〃Asolando〃； published that day。 His son read him a
telegram from the publishers； telling how great the demand was and how
favourable were the advance…articles in the leading papers。 The dying poet
smiled and muttered； 〃How gratifying！〃 When the last toll of St。 Mark's
had left a deeper stillness than before； those by the bedside saw a yet
profounder silence on the face of him whom they loved。
It is needless to dwell upon the grief everywhere felt and expressed for
the irreparable loss。 The magnificent closing lines of Shelley's 〃Alastor〃
must have occurred to many a mourner； for gone； indeed； was 〃a
surpassing Spirit〃。 The superb pomp of the Venetian funeral； the solemn
grandeur of the interment in Westminster Abbey； do not seem worth
recording： so insignificant are all these accidents of death made by the
supreme fact itself。 Yet it is fitting to know that Venice has never in
modern times afforded a more impressive sight； than those craped
processional gondolas following the high flower…strewn funeral…barge
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through the thronged waterways and out across the lagoon to the desolate
Isle of the Dead： that London has rarely seen aught more solemn than the
fog…dusked Cathedral spaces； echoing at first with the slow tramp of the
pall…bearers； and then with the sweet aerial music swaying upward the
loved familiar words of the ‘Lyric Voice' hushed so long before。 Yet the
poet was as much honoured by those humble friends； Lambeth artisans
and a few poor working…women； who threw sprays of laurel before the
hearse by that desolate； starving； woe…weary gentleman； shivering in his
threadbare clothes； who seemed transfixed with a heart…wrung though
silent emotion； ere he hurriedly drew from his sleeve a large white
chrysanthemum； and throwing it beneath the coffin as it was lifted inward；
disappeared in the crowd； which closed again like the sea upon this lost
wandering wave。
Who would not honour this mighty dead？ All who could be present
were there； somewhere in the ancient Abbey。 One of the greatest； loved
and admired by the dead poet； had already put the mourning of many into
the lofty dignity of his verse： 〃Now dumb is he who waked the world to
speak； And voiceless hands the world beside his bier； Our words are sobs；
our cry of praise a tear： We are the smitten mortal； we the weak。 We see a
spirit on Earth's loftiest peak Shine； and wing hence the way he makes
more clear： See a great Tree of Life that never sere Dropped leaf for aught
that age or storms might wreak： Such ending is not Death： such living
shows What wide illumination brightness sheds From one big heart to
conquer man's old foes： The coward； and the tyrant； and the force Of all
those weedy monsters raising heads When Song is murk from springs of
turbid source。〃*
* George Meredith。
One word more of 〃light and fleeting shadow〃。 In the greatness of his
nature he must be ranked with Milton； Defoe； and Scott。 His very
shortcomings； such as they were； were never baneful growths； but mere
weeds； with a certain pleasant though pungent savour moreover； growing
upon a rich； an exuberant soil。 Pluck one of the least lovely rather call it
the unworthy arrow shot at the body of a dead comrade； so innocent of ill
intent： yet it too has a beauty of its own； for the shaft was aflame from the
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fulness of a heart whose love had withstood the chill passage of the years。
On the night of Browning's death a new star suddenly appeared in
Orion。* The coincidence is suggestive if we like to indulge in the fancy
that in that constellation 〃No more subjected to the change or chance Of
the unsteady planets 〃 gleam those other 〃abodes where the Immortals
are。〃 Certainly； a wandering fire has passed away from us。 Whither has it
gone？ To that new star in Orion： or whirled to remote silences in the trail
of lost meteors？ Whence； and for how long； will its rays reach our storm
and gloom…beleaguered earth？
* Mrs。 Orr disputes this statement。 A。 L。； 1996。
〃The alleged fact is disproved by the statement of the Astronomer
Royal； to whom it has been submitted； but it would have been a beautiful
symbol of translation； such as affectionate fancy might gladly cherish if it
were true。〃 Mrs。 Sutherland Orr； 〃Life and Letters of Robert Browning〃
（1891）。
Such questions cannot meanwhile be solved。 Our eyes are still
confused with the light； with that ardent flame； as we knew it here。 But
this we know； it was indeed 〃a central fire descending upon many altars。〃
These； though touched with but a spark of the immortal principle； bear
enduring testimony。 And what testimony！ How heartfelt： happily also how
widespread； how electrically stimulative！
But the time must come when the poet's personality will have the
remoteness of tradition： when our perplexed judgments will be as a tale of
sound and fury； signifying nothing。 It is impossible for any student of
literature； for any interested reader； not to indulge in some forecast as to
what rank in the poetic hierarchy Robert Browning will ultimately occupy。
The commonplace as to the impossibility of prognosticating the ultimate
slow decadence； or slower rise； or； it may be； sustained suspension； of a
poet's fame； is often insincere； and but an excuse of indolence。 To
dogmatise were the height of presumption as well as of folly： but to forego
speculation； based upon complete present knowledge； for an idle
contentment with narrow horizons； were perhaps foolisher still。 But
assuredly each must perforce be content with his own prevision。 None can
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answer yet for the generality； whose decisive franchise will elect a fit
arbiter in due time。
So； for myself； let me summarise what I have already written in
several sections of this book； and particularly in the closing pages of
Chapter 6。 There； it will be remembered after having found that
Browning's highest achievement is in his second period emphasis was
laid on the primary importance of his life…work in its having compelled us
to the assumption of a fresh critical standpoint involving the construction
of a new definition。 In the light of this new definition I think Browning
will ultimately be judged。 As the sculptor in 〃Pippa Passes〃 was the
predestinated novel thinker in marble； so Browning himself appears as the
predestinated novel thinker in verse； the novel thinker； however； in degree；
not in kind。 But I do not for a moment believe that his greatness is in his
status as
