February 23, 2004
Robert Browning & The Insane Lover Obsession
"Porphyria's Lover"
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me--she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
I read a lot of romantic poetry this semester. This is somewhat logical, since we were kind of studying the Romantic Period and all, but I think it made me a bit complacent. Coming on the heels of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats, and especially Tennyson, Browning was a definite change of pace. What threw me off, though, was the fact that he pretended to be doing the same old thing as all the others at first.
I was feeling rather peaceful and complacent as the romantic scene was set in “Porphyria’s Lover.” I was pleasantly picturing the peaceful scene, trying to experience the poem and catch the author’s wavelength. And I was succeeding, I thought. There is a frightful storm going on outside, but inside all is calm comfort and tender affection. This seemed like an important contrast. The long, blonde hair, and head on the shoulder were a nice touch, and I was feeling altogether serene when he started playing with her hair.
I’d rather like to have a snapshot of my face when he choked her with it. I know I looked as shocked as I felt. However, since I didn’t get a picture of myself, I was forced to make up for it by recreating the effect. So I went and told a lot of people about it, and was highly amused by their reactions, which were more or less similar to mine. But the really creepy part of the poem, of course, is what happens next.
The narrator proceeds to restore Porphyria to her former position and sit there with her dead body for the rest of the night. The last line confused me, at first, so I read it through again. What does the silence of God imply about the sin he has committed? Does it serve as proof that he has done the right thing? I don't think so.
In fact, I don’t think that God is silent at all. God is omniscient; he knew what Porphyria’s lover was going to do. It seems to me that the wild storm that rages throughout the night, even before the dreadful murder happens, is clear evidence of God’s displeasure. The storm, described as it is at the beginning of the poem, seems to foreshadow the awful events that will transpire, if you are paying attention (which clearly I wasn’t, the first time through). The poem ends with the assertion that God is silent on the matter, but we know that this is not the case. Clearly God is neither silent nor pleased, as is clearly indicated by the opening lines. The meaning of it all, one way or another, seems to hinge on the storm.
The style of the poem, naturally, reminds me of the work of Poe. One of his stories that comes immediately to mind is “The Tell-Tale Heart” with its emphasis on the eyes of the victim, the extreme overconfidence which leads him to simply sit there with the body rather than attempt to hide what he has done, and especially the cold, clinical recounting of the story by which the narrator hopes to convince us of his sanity and only succeeds in doing just the opposite.
It seems to me, as I think about it, that madness in literature and in the movies is often revealed through an unnaturally strong feeling of ownership that the madman believes himself to have towards a particular woman, whether or not she is in love with him or even knows he exists. It is the sort of thing that one commonly finds when examining the psyche of a serial killer.
I don’t remember the exact period when modern criminal psychology became more prevalent and started being taken seriously, but it certainly wasn’t as early as this poem was written. So how did Browning tap into this? Did he just have incredible insight into the darker side of human nature, or is there a more sinister explanation? Obviously, there doesn’t seem to be any indication of any such behavior from him, but if I were a woman . . . Ummm . . . Hmmm . . . Y'know, hypothetical situations like that can't go anywhere good, so nevermind. But I wonder if Elizabeth Barrett (his wife) kept a wary eye on him. I know I would have.
Robert Browning, aside from being a talented poet, had a keen and disturbing sense of the grotesque and the macabre, just like Poe. Considering the fact that they were contemporaries, I can’t help but wonder if they influenced each other's writing in any way. That possibility not withstanding, they did write on some of the same themes, and they did it well. Fun stuff.
Posted by Jared at February 23, 2004 02:38 AM | TrackBack