Farce
Farce is originated from the old french meaning 'stuff' or 'stuffing'.
Farce is a type of comedy that uses absurd or highly improbable events in the plot and situations are humorous. Farce is a verbal and physical form of humour. The term 'farcical' is used to to suggest something is ridiculous. John Cleese was someone who used a lot of farce in his comedy and his most famous piece of farce is Monty Python's Flying Circus.
Difference between Farce and Satire
Farce is a type of comedy that uses absurd or highly improbable events in the plot and situations are humorous. Farce is a verbal and physical form of humour. The term 'farcical' is used to to suggest something is ridiculous. John Cleese was someone who used a lot of farce in his comedy and his most famous piece of farce is Monty Python's Flying Circus.
Difference between Farce and Satire
Farce creates comedy by being ridiculous and the intention is to make you laugh
|
Satire is illustrating a ridiculous situation and the intention is to have a social impact to show what's wrong in society through wit/irony/sarcasm.
|
Poems to study by Robert Browning
Robert Browning history-
Poet Robert Browning was born on 7th May 1812-1889 in Camberwell, outside
London.
He was the son of a bank clerk and a musical, religious mother. Robert Browning
attended boarding school and studied briefly at the University of London before returning to his parents' home to continue his education with tutors. He read extensively, learned foreign languages as well as boxing and horsemanship, and began writing poetry. However, his early poetry, based on Shelley's confessional style, was harshly criticized, and he abandoned poetry for drama.
Browning found no more success as a playwright than as a poet, but he did encounter a new form, the dramatic monologue, the form that his most successful poetry would take. Although Browning began to associate with well-known poets, his Dramatic Lyrics (1842) failed to win the critics' hearts. His poetry did win praise, however, from the respected poet Elizabeth Barrett.Browning wrote Barrett to express gratitude for her public praise and to ask if they could meet. Despite her initial reluctance, the two eventually met and fell in love. However, the sickly Barrett was held a virtual prisoner by her tyrannical father. The couple eloped in 1846 to Italy, where they lived happily for 15 years, writing poetry and producing a son. During her lifetime, Elizabeth Barrett Browning's reputation as a poet overshadowed that of her spouse, who was sometimes referred to as "Mrs. Browning's husband." Elizabeth died in her husband's arms in 1861, and he returned to England with their son.In England, Browning became an avid socialite, frequently dining out with friends. By now, his poetry had gained recognition and renown. In 1868, he published a12-volume poem called The Ring and the Book, about a real 17th century murder trial in Rome. The book included monologues from many different points of view. He also wrote a series of lyrics, including the Pied
Piper of Hamelin and Prophyria's Lover.
- The patriot
- My last Duchess
- The pied piper of hamlin
- Porphyria's lover
- Fra Lippo Lippi
- The laboratory
Robert Browning history-
Poet Robert Browning was born on 7th May 1812-1889 in Camberwell, outside
London.
He was the son of a bank clerk and a musical, religious mother. Robert Browning
attended boarding school and studied briefly at the University of London before returning to his parents' home to continue his education with tutors. He read extensively, learned foreign languages as well as boxing and horsemanship, and began writing poetry. However, his early poetry, based on Shelley's confessional style, was harshly criticized, and he abandoned poetry for drama.
Browning found no more success as a playwright than as a poet, but he did encounter a new form, the dramatic monologue, the form that his most successful poetry would take. Although Browning began to associate with well-known poets, his Dramatic Lyrics (1842) failed to win the critics' hearts. His poetry did win praise, however, from the respected poet Elizabeth Barrett.Browning wrote Barrett to express gratitude for her public praise and to ask if they could meet. Despite her initial reluctance, the two eventually met and fell in love. However, the sickly Barrett was held a virtual prisoner by her tyrannical father. The couple eloped in 1846 to Italy, where they lived happily for 15 years, writing poetry and producing a son. During her lifetime, Elizabeth Barrett Browning's reputation as a poet overshadowed that of her spouse, who was sometimes referred to as "Mrs. Browning's husband." Elizabeth died in her husband's arms in 1861, and he returned to England with their son.In England, Browning became an avid socialite, frequently dining out with friends. By now, his poetry had gained recognition and renown. In 1868, he published a12-volume poem called The Ring and the Book, about a real 17th century murder trial in Rome. The book included monologues from many different points of view. He also wrote a series of lyrics, including the Pied
Piper of Hamelin and Prophyria's Lover.
Porphyria's lover
The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake I listen'd with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm And kneel'd 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 soil'd gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And call'd 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 look'd up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipp'd 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 Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain And I untighten'd next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss: I propp'd 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 scorn'd at once is fled, And I, its love, am gain'd instead Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how Her darling one wish would be heard And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirr'd, And yet God has not said a word! |
“Porphyria’s Lover,” which first appeared in 1836, is one of the earliest and most shocking of Browning’s dramatic monologues. The speaker lives in a cottage in the countryside. His lover, a blooming young woman named Porphyria, comes in out of a storm and proceeds to make a fire and bring cheer to the cottage. She embraces the speaker, offering him her bare shoulder. He tells us that he does not speak to her. Instead, he says, she begins to tell him how she has momentarily overcome societal strictures to be with him. He realizes that she “worship[s]” him at this instant. Realising that she will eventually give in to society’s pressures, and wanting to preserve the moment, he wraps her hair around her neck and strangles her. He then toys with her corpse, opening the eyes and propping the body up against his side. He sits with her body this way the entire night, the speaker remarking that God has not yet moved to punish him.
IMAGERY AND SYMBOLISM Porphyria's yellow-blonde hair is one of the most memorable images in the poem, and the speaker refers to it frequently. Line 13: After entering soundlessly from the storm, Porphyria takes off her wet coat and hat, and lets her "damp hair fall." It's no accident that Browning uses the word "fall": that word has some pretty negative connotations. For one, the word implies sin (Victorian moralists referred to women who had sex outside of marriage as "fallen women"). So maybe Porphyria's free, "fallen" hair symbolizes the irrevocable step she's taken in coming, alone, to see her lover? Line 18: This is the first time the speaker describes the color of Porphyria's hair: "yellow." Blondness is often associated with angelic purity and with children. Line 20: After pulling the speaker's head down against her bare shoulder, Porphyria spreads her "yellow hair" over him. It's the second time in three lines that her hair is described as "yellow." The speaker must really like that hair to be talking about it so much. Lines 38-41: The speaker takes all of Porphyria's hair, wraps it three times around her neck, and strangles her. If Porphyria's hair is somehow symbolic of her "fall" from sexual purity, does that mean that her "fall," or her sin, somehow kills her? Maybe, but there are lots of other possible interpretations, as well. Another memorable image is of the storm that takes place in the poem which has many connotations. Line 2: The words "sullen" and "awake" personify the weather. It's not like the wind can literally feel "sullen," nor was it asleep before it started to pick up. Line 3: More of what Ruskin calls the "pathetic fallacy": the wind doesn't actually feel "spite" when it tears up the trees. Browning just decided to personify it again. Line 4: And now the lake is being personified. You can't really "vex," or irritate, a body of water, no matter how hard you splash it. Line 7: Porphyria has some kind of power over the storm – she is able to "shut [it] out" almost instantaneously. The speaker doesn't describe her actions – only their effects. |
The Laboratory
I.
Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly, May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely, As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy--- Which is the poison to poison her, prithee? II. He is with her, and they know that I know Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray God in, for them!---I am here. III Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, Pound at thy powder,---I am not in haste! Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things, Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's. IV That in the mortar---you call it a gum? Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come! And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue, Sure to taste sweetly,---is that poison too? V Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures! To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket! VI Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give, And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live! But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her head And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead! VII Quick---is it finished? The colour's too grim! Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim? Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer! VIII What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me! That's why she ensnared him: this never will free The soul from those masculine eyes,---Say, ``no!'' To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go. IX For only last night, as they whispered, I brought My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all! X Not that I bid you spare her the pain; Let death be felt and the proof remain: Brand, burn up, bite into its grace--- He is sure to remember her dying face! XI Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose; It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close; The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee! If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me? XII Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will! But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings Ere I know it---next moment I dance at the King's! Robert Browning |
SYMBOLISM AND IMAGERY
This is really the first object we read about in the poem, just as we're getting settled in. It might be a little hard to even tell what it is at first. Combined with the poem's title, and the rest of the first stanza though, we figure out that this is the kind of thing you would wear to protect your eyes in a lab. Good thing, too, 'cause these two are brewing up some mean potions. Line 1: A glass mask is definitely not a warm and fuzzy image. Coming right at the beginning the way it does, it helps contribute to the atmosphere of coldness, danger, and isolation that runs through the poem. You'd only need a glass mask if you were working with something dangerous. Browning wants to feel how far away we are from the world of light and happiness and love. Line 41: Near the end of the poem, she takes off the mask. Her work here is done, and she can finally take off the mask and leave the hellish laboratory. This last bit about the mask also helps us see how reckless and obsessed she is. If the mask is a symbol of her dirty poisonous schemes, it also represents safety, caution, and protection. She's willing to toss all that out the window in order to accomplish her goal. There is a ton of talk about poison in "The Laboratory." It's the thing that drives the whole poem's plot. It's why the speaker is in the lab. It's what she's going to use to achieve her ugly desires, and it's the old man's job to make it for her. Even though the speaker only uses the actual word in two lines, poison and the things you can do with it are never far from her mind. And that leads us to consider her own poisoned state. She's so consumed by revenge, it's like her spirit has been contaminated the way a poison might attack a body. Line 4: The first time we hear about poison, she says it twice, just so you don't miss it. Notice how Browning drops it in at the end of the first line, too, just to give you a little jolt. It's like the feeling you get when you see a dead body at the beginning of a murder mystery. Line 16: Our speaker is peeking around the lab, asking questions about the things she sees. One blue bottle in particular catches her eye, and she asks if that's poison, too. She's definitely got poison on the brain. We also want you to notice that cool thing he does by placing the words "sweetly" and "poison" together. Usually you don't think of poison as being sweet, but that's kind of how our speaker seems—sweet and poisonous at the same time. |
The Pied Piper of Hamelin
I
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. II Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladle's, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. III At last the people in a body To the town hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation--shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. IV An hour they sat in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? "Bless us,' cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" V "Come in!"--the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in-- There was no guessing his kith and kin! And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as if my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" VI He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same check; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders-- If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? Fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. VII Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished! ‹Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast dry-saltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said 'Come bore me!' -- I found the Weser rolling o'er me." VIII You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"-- when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" IX A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty! X The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait! Beside, I've promised to visit by dinnertime Bagdad, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor-- With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion." XI "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!" XII Once more he stept into the street And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. XIII The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step or cry, To the children merrily skipping by-- And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its water's Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop And we shall see our children stop! When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,-- "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings: And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more! XIV Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opens to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The mayor sent East, West, North and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear: "And so long after what happened here On the twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six;" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper's Street, Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn, But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That, in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe To the outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterranean prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why they don't understand. XV So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men--especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice, If we've promised them ought, let us keep our promise. |
Stanza 1
'If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise'. Browning wants the message of the poem to be, 'keep to a promise'. |
My Last Duchess
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf’s hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said “Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not Her husband’s presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat”: such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good! but thanked Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech—(which I have not)—to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, —E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master’s known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! |
The Duke narrates this dramatic monologue, whose topic seems at first to be his antique collection. This sets up the theme of objects - and objectification, and possession. Browning leaves an impression of a man with a vast sense of self, status and control.
The possessive pronoun appears frequently, in 'my', 'myself', 'my favour'. His last wife seems to have no name, no clear identity except in relation to him, which is the only way in which he can conceive of her. Now, she is reduced to a 'piece' of art, safely contained behind a 'curtain'. Interestingly, half way through, the Duke begins to refer to himself in the third person: 'her husband's presence' (i.e. himself). He portrays himself in language that is distanced - as if suggesting psychological fracture - as well as self-conscious grandeur. His sense of his own status is acute: he ranks his 'gift of a nine hundred year old name' high, and blames his last Duchess for failing to do the same. He uses the word 'stoop', or a form of it, negatively three times, to show his distaste for it. His disgust at her lack of discrimination, where he says 'twas all one' to her, suggests his is almost the revulsion of the connoisseur for the plebeian. It revolts him that she finds the simple and natural beauty of 'cherries', 'the dropping of daylight in the west' cause for 'joy' equal to any. The Duke name-drops 'Fra Pandolf' and 'Claus of Innsbruck' to show his status. In addition, he uses overly formal diction in 'pictured countenance', 'known munificence', with elaborate sentence construction: 'Will't please you rise?'. This formality shows the importance - to him - of highly polished surfaces. Beneath, we glimpse dark depths. In places, the Duke's language begins to break up. Fragments, as dashes, appear half way through, at lines 31-36 as he attempts to articulate his disgust. He says 'She thanked men - good!' Ironically, his use of the word 'good' feels like a bad thing. He says 'she liked what'er she looked on' as if it were repulsive. To be 'too soon made glad' is to be easily pleased, which ought to be a positive quality. Twisted in the mind of the Duke, this becomes a negative. The Duke is a fantasist. He imagines speech that was never spoken. He talks of Fra Pandolf as he was painting: 'perhaps he chanced to say'. The Duke adds elaborate, sensual detail to the conversation: 'mantle laps', 'the half-flush that dies along her throat'. It feels so vivid we could easily forget: the entire conversation is in his head. He even imagines conversation that he could have had with his wife, but didn't wish to 'stoop'. His speech in the poem is riddled with the subjunctive - 'if' and 'could' and 'if she let'. His word here, is the whole of the reality of the poem. But it is false. When he says 'her looks went everywhere', we are inclined not to believe him. And even if they did, his reaction is off-key. We must look. Or walk everywhere with our eyes shut. There is no evidence in this poem to justify his word choice here: 'just this or that in you disgusts me.' The Duke is the ultimate articulation of ego gone mad: destroying anything that does not fit perfectly with its sense of self. How does the writer present the character of the Duchess? We meet the Duchess obliquely - through her portrait, 'painted on the wall', which most of the time is hidden behind a curtain. In death, the Duke controls who may see 'its earnest glance'. Though he says 'there she stands', there is no one there. He describes her 'depth and passion', suggesting underlying sensual traits, though it's hard to unpick the reality from his imaginings. He describes a 'half-flush', 'spot of joy', and 'blush', suggesting spring-like colour. Yet in the word 'spot', which he repeats, he also suggests the word 'stain' and the idea of corruption. When he uses the past tense for 'she had // a heart' the line break emphasises the finality of it, broken by the dash just before he says 'too soon made glad'. Instead we think: she had a heart, and now she has none. The only sense we have of her speech is that she 'thanked' people, with 'approving speech' - all polite formalities - at best, an indicator of a kind and grateful nature. Words like 'courtesy' are associated with her, but also the flaw that she was 'too easily impressed'. Her joy, to the Duke, is insufficiently discriminating. He imagines her as a child or a prize pony to 'let herself be lessoned', as one who does not perform correctly in 'this or that', to 'miss' or 'exceed the mark'. The Duke measures her, and finds her wanting. His cold statement 'all smiles stopped' is chilling, particularly in juxtaposition with 'There she stands // As if alive' where Browning again uses the line break to create a break in meaning. Now, she's trapped forever. No one will look at her, nor she at them. |
The Patriot an old story
The Patriot
AN OLD STORY. I. It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day. II. The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, ``Good folk, mere noise repels--- But give me your sun from yonder skies!'' They had answered, ``And afterward, what else?'' III. Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Nought man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. IV. There's nobody on the house-tops now--- Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate---or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. V. I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. VI. Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. Paid by the world, what dost thou oweMe?''--- God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. Robert Browning |
|