_The Ring and the Book_ is at once the largest and the greatest of Browning's works, the culmination of his dramatic method, and the turning-point, more decisively than _Dramatis Personae_, of his style. It consists of twelve books, the first and last being of the nature of Preface and Appendix. It embodies a single story, told ten times, each time from an individual standpoint, by nine different persons (one of them speaking twice), besides a summary of the story by the poet in the first book, and some additional particulars in the last. The method thus adopted is at once absolutely original and supremely difficult. To tell the same story, without mere repet.i.tion, no less than ten times over, to make each telling at once the same and new, a record of the same facts but of independent impressions, to convey by means of each monologue a sense of the speaker not less vivid and life-like than by the ordinary dramatic method, with a yet more profound measure of a.n.a.lytic and psychological truth, and finally to group all these figures with unerring effect of prominence and subordination, to fuse and mould all these parts into one living whole is, as a _tour de force_, unique, and it is not only a _tour de force_. _The Ring and the Book_, besides being the longest poetical work of the century, must be ranked among the greatest poems in our literature: it has a spiritual insight, human science, dramatic and intellectual and moral force, a strength and grip, a subtlety, a range and variety of genius and of knowledge, hardly to be paralleled outside Shakespeare.

It has sometimes been said that the style of Browning is essentially undramatic, that Pompilia, Guido, and the lawyers all talk in the same way, that is, like Browning. As a matter of fact nothing is more remarkable than the variety of style, the cunning adjustment of language and of rhythm to the requirements of every speaker. From the general construction of the rhythm to the mere similies and figures of speech employed in pa.s.sing, each monologue is absolutely individual, and, though each monologue contains a highly finished portrait of the character whose name it bears, these portraits, so far from being disconnected or independent, are linked together in as close an interdependence as the personages of a regularly constructed drama. The effect of the reiterated story, told in some new fashion by each new teller of it, has been compared with that of a great fugue, blending, with the threads of its crossing and recrossing voices, a single web of harmony. The "theme" is Pompilia; around her the whole action circles.

As, in _Pippa Pa.s.ses_, the mere pa.s.sing of an innocent child, her unconscious influence on those on whom her song breaks in at a moment of crisis, draws together the threads of many stories, so Pompilia, with hardly more consciousness of herself, makes and unmakes the lives and characters of those about her. The same sweet rect.i.tude and purity of nature serve to call out the latent malignity of Guido and the slumbering chivalry of Caponsacchi. Without her, the one might have remained a "_pet.i.t maitre_ priestling;" the other merely a soured, cross-grained, impecunious country squire: Rome would have had no tragedy to talk about, nor we this book to read. It is in Pompilia that all the threads of action meet: she is the heroine, as neither Guido nor Caponsacchi can be called the hero.

The story of _The Ring and the Book_, like those of so many of the greatest works of Shakespeare and his contemporaries, comes to us from Italy. Unlike Shakespeare's, however, but like one at least of Webster's two masterpieces, it is no legend, but the true story of a Roman murder-case, found (in all its main facts and outlines) in a square old yellow book, small-quarto size, part print, part ma.n.u.script, which Browning picked up for eightpence on a second-hand stall in the Piazza San Lorenzo at Florence, one day in June, 1865. The book was ent.i.tled (in Latin which Browning thus translates):--

"A Roman murder-case: Position of the entire criminal cause Of Guido Franceschini, n.o.bleman, With certain Four the cut-throats in his pay, Tried, all five, and found guilty and put to death By heading or hanging as befitted ranks, At Rome on February Twenty Two, Since our salvation Sixteen Ninety Eight: Wherein it is disputed if, and when, Husbands may kill adulterous wives, yet 'scape The customary forfeit."

The book proved to be one of those contemporary records of famous trials which were not uncommon in Italy, and which are said to be still preserved in many Italian libraries. It contained the printed pleadings for and against the accused, the judicial sentence, and certain ma.n.u.script letters describing the efforts made on Guido's behalf and his final execution. This book (with a contemporary pamphlet which Browning afterwards met with in London) supplied the outlines of the poem to which it helped to give a name.

The story itself is a tragic one, rich in material for artistic handling, though not for the handling of every artist. But its importance is relatively inconsiderable. "I fused my live soul and that inert stuff," says the poet, and

"Thence bit by bit I dug The ingot truth, that memorable day, a.s.sayed and knew my piecemeal gain was gold,-- Yes; but from something else surpa.s.sing that, Something of mine which, mixed up with the ma.s.s, Makes it bear hammer and be firm to file.

Fancy with fact is just one fact the more; To-wit, that fancy has informed, transpierced, Thridded and so thrown fast the facts else free, As right through ring and ring runs the djereed And binds the loose, one bar without a break."

The story, in brief, is this. Pompilia, the supposed daughter of Pietro and Violante Comparini, an aged burgher couple of Rome, has been married, at the age of thirteen, to Count Guido Franceschini, an impoverished middle-aged n.o.bleman of Arezzo. The arrangement, in which Pompilia is, of course, quite pa.s.sive, has been made with the expectation, on the part of Guido, of a large dowry; on the part of the Comparini of an aristocratic alliance, and a princely board at Guido's palace. No sooner has the marriage taken place than both parties find that they have been tricked. Guido, disappointed of his money, and unable to reach the pair who have deceived him, vents his spite on the innocent victim, Pompilia. At length Pompilia, knowing that she is about to become a mother, escapes from her husband, aided by a good young priest, Giuseppe Caponsacchi, a canon of Arezzo; and a few months afterwards, at the house of her supposed parents, she gives birth to a son. A fortnight after the birth of his heir, Guido, who has been waiting till his hold on the dowry is thus secured, takes with him four cut-throats, steals by night to Rome, and kills his wife and the aged Comparini, leaving the child alive. He is captured the same night, and brought to judgment at Rome. When the poem opens, the case is being tried before the civil courts. No attempt is made to dispute the fact of Guido's actual committal of the deed; he has been caught red-handed, and Pompilia, preserved almost by miracle, has survived her wounds long enough to tell the whole story. The sole question is, whether the act had any justification; it being pretended by Guido that his wife had been guilty of adultery with the priest Caponsacchi, and that his deed was a simple act of justice. He was found guilty by the legal tribunal, and condemned to death; Pompilia's innocence being confirmed beyond a doubt. Guido then appealed to the Pope, who confirmed the judicial sentence. The whole of the poem takes place between the arrest and trial of Guido, and the final sentence of the Pope; at the time, that is, when the hopes and fears of the actors, and the curiosity of the spectators, would be at their highest pitch.

The first book, ent.i.tled _The Ring and the Book_, gives the facts of the story, some hint of the author's interpretation of them, and the outlines of his plan. We are not permitted any of the interest of suspense. Browning shows us clearly from the first the whole bearing and consequence of events, as well as the right and wrong of them. He has written few finer pa.s.sages than the swift and fiery narrative of the story, lived through in vision on the night of his purchase of the original doc.u.ments. But complete and elaborate as this is, it is merely introductory, a prologue before the curtain rises on the drama. First we have three representative specimens of public opinion: _Half-Rome_, _The Other Half-Rome_, and _Tertium Quid_; each speaker presenting the complete case from his own point of view. "Half-Rome" takes the side of Guido. We are allowed to see that the speaker is a jealous husband, and that his judgment is biased by an instinctive sympathy with the presumably jealous husband, Guido. "The Other Half-Rome" takes the side of the wife, "Little Pompilia with the patient eyes," now lying in the hospital, mortally wounded, and waiting for death. This speaker is a bachelor, probably a young man, and his judgment is swayed by the beauty and the piteousness of the dying girl. The speech of "Half-Rome," being as it is an attempt to make light of the murder, and the utterance of a somewhat ridiculous personage, is exceedingly humorous and colloquial; that of the "Other Half-Rome" is serious, earnest, sometimes eloquent.

No contrast could be more complete than that presented by these two "sample-speeches." The objects remain the same, but we see them through different ends of the telescope. Either account taken by itself is so plausible as to seem almost morally conclusive. But in both instances we have down-right apology and condemnation, partiality bred of prejudice.

_Tertium Quid_ presents us with a reasoned and judicial judgment, impartiality bred of contempt or indifference; this being--

"What the superior social section thinks, In person of some man of quality Who,--breathing musk from lace-work and brocade, His solitaire amid the flow of frill, Powdered peruke on nose, and bag at back, And cane dependent from the ruffled wrist-- Harangues in silvery and selectest phrase, 'Neath waxlight in a glorified saloon Where mirrors multiply the girandole: Courting the approbation of no mob, But Eminence This and All-Ill.u.s.trious That, Who take snuff softly, range in well-bred ring, Card-table-quitters for observance' sake, Around the argument, the rational word ...

How quality dissertated on the case."

"Tertium Quid" deals with the case very gently, mindful of his audience, to whom, at each point of the argument calling for judgment, he politely refers the matter, and pa.s.ses on. He speaks in a tone of light and well-bred irony, with the aristocratic contempt for the _plebs_, the burgesses, Society's a.s.sumption of Exclusive Information. He gives the general view of things, clearly, neutrally, with no vulgar emphasis of black and white. "I simply take the facts, ask what they mean."

So far we have had rumour alone, the opinions of outsiders; next come the three great monologues in which the persons of the drama, Count Guido, Caponsacchi, and Pompilia, bear witness of themselves.

"The imaginary occasion," says Mrs. Orr, "is that of Count Guido's trial, and all the depositions which were made on the previous one are transferred to this. The author has been obliged in every case to build up the character from the evidence, and to re-mould and expand the evidence in conformity with the character. The motive, feeling, and circ.u.mstance set forth by each separate speaker, are thus in some degree fict.i.tious; but they are always founded upon fact, and the literal fact of a vast number of details is self-evident."[40]

These three monologues (with the second of Guido) are by far the most important in the book.

First comes _Count Guido Franceschini_. The two monologues spoken by him are, for sheer depth of human science, the most marvellous of all: "every nerve of the mind is touched by the patient scalpel, every vein and joint of the subtle and intricate spirit divided and laid bare."[41]

Under torture, he has confessed to the murder of his wife. He is now permitted to defend himself before the judges.

"Soft-cushioned sits he; yet shifts seat, shirks touch, As, with a twitchy brow and wincing lip, And cheek that changes to all kinds of white, He proffers his defence, in tones subdued Near to mock-mildness now, so mournful seems The obtuser sense truth fails to satisfy; Now, moved, from pathos at the wrong endured, To pa.s.sion....

Also his tongue at times is hard to curb; Incisive, nigh satiric bites the phrase.

And never once does he detach his eye From those ranged there to slay him or to save, But does his best man's-service for himself."

His speech is a tissue of falsehoods and prevarications: if he uses a fact, it is only to twist it into a form of self-justification. He knows it is useless to deny the murder; his aim, then, is to explain and excuse it. Every device attainable by the instinct and the brain of hunted humanity he finds and uses. Now he slurs rapidly over an inconvenient fact; now, with the frank audacity of innocence, proclaims and blazons it abroad; now he is rhetorically eloquent, now ironically pathetic; always contriving to shift the blame upon others, and to make his own course appear the only one plausible or possible, the only one possible, at least, to a high-born, law-abiding son of the Church. Every shift and twist is subtly adapted to his audience of Churchmen, and the gradation of his pleading no less subtly contrived. No keener and subtler special pleading has ever been written, in verse certainly, and possibly in lawyers' prose; and it is poetry of the highest order of dramatic art.

Covering a narrower range, but still more significant within its own limits, the speech of _Giuseppe Caponsacchi_, the priest who a.s.sisted Pompilia in her flight to Rome (given now in her defence before the judges who have heard the defence of Guido) is perhaps the most pa.s.sionate and thrilling piece of blank verse ever written by Browning.

Indeed, I doubt if it be an exaggeration to say that such fire, such pathos, such splendour of human speech, has never been heard or seen in English verse since Webster. In tone and colour the monologue is quite new, exquisitely modulated to a surprising music. The lighter pa.s.sages are brilliant: the eloquent pa.s.sages full of a fine austerity; but it is in those pa.s.sages directly relating to Pompilia that the chief greatness of the work lies. There is in these appeals a quivering, thrilling, searching quality of fervid pathetic directness: I can give no notion of it in words; but here are a few lines, torn roughly out of their context, which may serve in some degree to ill.u.s.trate my meaning:--

"Pompilia's face, then and thus, looked on me The last time in this life: not one sight since, Never another sight to be! And yet I thought I had saved her. I appealed to Rome: It seems I simply sent her to her death.

You tell me she is dying now, or dead; I cannot bring myself to quite believe This is a place you torture people in: What if this your intelligence were just A subtlety, an honest wile to work On a man at unawares? 'Twere worthy you.

No, Sirs, I cannot have the lady dead!

That erect form, flashing brow, fulgurant eye, That voice immortal (oh, that voice of hers!) That vision of the pale electric sword Angels go armed with,--that was not the last O' the lady! Come, I see through it, you find-- Know the manoeuvre! Also herself said I had saved her: do you dare say she spoke false?

Let me see for myself if it be so!

Though she were dying a priest might be of use, The more when he's a friend too,--she called me Far beyond 'friend.'"

Severed from its connection, much of the charm of the pa.s.sage vanishes away: always the test of the finest dramatic work; but enough remains to give some faint shadow of the real beauty of the work. Observe how the rhythm trembles in accord with the emotion of the speaker: now slow, solemn, sad, with something of the quiet of despair; now strenuously self-deluding and feverishly eager: "Let me see for myself if it be so!"

a line which has all the flush and gasp in it of broken sudden utterance. And the monologue ends in a kind of desperate resignation:--

"Sirs, I am quiet again. You see, we are So very pitiable, she and I, Who had conceivably been otherwise.

Forget distemperature and idle heat; Apart from truth's sake, what's to move so much?

Pompilia will be presently with G.o.d; I am, on earth, as good as out of it, A relegated priest; when exile ends, I mean to do my duty and live long.

She and I are mere strangers now: but priests Should study pa.s.sion; how else cure mankind, Who come for help in pa.s.sionate extremes?

I do but play with an imagined life.

Mere delectation, fit for a minute's dream!-- Just as a drudging student trims his lamp, Opens his Plutarch, puts him in the place Of Roman, Grecian; draws the patched gown close, Dreams, 'Thus should I fight, save or rule the world!'-- Then smilingly, contentedly, awakes To the old solitary nothingness.

So I, from such communion, pa.s.s content ...

O great, just, good G.o.d! Miserable me!"

From the pa.s.sionate defence of Caponsacchi, we pa.s.s to the death-bed of _Pompilia_. Like Shakespeare, Browning makes all his heroines young; and this child of seventeen, who has so much of the wisdom of youth, tells on her death-bed, to the kind people about her, the story of her life, in a simple, child-like, dreamy, wondering way, which can be compared, so far as I know, with nothing else ever written.

"Then a soul sighs its lowest and its last After the loud ones;"

and we have here the whole heart of a woman, the whole heart and the very speech and accent of the most womanly of women. No woman has ever written anything so close to the nature of women, and I do not know what other man has come near to this strange and profoundly manly intuition, this "piercing and overpowering tenderness which glorifies," as Mr.

Swinburne has said, "the poet of Pompilia." All _The Ring and the Book_ is a leading up to this monologue, and a commentary round it. It is a song of serene and quiet beauty, beautiful as evening-twilight. To a.n.a.lyse it is to a.n.a.lyse a rose's perfume: to quote from it is to tear off the petal of a rose. Here, however, for their mere colour and scent, are a few lines. Pompilia is speaking of the birth of her child.

"A whole long fortnight: in a life like mine A fortnight filled with bliss is long and much.

All women are not mothers of a boy, Though they live twice the length of my whole life, And, as they fancy, happily all the same.

There I lay, then, all my great fortnight long, As if it would continue, broaden out Happily more and more, and lead to heaven: Christmas before me,--was not that a chance?

I never realized G.o.d's birth before-- How He grew likest G.o.d in being born.

This time I felt like Mary, had my babe Lying a little on my breast like hers."

With a beautiful and holy confidence she now "lays away her babe with G.o.d," secure for him in the future. She forgives the husband who has slain her: "I could not love him, but his mother did." And with her last breath she blesses the friend who has saved her:--

"O lover of my life, O soldier-saint, No work begun shall ever pause for death.

So, let him wait G.o.d's instant men call years; Meantime hold hard by truth and his great soul, Do out the duty! Through such souls alone G.o.d stooping shows sufficient of His light For us i' the dark to rise by. And I rise."

After _Pompilia_, we have the pleadings and counterpleadings of the lawyers on either side: _Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator_ (the counsel for the defendant), and _Juris Doctor Johannes-Baptista Bottinius_, _Fisci et Rev. Cam. Apostol. Advocatus_ (public prosecutor). Arcangeli,--

"The jolly learned man of middle age, Cheek and jowl all in laps with fat and law, Mirthful as mighty, yet, as great hearts use, Despite the name and fame that tempt our flesh, Constant to the devotion of the hearth, Still captive in those dear domestic ties!"--

is represented, with fine grotesque humour, in the very act of making his speech, pre-occupied, all the while he "wheezes out law and whiffles Latin forth," with a birthday-feast in preparation for his eight-year-old son, little Giacinto, the pride of his heart. The effect is very comic, though the alternation or intermixture of lawyer's-Latin and domestic arrangements produces something which is certainly, and perhaps happily, without parallel in poetry. His defence is, and is intended to be, mere quibbling. _Causa honoris_ is the whole pith and point of his plea: Pompilia's guilt he simply takes for granted.

Bottini, the exact opposite in every way of his adversary,--

"A man of ready smile and facile tear, Improvised hopes, despairs at nod and beck, And language--ah, the gift of eloquence!