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Sunday, August 21, 2011

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

A former student of mine read this to his class at Brown University and they all, professor and classmates, agreed that he was a sick man who shouldn’t be allowed around other humanoid lifeforms. (Okay, I exaggerated a little, but it kind of happened.) Regardless, it’s famous as having one of those “What the ....” moments when the reader can’t believe what just happened in the poem. 

Pophyria is an odd name, since it’s the name of a pretty horrific disease in which a chemical imbalance causes the victim to hallucinate and become paranoid and depressed. It’s like naming your daughter Melanoma. One of the symptoms of Porphyria is purple urine. So if you’re feeling nutty, always check the potty before you flush. ( I wonder if Prince had it .“Purple urain, purple urain...”)One last note. Imagine the two lovers here as Heathcliffe and Kathy from “Wuthering Heights.” This could easily have happened in that book.

These first fifteen lines are a masterpiece. First, we have the classic weather-reflects-mood motif. Then there’s that fifth line, so powerfully sad in it’s brevity. Porphyria glides in and purposefully sets about changing the mood. She locks out the storm, chases away the cold and does a little mini-striptease for the speaker. (Anytime a woman lets her hair down in literature, she’s getting ready for love. See, in the old days, the bedroom was the place where a woman let her hair down to brush it. Of course, as you’ll find out when you’re 26 or so, other things happen in the bedroom, too. Anyhow, it seems she knows he’s upset and has decided to come over make things better.

Notice, when he is still passive aggressive she gets more passionate aggressive. Bare shoulders... blond hair...snuggling...murmuring... Either he’s comatose or he’s really upset.

Now we see why he’s really upset. She says she loves him. She is all over him. But, she can’t sever some “...vainer ties.”

Now what ties, especially when we’re speaking of love, can’t be severed? Marriage or at least engagement, right? And why are pride and vanity holding her back? I don’t like to stray too far from a text, but it really sounds like she has gotten either engaged or married to some rich, high status guy whom she’s just using. (See, she can’t give herself to the speaker for ever. She can’t marry him. She must already be hooked.)

“Passion would sometime prevail?” She’s lusty! WAIT! She left a feast to come make out with him? Wouldn’t it be juicy if it was her wedding feast? Okay, some teachers are saying “He goes too far.” But, we know she’s tied to someone else. We know this particular night has the speaker upset.Why not make the situation even more dramatic?

Don’t forget, Porphyria is a cause of insanity. She doesn’t know that her little naughty reality TV hook up is with a schizophrenic. He wants to preserve her love forever, not just indulge in a booty call.

This line “I found a thing to do...” is one of the creepiest and coolest in all poetry. Using his schizo-logic, he figures he can give her what she needs. He can give her pure, good love and save her from committing adultery. It’s easy! Just kill her before she sins! Remember, she let her hair down to signal her passion. Now he uses that same hair to quell her passion.

These last details, about opening her eyes, unstrangling her, putting her head on his shoulder, kissing her corpse, and having a romantic evening by the fire with one’s ex (She’s about as ex as she can be, now.) are all so peacefully creepy. The speaker’s calm diction are such a contrast to the horrific reality of what’s happening that we know he’s a schizo. Porphyria has driven him over the edge.

Still, she was being pretty shallow and horrible. Did she get what she deserved? Well, I don’t like the idea of a sane guy killing her, but in some writing, see Flannery O’Connor for instance, crazy, crippled, or simple-minded people seem to be sent to mete out some kind of Divine Retribution. If nothing else, it’s almost darkly funny that this lusty woman makes a move on a guy who doesn’t want lust.

He imagines her head has its utmost will, not her body. He thinks of love as a cerebral, spiritual, infinite thing, whereas she thought of it as a physical urge to be indulged once in a while.

This mention of God at the end is complicated. Is Browning saying God is happy because she, a would be adulterer, got her just deserts? Is the speaker being crazy again, waiting to hear voices? Is Browning saying God doesn’t exist, or God doesn’t meddle in our pathetic, trivial affairs?

We know that Browning fell in love with Elizabeth Barrett’s mind before he got warm for her form, so it’s possible he is sympathetic to the murderer. He also seems to be pointing out that sometimes it’s the women who are the players and the men who are the victims. At least, he’s giving us pause to wonder what’s going on in a lover’s mind when he or she says “I love you.”