ABSTRACT

First publ. B & Piii (DL), 26 Nov. 1842; repr. 1849, 1863 (when it was placed in Romances: see Appendix A, p. 464), 18652, 1868, 1872, 1888. Our text is 1842. The date of composition was probably the early summer of 1842, in the aftermath of the emigration to New Zealand at the end of April of B.’s close friend Alfred Domett. Domett (1811–87) was a member of B.’s ‘set’, the ‘Colloquials’, contributed occasional poems to periodicals, and had published two volumes: Poems (1833), and Venice (1839), a long poem which B. mentions admiringly (Correspondence v 328). For further details of Domett’s life, and his relations with B. when he eventually returned from New Zealand in 1872, see RB & AD, Domett Diary, and Maynard. In a letter of May 1842 B. expressed indignation over Domett’s failure to find a commercial publisher for Venice: ‘not even his earnest handsome face… not his sincere voice & gentlemanly bearing, could tempt Moxon to look at a line of it’ (Correspondence v 328). It is likely that B. telescoped this disappointment and Domett’s emigration, making one the motive of the other. In DL 2nd proof, the words ‘Alfred Domett, or’ are written over the title. In the words of another ‘Colloquial’, Joseph Arnould (letter to Domett, c. May 1843), ‘“Waring” delighted us all very much for we recognized in it a fancy portrait of a very dear friend’ (Correspondence vii 391). In 1875 a correspondent asked B. if he had had in mind a real person called Waring; B. wrote: ‘I assure you I never heard of the Gentleman you mention: and, if you consider, I should be little likely to address the subject of such a poem publicly by his name. I had in my mind some characteristics of an old friend who, after thirty years’ absence, is returned alive and well’ (to Newton Bennett, 5 Dec. 1875, ABL MS). Several details do not fit, e.g. the date of Domett’s departure, that of ‘Waring’ being in winter (1. 14), and in any event the poem’s fanciful and burlesque elements hinder a straightforward biographical reading; J. F. McCarthy (‘Browning’s “Waring”: The Real Subject of the “Fancy Portrait’”, VP ix[1971] 371–82) seems nearer the mark in describing the poem as ‘an ironic treatment of the early Browning’s favorite theme—the dilemma of the non-communicating artist-prophet’. It has been suggested that some details of ‘Waring’s’ character and appearance were drawn from those of R. H. Horne, author of the ‘farthing epic’ Orion and a close friend of B.’s at this period. Horne had led an adventurous life abroad before entering English literary life in the 1830s; he later emigrated to Australia. The poem accurately portrays B.’s mixed feelings about London literary society in the period; he wrote to Domett on 22 May 1842 of its ‘creeping magnetic assimilating influence nothing can block out’ (Correspondence v 355), and again on 13 July: ‘There is much, everything to be done in England just now—&I have certain plans which shall either fail or succeed, but not lie dormant.—But all my heart’s interest goes to your tree-planting life‥ Yet I don’t know’ (ibid, vi 33). For other refs. to Domett in B.’s poetry, see Time’s Revenges 1–30, and Guardian Angel 36–7, 54–5: ‘Guercino drew this angel I saw teach/(Alfred, dear friend)—that little child to pray… Where are you, dear old friend?/How rolls the Wairoa at your world’s far end?’ The name ‘Waring’ itself is that of a ‘king’s messenger’ whom B. met during his trip to Russia in 1834 (Griffin and Minchin 63); see 1. 109ff A possible literary influence is Dryden’s Ode to the Pious Memory of the Accomplisht Young Lady Mrs Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the two Sister-Arts of Poesie and Painting (1686); note the allusion to painting at 11. 146–52. Dryden stresses the corruption of the age in contrast to the purity and integrity of Killigrew’s art; cp. ll. 192–200. There is a verbal parallel at 11. 254–5. The idea of escape from social constrictions into Romantic vagabondage is strong in Byron, notably Childe Harold; it is common to many of B.’s works of the period, e.g. Colombe, Flight, Glove; cp. also the ending of Bishop Blougram, and contrast How It Strikes. i. What’s become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest, or staff and scrip, 5 Rather than pace up and down Any longer London-town? ii. Who’d have guessed it from his lip, Or his brow’s accustomed bearing, On the night he thus took ship, 10 Or started landward, little caring For us, it seems, who supped together, (Friends of his too, I remember) And walked home thro’ the merry weather, Snowiest in all December; 15 I left his arm that night myself For what’s-his-name’s, the new prose-poet, That wrote the book there, on the shelf— How, forsooth, was I to know it If Waring meant to glide away 20 Like a ghost at break of day! Never looked he half so gay! iii. He was prouder than the Devil: How he must have cursed our revel! Ay, and many other meetings, 25 Indoor visits, outdoor greetings, As up and down he paced this London, With no work done, but great works undone, Where scarce twenty knew his name. Why not, then, have earlier spoken, 30 Written, bustled? Who’s to blame If your silence kept unbroken? True, but there were sundry jottings, Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings, Certain first steps were achieved 35 Already which—(is that your meaning?) Had well borne out whoe’er believed In more to come: but who goes gleaning Hedge-side chance-blades, while full-sheaved Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o’erweening 40 Pride alone, puts forth such claims O’er the day’s distinguished names. iv. Meantime, how much I loved him, I find out now I’ve lost him: I, who cared not if I moved him, 45—Could so carelessly accost him, Never shall get free Of his ghostly company, And eyes that just a little wink As deep I go into the merit 50 Of this and that distinguished spirit— His cheeks’ raised colour, soon to sink, As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (God defend us!) Monstr’–inform’–ingens–horrend–ous 55 Demoniaco–seraphic Penman’s latest piece of graphic. Nay, my very wrist grows warm With his dragging weight of arm! E’en so, swimmingly appears, 60 Thro’ one’s after-supper musings, Some lost Lady of old years, With her beauteous vain endeavour, And goodness unrepaid as ever; The face, accustomed to refusings, 65 We, puppies that we were… Oh never Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled Being aught like false, forsooth, to? Telling aught but honest truth to? What a sin had we centupled 70 Its possessor’s grace and sweetness! No! she heard in its completeness Truth, for truth’s a weighty matter, And, truth at issue, we can’t flatter! Well, ’tis done with: she’s exemp 75 From damning us thro’ such a sally; And so she glides, as down a valley, Taking up with her contempt, Past our reach; and in, the flowers Shut her unregarded hours. v. 80 Oh, could I have him back once more, This Waring, but one half-day more! Back, with the quiet face of yore, So hungry for acknowledgment Like mine! I’d fool him to his bent! 85 Feed, should not he, to heart’s content? I’d say, “to only have conceived “Your great works, tho’ they never progress, “Surpasses all we’ve yet achieved!” I’d lie so, I should be believed. 90 I’d make such havoc of the claims Of the day’s distinguished names To feast him with, as feasts an ogress Her sharp-toothed golden-crowned child! Or, as one feasts a creature rarely 95 Captured here, unreconciled To capture; and completely gives Its pettish humours licence, barely Requiring that it lives. vi. Ichabod, Ichabod, 100 The glory is departed! Travels Waring East away? Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, Reports a man upstarted Somewhere as a God, 105 Hordes grown European-hearted, Millions of the wild made tame On a sudden at his fame? In Vishnu-land what Avatar? Or, North in Moscow, toward the Czar, 110 Who, with the gentlest of footfalls Over the Kremlin’s pavement, bright With serpentine and siennite, Steps, with five other Generals, Who simultaneously take snuff, 115 That each may have pretext enough To kerchiefwise unfurl his sash Which, softness’ self, is yet the stuff To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, And leave the grand white neck no gash? 120 In Moscow, Waring, to those rough Cold natures borne, perhaps, Like the lambwhite maiden, (clear Thro’ the circle of mute kings, Unable to repress the tear, 125 Each as his sceptre down he flings), To the Dome at Taurica, Where now a priestess, she alway Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach, 130 As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry Amid their barbarous twitter! In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! 135 Ay, most likely ’tis in Spain That we and Waring meet again— Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid All fire and shine—abrupt as when there’s slid 140 Its stiff gold blazing pall From some black coffin-lid. Or, best of all, I love to think The leaving us was just a feint; 145 Back here to London did he slink; And now works on without a wink Of sleep, and we are on the brink Of something great in fresco-paint: Some garret’s ceiling, walls and floor, 150 Up and down and o’er and o’er He splashes, as none splashed before Since great Caldara Polidore: Then down he creeps and out he steals Only when the night conceals 155 His face—in Kent ’tis cherry-time, Or, hops are picking; or, at prime Of March, he steals as when, too happy, Years ago when he was young, Some mild eve when woods were sappy, 160 And the early moths had sprung To life from many a trembling sheath Woven the warm boughs beneath, While small birds said to themselves What should soon be actual song, 165 And young gnats, by tens and twelves, Made as if they were the throng That crowd around and carry aloft The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure, Out of a myriad noises soft, 170 Into a tone that can endure Amid the noise of a July noon, When all God’s creatures crave their boon, All at once and all in tune, And get it, happy as Waring then, 175 Having first within his ken What a man might do with men, And far too glad, in the even-glow, To mix with the world he meant to take Into his hand, he told you, so— 180 And out of it his world to make, To contract and to expand As he shut or oped his hand. Oh, Waring, what’s to really be? A clear stage and a crowd to see! 185 Some Garrick—say—out shall not he The heart of Hamlet’s mystery pluck? Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, Some Junius—am I right?—shall tuck His sleeve, and out with flaying-knife! 190 Some Chatterton shall have the luck Of calling Rowley into life! Some one shall somehow run a muck With this old world, for want of strife Sound asleep: contrive, contrive 195 To rouse us, Waring! Who’s alive? Our men scarce seem in earnest now: Distinguished names, but ’tis, somehow, As if they played at being names Still more distinguished, like the games 200 Of children. Turn our sport to earnest With a visage of the sternest! Bring the real times back, confessed Still better than the very best! i. “When I last saw Waring…” 205 (How all turned to him who spoke— You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel, or sea-faring?) ii. “We were sailing by Triest, “Where a day or two we harboured: 210 “A sunset was in the West, “When, looking over the vessel’s side, “One of our company espied “A sudden speck to larboard. “And, as a sea-duck flies and swims 215 “At once, so came the light craft up, “With its sole lateen sail that trims “And turns (the water round its rims “Dancing as round a sinking cup) “And by us like a fish it curled, 220 “And drew itself up close beside, “Its great sail on the instant furled, “And o’er its planks, a shrill voice cried, “(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar’s) “‘Buy wine of us, you English Brig? 225 “‘Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? “‘A Pilot for you to Triest? “‘Without one, look you ne’er so big, “‘They’ll never let you up the bay! “‘We natives should know best.’ 230 “I turned, and ‘just those fellows’ way,’ “Our captain said, ‘The ‘long-shore thieves “‘Are laughing at us in their sleeves.’ iii. “In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; “And one, half-hidden by his side 235 “Under the furled sail, soon I spied, “With great grass hat, and kerchief black, “Who looked up, with his kingly throat, “Said somewhat while the other shook “His hair back from his eyes to look 240 “Their longest at us; and the boat, “I know not how, turned sharply round, “Laying her whole side on the sea “As a leaping fish does; from the lee “Into the weather cut somehow 245 “Her sparkling path beneath our bow; “And so went off, as with a bound, “Into the rose and golden half “Of the sky, to overtake the sun, “And reach the shore like the sea-calf 250 “Its singing cave; yet I caught one “Glance ere away the boat quite passed, “And neither time nor toil could mar “Those features: so I saw the last “Of Waring!”—You? Oh, never star 255 Was lost here, but it rose afar! Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar?