Friday, April 15, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Interview with Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Interview with Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Hey Everyone! I’m here with literary gem of the Victorian Era/Imperialist Era, Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She’s widely known for her love sonnets, preferably her poems like, “Sonnets from the Portuguese.” It’s an honor to sit before a true genius. Tell me, you must have had some inspiration through your youth. What caught your interest from the very beginning?
What a kind and graceful pronouncement you made! I am truly flattered. Well let’s see, how shall I summon the past? I was very educated as a child. I adored writing when I was small. I remember at six, for each of my siblings’ birthdays, [and I had eleven, (Garret, 2001)] I wrote birthday odes. I even recall putting on a French tragedy when I was 10 (1816). I had learned enough French that I put together a tragedy for my brother Edward and sister, Henrietta, to perform. I guess writing charmed my life as a child so soothingly; it was a very plausible career (Garret, 2001). Plus, I hadn’t enjoyed playing the piano or sewing as a Victorian woman was said to do.
After much convincing of my parents to let me take classes with Edward’s tutor, I was kindly taught French, Latin, and Greek (Liukkonen, 2008). Greek had been most enjoyable for me, considering I had an infinite love for Alexander Pope’s Homer (NNDB, 2011). I also enjoyed passages from Paradise Lost and a number of Shakespearean plays—which I read all before the age of ten (Poets, 2011). My education drove me to read many books, which triggered my unconditional love towards literature. Languages enhanced my imaginative mind, which drove me to crave the translations I endeavored later on. My father, Edward Barrett Moulton (if I may add) (NNBD, 2011) persuaded me to write. My mother, Mary Graham-Clarke, tenderly persuaded to early writing as well (NNBD, 2011). But really, it was my studies that influenced me so sweetly!
Sounds like you were very dedicated to your schoolwork! I wish I was more like that. You mentioned your father helped you grab interest in writing. Tell me more about how he developed your talent. Did your tutors strengthen and support your artistic ability as well?
Of course! I had many different tutors who taught me reading, writing, and variety of languages. I have to say I was very self-motivated, aside from mentors. I taught myself Hebrew just so I could read the Old Testament in the Bible (Poets, 2011). My parents were reluctant to it at first. I had mentioned in the previous question it took quite a bit of persuading to convince my parents to allow me to learn from Edward’s tutor. As I said, it was utterly improper for a female to be educated. Fortunately I was very lucky, because my parents knew how willing I was to learn and how passionate I was, even as a child, towards books. Mother and Father had seen it through! Another reason my father encouraged writing greatly was because he was very protective of my siblings and me (Literature, 2006). He loathed the idea of marriage and forbade it to every one of his offspring. He was also very cautious of me because I was a sickly child and prone to injury. He encouraged anything to keep me out of my frequent physical activity in the outdoors (Poets, 2011).
I also made many companions that shared the same love for the written word. I’ll never forget—a man that lived in Mavern Hills wrote me a letter after I had completed my “The Development of a Genius” poem in 1827.My family heard little of him, so I had to convince my father that it was perfectly acceptable. After father agreed to my notion, I worked up the courage to meet him. He was a blind scholar by the name of Hugh Stuart Boyd (NNDB, 2011). Given he was much older, he acted like a teacher and a friend to me after the loss of my mother, who deceased in 1828 (Garrett, 2001). We read Greek literature together, a subject that charmed us both. He helped me greatly through my adolescent years when I felt my father was turning brash. I’ve incorporated many of the people in my life in poetry. Mr. Boyd is featured in three of my works.
A lot was going on the time you were writing. There was the Victorian Era, as well as this imperialist obsession. What was the artistic world like when you entered it?
Very riveting and exciting! That is one thing that struck my enthusiasm. During this period of time it was almost like a “Second English Renaissance” (Miller, 2011)! There were a lot of new styles in terms of artistry and schools that centered on English writing. Besides that, a tremendous amount of social, political, and religious movements made an uprising (Miller, 2011). However, during this period, many women, like myself, pursued artistic careers like writing. As I had alluded to, women had many limitations in terms of opportunities. We received less education than men, women were mostly banned from universities, and those who worked, worked jobs that gave out poor pay (Wojtczak, 2011). However, there were many ambitious women like myself that yearned for an artistic occupation, so they “struggled for fame” (Casteras and Peterson, 1994) to grasp their desired art.
If you were a woman with many advantages—as in you lived a wealthy lifestyle, there was that irritating, but somewhat hopeful reality. A lot of female writers (Casteras and Peterson, 1994) launched their careers with financial and emotional support from their families. My first poem, “The Battle of Marathon” which I finished 1820 was generously printed by my father. He privately printed fifty copies of my work I had completed at a young age! I was beautifully fortunate to be born into a group of people who referred to me as, “Our dear Sapho” and “The Dear Poetess” (quo. Casteras and Peterson, 1994). Other women who could not gain financial support often worked for other higher classman, like owners of a Gazette. Those women wrote for pay.
Awesome! What troopers you ladies were! How did the major cultural situations impact your work? What about economic? Political?
As a young woman of the 19th century, I am widely passionate in speech towards those issues (Literature, 2006). In terms of culture, the comfort and luxuries of my home life were acknowledged in my poetry. I grew up in Hope End on the West side of England, being the first of my family to be born in Durham, England (NNDB, 2011). I wrote my many poems like “The Lost Bower “and “The Deserted Garden” which tells of lovely life in Hope End. During this time there was an empowering abolition of slavery which progressed slowly. Despite my enthusiastic dislike of slavery, it set my family in deep waters. Before my family moved to England, (Literature, 2006) my family owned a plantation in Jamaica, but had to sell it due this thunderous movement. My diffident opinion towards mistreating African slaves was gently expressed in my poems like, A Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point which was written in 1849 (Literature, 2006).
Aside from brutal politics there was tender romance fluttering through the air. Many women, like me, were writing of the swooning virus, but all of my love sonnets were written for my greatest love-- for the poet, Robert Browning. It was right after I put together a collection of poetic works, simply titled, Poems (Literature, 2006) in 1944. I remember the first time he sent a letter to me! It was his gentle admiration towards my current published work at the time. What angels crafted these words that made my heart sink to my stomach, “I, do, as I say, love these books with all my heart—and I love you too (Lovric qu. Browning, 2011)! “It threw me to ecstasies!”
Moving forward in my literary journey, when Robert and I were living in Italy, the Italian Independence movement occurred. I became a supporter and addressed my issues in my novel, Casa Guidi Windows in 1851 and Poems before Congress in 1860 (Liukkonen, 2008). All around Europe, especially England, there was a dreadful oppression of women (Wojtczak, 2011). Most women were completely defenseless to the male gender and our choices were limited. I express the degrading reality in Aurora Leight, which also discusses the “pursuit of my literary career” (Liukkonen, 2011). I also discussed casual tragedies of youth and their lives in the mills. I feel these particular subjects reduced my popularity as a woman of poetry, but I have no doubt that a strong individual has blossomed because of it!
Clearly you have had many accomplishments, but what were the absolute paramount successes as well as the methods you’ve used in your art?
My utter success, Sonnets from the Portuguese, which was first published in 1850, comprised of forty-four sonnets. My most famous is number forty-three, beginning with, “How do I love thee, let me count the ways!” (Magill, 1989). A lovely method I proclaimed within my poetry my ‘emotional’ graph (Magill, 1989) that told of my relationship with Robert. I express my weakened emotions towards my father, who forbade me to marry in the first place. I express my broken heart towards a shattered relationship when Robert and I eloped and my father never spoke a word to me again. They appear very ‘diary-like’ (Magill, 1989) and I think this is something that caressed my audience and kindled their hearts.
Though I am a hopeless romantic, I write about a variety of subjects, even ones that were a risk to my audience. I wrote about real topics, giving those who could not stand up at the time, a voice (Garrett, 2001). A had written a two-volume collection of, what was simply titled, Poems, in 1844 which I believed was favored among many. That was the book I had written which contained, “The Runaway Slave at Pilgrim’s Point,” as well as, “The Cry of the Children” which was first published in 1843 (Garrett, 2001). I made it crystal clear that children younger than five years of age were asserting themselves to hard labor in the coal mines. There was quite a reaction from the government commissions on the employment of children in factories and mines (that’s quite a mouthful)! My writings had awakened those who were asleep from the horrific conditions of certain individuals.
What open doors in your life let you turn your life around as well as writing?
It was considerably big for my first piece notable attention was The Seraphim and Other Poems (Liukkonen, 2006). My first published pieces were catalysts in writing opportunities. Though I was heart-broken at the idea of leaving my home in Hope End, moving to Wimpole Street in London (Garrett, 2001) began a whole new chapter of my life. Being in the city gave individuals outside of family notice on my works. My works such as, The Seraphim and Other Poems appeared in places like New Monthly Magazine and the Athenaeum (Garrett, 2001). I even had the pleasure of being introduced to writing legends like, Edgar Allan Poe. Tragedy, such as the few deaths in my life were vented in my writing, as well as triggering such actions of writing letters in my bedroom that brought me to Robert Browning. Our marriage and elope to Italy was yet another chapter in my life, that brought my progress in the poetic field further.
The most popular creation of mine, the one you used your introduction with, is Sonnets From the Portuguese. I was working on it from at the beginning of our arrival in Pisa, Italy, when we were first married (Magill, 1989). It was intended to be a private gift for my husband (Literature2006), but he insisted work like this should be published! He did suggest the title for my work (Magill, 1989) considering it was titled after Robert’s nickname for me. It was first published in 1850. However, I did insert a forty-fourth poem in 1856. It is now it is recognized, if I may flatter myself, as one of the greatest love poems of all time.
What choices did you make personally to follow your goal as an aspiring artist?
I had very little choices, but one I made was to marry which, as I’ve professed before, my father was completely against. During that melancholy part of my life when I had resigned myself in my bedroom after the death of my brother (NNDB, 2006), that’s when Robert and I began correspondence (Liukkonen, 2008). We had sent each other an astounding 574 letters in twenty-months (Poets, 2011). After months of nothing but contact written from a utensil entwined between our fingers, he asked if he could meet me, and I agreed in May of 1845. It was a very risky subject (Garrett, 2001) during the time when Robert professed his love to me frequently, especially when Robert had written a letter to me insisting, “We must be married directly and go to Italy” (Forster, 1989). It was extremely difficult to convince my father, it was even more difficult to go against his wishes for me, and society’s belief of an obedient woman (Garrett, 2001).
I had heard that women who get them involved in marriage, the outcome is typically unhappy. But I don’t believe that agreeing to marry Robert was a sign of weakness, because standing-up to my father had clearly shown my independence and that I was willing to make my own descions (Forster, 1989). Though the affect on me was a broken relationship between my father and me, I remember praying, “God may turn those salt matters sweet again” (Forster quo Barrett, 1989). Plus, in the back of my mind, I realized my marriage was for me and it started a whole new adventure in my literary career and my beloved son, Pen. Robert and I were married at Marleybone Parish church in London (Literature, 2006). Despite my physical weaknesses, Robert and I traveled and lived a lot in London, Paris, and traveled to all parts of Italy, like the capital City (Garrett, 2001) which flourished ideas for my writing.
What difficulties did you have to overcome in your journey?
Not to be entirely offensive to myself, I was quite a walking accident! I mentioned earlier I was a sickly child and prone to injury (Poets, 2011). I was very active when riding on horseback; unfortunately I suffered a ghastly spinal injury when I was fifteen from saddling a pony (Poets, 2011). I also became very ill around the time, so my doctors prescribed me with opium (Literature, 2006). For years I had to take medication known as, morphine because I developed some sort of hazard to the lungs (Poets, 2011), an ailment, so to speak. In my teenage years, during the time my mother passed were cruel to me as well. My father became obsessively over-protective and it was difficult for a progressing young lady to get a long without the warm love from her mother (Garrett, 2001). My books, at times, were my only friend; therefore my only escape. There was also this period when we had to move from our home at Hope End, due to lawsuits from our plantation in Jamaica. We then moved to Sidmouth on the Devon Coast then to London in 1838 (Garrett, 2001).
My health had been an issue throughout the years and it unfairly and most abruptly declined in 1837. There was yet another severe problem with my lungs (Garret, 2001) so my doctor suggested a run to a much warmer environment. Another tragedy I encountered was the death of my brother Edward, who I call “Bro.” I’m dreadfully sorry if I begin to tear up! I was sent to sail the sea of Torquay on the Devon Coast, where my doctor suggested I go, due to my wretched condition. My brother drowned (NNDB, 2011) that year we set out, it was 1838. What an absolute dread! After all this time, I still fear the ocean and the whimpering or cry of a young man. When I returned home, I went through this phase of staying in my bedroom with the English word in whatever shape or form as my only companion.
Did you have any limitations that interfered as a writer and an individual?
Besides my illness that tauntingly played its role in my life, and though I had many advantages as a woman writer of my century, I still had my limitations. I mentioned earlier, that many women struggled in their artistic field. I wrote about the oppression of women and children and the suffering of slaves, like most ladies, our mission was to serve and sacrifice (Abrams, 2001). The power we had was microscopic to change injustices in the world. The paramount importance to them was their family’s beliefs, marriage to an ideal man, and a woman’s goodness (Abrams, 2001).
Even though my father never advocated marriage, I always had that sense I had to please whatever man may be in my life such as my father or my brothers (Garrett, 2001). When I wrote my poem of the girl, Aurora Leigh (who was partially modeled on myself, she rejects Romney, to pursue her career: “What you love is not a woman Romney, but a cause/ You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sir-, a wife to help your ends…in her no end! Your cause is noble, your ends excellent/ But I, being most unworthy of these and that/Do otherwise conceive of love. Farwell.”(Digital Library quo. Barrett, 1979). This particular poem addresses my mission (which was to write), the responsibilities of a woman, as well as a woman’s position in society (Books and Writers, 2008).
Obviously, you had many tales to tell on your life story. To top off the interview, what are some other personal stories that best portray how you became a golden individual in writing?
My, what a question! I’ve told of my lifestyle, studies, my marriage, and women’s role in society. All of those deeply illustrated my life. However, success as writer come with being recognized by the people I found as ‘heroes’ or the people in my life that were influential, supportive, and admiring of my writing. When my glorified occupation was beginning to progress, (NNDB, 2011) after publishing a few poems, one of the titles I acquainted was R.H Horne, the author of Orion. He was a particularly fascinating man, he had been midshipman in the Mexican Navy, was shipwrecked, lived with Native Americans, and had broken two ribs swimming in Niagara Falls (Forster, 1989). Around the same time I had the honor of meeting William Wordsworth, who was a kind and brilliant man.
Another was my dear friend for the longest time, Mary Russell Mitford. She was best known for, Our Village (Garrett, 2001). We kept in touch by little letters that symbolized the growing of our friendship. We discussed many things from French literature to social issues like family to our artwork. Later on, when my husband and I were living in Florence, Italy, shortly after Sonnets of the Portuguese, was published, we were visited by quite a few visionaries. Nathanial Hawthorne, author of The Scarlett Letter, was invited to a gathering that we attended as well. He found my husband ‘rather amusing and was impressed by his intelligence’ apparently (Garrett, 2001). I also knew Anne Thackeray, daughter of the novelist, William Makepeace Thackeray. Knowing authors who share similar professions is one of the many wonderful aspects of having a literary career!
Sources:
1) Garret, Martin. The British Library writers lives Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning. New York, NY: Oxford University Press, Inc., 2001. 6-23. Print.
2) P. Casteras and H. Peterson, Susan and Linda. A Struggle for Fame. New Haven, CT: Yale Center for British Art, 1994. 7, 35-41. Print
3) Magill, Frank N. "Sonnets From the Portuguese." Masterpiece of World Literature. Ed. Frank N. Magill. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 1989. Print.
4) Forster, Margaret. Elizabeth Barrett Browning: A Biography. New York, NY: Doubleday, 1989. Print.
5) Bloom, Harold. "English Romanticism: The Grounds of Belief."Bloom's Period Studies: English Romantic Poetry. Ed. Harold Bloom. Broomwall, PA: Chelsea House Publishers, 2004. Print.
6) Auden, W.H. "Lyric and Narrative Poetry." The Norton Anthology of English Literature Revised. Comp.W.H Auden. W.W Norton and Company, Inc., 1968.
7) Perkins, David. English Romantic Writers. Ed. David Perkins. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc, 1967. Print.
8) Perkins, David. English Romantic Writers. Ed.. David Perkins. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc, 1967. Print. (Wojtczak 1-4)
9) Abrams, Lynn. "Ideals of Womanhood in Victorian Britian." BBC (2011): 1-8. Web. 25 Feb 2011.<http://bbc.co.uk/history/trail/victorian_br)itian/women_ideals_womanhood_09.shtml>.
10) Wojtczak, Lynn. "Women's Status in Mid 19th Century England." Hastings Press (2011): 1-4. Web. 25 Feb 2011. <http://www.hastingspress.co.uk/history/19/overview.htm>.
11) "Elizabeth Barrett Browning." Poets.org. Poets.org, n.d. Web. 25 Feb 2011. <http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/152>.
12) "Elizabeth Barrett Browning." NNDB. Soylent Communications, n.d. Web. 25 Feb 2011. <http://www.nndb/people/036/000031940/>.
13) Miller, Ilana. "The Victorian Era (1837-1901)."Victoria's Past (2011): 1-2. Web. 25 Feb 2011. <http://www.victoriaspast.com/FrontPorch/victorianera.htm>.
14) Liukkonen, Petri. "Elizabeth Barrett Browning." Books and Writers. Books and Writers, n.d. Web. 25 Feb 2011. <http://kirjasto.sci.fi/ebrownin.htm>.
15) "Elizabeth Barrett Browning." online-literature.com. The Literature Network, n.d. Web. 25 Feb 2011. <http://online-literature.com/elizabeth-browning/>.
16) Lovrich, Michelle. "Love Letter by Robert Browning to Elizabeth Barrett." Erin's Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning Page. CSW, n.d. Web. 25 Feb 2011. <http://cswnet.com/~erin/browning.htm>.
Artifact X: Home of My Early Life: Hope End
Here is my child hood home, Hope End. What jubilant years I lived in that house! I remember creating and performing short plays with my siblings and living actively outdoors, playing games like cricket! Moving to Hope End in 1809, I remained in the mansion from the age of three till I was twenty-six. I refer to my home enormously in my poem, "The Lost Bower."
"Hope End." Malvern Trail. Web. 25 Mar 2011. <http://www.malverntrail.co.uk/interest.htm>.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Artifact IX: Drawing Room in the Browning Home
This is the Drawing Room at Casa Guidi, in my home in Florence, Italy. How beautiful and quaint it is depicted in this painting. This was my preferred area to think and write. The atmosphere did wonders on my influence, as well.
"Drawing Room At Casa Guidi; Browning Home in Florence, Italy." Julian of Norwich, Her Showing of Love and Its Contexts. Web. 24 Mar 2011. <http://www.umilta.net/ebb.html>.
Artifact VII: Sculpture: "The Greek Slave" and Artifact VIII: A Runaway Slave At Pilgrim's Point
I met Hiram Power, during my time in Florence. He is the artist to the artistic stone named, "The Greek Slave." and he is also the inspiration for some of my writings. I summon to him frequently in another sonnet of mine, "A Runaway Slave At Pilgrim's Point."
"The Greek Slave." Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Risorgimento. Web. 24 Mar 2011. <http://www.umilta.net/ebb.html>.
Holloway Bolton, . "Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Risorgimento." Julian of Norwich, Her Showing of Love and Contexts. Julian of Norwich, 2010. Web. 24 Mar 2011. <http://www.umilta.net/ebb.html>.
THE RUNAWAY SLAVE AT PILGRIM'S POINT
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I
I stand on the mark beside the shore
Of the first white pilgrim's bended knee,
Where exile turned to ancestor,
And God was thanked for liberty.
I have run through the night, my skin is as dark,
I bend my knee down on this mark:
I look on the sky and the sea.
II
O pilgrim-souls, I speak to you!
I see you come out proud and slow
From the land of the spirits pale as dew
And round me and round me ye go.
O pilgrims, I have gasped and run
All night long from the whips of one
Who in your names works sin and woe!
III
And thus I thought that I would come
And kneel here where ye knelt before,
And feel your souls around me hum
In undertone to the ocean's roar;
And lift my black face, my black hand,
Here, in your names, to curse this land
Ye blessed in freedom's, evermore.
IV
I am black, I am black,
And yet God made me, they say:
But if He did so, smiling back
He must have cast His work away
Under the feet of His white creatures,
With a look of scorn, that the dusky features
Might be trodden again to clay.
V
And yet He has made dark things
To be glad and merry as light:
There's a little dark bird sits and sings,
There's a dark stream ripples out of sight,
And the dark frogs chant in the safe morass,
And the sweetest stars are made to pass
O'er the face of the darkest night.
VI
But we who are dark, we are dark!
Ah God, we have no stars!
About our souls in care and cark
Our blackness shuts like prison-bars:
The poor souls crouch so far behind,
That never a comfort can they find
By reaching through the prison-bars.
VII
Indeed, we live beneath the sky,
That great smooth Hand of God stretched out
On all His children fatherly,
To save them from the dread and doubt
Which would be if, from this low place,
All opened straight up to His face
Into the grand eternity.
VIII
And still God's sunshine and His frost,
They make us hot, they make us cold,
As if we were not black and lost;
And the beasts and birds, in wood and fold,
Do fear and take us for very men:
Could the whip-poor-will or the cat of the glen
Look into my eyes and be bold?
IX
I am black, I am black!
But, once, I laughed in girlish glee,
For one of my color stood in the track
Where the drivers drove, and looked at me,
And tender and full was the look he gave--
Could a slave look so at another slave?--
I look at the sky and the sea.
X
And from that hour our spirits grew
As free as if unsold, unbought:
Oh, strong enough, since we were two,
To conquer the world, we thought.
The drivers drove us day by day;
We did not mind, we went one way,
And no better a freedom sought.
XI
In the sunny ground between the canes,
He said "I love you" as he passed;
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with the rains,
I heard how he vowed it fast:
While others shook, he smiled in the hut,
As he carved me a bowl of the cocoa-nut,
Through the roar of the hurricanes.
XII
I sang his name instead of a song,
Over and over I sang his name,
Upward and downward I drew it along
My various notes,--the same, the same!
I sang it low, that the slave-girls near
Might never guess, from aught they could hear,
It was only a name--a name.
XIII
I look on the sky and the sea.
We were two to love, and two to pray:
Yes, two, O God, who cried to Thee,
Though nothing didst Thou say!
Coldly Thou sat'st behind the sun:
And now I cry who am but one,
Thou wilt not speak to-day.
XIV
We were black, we were black,
We had no claim to love and bliss,
What marvel, if each went to wrack?
They wrung my cold hands out of his,
They dragged him--where? I crawled to touch
His blood's mark in the dust . . . not much,
Ye pilgrim-souls, though plain as this!
XV
Wrong, followed by a deeper wrong!
Mere grief's too good for such as I:
So the white men brought the shame ere long
To strangle the sob of my agony.
They would not leave me for my dull
Wet eyes!--it was too merciful
To let me weep pure tears and die.
XVI
I am black, I am black!
I wore a child upon my breast,
An amulet that hung too slack,
And, in my unrest, could not rest:
Thus we went moaning, child and mother,
One to another, one to another,
Until all ended for the best.
XVII
For hark! I will tell you low, low,
I am black, you see,--
And the babe who lay on my bosom so,
Was far too white, too white for me;
As white as the ladies who scorned to pray
Beside me at church but yesterday,
Though my tears had washed a place for my knee.
XVIII
My own, own child! I could not bear
To look in his face, it was so white;
I covered him up with a kerchief there,
I covered his face in close and tight:
And he moaned and struggled, as well might be,
For the white child wanted his liberty--
Ha, ha! he wanted his master-right.
XIX
He moaned and beat with his head and feet,
His little feet that never grew;
He struck them out, as it was meet,
Against my heart to break it through:
I might have sung and made him mild,
But I dared not sing to the white-faced child
The only song I knew.
XX
I pulled the kerchief very close:
He could not see the sun, I swear,
More, then, alive, than now he does
From between the roots of the mango . . . where?
I know where. Close! A child and mother
Do wrong to look at one another,
When one is black and one is fair.
XXI
Why, in that single glance I had
Of my child's face, . . . I tell you all,
I saw a look that made me mad!
The master's look, that used to fall
On my soul like his lash . . . or worse!
And so, to save it from my curse,
I twisted it round in my shawl.
XXII
And he moaned and trembled from foot to head,
He shivered from head to foot;
Till after a time, he lay instead
Too suddenly still and mute.
I felt, beside, a stiffening cold:
I dared to lift up just a fold,
As in lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit.
XXIII
But my fruit . . . ha, ha!--there, had been
(I laugh to think on't at this hour!)
Your fine white angels (who have seen
Nearest the secret of God's power)
And plucked my fruit to make them wine,
And sucked the soul of that child of mine,
As the humming-bird sucks the soul of the flower.
XXIV
Ha, ha, the trick of the angels white!
They freed the white child's spirit so.
I said not a word, but day and night,
I carried the body to and fro,
And it lay on my heart like a stone, as chill.
--The sun may shine out as much as he will:
I am cold, though it happened a month ago.
XXV
From the white man's house, and the black man's hut,
I carried the little body on;
The forest's arms did round us shut,
And silence through the trees did run:
They asked no question as I went,
They stood too high for astonishment,
They could see God sit on His throne.
XXVI
My little body, kerchiefed fast,
I bore it on through the forest, on;
And when I felt it was tired at last,
I scooped a hole beneath the moon:
Through the forest-tops the angels far,
With a white sharp finger from every star,
Did point and mock at what was done.
XXVII
Yet when it was all done aright,--
Earth, 'twixt me and my baby, strewed,--
All, changed to black earth,--nothing white,--
A dark child in the dark!--ensued
Some comfort, and my heart grew young;
I sate down smiling there and sung
The song I learnt in my maidenhood.
XXVIII
And thus we two were reconciled,
The white child and black mother, thus:
For as I sang it soft and wild
The same song, more melodious,
Rose from the grave whereon I sate:
It was the dead child singing that,
To join the souls of both of us.
XXIX
I look on the sea and the sky.
Where the pilgrims' ships first anchored lay,
The free sun rideth gloriously,
But the pilgrim-ghosts have slid away
Through the earliest streaks of the morn:
My face is black, but it glares with a scorn
Which they dare not meet by day.
XXX
Ha!--in their stead, their hunter sons!
Ha, ha! they are on me--they hunt in a ring!
Keep off! I brave you all at once,
I throw off your eyes like snakes that sting!
You have killed the black eagle at nest, I think:
Did you ever stand still in your triumph, and shrink
From the stroke of her wounded wing?
XXXI
(Man, drop that stone you dared to lift!--)
I wish you who stand there five abreast,
Each, for his own wife's joy and gift,
A little corpse as safely at rest
As mine in the mangos! Yes, but she
May keep live babies on her knee,
And sing the song she likes the best.
XXXII
I am not mad: I am black.
I see you staring in my face--
I know you, staring, shrinking back,
Ye are born of the Washington-race,
And this land is the free America,
And this mark on my wrist--(I prove what I say)
Ropes tied me up here to the flogging-place.
XXXIII
You think I shrieked then? Not a sound!
I hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun;
I only cursed them all around
As softly as I might have done
My very own child: From these sands
Up to the mountains, lift your hands,
O slaves, and end what I begun!
XXXIV
Whips, curses; these must answer those!
For in this UNION, you have set
Two kinds of men in adverse rows,
Each loathing each; and all forget
The seven wounds in Christ's body fair,
While HE sees gaping everywhere
Our countless wounds that pay no debt.
XXXV
Our wounds are different. Your white men
Are, after all, not gods indeed,
Nor able to make Christs again
Do good with bleeding. We who bleed
(Stand off!) we help not in our loss!
We are too heavy for our cross,
And fall and crush you and your seed.
XXXVI
I fall, I swoon! I look at the sky.
The clouds are breaking on my brain;
I am floated along, as if I should die
Of liberty's exquisite pain.
In the name of the white child, waiting for me
In the death-dark where we may kiss and agree,
White men, I leave you all curse-free
In my broken heart's disdain!
I
I stand on the mark beside the shore
Of the first white pilgrim's bended knee,
Where exile turned to ancestor,
And God was thanked for liberty.
I have run through the night, my skin is as dark,
I bend my knee down on this mark:
I look on the sky and the sea.
II
O pilgrim-souls, I speak to you!
I see you come out proud and slow
From the land of the spirits pale as dew
And round me and round me ye go.
O pilgrims, I have gasped and run
All night long from the whips of one
Who in your names works sin and woe!
III
And thus I thought that I would come
And kneel here where ye knelt before,
And feel your souls around me hum
In undertone to the ocean's roar;
And lift my black face, my black hand,
Here, in your names, to curse this land
Ye blessed in freedom's, evermore.
IV
I am black, I am black,
And yet God made me, they say:
But if He did so, smiling back
He must have cast His work away
Under the feet of His white creatures,
With a look of scorn, that the dusky features
Might be trodden again to clay.
V
And yet He has made dark things
To be glad and merry as light:
There's a little dark bird sits and sings,
There's a dark stream ripples out of sight,
And the dark frogs chant in the safe morass,
And the sweetest stars are made to pass
O'er the face of the darkest night.
VI
But we who are dark, we are dark!
Ah God, we have no stars!
About our souls in care and cark
Our blackness shuts like prison-bars:
The poor souls crouch so far behind,
That never a comfort can they find
By reaching through the prison-bars.
VII
Indeed, we live beneath the sky,
That great smooth Hand of God stretched out
On all His children fatherly,
To save them from the dread and doubt
Which would be if, from this low place,
All opened straight up to His face
Into the grand eternity.
VIII
And still God's sunshine and His frost,
They make us hot, they make us cold,
As if we were not black and lost;
And the beasts and birds, in wood and fold,
Do fear and take us for very men:
Could the whip-poor-will or the cat of the glen
Look into my eyes and be bold?
IX
I am black, I am black!
But, once, I laughed in girlish glee,
For one of my color stood in the track
Where the drivers drove, and looked at me,
And tender and full was the look he gave--
Could a slave look so at another slave?--
I look at the sky and the sea.
X
And from that hour our spirits grew
As free as if unsold, unbought:
Oh, strong enough, since we were two,
To conquer the world, we thought.
The drivers drove us day by day;
We did not mind, we went one way,
And no better a freedom sought.
XI
In the sunny ground between the canes,
He said "I love you" as he passed;
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with the rains,
I heard how he vowed it fast:
While others shook, he smiled in the hut,
As he carved me a bowl of the cocoa-nut,
Through the roar of the hurricanes.
XII
I sang his name instead of a song,
Over and over I sang his name,
Upward and downward I drew it along
My various notes,--the same, the same!
I sang it low, that the slave-girls near
Might never guess, from aught they could hear,
It was only a name--a name.
XIII
I look on the sky and the sea.
We were two to love, and two to pray:
Yes, two, O God, who cried to Thee,
Though nothing didst Thou say!
Coldly Thou sat'st behind the sun:
And now I cry who am but one,
Thou wilt not speak to-day.
XIV
We were black, we were black,
We had no claim to love and bliss,
What marvel, if each went to wrack?
They wrung my cold hands out of his,
They dragged him--where? I crawled to touch
His blood's mark in the dust . . . not much,
Ye pilgrim-souls, though plain as this!
XV
Wrong, followed by a deeper wrong!
Mere grief's too good for such as I:
So the white men brought the shame ere long
To strangle the sob of my agony.
They would not leave me for my dull
Wet eyes!--it was too merciful
To let me weep pure tears and die.
XVI
I am black, I am black!
I wore a child upon my breast,
An amulet that hung too slack,
And, in my unrest, could not rest:
Thus we went moaning, child and mother,
One to another, one to another,
Until all ended for the best.
XVII
For hark! I will tell you low, low,
I am black, you see,--
And the babe who lay on my bosom so,
Was far too white, too white for me;
As white as the ladies who scorned to pray
Beside me at church but yesterday,
Though my tears had washed a place for my knee.
XVIII
My own, own child! I could not bear
To look in his face, it was so white;
I covered him up with a kerchief there,
I covered his face in close and tight:
And he moaned and struggled, as well might be,
For the white child wanted his liberty--
Ha, ha! he wanted his master-right.
XIX
He moaned and beat with his head and feet,
His little feet that never grew;
He struck them out, as it was meet,
Against my heart to break it through:
I might have sung and made him mild,
But I dared not sing to the white-faced child
The only song I knew.
XX
I pulled the kerchief very close:
He could not see the sun, I swear,
More, then, alive, than now he does
From between the roots of the mango . . . where?
I know where. Close! A child and mother
Do wrong to look at one another,
When one is black and one is fair.
XXI
Why, in that single glance I had
Of my child's face, . . . I tell you all,
I saw a look that made me mad!
The master's look, that used to fall
On my soul like his lash . . . or worse!
And so, to save it from my curse,
I twisted it round in my shawl.
XXII
And he moaned and trembled from foot to head,
He shivered from head to foot;
Till after a time, he lay instead
Too suddenly still and mute.
I felt, beside, a stiffening cold:
I dared to lift up just a fold,
As in lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit.
XXIII
But my fruit . . . ha, ha!--there, had been
(I laugh to think on't at this hour!)
Your fine white angels (who have seen
Nearest the secret of God's power)
And plucked my fruit to make them wine,
And sucked the soul of that child of mine,
As the humming-bird sucks the soul of the flower.
XXIV
Ha, ha, the trick of the angels white!
They freed the white child's spirit so.
I said not a word, but day and night,
I carried the body to and fro,
And it lay on my heart like a stone, as chill.
--The sun may shine out as much as he will:
I am cold, though it happened a month ago.
XXV
From the white man's house, and the black man's hut,
I carried the little body on;
The forest's arms did round us shut,
And silence through the trees did run:
They asked no question as I went,
They stood too high for astonishment,
They could see God sit on His throne.
XXVI
My little body, kerchiefed fast,
I bore it on through the forest, on;
And when I felt it was tired at last,
I scooped a hole beneath the moon:
Through the forest-tops the angels far,
With a white sharp finger from every star,
Did point and mock at what was done.
XXVII
Yet when it was all done aright,--
Earth, 'twixt me and my baby, strewed,--
All, changed to black earth,--nothing white,--
A dark child in the dark!--ensued
Some comfort, and my heart grew young;
I sate down smiling there and sung
The song I learnt in my maidenhood.
XXVIII
And thus we two were reconciled,
The white child and black mother, thus:
For as I sang it soft and wild
The same song, more melodious,
Rose from the grave whereon I sate:
It was the dead child singing that,
To join the souls of both of us.
XXIX
I look on the sea and the sky.
Where the pilgrims' ships first anchored lay,
The free sun rideth gloriously,
But the pilgrim-ghosts have slid away
Through the earliest streaks of the morn:
My face is black, but it glares with a scorn
Which they dare not meet by day.
XXX
Ha!--in their stead, their hunter sons!
Ha, ha! they are on me--they hunt in a ring!
Keep off! I brave you all at once,
I throw off your eyes like snakes that sting!
You have killed the black eagle at nest, I think:
Did you ever stand still in your triumph, and shrink
From the stroke of her wounded wing?
XXXI
(Man, drop that stone you dared to lift!--)
I wish you who stand there five abreast,
Each, for his own wife's joy and gift,
A little corpse as safely at rest
As mine in the mangos! Yes, but she
May keep live babies on her knee,
And sing the song she likes the best.
XXXII
I am not mad: I am black.
I see you staring in my face--
I know you, staring, shrinking back,
Ye are born of the Washington-race,
And this land is the free America,
And this mark on my wrist--(I prove what I say)
Ropes tied me up here to the flogging-place.
XXXIII
You think I shrieked then? Not a sound!
I hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun;
I only cursed them all around
As softly as I might have done
My very own child: From these sands
Up to the mountains, lift your hands,
O slaves, and end what I begun!
XXXIV
Whips, curses; these must answer those!
For in this UNION, you have set
Two kinds of men in adverse rows,
Each loathing each; and all forget
The seven wounds in Christ's body fair,
While HE sees gaping everywhere
Our countless wounds that pay no debt.
XXXV
Our wounds are different. Your white men
Are, after all, not gods indeed,
Nor able to make Christs again
Do good with bleeding. We who bleed
(Stand off!) we help not in our loss!
We are too heavy for our cross,
And fall and crush you and your seed.
XXXVI
I fall, I swoon! I look at the sky.
The clouds are breaking on my brain;
I am floated along, as if I should die
Of liberty's exquisite pain.
In the name of the white child, waiting for me
In the death-dark where we may kiss and agree,
White men, I leave you all curse-free
In my broken heart's disdain!
""A Runaway Slave At Pilgrim's Point" by: Elizabeth Barrett Browning." Internet Accuracy Project. Web. 24 Mar 2011. <http://www.accuracyproject.org/t-BarrettBrowning-RunawaySlave.html>.
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