Robert had written about the constant
reiteration of his declarations of love sounding like a cuckoo, and Elizabeth here picks
up on the idea. Not surprisingly the music does too.
At this half-way point, the music is as far removed from the opening as
can be imagined, at one point even ven-turing into seven sharps.
There is no break before sonnet 23, which starts the gradual return
back through the keys to the final triumphant F major.
But that is still a way off. |
XXI
Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem ‘a cuckoo-song,’ as thou dost treat it,
Remember never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain,
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit voice, in that doubt’s pain
Cry . .‘Speak once more . . thou lovest!’ Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll -
Too many flowers, though each shall crown a year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me - toll
The silver iterance! - only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. |
| January 22nd 1846 - Robert to Elizabeth: "
... I seem to apprehend, comprehend entirely, for the first time, what would happen
if I lost you ..."
One of the very first decisions I made about these settings was that the quotation below,
in Browning’s own handwriting to Elizabeth, would be included.
 But where? Gluck’s famous aria from Orfeo "What is life to me
without thee?" seems to chime so perfectly with Elizabeth’s chilling words which
open this sonnet.
(Notice too the piano’s ealier quotation, of "In my dread
anguish, none can comfort.") |
XXIII
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Would’st thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine,
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine -
But . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me .. breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee! |
This is one of two settings where the
sense of gradually heightened emotion is conveyed musically through the simple device of
steadily rising keys.
Peterson and Markus’ commentary neatly matches up the references - e.g. May 16th 1845
"I will call at 2 on Tuesday - "; but we are left none the wiser about the
contents of the last letter! Certainly there is an erotic element to Elizabeth’s next
sonnet, no. 29, which I have not set.
Fred. A. Mayer
|
XXVIII
My letters! all dead paper, . . mute and white! -
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said, . . he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it! - this, . . the paper’s light . .
Said, dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God’s future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine - and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed,
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last! |
Sonnet 30 sees the old uncertainties
surfacing again as Elizabeth cries herself to sleep, here reflected in the constant
sobbing of the piano accompaniment.
And the image of the acolyte with his "pale insensate brow" is one of which
this composer in his youth has more than once had first-hand experience. |
XXX
I see thine image through my tears to-night,
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How
Refer the cause? - Beloved, is it thou
Or I? who make me sad? The acolyte
Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite,
May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow
Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,
As he, in his swooning ears, the choir’s amen.
Beloved, dost thou love? or did I see all
The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when
Too vehement light dilated my ideal,
For my soul’s eyes? Will that light come again,
As now these tears come . . . falling hot and real? |
|
