6. Porphyria's Lover
Just to put a poem into the mix, I have chosen Robert Browning's Porphyria's Lover, first published in 1836. It was the first of Browning's poems to delve into the world of madness with an insane narrator, I imagine that it must have been quite lurid back in 1836 and even today, the poem retains its power to shock with the terrible actions of the insane narrator. Basically there is a storm going on when Porphyria comes come to the house where the narrator lives. She stokes up the fire and makes the room nice and warm. After that, she takes off her wet clothes and goes to the narrator who decides to strangle her with her own hair. Initially a neglected poem, probably due to the morbid subject matter, Porphyria's Lover has recently been a heavily discussed and anthologised poem. Various interesting theories have arisen about the poem - the narrator may have a fetish for Porphyria's hair as it is alluded to so much in the poem. The narrator may also be impotent and unable to satisfy Porphyria's sexual desires so in a rage he murders her. Porphyria is defying her family to be with the narrator. This sexual transgression would have been shocking to Victorian society who were simultaneously repressed but had a penchant for scandal. Browning is trying to make sense of this dichotomy through his poem and make a statement on the disturbed mindset of society in his time. I have included the poem below so you can make your own interpretations. The rain set early in tonight, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled 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 soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called 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 forever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could tonight'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 looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshiped 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 Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped 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 scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!