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Browning, and the Lost Cork
“The Gentler View,” Harper’s Weekly (Advertiser; March 12, 1910) : 29
hathitrust : link
 

      It is a great shock to find that a Browning society still exists. One knew that there had been Browning societies, but then there was the passionate Brompton period, and in all ignorance it was supposed that the former epidemic had been yielded to, thrown off, and completely recovered from, just as Brompton’s habit of carrying a lily in the left hand and making Aubrey Beardsley gestures with the right was lived through with no very serious results. Such earnest help was given the members of the various Browning societies in their time of stress! Every one chaffed them and tried to nurse them to a state of greater sanity. There was a season when jokes were made about nothing else which was very nice on the part of the jokers. Max Beerbohm made a cartoon of a Browning society that should have wrought a great many cures, and Chesterton explained kindly to all who would read that Browning was a god with an impediment in his speech. This hint of a stutter might have relieved the souls seriously studying every line, battling to reduce each to a state of perfect clarity, and the world at large had rather supposed that it had. There was a comfortable impression about that Browning was now taken calmly, read by those who were not inconvenienced by his mode of expression, and by others let reasonably alone. Unfortunately, things are not as peaceful as they seemed. Browning’s style is still regarded as a challenge, as a taunt to egg one on to one’s destruction, and there are those who hope to down him, to trace him to his lair and fight it out with him. It is these who form the Browning societies still in existence.
      The state of irritation revealed by one glance at a programme shocks and pains us. The sight of all these beautifully frocked ladies writhing with the Browning rash makes one pause and wonder. There are so many things that none of us are able to understand ourselves — human nature as displayed by others, the cosmic scheme, the whyness of the weather, why people marry whom they do —There are so many things that none of us are able to understand ourselves — human nature as displayed by others, the cosmic scheme, the whyness of the weather, why people marry whom they do — that is, does seem as though we might add Browning to the group and go happily about our business. There is something pig-headed and picayunish in making an exception of Browning. (Why take space for granted and balk at Browning?) Fowls with their noses fastened to a bright dot of paint, hypnotizea, unhappy, and unable to get away, suggest themselves as a not disrespectfully meant simile to the Browning enthusiasts.
      When people deliberately sit down to addle their brains, the world with its fussy old humanity tries to head them off, to distract their attention before they lose themselves entirely, and there is a proper sense of grievance felt that when some years have been given to the cure of these particular stumblers, and everybody had supposed them safe, they should have been Browning on the quiet all the time. To discover a large society of the iniquitous ones at this late date is to feel that they have been getting into mischief behind our backs, and we are hurt. A sense of injury prevents us from expressing ourselves as we would like. It was not fair of them to get to an incurable stage without as much as circulating a rumor of the excessively bad way they were in.
      Picture large numbers of women bustling in a little late to discuss “Abt-Vogler,” which is to be elucidated by twelve questions, the simplest of which reads, “What are the characteristics of a thinking soul in a state of ecstasy?” One resents it. Tears of rage rise at the thought. It has the futility of martyrdom. It is not safe to have our mothers, cousins, and neighbors asking themselves what the characteristics of a thinking soul are in a state of ecstasy. We wring our hands as they go down for the third time and dwell snifflingly on the expectations they had of living to a good old age as happy, useful citizens.
      If the questions, “Why is ‘C Major’ the musical expression of the commonplace?” and, “How would you explain the three phrases of humor existence mentioned in verse five?” were addressed to larky, joyous us, we, the world at large, would say “We wouldn’t, we wouldn’t explain it for worlds. We would keep intact its beautifully cryptic qualities.” For what do we know of humor existence? Nothing at all. We say it over and over and it leaves us untouched, unharmed. We rise smiling after each repetition, but that is because we are immune, we are in the protected condition we should be in. It is the others — the ones who take a horrid fancy to a thinking soul in a state of ecstasy — that are in danger and must be roused from their debilitated condition. There is something not quite nice in publicly discussing, “How are Light and Music related, and what mental condition is emphasized by the illumination of Rome’s dome”? We do not know how they are related, but we feel that if it must be found out it should be done in the privacy of one’s room. The mental confusion which must result is surely not for the public eye.
      Not only do these ladies deal in such matters at their meetings, but they are expected to prepare themselves before coming. They introduce into their innocent homes such questions as, “Where in art does man’s creative power find its highest expression?” Oh, ladies, for shame! Do these things if you must during your social hours, but when you are with your husband and children have a mind orderly and uncontaminated. And remember that, though the world was good-natured with you before, this relapse of yours may prove extremely trying to its temper, and, if it sees fit to take you in hand a second time — well — you cannot say that you were not warned, because you were. There is no need of going into particulars; suffice it to say, have a care!you cannot say that you were not warned, because you were. There is no need of going into particulars; suffice it to say, have a care!

      Passing over the mystery of how a cork could become lost, we plunge into the sorrow of its being missing. A cork which you had always liked but never been especially wrapped up in, you now find to be an inseparable part of you. It is an unusual cork that only comes from foreign places, a cork of parts, and it can neither be replaced nor can you take up the routine of your life until it is found. It is more than a cork. To be frank, it verges on being a stopper, and it is somewhere in the room. A cork does not leave of its own accord, neither does any one steal a person’s best, favorite stopper. It was one that had been faithful to you for years, and during the painful days of its absence you go frequently and peer into the bottle to see if it has not of its own accord returned. The bottle is its natural abode; it is thither that it will come if it repents and comes at all. Snugly, with a chastened spirit, it will crawl into the place to which it belongs, trusting you for a decent ignoring of its late fall. But, look as often as you will, it is never there. Sadly, with a heavy heart, you make the round on your hands and knees of every crack and cranny. Prostrate on the floor, for five minutes at a time you gaze at bits of dust and strayed and fallen pins. Perhaps they could tell if they would.Prostrate on the floor, for five minutes at a time you gaze at bits of dust and strayed and fallen pins. Perhaps they could tell if they would. You lie there, hoping by your patience to lure that stopper home, too bowed down by its absence to care for the slight informality of your position. After a while the room becomes to you nothing but the prison of that lost, unhappy stopper. You poke back of things with umbrellas and burrow your nose into crevices, infuriated at being unable to see with more than one eye at a time. Then at last, with the help of a broom handle, there is a tinkle, the stopper falls from the place in which it has been lodged wholly against its wil , and, ah, what a happy home-coming! You rush to tell the family, who snort with unsympathetic disgust at your obsession, and, repulsed by the cold world, you and the stopper rejoice together.
 

6 August 2023