realised; and, were we in stern
mood, it would be possible to declare that this lady had abandoned them
more definitely than her poet had, since he at all times was frankly a
worldling. Witty as she has become, there still remain in her, I fear,
some traces of the poor pretty thoughtful thing. . . . To sum up, for
this "tear" also we have but semi-sympathy; and Browning is again not at
his best when he makes the Victim speak for herself.

III.--THE LABORATORY

Now let us see how he can make a woman speak when she suffers, but is
not, and will not be, a victim.

At once she is a completely realised human creature, uttering herself in
such abandonment of all pretence as never fails to compass majesty. Into
the soul of this woman in _The Laboratory_, Browning has penetrated till
he seems to breathe with her breath. I question if there is another
fictive utterance to surpass this one in authenticity. It bears the
Great Seal. Not Shakespeare has outdone it in power and concentration.
Every word counts, almost every comma--for, like Browning, we too seem
to breathe with this woman's panting breath, our hearts to beat with the
very pain and rage of hers, and every pause she comes to in her speech
is _our_ pause, so intense is the evocation, so unerring the expression
of an impulse which, whether or no it be atrophied in our more hesitant
and civilised consciousness, is at any rate effectively inhibited.

+ + + + +

She is a Court lady of the _ancien regime_, in the great Brinvilliers
poisoning-period, and she is buying from an old alchemist in his
laboratory the draught which is to kill her triumphant rival. Small,
gorgeous, and intense, she sits in the strange den and watches the old
wizard set about his work. She is due to dance at the King's, but there
is no hurry: he may take as long as he chooses. . . . Now she must put
on a glass mask like his, the old man tells her, for these "faint smokes
that curl whitely" are themselves poisonous--and she submits, and with
all her intensity at work, ties it on "tightly"; then sits again, to
peer through the fumes of the devil's-smithy. But she cannot be silent;
even to him--and after all, is such an one as he quite truly a man!--she
must pour forth the anguish of her soul. Questions relieve her now and
then:

"Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?"

--but not long can she be merely curious; every minute there breaks out
a cry: