Porphyria’s lover

Figure 1 – Porphyria’s Lover, Wig Mannequin, Waltham, MA. (c) DE Wolf 2017.

I took my wife to her hairdresser this weekend and I was a bit stunned by the wig mannequin of Figure 1. She is very reminiscent of a Tim Burton character – utterly vampiric. Most striking is the violet eye shadow, her closed eyes, pale tessellated complexion, and cracked lips. You forget that she is a mannequin and find yourself taken up in the ambiguity of alive or dead. It will come as no surprise to regular readers of this blog that I made a poetic association with this pale ghost.

She immediately brought to my mind Robert Browning’s dark poem “Porphyria’s Lover.” I reproduce it in its entirety below, because I believe that it is essential reading for English speakers. Despite its macabre subject matter, or perhaps because of it, it is a milestone in the exploration of psychosis, of the darkest regions of the disturbed and murderous mind. It speaks of love, hate; life, death, and possession most ambiguously, and in those regards, it hearkens to another Browning masterpiece My Last Duchess.

The wonderful mystery of Porphyria’s Lover is that the meaning of the name is obscure. Robert Browning was home-schooled and as such he often made obscure personal associations with classicism. So, in the end, we really don’t know why it is called “Porphyria’s Lover.” Perhaps that is all part of the charm. “And yet God has not said a word!”

Porphyria’s Lover

The rain set early in to-night,

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 for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could to-night’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 worshipped 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!

Robert Browning

Hati and Skoll Gallery

Home to the photographic works & blog of physicist David E. Wolf.

Porphyria’s lover

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