Author: Robert Browning

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    Some people hang portraits up
    In a room where they dine or sup:
    And the wife clinks tea-things under,
    And her cousin, he stirs his cup,
    Asks Who was the lady, I wonder?
    T is a daub John bought at a sale,
    Quoth the wife, looks black as thunder:
    What a shade beneath her nose!
    Snuff-taking, I suppose,
    Adds the cousin, while Johns corns ail.

    Or else, there s no wife in the case,
    But the portrait s queen of the place,
    Alone mid the other spoils
    Of youth, masks, gloves and foils,
    And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine,
    And the long whip, the tandem-lasher,
    And the cast from a fist (not, alas! mine,
    But my masters, the Tipton Slasher),
    And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace,
    And a satin shoe used for cigar-case,
    And the chamois-horns (shot in the Chablais)
    And prints Rarey drumming on Cruiser,
    And Sayers, our champion, the bruiser,
    And the little edition of Rabelais:
    Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets,
    May saunter up close to examine it,
    And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it,
    But the eyes are half out of their sockets;
    That hair s not so bad, where the gloss is,
    But theyve made the girls nose a proboscis:
    Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy!
    What, is not she Jane? Then, who is she?

    All that I own is a print,
    An etching, a mezzotint;
    T is a study, a fancy, a fiction,
    Yet a fact (take my conviction)
    Because it has more than a hint
    Of a certain face, I never
    Saw elsewhere touch or trace of
    In women I ve seen the face of:
    Just an etching, and, so far, clever.

    I keep my prints, an imbroglio,
    Fifty in one portfolio.
    When somebody tries my claret,
    We turn round chairs to the fire,
    Chirp over days in a garret,
    Chuckle oer increase of salary,
    Taste the good fruits of our leisure,
    Talk about pencil and lyre,
    And the National Portrait Gallery:
    Then I exhibit my treasure.
    After we ve turned over twenty,
    And the debt of wonder my crony owes
    Is paid to my Marc Antonios,
    He stops me Festina lent!
    Whats that sweet thing there, the etching?
    How my waistcoat-strings want stretching,
    How my cheeks grow red as tomatos,
    How my heart leaps ! But hearts, after leaps, ache.

    By the by, you must take, for a keepsake,
    That other, you praised, of Volpatos.
    The fool! would he try a flight further and say
    He never saw, never before to-day,
    What was able to take his breath away,
    A face to lose youth for, to occupy age
    With the dream of, meet death with, why, Ill not engage
    But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage,
    I should toss him the things self T is only a duplicate,
    A thing of no value! Take it, I supplicate!

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Type of Poem: Clerihew

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem presents a vivid exploration of memory, perception, and the power of art. The speaker discusses various portraits and the reactions they elicit, thereby highlighting the role of art as a trigger for reminiscence and storytelling. The theme of memory is underscored by the frequent references to past experiences and people, like old friends, a wife, a cousin, and a woman named Jane Lamb.

The tone of the poem varies between nostalgic, playful, and bitter, hinting at a complex emotional landscape beneath the surface narrative. The structure is conversational, with the speaker often addressing an implied listener or engaging in imagined dialogues. This technique lends an intimate, personal touch to the poem, making the reader feel like part of the conversation.

The use of contrast is a standout literary device in this poem. The speaker contrasts the different portraits and the varied reactions they elicit, but also contrasts the idealized image of a woman in a portrait with the reality of human flaws and imperfections. This can be seen in lines such as "But they’ve made the girl’s nose a proboscis," or "Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy! What, is not she Jane? Then, who is she?" These lines offer a critique of the way art can distort reality, a theme that is further reinforced by the speaker's ultimate revelation that he has an etching that he cherishes because it is more than a mere representation—it carries emotional resonance and personal significance.

In sum, this poem is a thoughtful exploration of art, memory, and the complicated interplay between reality and representation.