{"id":85539,"date":"2015-05-07T19:47:09","date_gmt":"2015-05-07T23:47:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=85539"},"modified":"2015-05-08T11:28:02","modified_gmt":"2015-05-08T15:28:02","slug":"the-sound-of-a-voice-that-is-still","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/05\/07\/the-sound-of-a-voice-that-is-still\/","title":{"rendered":"The Sound of a Voice That Is Still"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_85543\" style=\"width: 667px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/05\/screen-shot-2015-05-07-at-6.57.53-pm1.png\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-85543\" class=\"wp-image-85543 size-full\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/05\/screen-shot-2015-05-07-at-6.57.53-pm1.png\" alt=\"Screen Shot 2015-05-07 at 6.57.53 PM\" width=\"657\" height=\"547\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/05\/screen-shot-2015-05-07-at-6.57.53-pm1.png 657w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/05\/screen-shot-2015-05-07-at-6.57.53-pm1-300x250.png 300w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-85543\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">\u201cListening to the Master\u2019s Voice,\u201d from <i>Black and White<\/i>, 1891.<\/p><\/div>\n<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"https:\/\/archive.org\/embed\/RobertBrowningTryingToReciteHisPoem1889EdisonCylinder\" width=\"500\" height=\"140\" frameborder=\"0\" allowfullscreen=\"allowfullscreen\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p>In April 1889, only a few months before he died, Robert Browning became the first major literary figure to commit his voice to wax. At a dinner party held by the artist Rudolf Lehmann, Browning stood before the Edison Talking Machine\u2014then new and exceedingly novel\u2014and recited his poem \u201cHow They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.\u201d The problem: he couldn\u2019t remember his lines.<\/p>\n<p>\u201cI forget it\u2014er,\u201d Browning stammers only three lines in. Then, after another false start: \u201cI\u2014I am most terribly sorry that I can\u2019t remember my own verses.\u201d (Imagine if, today, poets were expected to have all their own poems memorized.) \u201cBut one thing that I will remember all my life is the astonishing sensation produced upon me by your wonderful invention.\u201d <!--more--><\/p>\n<p>He wouldn\u2019t remember it very long\u2014he died eight months later, thus conferring new value on the wax cylinder containing his voice. As John M. Picker writes in <em>Victorian Soundscapes<\/em>, Edison\u2019s machine created a \u201ckind of relic, a hollow, grooved talisman of identity\u201d; with Browning dead, it could be used \u201cin an unprecedented form of poet worship.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>On December 12, 1890, the first anniversary of Browning\u2019s death, the members of the London Browning Society gathered to listen to the recording in commemoration. H. R. Haweis recounted the \u201cextraordinary s\u00e9ance\u201d in the <em>London Times<\/em>:<\/p>\n<blockquote>\n<p>Today was the anniversary of Robert Browning\u2019s death at Venice, and at 5 o\u2019clock in the afternoon, in singular commemoration of it, an event unique in the history of science and of strange sympathetic significance took place at Edison house. The voice of the dead man was heard speaking. This is the first time that Robert Browning\u2019s or any other voice has been heard from beyond the grave. It was generally known that Colonel Gouraud had got locked up in his safe some words spoken by the poet \u2026 at the house of Rudolph Lehmann, the artist. But up to yesterday the wax cylinder containing the record had never been made to yield up its secret \u2026 the small white wax cylinder containing the record carefully wrapped in wool was produced, and, on being put upon the machine, the voices at Rudolph Lehmann\u2019s house on the night of April 7, 1889, were accurately reproduced \u2026 while in breathless silence the little, awed group stood round the phonograph, Robert Browning\u2019s familiar and cheery voice suddenly exclaimed: \u201cReady?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<p>Haweis was quick to imbue the event with historic and spiritual significance, but Browning\u2019s sister, Sarianna, took a dim view of the ceremony. \u201cPoor Robert\u2019s dead voice to be made interesting amusement!\u201d she wrote to a friend. \u201cGod forgive them all. I find it difficult.\u201d And as Picker points out, there is something ironic in the proceedings; \u201cin listening and relistening to just a lapse, they memorialized, of all things, their hero\u2019s forgetfulness.\u201d But I understand the inclination to fetishize this recording: think of how Browning\u2019s survivors must\u2019ve seen it. Here was one of the few recordings available anywhere, of anyone, and it happened to contain his voice. Unless he\u2019d been cursing up a storm or retching, his sounds, in their scarcity, were sure to take on an extraordinary preciousness.<\/p>\n<p>Browning\u2019s stint as the sole recorded poet was short-lived; not long after, Tennyson recorded some of his own works with the machine. And fittingly, W. H. Preece, an early phonograph enthusiast, had touted the invention by borrowing some lines from Tennyson: the \u201csound of a voice that is still,\u201d he wrote, \u201cmay now be realized.\u201d<\/p>\n<p>As for \u201cthe good news\u201d in Browning\u2019s poem\u2014if you\u2019re wondering what it was, don\u2019t. \u201cThere is no historical incident whatever commemorated in the poem,\u201d Browning wrote in an 1883 letter: \u201ca merely general impression of the characteristic warfare and besieging which abound in the annals of Flanders.\u201d<\/p>\n<blockquote>\n<p>I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;<br \/> I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;<br \/>\u00a0\u201cGood speed!\u201d cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew;<br \/>\u00a0\u201cSpeed!\u201d echoed the wall to us galloping through;<br \/> Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,<br \/> And into the midnight we galloped abreast.<\/p>\n<p>Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace<br \/> Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;<br \/> I turned in my saddle and made its girth tight,<br \/> Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,<br \/> Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,<br \/> Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.<\/p>\n<p>\u2019Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near<br \/> Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;<br \/> At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;<br \/> At D\u00fcffeld, \u2019twas morning as plain as could be;<br \/> And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,<br \/> So Joris broke silence with, \u201cYet there is time!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,<br \/> And against him the cattle stood black every one,<br \/> To stare through the mist at us galloping past,<br \/> And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,<br \/> With resolute shoulders, each butting away<br \/> The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:<\/p>\n<p>And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back<br \/> For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;<br \/> And one eye\u2019s black intelligence,\u2014ever that glance<br \/> O\u2019er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!<br \/> And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon<br \/> His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.<\/p>\n<p>By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, \u201cStay spur!<br \/> \u201cYour Roos galloped bravely, the fault\u2019s not in her,<br \/> \u201cWe\u2019ll remember at Aix\u201d\u2014for one heard the quick wheeze<br \/> Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,<br \/> And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,<br \/> As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.<\/p>\n<p>So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,<br \/> Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;<br \/> The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,<br \/> \u00a0\u2019Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;<br \/> Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,<br \/> And \u201cGallop,\u201d gasped Joris, \u201cfor Aix is in sight!\u201d<\/p>\n<p>\u201cHow they\u2019ll greet us!\u201d\u2014and all in a moment his roan<br \/> Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;<br \/> And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight<br \/> Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,<br \/> With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,<br \/> And with circles of red for his eye-sockets\u2019 rim.<\/p>\n<p>Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,<br \/> Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,<br \/> Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,<br \/> Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;<br \/> Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,<br \/> Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.<\/p>\n<p>And all I remember is\u2014friends flocking round<br \/> As I sat with his head \u2019twixt my knees on the ground;<br \/> And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,<br \/> As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,<br \/> Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)<br \/> Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<p><em>Dan Piepenbring is the web editor of <\/em>The Paris Review.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>In April 1889, only a few months before he died, Robert Browning became the first major literary figure to commit his voice to wax. At a dinner party held by the artist Rudolf Lehmann, Browning stood before the Edison Talking Machine\u2014then new and exceedingly novel\u2014and recited his poem \u201cHow They Brought the Good News from [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7646],"tags":[18051,88,18055,18052,18054,9427,7221,18050,14627,6592,18053],"class_list":["post-85539","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-look-2","tag-edison-talking-machine","tag-england","tag-h-r-haweis","tag-how-they-brought-the-good-news","tag-john-m-picker","tag-phonograph","tag-poems","tag-recitations","tag-recordings","tag-robert-browning","tag-victorian-era"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Listen\u2014Robert Browning Becomes the First Recorded Poet, 1889<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Listen to a recording Browning reciting \u201cHow They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/05\/07\/the-sound-of-a-voice-that-is-still\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Sound of a Voice That Is Still by Dan Piepenbring\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"May 7, 2015 \u2013 In April 1889, only a few months before he died, Robert Browning became the first major literary figure to commit his voice to wax. 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