R370502D. Strafford.
The Sun, 2 May 1837, p. 4.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 390–391.
Covent-Garden Theatre. Mr. Macready took his benefit here last night, on which occasion a new historical tragedy was brought out, from the pen of the author of Paracelsus. The Sun was among the first, if not the first, to notice this fine poem when it appeared some two years since, and to observe also that Mr. Browning displayed throughout it evidences of dramatic ability of no mean order. His present play Strafford has not disappointed the expectations we then formed of him. It acts even better than it reads, for this reason, that action is substituted for description, and mere poetry made subservient to the sterner business of the drama. Still it is by no means the highest effort of which Mr. Browning is capable. We are convinced he can do better—work out his ideas more fully—develope his characters in a more subtle, analytical spirit. The good stuff is in him, but patience and diligent habits of thought are requisite, to enable him to work out the conceptions with which it is evident his imagination teems, even to overflowing. The leading defect of Strafford is that it is, in a great degree, obscure, we might almost say, unintelligible to those who are not well acquainted with the stirring period of which it treats. The author relies too much on the historical knowledge of his audience. He gives them credit for as accurate an acquaintance with Clarendon, Godwin, and others, who detail the events of those days, as he himself possesses. This is a serious blemish, and would have been fatal to his success, had it not been for the masterly manner in which he has pourtrayed the stern, conscientious republican, and the ambitious royalist, in the persons of Pym and Strafford. Here he appealed to the broad principles of human nature, and his appeal was understood and answered. While touching on the subject of the defects of Mr. Browning’s tragedy, we may just observe that the position in which the Countess of Carlisle is made to stand towards Strafford is equivocal, and needs fuller development. She appears, from her actions, to be instigated by the profoundest passion; but it is clear that the object of her love does not understand this, nor does she herself once hint at it; nor can the audience be made to comprehend the nature of that strong impulse which urges her to save St[r]afford at all risks. This is an ambiguity that should be cleared up. We now turn to the brighter side of the tragedy. The language throughout is spirited, sententious, and dramatic; never inflated—never tame—never sinking below the level of mediocrity. Above all, mere poetry—poetry we mean that encumbers dialogue, and bids action halt—is carefully avoided. Mr. Browning has also been scrupulously correct in his adherence to the truth of character. King Charles is the identical Charles of history—weak, insincere, and vacillating, not, however, from a bad heart, but a weak head. We may extend the same praise to Wentworth and Pym, the latter of whom we like best, because we have the distinctest idea of him; though the former is the author’s pet. As for John Hampden, he is somewhat shabbily treated, being little better than a walking gentleman. We subjoin a passage which Mr. Browning has put into the mouth of Pym, because it lets us into his character at once, in the most sterling dramatic manner:—
A glorious thing,
We all say, friends, it is a glorious thing
To right that England. Heaven grows dark above—
Let’s snatch one moment ’ere the thunder fall
To say how well the English spirit comes out
Beneath it! All have done their best, indeed
From lion Elliot, that proud Englishman,
To the least here; and who the least one here,
When She is saved (and her redemption dawns,
Dimly, most dimly, but it dawns—it dawns)
Who’d give at any price his hope away
Of being named along with the Great Men?
One would not—no, one would not give that up.
In these few emphatic lines we have the secret of that stern resolution to follow up his old friend Strafford to the death—despite the yearnings of his heart towards him—that marked Pym’s character. Henceforth, to the close of the catastrophe, his motives are intelligible. We have no need of an interpreter. Just in the same prompt, and apparently unconscious way, are the leading weaknesses of the ambitious Strafford brought out. Just one careless sentence, and all is revealed, that need be revealed:—
king charles.
You shall rule me; you were best
Return at once; but take this ere you go (giving a Paper).
Now, do I trust you? You’re an Earl; my Friend
Of Friends; yes Strafford, while—you hear me not!
strafford.
Say it all o’er again—but once again—
The first was for the musick—once again!
king charles.
Strafford, my brave friend, there were wild reports—
Vain rumours; henceforth, touching Strafford is
To touch the apple of my sight. Why gaze
So earnestly?
strafford.
I am grown young again
And foolish. What was’t we spoke of?
This is the true legitimate action of the drama, in contradistinction to mere description. Here Strafford is made to unveil his inmost heart unawares, which is the great charm of Shakspeare’s characters. The Earl’s Coronet, accompanied by the monarch’s flattering offer of friendship, has unmasked him, and he stands revealed in all his weakness. Equally dramatic is Mr. Browning’s personal description of Henrietta, Queen of England, which he places vividly, but indirectly before us, in one line:—
king charles to henrietta.
Nay, hear me!—I have schemes, such schemes—will buy
The leaders off; without that, Strafford’s counsel
Had ne’er prevailed on me; perhaps, I call it
To have excuse for breaking it—for ever.
And whose will then the blame be? See you not?
Come, dearest—look, the little fairy now,
That cannot reach my shoulder!—Dearest, come.
A writer less endowed with dramatic skill than Mr. Browning, would here have brought action to a dead halt, while he indulged in a set description of Henrietta’s virtues and graces; but our author has studied Shakspeare and the human heart with too close attention, to fall into such an error. The whole of the fifth act of Strafford, especially the closing speech of Pym, after he has sacrificed his old friend to a patriotic sense of duty, is pathetic in the extreme, though better calculated to please in the closet than on the stage. Of the actors we may justly say that all did their duty. Mr. Vandenhoff made Pym somewhat too solemn and puritanical, but in the passages where strong emotion was required, he played admirably. Macready’s Strafford is the best part we have yet seen him play. Had it not been for his chastened enthusiasm, the tragedy would have been a dead failure, but his animation in the third act—by far the most effective—at once ensured its success. Miss Helen Faucit, as the Countess of Carlisle, evinced judgment and sensibility, and Mr. Bennett, as Hollis, would have received more applause, had he not emphasized so much. This gentleman has a foolish trick of laying a stress on almost every individual word that he has to pronounce—just as if all expressions were equally emphatic. This is an absurdity that should be remedied. The play was received by a crowded house with enthusiasm; and Mr. Browning therefore must set to work again, for if any one can revive the half-extinct taste for the drama, he can. As a specimen of his more impassioned manner, we quote the reflections of Pym, after he has brought his early friend Strafford to the scaffold. The lines marked in italics strike us as being exquisitely pathetic:—
Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose great sake
I still have laboured for, with disregard
To my own heart,—for whom my youth was made
Barren, my future dark, to offer up
Her sacrifice—this man—this Wentworth here—
That walked in youth with me—loved me it may be,
And whom, for his forsaking England’s cause,
I hunted by all means (trusting that she
Would sanctify all means) even to the grave
That yawns for him. And saying this, I feel
No bitterer pang than first I felt, the hour
I swore that Wentworth might leave us,—but I
Would never leave him: I do leave him now!
I render up my charge (be witness, God!)
To England who imposed it! I have done
Her bidding—poorly, wrongly,—it may be
With ill effects—for I am but a man......
Still, I have done my best, my very best,
Not faltering for a moment! I have come!
(After a pause)
And that said, I will say......yes, I will say
I never loved but this man—David not
More Jonathan! Even thus, I love him now:
And look for my chief portion in that world
Where great hearts led astray are turned again,
(Soon it may be…and…yes…it will be soon:
My mission over, I shall not live long!)
…Aye here I know I talk—and I will talk
Of England—and her great reward—as all
I look for there; but in my inmost heart
Believe I think of stealing quite away
To walk once more with Wentworth—with my friend
Purged from all error, gloriously renewed,
And Eliot shall not blame us! Then indeed…
(This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears rise up
Too hot…A thin mist—is it blood?—enwraps
The face I loved so!) Then, shall the meeting be!
Then—then—then—I may kiss that hand, I know!
[William Johnson Fox]
Reviewed:
Strafford (RB), London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green, 1837.
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