R370506C. Strafford.
The Literary Gazette, 6 May 1837, pp. 283–284.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 395–397.
The poem of “Paracelsus” presented so many high poetical beauties, as to give its young author a strong hold upon the public attention, and teach it to expect much from any future production of his pen. He has now appeared in the more difficult and arduous character of a tragic dramatist; and so successfully, that we may truly say he has not disappointed the hopes his first work led us to entertain. There is much vigour in Strafford, and much genuine poetry, though Mr. Browning has rather sought to accomplish his aim by the impulses given to his dramatis personæ, than by endowing them with the beauties of style and diction. In his Preface he tells us, “I had for some time been engaged in a poem of a very different nature, when induced to make the present attempt; and am not without apprehension that my eagerness to freshen a jaded mind by diverting it to the healthy natures of a grand epoch, may have operated unfavourably on the represented play, which is one of action in character rather than character in action.”
We confess we do not very clearly apprehend what this distinction means; but, at any rate, the play is more one of rapid events than of studied poetical embellishment. The only part that seems to admit of the latter, is an imaginary one of Lucy Percy, whom the author has painted as devoted in love to the ill-fated Strafford. In most of the scenes, the relation of political events, and the revelation of party purposes, supersede the Muse; and, with the exception of the passionate speeches of the hero, there was hardly room for that species of composition which would so strikingly contrast some other tragedies (such, for example, as Mr. Sergeant Talfourd’s “Ion”) with the present. We are not sure, indeed, that Mr. Browning has not fallen into the other extreme. The dialogue is very abrupt and interrupted,—the sentences broken and exclamatory, to a degree that often affects the sense. This was felt even more upon the stage than it is in the closet; and, as an acting play, the interest fails after the third act, when Strafford is overthrown. The fourth, in which he does not appear, lingers amid the plots for his destruction, and the vacillation of the King; and, though his prison scene is touching and sad, it insufficiently revives our sympathies for the prototype of royal martyrdom. Charles himself is drawn more weak and treacherous than even adverse history [p. 284→] represents him; and only Pym, among the rest, stands out prominently and consistently on the canvass. The younger Vane and Hollis remain to be noticed—Hampden, Savile, Rudyard, &c. are ciphers; and the Queen has not much either to say or do. In short, when we look at the whole, it appears to us as if the original character had been conceived and written; and nearly all else, except the rivalry of Pym, concocted, as it were, to set off the leading personage, and connect the events in which he was concerned. Where Strafford is not, there is nothing to care for; and where he is, is turmoil from the beginning, viz. his return from Ireland, to the end, when alternate doubts and hopes terminate in the despairing certainty that he has been betrayed and sacrificed.
Having given this brief outline of the tragedy, and of our opinions, it remains for us to seek a few specimens wherewith to exemplify the author’s powers, though, from the circumstances of break and interruption we have mentioned, it is not easy to select any very connected passages. Thus, when Charles has been induced, contrary to Strafford’s advice, to dissolve the parliament,—
Charles. ’Twas Vane—his ill-judged vehemence that…
Strafford. Vane?
Ch. He told them, as they were about to vote
The half, that nothing short of all the twelve
Would serve our turn, or be accepted.
Straf. Vane!
Vane! and you promised me that very Vane…
O God! to have it gone, quite gone for me,
The one last hope—I that despair, my hope—
That I should reach his heart one day, and cure
All bitterness one day, be proud again,
And young again, care for the sunshine, too,
And never think of Eliot any more,—
God! and to toil for this, go far for this,
Get nearer, and still nearer, reach this heart—
And find Vane there! (Suddenly taking up a
paper, and continuing with a forced calmness.)
Northumberland is sick:
Well, then, I take the army: Wilmot leads
The horse; and he, with Conway, must secure
The passes of the Tyne: Ormond supplies
My place in Ireland. Here, we’ll try the city:
If they refuse a loan…debase the coin,
And seize the bullion! we’ve no other choice.
Herbert… (Flinging down the paper.)
And this while I am here! with you!
And there are hosts such, hosts like Vane! I go,—
And, I once gone, they’ll close around you, sire,
When the least pique, pettiest mistrust, is sure
To ruin me—and you along with me!
Do you see that? And you along with me!
—Sire, you’ll not ever listen to these men,
And I away, fighting your battle? Sire,
If they—if she—charge me—no matter what—
You say, “At any time when he returns
His head is mine.” Don’t stop me there! You know
My head is yours....only, don’t stop me there!
Ch. Too shameful, Strafford! You advised the war,
And…
Straf. I! I! that was never spoken with
Till it was entered on! That loathe war!
That say it is the maddest, wickedest....
Do you know, Charles, I think, within my heart,
That you would say I did advise the war;
And if, through your own weakness, falsehood, Charles,
These Scots, with God to help them, drive me back…
You will not step between the raging people
And me, to say…
I knew you! from the first
I knew you! Never was so cold a heart!
Remember that I said it—that I never
Believed you for a moment
—And, you loved me?
You thought your perfidy profoundly hid
Because I could not share your whisperings
With Vane? With Savile? But your hideous heart—
I had your heart to see, Charles! Oh, to have
A heart of stone—of smooth, cold, frightful stone!
Ay, call them! Shall I call for you? The Scots
Goaded to madness? Or the English—Pym—
Shall I call Pym, your subject? Oh, you think
I’ll leave them in the dark about it all?
They shall not know you? Hampden, Pym shall not…
Our next example is from the mouth of Lucy, Lady Carlisle.
(Aside.) The king!—
What way to save him from the king?
My soul…
That lent from its own store the charmed disguise
That clothes the king…he shall behold my soul!
To Straf.) Strafford…(I shall speak best if you’ll not gaze
Upon me.)…You would perish, too! So sure!…
Could you but know what ’tis to bear, my Strafford,
One image stamped within you, turning blank
The else imperial brilliance of your mind,—
A weakness, but most precious,—like a flaw
I’ the diamond, which should shape forth some sweet face
Yet to create, and, meanwhile, treasured there,
Lest Nature lose her gracious thought for ever!…
A few lines from Strafford’s conclusion, and we also conclude.
Straf. I shall walk lightly, Sire!
—For I shall save you … save you at the last!
Earth fades, Heaven dawns on me … I shall wake next
Before God’s throne: the moment’s close at hand
When man the first, last time, has leave to lay
His whole heart bare before its Maker—leave
To clear up the long error of a life,
And choose one happiness for evermore.
With all mortality about me, Charles,
The sudden wreck—the dregs—the violent death…
I’ll pray for you! Through all the angel-song
Shall penetrate one weak and quivering prayer—
I’ll say how good you are … inwardly good
And pure… (The King falls: Hollis raises him.)
Be witness, he could not prevent
My death! I’ll go—ere he awakes—go now!
All must be ready—did you say, Balfour,
The crowd began to murmur?—They’ll be kept
Too late for sermon at St. Antholin’s!
Now—but tread softly—children are at play
In the next room—Ah, just my children—Hollis!
——Or .. no—support the King! (a door is unbarred.)
Hark … they are here!
Stay Hollis!—Go, Balfour! I’ll follow …
* * * * *
Pym. 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 bitter 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 done!
(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!
Straf. (Walks calmly up to Pym and offers his hand.)
I have loved England, too; we’ll meet then, Pym!
As well to die! Youth is the time—our youth,
To think and to decide on a great course:
Age with its action follows; but ’tis dreary
To have to alter one’s whole life in age—
The time past, the strength gone! as well die now,
When we meet, Pym, I’d be set right—not now!”
Reviewed:
Strafford (RB), London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green, 1837.
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