R370506E. Strafford.
The Spectator, 6 May 1837, p. 423.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 3, 397–308.
The new tragedy, Strafford, produced at Covent Garden on Monday, for the benefit of Macready, proves to be neither so successful nor so deserving as other dramas which Mr. Macready has been mainly instrumental in bringing on the stage. It is written by Mr. Browning, the author of Paracelsus, formerly noticed in this journal.
The fate of Strafford and its causes form a noble subject for the dramatist, and are probably in themselves more capable than most great historical events of being made effective for stage representation. No period of our history is fuller of interest and excitement: the stirring scenes and strongly marked characters of the time furnish fine materials to work upon: but to deal with them, requires a more robust intellect, a larger and more nervous grasp, than Mr. Browning evinces in this tragedy. It is wanting in vigour and completeness, in dramatic power and pathos.
The author has adhered closely to known historical facts; and the main incidents that preceded the fall of Strafford—his forsaking the People and going over to the King, his impeachment by Pym his former friend and compatriot, and the King’s desertion of him—are sketched out; but with a feeble and broken outline, that fails to convey a distinct idea either of the occurrences themselves or of their influence on the fate of the hero, to any one not pretty well acquainted with the history of the time. Moreover, the character of Strafford is incorrectly as well as imperfectly drawn. He is fretful and peevish, swayed by sudden impulses, and seemingly the sport of circumstances—not the determined and energetic man, firm of purpose and prompt and vigorous in action. This appears to arise not so much from an error in appreciating his character, as from the effeminate way in which its features are developed. Strafford’s loyalty to the King, which amounts to infatuation, and is expressed with the sickly fondness of a doting lover, is represented as the main cause of his death: and thus the true moral of his fate is not inculcated. We see, not the imperious aristocrat, who espoused the popular cause in order to make his power felt by the Court, and afterwards used the King’s favour to pamper his love of domination—not the victim of retributive justice, but a mere martyr to loyalty. Charles’s desertion of so devoted a servant seems the more meanly odious; while Pym’s high-principled enmity looks like personal spite. And how, consistently, could Pym maintain a friendly intercourse with the man from whom he had just before separated with that tremendous threat, “You leave us now, but I’ll never leave you while your head is on your shoulders?” Would such a man as Pym have continued to entertain a hope of an apostate like Strafford, and condescended to coax and wheedle him? Strafford, when impeached, makes a wretched exhibition: he rushes out of the house, haggard and pale; when his sword is demanded, plays the braggart, by threatening to cut down the officers, ordering his followers to fight for him; anon he will be a prisoner, and offers his sword; then he will not give it up; presently he implores his friends to kill him, and offers to stab himself; one moment he will not go unless he is dragged by the hair, the next he meekly kneels at the feet of his accusers.
The other characters are nonentities. Hampden is a cipher. A female personage is introduced, Lady Carlisle, who is constantly by the side of Strafford, takes the interest of a wife in his fortunes, and shares his inmost confidence. She makes every effort to save him, and at last provides the means of escape; which Strafford will not avail himself of, because, forsooth, his child should not be called “son to a prison-breaker;” and he silences her urgent entreaties to flee, with a puling “humour me, and let me die!”
The last scene, in which the author has accumulated all his materials for producing a most powerful dramatic effect, falls flat, and utterly fails. Strafford is seen in the prison with his two children: they are made to sing an Italian air to soothe him—which is ludicrous: relying upon the King’s promise to save him, he is impatiently expecting the order for his release, and picturing to himself the pleasures of a life of retirement: the friend supposed to bring this news, communicates to him the fatal tidings that he is to die: the King, who is present in disguise, then discovers himself, and, overwhelmed with confusion, tries to make some excuse for consenting: Pym comes in to justify his conduct: Strafford takes leave of his friends, forgives the King, thanks Pym for bringing him to death, and walks out to execution: and all this happens without producing any effect, either of pity or terror. One or two striking scenes occur in the course of the play, but they are of a melodramatic character. The interest is feeble and unprogressive.
The dialogue is destitute of poetry even to baldness: indeed it is scarcely to be called verse: it is broken up into fragmentary and unfinished sentences, sometimes amounting to incoherence; and, though intended to be dramatic in form, is any thing but dramatic in spirit. All the characters speak alike, except that a Puritan throws in a Scripture phrase or two now and then.* The sentiment is throughout of a mawkish kind, conveyed in quaint phraseology, with an affectation of simplicity of expression and profundity of thought, meant to pass for intensity, but which persons accustomed to the ordinary sense of words can hardly understand. How different from the manly idiomatic English of the time! The writer is one of those who seem to think that in proportion to the vagueness of an idea and the feebleness of its indication are its delicacy and beauty. For instance, Strafford is exhorted by his friend Hollis to “be grand and brave:” and he talks of the King’s “awful head,” and of going to his “chill grave,” with such like puerilities. Strafford before he goes to death raves in this fashion of the King—
What if I curse you? Send a strong curse forth
Clothed from my heart, lapped round with horror, till
She’s fit, with her white face, to walk the world
Scaring kind natures from your cause and you——
Then to sit down with you, at the board-head,
The gathering for prayer . . . .
Creep up, and quietly follow each one home—
You—you—you—be a nestling care for each
To sleep with, hardly moaning in his dreams—
She gnaws so quietly—until he starts—
Gets off with half a heart eaten away—
Oh you shall ’scape with less, if she’s my child!
If our readers can see any meaning in this, they will be in better luck than we have been.
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*One will take a sentence out of another’s mouth, or echo his very words. The author has a trick of attempting emphasis by “damnable iteration,” which he resorts to usque ad nauseam. Here are one or two ludicrous in-stances.
“her redemption dawns
Dimly, most dimly, but it dawns—it dawns.”
* * * * *
“But here! but here! I am so seldom here!
Seldom with you, my King.”
* * * * *
“We never thought of this—surely not dreamed
Of this—it never can—could come to this!”
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We have small space left to speak of the performance: indeed there is little to be said of it. Macready’s personation of the Strafford of the play was full of beauties, of the actor’s own creation: he alone indeed saved the piece. Vandenhoff looked the sturdy Pym well, and entered heartily into the spirit of the character: but the sermonizing in the last scene was too much. Mr. Dale played King Charles as badly as it need be. Miss Faucit, as Lady Carlisle, did her best—which was quite good enough for the part.
There were a few hisses at the conclusion, even though it was a benefit night. Some persons called for the author; but Mr. Browning did not appear. The house was crammed; and Macready was enthusiastically cheered, as he deserved to be—though not for producing this play.
Reviewed:
Strafford (RB), London: Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green, 1837.
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