R410417B. Pippa Passes.
The Sun, 17 April 1841, p. 3.
Addendum to The Brownings’ Correspondence, vol. 5.
Mr. Browning, the author of “Paracelsus,” will not, we fear, add much to his reputation by this dramatic attempt, which he entitles “Pippa Passes”—why or wherefore, we are utterly at a loss to determine—and which, it seems, is the first of a series of plays intended to be carried on under the equally enigmatical title of “Bells and Pomegranates.” The best, or at any rate the most intelligible, account we can give of the present dramatic effort is, that it is a collection of scenes, strung together without rhyme or reason; and that at the termination of each scene, a young Italian girl, by name “Pippa” is heard singing, or talking in a dialect which, in places, strongly reminds us of the late Mr. Irving’s “Unknown Tongues.” The play, in fact, is throughout a quaint riddle, and as we are not Œdipus, but simple Davus, we cannot undertake to solve it. Yet there are some fine things in the drama; one scene in particular, between a woman and her paramour, after the murder of the former’s husband, exhibits a play of the passions of alternate tenderness and remorse, which satisfies us that the author possesses sterling dramatic powers. There are also several poetic passages in the piece—a few of which we proceed to extract at random. And first, here is a speech of a romantic youth to his mother, the descriptive touches in which are excellent:—
Last year’s sunsets and great stars
That had a right to come first and see ebb
The crimson wave that drifts the sun away—
Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims
That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood
Impatient of the azure—and that day
In March a double rainbow stopped the storm—
May’s warm, slow, yellow moonlit summer nights—
Gone are they, but I have them in my soul.
There is much simple truth and force in the following apostrophe addressed by an enthusiastic young sculptor to his mistress, who is sitting with him in his studio, while he is endeavouring, but in vain, to proceed calmly and methodically with his statue of Tydeus:—
Oh, my life to come?
My Tydeus must be carved—tis there in clay—
But how be carved, with you about the chamber?
Where must I place you? When I think that once
This room, full of rough block-work, seemed my Heaven
Without you! Shall I ever work again?—
Get fairly into my old ways again?—
Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,
My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?
Will they, my fancies, live near you, my truth?
The live truth—passing and repassing me—
Sitting beside me?”
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. I. Pippa Passes (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1841.
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