R430218B. A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.
The Atlas, 18 February 1843, pp. 104–105.
Addendum to The Brownings’ Correspondence, vol. 6.
Drury-Lane.—Mr. Browning’s tragedy, The Blot in the ’Scutcheon was, as we have already announced,* produced with some success, on Saturday evening last. This success may be attributed to the exertions of the actors, who managed to invest an unpleasant and unsatisfactory theme with the charms of powerful elocution and action. The printed version has been judiciously departed from in numerous instances. Were we to judge the play in its literary form, we should be compelled to overrule much admiration of vigorous passages by an admission that the tragedy is faulty in material points of construction, rough and eccentric in its language, wiredrawn in its unfoldings of thought, and abrupt in the conduct of its action. We have repeatedly affirmed that human frailty is one of the sources of tragic emotion, but we have also suggested that in a survey of the agency of human passion it behoves the poet to discard incidents which are more offensive to the feelings than beneficial to the morals.
*In the previous issue of 11 February 1843 (p. 89) the following announcement appeared: “Tonight (Saturday) a new tragedy in five acts, called the Blot of the ’Scutcheon will be produced at Drury Lane, with the Thumping Legacy and the revived Freischütz.”
Mr. Browning has selected for his theme the illicit love of a very young couple, without investing it with the might of passion, the serenity of all-absorbing devotion, or the depth of conscientious remorse. His lovers display sufficient prudence to condemn their passion, more uneasiness than would be required to poison their devotion, and far less poignancy of feeling than would justify a tragic-moulded remorse. The lady constantly appeals for a softening of condemnation to her circumstances, never probing the secret of her error in the distempered state of her moral being. She is not content to base her fall upon her unguarded affections and infirm will, but lackadaisically exclaims, again and again, that “she is so very young, and had no mother.” The circumstances of every unlawful love are revolting to susceptibility—hers are circumstantially degrading. The strongest scene of the play, where, on the discovery of her frailty her agonised brother demands what answer he shall send to the noble suitor for her hand (a suitor who is no other than her lover), and she confirms the appointment for the morrow—this, the strongest scene, is also the most unpleasant. Although the lady is not so guilty as her words imply her to be, it is still so disgusting an incident that true dramatic genius would have found some other method of developing passionate intensity. Such prudence in the conduct of her intrigue, and such calmness in planning for the result, show that, albeit very young and motherless, the lady lacks no counsel in the arts of management.
With such discrepancies in the moral action of the piece, we are not disposed to quarrel with its being shaped into three acts, since, were it of the ordinary proportions, the incidents would be more ample than the scope for the workings of human emotion. They would but display false states of feeling, and ingenuity would have had to supply the want of natural expression.
Not only is the versification singularly rough, but the author seems to have had an aim at variance with the duty of the poet. He has adapted his style of writing to the presumed requisites of the actor’s conception, and by laboured inversions of phrase and abrupt transitions of tone has laboured to make the written an acted play. Let the author think for himself, and he will best think for the actor.
When the lover falls by the hand of the brother, in a manner not at all satisfactory, the interest of the piece ends, and the subsequent portion is but the clearing off of the remaining agents in this tale of sin and sorrow, leaving a weight of condemnation to depend upon the fate of a heroine who has no other justification than her being “very young,” and not having “had a mother.”
As a specimen of the innate love of subtle argument and ill-timed disquisition with which the artificial figures of the poet move through their episodic being, we may instance the scene—the sequel of the strong scene we have previously mentioned—where Mildred falls senseless, and her cousin Guendolen implores the aid of Tresham’s brother Austin (her betrothed) to raise the unhappy girl from the floor. Instead of devoting herself to the prompt task of affection, she leaves her cousin at length on the ground, whilst she expostulates, in thirty-four lines, with the unfeeling cavalier. Instead of an all-powerful burst from a full-toned heart—in lieu of one of those curt commanding accents which reach the human affections by sympathetic force, Guendolen plies the jesuit oar, and circumlocutes to the haven of succour. Mrs. Stirling did her best: she gallopped them through creditably, but felt that she might be better occupied. She might have impromptued a far fitter speech.
We regret being obliged to pass this verdict on a poet of acknowledged power; but we are forced to consign Mr. Browning to the ranks of poets without essential dramatic genius. Mr. Macready, by his late efforts in favour of “the Unacted drama,” has evinced a desire to meet the views of those who in their turn are bound to permit a manager to consult his individual interest whilst he considers the general weal in the selection of dramatic works of high pretensions. [p. 105→]
We have already stated that the actors did their best for the play. We have only to do justice to the masterly ability displayed by Mr. Phelps in the personation of the proud Tresham, and to express our surprise that he was enabled to make so much of the character, when the jagged texture of his speeches is considered, and allowance is made for the judicious yet interruptive departures from the printed text.
Mr. Morton’s farce, The Thumping Legacy, was produced after The Blot in the ’Scutcheon, with immense success, according to the phrase of the day. It fully deserves any ebullition of thoughtless good-humour which it may have inspired, for a more laughable, rapid-actioned farce never enabled actors to ascertain the depth of British merriment. To detail the plot were to injure all parties. Keeley, as the hero (!) of the piece, is, though transplanted to Corsica, perfectly at home, and renders the dilemmas which thicken around him such delicious incentives to boisterous mirth, that we cannot, in charity to ourselves, wish his career one jot less perilous, although we cannot wish to see them multiplied, since all beyond the point, judiciously chosen by the clever author, would be a vain attempt to attain a better than an excellent climax.
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. V. A Blot in the ’Scutcheon (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1843.
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