R430218E. A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.
The Literary Gazette, and Journal of the Belles Lettres, 18 February 1843, pp. 107–108.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 6, 401–402.
Drury Lane.—On Saturday a “tragic play” in three acts, by Mr. Robert Browning, the author of Paracelsus, was produced here, and with doubtful success, though the audience in general certainly went along with the author. And, indeed, it would have been difficult not [p. 108→] to do so; for albeit some of the scenes and much of the dialogue are too long, there is a sufficient variety and constant moving in the action, which keeps the mind engaged, and prevents it from detecting and dwelling upon the faultiness of the plot. It requires the pause of reflection to feel the full force of the error, and be aware that human nature, physics, and metaphysics, must be outraged, or there would be no play at all. Allowing Mr. Browning his grounds, we are bound to say there are fine marks of genius in the working-out of his conception, and not a few beautiful touches of genuine pathos and poetry—half lines worth a world of declamation. But the grounds slip from under him—there is no critical locus standi for the drama of the Blot on [sic] the ’Scutcheon. It is, besides, a disagreeable subject. Two young people, but old enough to know better,—Lord Mertoun (Anderson), and Mildred (Miss Faucit), sister of Lord Tresham (Phelps),—have formed an illicit amour; for which the lover makes a lame excuse of extreme youth and profound admiration for his mistress’s brother, and to which the lady seems not to be reconciled by any likely process. For the piece opens with Lord Mertoun at last summoning up courage to propose himself as husband to his secret love, and being favourably received by her brother. His joy is excessive, and though late, we hardly care to ask why he did not apply before. His midnight visit to Mildred ensues, and he communicates the happy auspices to her; and then comes the unnatural foundation for all that is to follow. Instead of rejoicing, as all females under similarly untoward circumstances do, that she is about to be made, according to the old saying, “an honest woman,” she flies off at a tangent, and declares that she is born to misery and tragedy. It is clear that things are likely to take a bad turn, though the easiest and most certain path is straight to the church, the second or public honeymoon, and a tolerably comfortable life even after the indiscretion of its commencement. An old retainer informs Lord Tresham of Mildred’s midnight gallantries, her lamp lighting an unknown stranger to her chamber, and he climbing thereto with Capuletish ardour and alacrity. The “blot” is hit, and the earl is thrown into a vortex of passion. He seeks his sister, and she confesses her frailty, but refuses to give the name of her visitor, simply, as it would seem, because that straight-forward and natural course would have obliged the curtain to drop on a wedding most satisfactory to all parties concerned. Lord Tresham, in consequence, rushes out furiously to inform the other lord of Mildred’s infamy (for she has aggravated him by offering to receive Mertoun’s proposals)—wanders about till night; meets the incognito lover, and hastily slays him; then tells the news to his sister, who dies thereon; and, finally, gives himself to imperishable remorse or death. Such is the outline of a play, in poetical composition far above the mediocrity of our ordinary writers. But its inherent faults are fatal. No man or woman that ever existed, if they fell into the base position, so improbable too, of this noble-minded young lord and most admirably virtuous young lady, would conduct themselves in the way Mr. Browning paints. Mildred has no reason on earth, when detected in and confessing her folly, for not telling her doating brother the whole truth, saving him from paroxysms of passion, herself from the bitterest denunciations, and, in short—the tragedy from its catastrophe. Miss H. Faucit performed the part tenderly and sweetly; and the scene when she sinks senseless to the ground on her brother’s reproaches, was very effective. Mr. Phelps was unequal. He has too much of violence to deliver, and it occasionally degenerated into rant and hair-tearing. But some portions were excellently done. Anderson was judicious and effective in spite of a dying scene in which his martyrdom of talking, after being mortally hurt, was enough to try the patience of Job. His conversation with his slayer, intermixed with groans and twistings, became almost ludicrous. Two other characters, cousins of Tresham, and his successors in the family blotted out by his rashness, are introduced; but they have not much to do; and so Mrs. Stirling and Mr. Hudson did their best. At the end the applause greatly predominated; but still we cannot promise the Blot that it will not soon be wiped off the stage.*
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*It may be convenient here to notice that Mr. Browning is publishing from time to time a series of poetical and dramatic compositions, under the quaint title of Bells and Pomegranates (London, E. Moxon), in which there is much to admire as well as to question;—just as in this play. We observe Nos. III. and IV. on our table (Nos. I. and II. being momentarily mislaid, and V., we believe, the “Blot on the ’Scutcheon”); and dipping into them, find the same sort of mixture of beauty and extravagance, of true poetry and metaphysical maudlin incomprehensibility which disfigured the volume called Sordello, from which our taste was so utterly repelled, that we never could bring our minds to read it through. Yet we have to repeat, if Mr. Browning could and would leave off his dreamy stuff, he has the pith of better things within him.
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Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. V. A Blot in the ’Scutcheon (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1843.
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