R430219B. A Blot in the ’Scutcheon.
The Weekly Chronicle, 19 February 1843, p. 5.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 6, 402–403.
Drury Lane.—In our latest edition of last week we gave a lengthened notice of the first representation of the new play of A Blot in the ’Scutcheon on Saturday last, at this theatre, in which we found much to commend, and some defects. On seeing this play a second time, on Wednesday, its beauties and defects appeared much more apparent than before. That Browning has a dramatic genius there can be little doubt, but he often fails in making effective scenes by his inattention, or want of knowledge of stage capabilities. The first scene, with the servitors, is an instance of this; in the book it reads admirably and sensibly, tends to heighten the feeling of the ensuing passages, but on the stage it appears superfluous. Whatever may be the author’s faults, the charge of want of knowledge of the human heart is certainly not one, as a perusal of his poems will very clearly show. It has been asked why, when Mildred is asked her lover’s name, by her brother, she does not tell it. If she were asked an ordinary question, under ordinary circumstances, an answer might have been expected, but, it must be remembered, her senses are struck dumb at once by the shame of the discovery, and the very rigid, marble-like attitude—one of utter annihilation—which Miss Faucit assumes, fully illustrates the feelings which must have been going on within; indeed, she afterwards beautifully expresses the feeling—
The first shame over, all that would may fall.
There are feelings too deep for words, and hers were of them. We wish the speech of Guendolen, when Mildred swoons, were altogether cut out, it is much out of place, and entirely destroys the intense passion of the foregoing scene, not only because there is talking when there should be doing, but because Mrs. Stirling, admirable actress as she usually is, completely mars it by her gay tone and flippant delivery. The dying scene with Mertoun is rather too long, besides, the natural feeling is, when we see the whole family around the dying man, that she is not there, who even through stone walls should have felt the presence of danger. How grand is the acting of Phelps in the first part of this scene, however, when he first encounters the earl as he is about to ascend to Mildred’s chamber—those words so fraught with passion as he drags him from under the tree—“Into the moonlight yonder come with me—out of the shadow!” The whole soul of the man seemed thrown into the speech. Phelps, indeed, is a very great actor, but never did we see him to greater advantage than in this play. In the succeeding scene, where Mildred is alone, and Tresham breaks in upon her, we have, perhaps, the most effective hit in the play—the searching look—the pause to gather up the meaning of his ambiguous words—the flashing thought of harm to her lover as she passed to the window, and gazed out upon the night, and the dead agony when her fears are confirmed as she gazes on the empty scabbard—it was all conceived in a true and perfect spirit. In the termination of the tragedy there has been some little alteration made. Tresham, instead of dying from poison, retires to a convent. We do not think the substitution of much avail; the conclusion is weak, and to that fault, perhaps, the want of greater success in the play is attributable.
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. V. A Blot in the ’Scutcheon (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1843.
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