R440907A. Bells and Pomegranates, Nos. I–VI
The Kentish Independent, 7 September 1844, p. 2.
Addendum to The Brownings’ Correspondence, vol. 9.
No. 1, “Pippa Passes;” No. 2, “King Victor and King Charles;” No. 3, “Dramatic Lyrics’” No. 4, “The Return of the Druses;” No. 5, “A Blot in the Scutcheon’” No. 6, “Colombe’s Birthday.”
Under the above fanciful title, this author, whose contributions to the Dramatic Literature of the age, entitles him to a high place among the sons of genius, is now giving to the world a series of poetical compositions, of unequal merit, but all evincing the possession of a refined and cultivated mind, a feeling heart, and a luxuriant imagination in the author, who possesses, we think, an observant eye for the beautiful, and an ear exquisitely attuned to rhythm, witness the following:—
“There’s a woman like a dew drop, she’s so purer than the purest:
And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest:
And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth in depth of lustre
Hid in the harebell while her tresses sunnier than the wild grape cluster,
Gush in golden tinted plenty down her neck’s rose misted marble:
And her voices music call it the well’s bubbling, the birds warble!”
This is from No. 5, “A Blot in the Scutcheon;” a three act tragedy, performed last year at Drury Lane Theatre. It is our favourite of the whole series, and therefore we shall dwell somewhat longer upon its beauties than strict justice would authorise our doing, when other pieces have to be considered, whose priority of appearance should entitle them to an earlier notice: but this tragedy has made such a deep impression upon us, that it will be a relief to our friends to talk or write about. The characters here introduced are few, and the plot is much less involved than is usual with compositions of the kind. The first act opens with the reception by Thorold, Lord Tresham, of Henry, Earl Mertoun, who is a suitor for the hand of his sister Mildred, the heroine of the Drama; while the rest of Tresham’s servants and retainers are eagerly enjoying the occasion, Gerard the warrener, sits gloomily apart, and finally retires from the scene of festivity; in which one of his fellow servants observes
Old Gerard
Will die soon—mind I said it: he was used
To care about the pitifullest thing
That touched the House’s honour—not an eye
But his could see wherein—and not a cause
Of scarce a quarter this importance, Gerard
Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away
In cares that this was right nor that was wrong,
Such a point decorous and such by rule—
(He knew such niceties, no herald more,)
And now you see his humour—die he will.”
But Gerald has a secret on his mind which more nearly affects the “House’s honour” than ceremonials and points of etiquette; let us press to the commencement of Act 2, and see what this secret is:—
Tresham. Now repeat
Firmly and circumstantially the tale
You’ve just now told me; it eludes me; either
I did not listen, or the half is gone
Away from me. How long have you lived here?
Here in my house your father kept our words
Before you?
Gerard As his father did, my lord.
I have been eating, sixty years, almost,
Your bread.
Tresh. Yes, yes, you ever were of all
The servants in my father’s house, I know
The trusted one. You’ll speak the truth.
Ger. I’ll speak
God’s truth: night after night …
Tresh. Since when?
Ger. At least
A month—each midnight has some one access
To lady Mildred’s chamber.
Tresh. Tush, “access”—
No wide words like “access” to me!
Ger. He runs
Along the wood side, crosses to the south,
Takes the left tree that ends the avenue—
Tresh. The last great yew tree!
Ger. You might stand upon
The main boughs like a platform—Then he—
Tresh. Quick!
Ger.—Climbs up, and, where they lessen at the top,—
I cannot see distinctly, but he throws,
I think—for this I do not vouch—a line
That reaches the lady’s casement.
Tresh. Which
He enters not! Gerard, some wretched fool
Dares pry into my sister’s privacy!
When such one young, it seems a precious thing
To have approached—to merely have approached—
Got sight of the abode of her they set
Their frantic thoughts upon! He does not enter?
Gerard?
Ger. There is a lamp that’s full in the midst,
Under a red square of Lady Mildred’s—
Tresh. Leave that name out! Well?
That lamp?
Ger. It moved at midnight higher up
To one pane—a small dark-blue pane—he waits
For that among the boughs; at the sight of that,
I see him, plain as I see you, my lord,
Open the lady’s casement, enter there—
Tresh. And stay?
Ger. An hour, two hours.
Tresh. And this you saw
Once? twice?—quick!
Ger. Twenty times.
Tresh. And what brings you
Under this yew tree?
Ger. The first night I left
My range so far to track the stranger stag
That broke the pale, I saw the man—
Tresh. Yet sent
No cross bow shaft through the marauder?
Ger. But
He came, my lord, the first time he was seen
In a great moonlight, light as any day,
From Lady Mildred’s chamber.
Tresh. (After a pause.) You have no cause—
Who could have cause to do my sister wrong?
Ger. Oh, my lord, once only—let me this once
Speak what is in my mind. Since first I noted
All this I’ve groaned as if a fiery net
Plucked me this way and that—fire, if I turned
To her, fire, if I turned to you, and fire,
If down I flung myself and strove to die.
The lady could not have been seven years old
When I was trusted to conduct her safe
Thro’ the deer herd to stroke the snow-white fawn
I brought to eat bread from her tiny hand
Within a month. She ever had a smile
To greet me with—she, if I could undo
What’s done to lop each limb from off this trunk—
All that is foolish talk not fit for you—
I mean, I could not speak and bring her hurt
For Heaven’s compelling: but when I was fixed
to hold my peace, each morsel of your food
Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too,
Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in doubts
What it behoved me do. This morn it seemed
Either I must confess to you, or die:
Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm
That crawls to have betrayed my lady!”
This then is the “blot on the ’scutcheon”—the stain upon the honour of a noble house—that honour which had been preserved nectar, rushed through the lapse of many generations, and which the chivalrous and high-souled Tresham would have given his life—nay, a thousand lives if he had them—to keep and transmit unsullied. We may imagine his feelings at the disclosure here made, of the truth of which he cannot entertain a doubt, and finely has the poet aided our imaginings by the words which he makes him utter.
“Oh, thought’s absurd! as with some monstrous fact
That, when ill-thoughts he set us, seems to give
Merciful heaven—that made the sun and stars,
The waters, and the green delights of earth—
The lie! I apprehend the monstrous fact—
Yet know the Maker of all worlds is good,
And yield my reason up, inadequate
To reconcile what yet I do behold—
Blasting my senses! * * * Heaven
Keep me within its hand! I will sit here
Until thought settles and I see my course.
Avert, oh God, only this woe from me!”
This intelligence came upon him like a thunderbolt; only the day before had he received and kindly welcomed the young Earl Mertoun as his sister’s wooer—that sister, whom he loved so fondly, and believed so pure and guiltless, and she has consented to receive her future husband, the noble youth asks her hand. He summons Mildred to his presence, and after reminding her of the days when they—
“Hunted cowslips in the wood
And played together in the meadow hay.”
And dwelling upon the depth and utter unselfishness of a brother’s love. He says—
“Is there a story men could—any man
Could tell of you, you would conceal from me?
I’ll never think there’s falsehood on that lip!
Say, ’there is no such thing men could tell,
And I’ll believe you, though I disbelieve
The world—the world of better men than I,
And women, such as I suppose you—speak!”
But she is silent; and when taxed in plainer terms with admitting a gallant night by night in her chamber, she does not deny it—neither will she give up the name of her paramour. But worse than all, and that which rouses the indignation of Tresham to the highest pitch, and banishes brotherly tenderness from his bosom, is her persistence in the intention to receive Earl Mertoun as her suitor. After calling in Austin, his brother, and Guendolen, his sister-in-law, to bear witness to her shame and disgrace, he thus concludes the reproaches which he heaps upon the unhappy lady and rushes out.
“That she’d receive Lord Mertoun (that’s her phrase)—
This, who could bear? Why, you have heard of thieves,
Stabbers (the earth’s disgrace) who yet have laughed—
’Talk not of tortures to me. I’ll betray
No comrade I’ve pledged faith to.’ You have heard
Of wretched women—all but Mildreds—tied
In wild ilicit ties to losels vile,
You’d tempt them to forsake, and they’ll reply,
’Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I have
In him, why should I leave him then for gold,
Repute, or friends?’ And you have felt your heart
Respond to these poor outcasts of the world,
As to so many friends; bad as you please,
You’ve felt they were God’s men and women still,
So not to be disowned by you; but she
That stands there, calmly gives her lover up
And means to wed the Earl, that she may hide
Their intercourse the safetier—and, for that,
I curse her to her face before you all!
Shame haunt her from the earth. Then heaven do right
To both. It hears me now—shall judge her then.”
Perhaps our readers have already suspected that the nightly visitant to the chamber of Mildred, is the same as now offers her his hand; an interview between the lovers is described in the first act, wherein the youth strives to banish Mildred’s forebodings and self-reproachings, by his fervent protestations of love, and expressions of hope for the future. When he has departed, after fixing “tomorrow night” for their last secret meeting, the lady says—
“He’s gone—oh, I’ll believe him every word!
I was so young—I loved him so—I had
No mother—God forgot me—and I fell.
There may be pardon yet—all’s doubt beyond:
Surely the bitterness of death is past!”
When Tresham has pronounced yes, curse, and Mildred sinks fainting on the floor, Guendolen, like a true hearted woman remains by her, and endeavours to cheer her, she already suspects, and by questions and inferences elicits the truth, then after leading Mildred to her chamber, goes with her husband in pursuit of Tresham, who however, is not to be found. We must now hurry to a conclusion as our space is nearly exhausted. At night the lover comes again to the yew tree avenue and receives his death blow from Tresham, who seemed to have been drawn to the spot as of some fatal or malignant power, which he could not withstand. He recognises the person of the young Earl before attacking him, but maddened by a sense of the dishonour inflicted upon him as the representative of a noble house will listen to no explanation; and afterwards comes remorse and suicide. He convey[s] the dying words of Mertoun to his sister, is forgiven by her, as she encloses him in her death embrace. We had marked very many beautiful passages for extract, but must now content ourselves with the closing lines, first observing that we envy not the man his stoicism who could read the drama with unmoistened eyes, and that we shall take a future opportunity of recurring to the other works of Mr. Browning:—
Tresh.—I said just as I drank the poison off,
The earth would be no longer earth to me,
The life out of all life was gone from me!
There are blind ways provided the foredone
Heart weary player in this fragrant world
Drops out by letting the main masque defile
By the conspicuous portal—I am thro’—
Just through.
Guen. Don’t leave him, Austin, death is close.
Tresh. Already Mildred’s face is peacefuller!
I see you, Austin—feel you—here’s my hand,
Put your’s in it—You, Guendolen, yours too!
You’re lord and lady, now—you’re Tresham’s time,
And fame are yours—you hold one ’scutcheon up,
Austin, no blot on it! You see how blood
Must wash one blot away: the first blot came,
And the first blood came. To the vain world’s eye
All’s gules again—no care to the vain world
From whence the red was drawn!
Austin. No blot shall come.
Tresh. I said that—yet it did come,
Vengeance is God’s not men’s! Remember me.
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. I. Pippa Passes (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1841.
Bells & Pomegranates. No. II. King Victor and King Charles (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1842.
Bells & Pomegranates. No. III. Dramatic Lyrics (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1842.
Bells & Pomegranates. No. IV. The Return of the Druses (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1843.
Bells & Pomegranates. No. V. A Blot in the ’Scutcheon (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1843.
Bells & Pomegranates. No. VI. Colombe’s Birthday (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1844.
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