R441019A. Colombe’s Birthday.
The Athenæum, 19 October 1844, pp. 944–945.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 9, 382–384.
Fertility of invention is a merit which Mr. Browning may claim, and must have allowed. Paracelsus, Pippa Passes, the Druses, the Dramatic Lyrics, a Blot in the ’Scutcheon, whatever may be their relative merits or demerits, have all essential differences; and the dramatic tale before us has its own distinctive character.
The story is a simple one. Five hours in the seventeenth century comprise the action—the day a lady’s birthday— the lady, a great lady, Colombe Duchess of Juliers and Cleves—only twelve months a duchess: and now it seems menaced with the loss of her possessions by a counter-claimant Prince Berthold. In the corridor of the audience chamber are assembled a few vacillating and dispirited courtiers, wrangling among themselves which shall communicate to their young and fair mistress the news of her rival’s instant coming. One Sir Guibert shows a touch of feeling, but it is but the courtier’s touch, true cameleon-colours. Their disheartening parley is interrupted by a ruder voice—the voice of a man—a man of Cleves, bringing with him a memorial of the wrongs of his fellow-citizens, and a bold tongue to state them to their Lady Sovereign. But for Sir Guibert’s gratitude for some old service, Valence, the Advocate, would not have gained admittance: the former, however, true courtier! will have instant payment for his assistance, and thrusts upon the bold suitor the paper announcing Prince Berthold’s coming. Valence accepts the commission, not knowing its contents, and the party passes into the presence chamber.
Here, Colombe is disclosed; sad of mood, yet not cast down by the falling away of her flatterers. She can still comfort herself with some of the blessed assurances of youth—
Well, sunshine’s everywhere, and summer, too,
Next year ’tis the old place again, perhaps,—
The water-breeze again, the birds again!
She can rally her spirits, and receive with grace not only her courtiers, but also the pale earnest man,—first embarrassed by the momentous cause he has to plead, and then by the sudden apparition of such young and delicate beauty. In his embarrassment he puts the announcement of Prince Berthold’s coming before the Cleves’ memorial—presents it, and is terrified by its effect, though that be merely a melancholy and gentle reproach from the Duchess, too long-drawn, by the way, and fantastic for a moment of such surprise and emotion. We give its concluding words, merely to introduce the encounter which follows:—
[After a pause] Prince Berthold, who art Juliers’ Duke, it seems—
The Pope’s choice and the Emperor’s, and the Kings’—
Be mine, too! Take this people! Tell not me
Of rescripts, precedents, authorities,
—But take them, from a heart that yearns to give!
Find out their love,—I could not; find their fear,—
I would not; find their like,—I never will
Among the flowers. (Taking off her coronet)
Colombe of Ravestein
Thanks God she is no longer Duchess here!
Valence. [Advancing to Guibert.] Sir Guibert— knight, they call you—this of mine
Is the first step I ever set at court.
You dared make me your instrument, I find;
For that, so sure as you and I are men,
We reckon to the utmost presently:
But as you are a courtier and I none,
Your knowledge may instruct me. I, already,
Have too far outraged, by my ignorance
Of courtier-ways, this lady to proceed
A second step and risk addressing her
—I am degraded—you let me address!
Out of her presence all is plain enough
What I shall do—but in her presence, too,
Surely there’s something proper to be done!
[To the others] You gentles, tell me if I guess aright—
May I not strike this man to earth?
The Courtiers, [as Guibert springs forward, withholding him,] Let go!
—The Clothiers’ spokesman, Guibert? Grace a churl?
The Duchess [To Valence] Oh, be acquainted with your party, sir!
He’s of the oldest lineage Juliers boasts;
A lion crests him for a cognizance;
“Scorning to waver”—that’s his ’scutcheon’s word;
His office with the new Duke—probably
The same in honour as with me; or more,
By so much as this gallant turn deserves;
He’s now, I dare say, of a thousand times
The rank and influence that remain with her
Whose part you take! So, lest for taking it
You suffer....
Val. I may strike him then to earth!
Gui. [falling on his knee] Great and dear lady, pardon me! Hear once!
Believe me and be merciful—be just!
I could not bring myself to give that paper
Without a keener pang than I dared meet
—And so felt Clugnet here, and Maufroy here
—No one dared meet it. Protestation’s cheap,—
But, if to die for you did any good,
[To Gaucelme] Would not I die, sir? Say your worst of me!
But it does no good, that’s the mournful truth:
And since the hint of a resistance, even,
Would just precipitate, on you the first,
A speedier ruin—I shall not deny,
Saving myself indubitable pain,
I thought to get you pleasure, who might say?
In that your only subject we could find
To carry the sad notice, was the man
Precisely ignorant of its contents;
A nameless, mere provincial advocate;
One whom ’twas like you never saw before,
Never would see again. All has gone wrong;
But I meant right, God knows, and you, I trust!
The D. A nameless advocate, this gentleman!—
—(I pardon you, Sir Guibert!)
Gui. [rising, to Valence]—Sir, and you?—
Val. Rejoice that you are lightened of a load.
Now, you have only me to reckon with!
The D. One I have never seen, much less obliged!—
Val. Dare I speak, lady?
The D. Dare you! Heard you not
I rule no longer?
Val. Lady, if your rule
Were based alone on such a ground as these [Pointing to the Courtiers]
Could furnish you,—abjure it! They have hidden
A source of true dominion from your sight.
The D. You hear them—no such source is left....
Val. Hear Cleves!
Whose haggard craftsmen rose this day to starve,
Are starving now, and will lie down at night
Sure of a like to-morrow—but as sure
Of a most unlike morrow-after-that,
Since end things must, end howsoe’er things may.
What makes, instead of rising, all as one,
And teaching fingers [so expert to wield
Their tool] the broadsword’s play or carbine’s trick,
—What makes that there’s an easier help, they think,
And you, whose name so few of them can spell,
Whose face scarce one for every hundred saw,
That you have simply to receive their wrongs,
And wrongs will vanish—so, still trades are plied,
And swords lie rusting, and myself stand here?
Will you derive your rule from such a ground,
Or rather hold it by the suffrage, say,
Of this—and this—and this? [p. 945→]
The D. [after a pause] You come from Cleves—
How many are at Cleves of such a mind?
Val. [from his paper] “We, all the manufacturers of Cleves”—
The D. Or stay, sir—lest I seem too covetous—
Are you my subject? such as you describe
Am I to you—though to no other man?
Val. [from his paper] “Valence, ordained your Advocate at Cleves”—
The D. [Replacing the coronet] Then I remain Cleves’ Duchess! Take your note.
While Cleves but yields one subject of this stamp,
I stand her Lady till she waves me off!
For her sake, all the Prince claims I withhold;
Laugh at each menace; and, his power defying,
Return his missive with its due contempt! [casting it away.]
The third act introduces to us the Prince-rival, Berthold, a man worn by ambition; impelled onwards in a career which has lost its animating excitement. He looks back oftener than a great statesman should, to a certain love-failure of his youthful days; and it is, perhaps, this tender memory, as much as the helplessness yet high-bearing of the gracious Colombe, that disposes him to approach her with the proposal of settling the contest of their claims by marriage. Ere this expedient, however, presents itself, the hard question of right has to be discussed. In the argument, the Duchess finds an eloquent advocate, as the following speech will show:—
Berthold. Suffer, through you, your subjects I demand,
Who controverts my claim to Juliers?
The Duchess. —Me,
You say you do not speak to—
Berth. Of your subjects
I ask then: whom do you accredit? Where
Stand those should answer?
Valence [advancing] The Lady is alone!
Berth. Alone, and thus? So weak and yet so bold?
Val. I said she was alone—
Berth. —And weak, I said.
Val. When is man strong until he feels alone?
It was some lonely strength at first be sure,
Created organs, such as those you seek,
By which to give its varied purpose shape—
And, naming the selected ministrants,
Took sword, and shield, and sceptre,—each, a man!
That strength performed its work and passed its way:
You see our Lady: there, the old shapes stand!
—A Marshal, Chamberlain, and Chancellor—
Be helped their way, into their death put life
And find advantage—so you counsel us!
But let strength feel alone, seek help itself,—
And as the inland-hatched sea-creature hunts
The sea’s breast out,—as, littered ’mid the waves,
The desert-brute makes for the desert’s joy,
—So, I am first her instinct fastens on;
And prompt I say so clear as heart can speak,
The People will not have you; nor shall have!
It is not merely I shall go bring Cleves
And fight you to the last, though that does much,—
And men and children,—ay, and women too,
Fighting for home, are rather to be feared
Than mercenaries fighting for their pay—
But, say you beat us, since such things have been,
And, where this Juliers laughed, you set your foot
Upon a steaming bloody plash—what then?
Stand you the more our Lord as there you stand?
Lord it o’er troops whose force you concentrate,
A pillared flame whereto all ardours tend—
Lord it ’mongst priests whose schemes you amplify,
A cloud of smoke ’neath which all shadows brood—
But never, in this gentle spot of earth,
Can you become our Colombe, our play-queen,
Whom we, to furnish lilies for her hair,
Would pour our veins forth to enrich the soil!
—Our conqueror? Yes!—Our despot? Yes!—Our Duke?
Know yourself, know us!
Well may the Duchess declare that such a speaker “has opened a new world to her;”—well may the mean-souled courtiers whisper in corners! We must pass rapidly on: Berthold’s proposed compromise is laid before Colombe, by her advocate—who, loyal as he is, and indeed, as yet, hardly owning his secret feelings towards his liege’s lady, states it fairly. In the statement, however, one point interests his client, which he dreamed not of—the Duchess toys with the idea of retaining Juliers and Cleves—but the woman spies out his secret: makes him unfold it too clearly for disguise: flatters him with brilliant hopes, and then, like a true daughter of Eve, turns him over to the rack of suspense, unable herself to decide betwixt power and love. A superficial observer would have overlooked this natural struggle, a feeble-handed writer hesitated to show the play of light and shade in the character of his heroine; but Mr. Browning has done it, and skilfully, so that we continue to love and to trust in Colombe; and, none the less, because she vacillates.
Evening comes, and the time of decision with it. Berthold, having prepared the lady, repeats his offer earnestly: the day spent within her influence has made him less ambitious by many a treaty. He has grown warm and lover-like. With so natural a solution the result seems sure, and the poor Advocate must break loose from the dream woven round him by the lady’s condescension:—
Melchior. You have heard
His offer to your Lady?
Valence. Yes!
Mel. Conceive
Her joy thereat?—
Val. I cannot!
Mel. No one can!
All draws to a conclusion, therefore.
Val. [Aside.] So!
No after-judgment—no first thought revised—
Her first and last decision!—me, she leaves—
Takes him—a simple heart is flung aside.
The ermine o’er a heartless breast embraced!
Oh Heaven, this mockery has been played too oft!
Once, to surprise the angels—twice, that fiends
Might record, hug themselves they chose not so—
Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world
All men should pause, misdoubt their strength, since men
Could have the chance yet fail so signally,
—But ever—ever—this farewell to heaven,
Welcome to earth—this taking death for life—
This spurning love and kneeling to the world—
Oh Heaven, it is too often and too old!
But there is strength even in suffering for hearts like Valence’s; he finds consolation in his own unselfish and loyal thoughts; he can take his leave without the meanness of reproach:
Valence. Who thought upon reward? And yet how much
Comes after—Oh what amplest recompence!
Is the knowledge of her, nought? the memory, nought?
——Lady, should such an one have looked on you,
Ne’er wrong yourself so far as quote the world,
And say, love can go unrequited here!
You will have blessed him to his whole life’s end—
Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back,
All goodness cherished where you dwelt—and dwell.
What would he have? He has you—you, the form,
And you, the mind, where self-love made such room
For love of you, he would not serve you now
The vulgar way,—repulse your enemies,
Win you new realms, or best in saving you
Die blissfully—that’s past so long ago!
He wishes you no need, thought, care of him—
Your good, by any means, himself unseen.
Away, forgotten,—he gives that life’s task up,
As it were....but this charge which I return—
[Offers the Requisition, which she takes.
Wishing your good!
The Duchess. [Having subscribed it] And opportunely, sir—
Since at a birthday’s close, like this of mine,
Good wishes gentle deeds reciprocate.
Most on a wedding day, as mine is too,
Should gifts go forward: yours comes first by right.
Ask of me!
Berthold. He shall have whate’er he asks,
For his sake and for yours!
Val. [Aside] If I should ask—
The withered bunch of flowers she wears—perhaps,
One last touch of....
[After a pause, presenting his paper to the Prince.
Redress the wrongs of Cleves!
Berth. I will, sir!
The Duchess. [As Valence prepares to retire]— Nay, do out your duty, first!
You bore this paper: I have registered
My answer to it: read it and have done! [Valence reads it.
—I take him—give up Juliers, and the world!
This is my Birth-day.
So ends this drama: beautiful in the lofty and chivalrous spirit it illustrates, in the noble lesson it teaches, and in the rich and poetical eloquence of its language, in which Mr. Browning has advanced many steps nearer to simplicity, without his fancy, or feeling, or stores of imagery showing a trace of impoverishment.
[Henry Fothergill Chorley]
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. VI. Colombe’s Birthday (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1844.
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