R450400A. Colombe’s Birthday.
The New Quarterly Review, April 1845, pp. 368–384.
Addendum to The Brownings’ Correspondence, vol. 10.
And now we come to the last and least well-known name upon the list, Robert Browning. We are great admirers of this author. The world at large knows little of him; we shall, therefore, dilate at greater length upon his merits and demerits, than on those of his brother bards; and place such extracts before our readers, as shall justify us in the admiration we express. Robert Browning, then, has steered free of almost all the errors which we have found occasion to con- [p. 369→] demn in his contemporaries and predecessors. Unfortunately, he has fallen into some others, but these are of minor account, and by no means counterbalance his great and rare merits as a dramatic author. First, then, he has invariably paid strict attention to the great unity, that of action, and generally to those of time and place also. In the next place, he has written in the poetical language of our own days, as true a product of our age, as the Elizabethan phraseology may have been of the Elizabethan era. Nor is this a matter of slight consequence. No man of truly first-rate genius, we contend, would condescend to retail the diction of another age at second hand. To us, those old quaintnesses somewhat destroy the flow of feeling, even in the authors who used them naturally. In the writers who are only aping those who went before them, they positively disgust. If Sheridan Knowles and others, please us, despite this great fault, we can only say, that the fact redounds greatly, in one point of view, to their credit. People may dance gracefully upon stilts, but they would move still better on their own natural supporters. Thirdly, Browning never writes for poetical effect. All his characters speak naturally. Their words are ever the expression of their inward feelings, and we see the workings of their souls in every accent which escapes their lips. This very circumstance leads to an apparent obscurity; for Browning does not make his characters explain, in so many words, the motives for which they say this and do that. He leaves us to gather these from their casual expressions themselves. There are other causes of occasional obscurity, indeed, observable in his plays, more especially in his earlier ones, which cannot be so fairly defended. Although the author should not make his dramatis personæ deliver commentaries upon all their sayings and doings, he should so manage matters, that the reader or spectator be enabled to see from the beginning at what his principal characters are driving. Now this rule is constantly neglected by this otherwise almost perfect author. We have sometimes to read through half a play before we understand clearly the leading motives for all the sayings and doings of its chief characters. This, however, we repeat, is more especially the case only in the earlier plays of this author, “King Victor and King Charles,” and “The Return of the Druses.” The last, “Colombe’s Birthday,” is almost entirely free from this fault. We must add, however, that this error might be very easily corrected, even in the earlier plays alluded to, so as to render them too fit for dramatic representation. Indeed, “Cromwell,” the first and worst drama of this author’s, succeeded perfectly in its representa- [p. 370→] tion at Drury Lane; though it labours under this fault to a greater degree than any of Robert Browning’s subsequent productions. If we add, to this statement of our author’s deficiencies, the disadvantage to which his plays are exposed, from being infamously stopped; so badly, indeed, as frequently to destroy the sense of very beautiful passages; and further, from being often deprived of the needful stage directions, we shall have expressed our sense of almost all those wants and errors which we have detected in his dramatic writings. Of his surpassing merits we could indeed say much. And first, we would bear witness to what may be, perhaps, considered his distinguishing characteristic, a delicacy and nobility of thought, which are almost unequalled in any writer of these or bygone times; a tenderness and depth of feeling, which render his female, and many of his male characters, bright developments of the purely beautiful, of the true ideal. To those who know not this author’s writings, who have not studied them attentively, such praise may appear hyperbolic. We have already alluded to the causes of the obscurity which has undoubtedly stood in the way of this writer’s gaining the universal fame his genius should have secured; the which obscurity, we have no doubt, has deterred many thousands from an attentive perusal of his productions. Still their merits remain not the less incontestable. But Robert Browning is not a depicter of the feelings only, though these are peculiarly his domain. He does not write for the soul alone. The mind also will receive its due share of pleasure in the perusal of his works. He possesses an incontestable dramatic power of the highest order, which enables him to see deeply into the inward motives of men’s actions; and thus are all his characters instinct with life and individuality. Thus we have dramatic power, intense feeling, and above all, reality, combined in the plays of this author. They possess all the nobler requisites for unparalleled dramatic success. Their faults are comparatively slight and incidental. We will only add a few words upon each of these creations of power and beauty separately, confining our selections and special elucidation to one only, which we think especially calculated for dramatic representation.
“Of Cromwell,” the first of Robert Browning’s plays, we shall say little more. It is a sample of all his worst faults, carried to the utmost possible extent, combined with some of his minor beauties. It has power, indeed, in parts, but is so obscurely and awkwardly written on the whole, that little real pleasure can be derived from its perusal in the closet. “King Victor and King Charles,” his next dramatic work, [p. 371→] (for “Paracelsus,” a poem, can scarcely be classed under this category,) is in two parts and four acts. And this circumstance would, in itself, prove an almost insuperable objection to its representation in the minds of English managers, slaves as they are of custom and precedent. Perhaps, too, the plot might be considered too uninteresting for the stage. Yet is this play instinct with life and vigour. There is no idle talking in it. The various characters introduced are admirably contrasted, and the whole piece is constructed from the constant conflict of mind with mind, which leads eventually to the catastrophe. King Victor, the selfish, passionate, wily old man, is depicted with a truthfulness which can only be alluded to here. Equal merit will be found in the delineation of his son, the morally weak, yet good Charles, with his latent powers of energy, which we see eventually developed before us. His wife Polyxena is a wife indeed, a model of womanly self-devotion, and loving strength of mind. Her attempts to conceal all the foibles of her husband from the world, nay, almost from herself, are most delicately conceived and portrayed. Nothing can be dramatically finer than the scene in which Victor, having abandoned his crown to Charles from state purposes, with the secret intention of claiming it again, returns and confronts his son, who in the interim has saved his country. The last scene, in which Charles resolves to yield the crown, is also most admirable; Polyxena strives to dissuade him from this, in one of the most noble bursts of affection that we have ever met with. Victor’s dying speeches, when his senses are partially clouded by madness, are very effective. Altogether, this play, or drama, is a production of high character, which, performed by Macready, Anderson, and Helen Faucit, would, in our opinion, command a great theatrical success. Browning’s next play, “The Return of the Druses,” has already been noticed in this review. We cannot say much of it now. With some few alterations, it would act most successfully. This piece is a model of dramatic unity; a study of the most useful order for all aspiring dramatists. It commences, indeed, too abruptly; but this is a fault which might be very easily remedied. The principal characters, the Druse Djabal, the youthful knight-novice, Loys de Dreux, and the heroine Anael, are beautifully developed, the second of these most especially. The Prefect and Nuncio of the Knights Hospitallers, two evil characters, are drawn with masterly power and boldness. There are not many poetical passages in this play; but there is, what is better, well sustained dramatic power and interest. Browning’s next [p. 372→] dramatic piece was really produced, and, what is more, at first proved highly successful. It was, however, (why we know not,) speedily removed from the bills; and it had been brought out, as we are informed with little or no care, so altered through the manager’s suggestions, as to have lost that dramatic unity in a great degree, which, in its present form, so peculiarly distinguishes it. We allude to “The Blot on the Scutcheon.” This drama will take its place in our literature as one of our domestic tragedies; and as it is better known than most of Mr. Browning’s works, we shall not dwell long upon it. As an apotheosis of pure brotherly love, “The Blot on the Scutcheon” is extremely beautiful. It is perfectly clear throughout; and cold must be the heart, and dull the understanding, which it does not affect and excite. The principal characters of Mildred, her brother Thorold, and Earl Mertoun, are all deeply interesting, and psychologically most truthful. The minor characters, Guendolen, and the old vassal Gerold, are almost equally beautiful. The interest is throughout great, but deepens as the piece proceeds. The poetry, which springs from the affections of the principal characters, is truly beautiful and strikingly original. The moral, in as far as it teaches that evil must ever spring from evil, and that man is never justified in revenge, is truly Christian. It will delight even in the first reading, and repay the most admiring and long-continued consideration.
And now we at last arrive at “Colombe’s Birthday,” the play which we have destined for a more special illustration of Browning’s great merits, and will proceed without more ado to the setting forth of its leading incidents, and the selection of quotations from it. In the critical sketches of a recent number, we have already given the heads of this piece’s plot, and shall only develop our sketch more fully. At the opening of the first act, then, we find the courtiers in the service of the Duchess of Juliers, (Colombe) assembled in an ante-chamber of her palace, waiting for the hour when they are to be admitted to her presence, to congratulate her on her birthday, which has that day come round again. But, alas! they will have melancholy tidings to communicate on this day. There is a claimant to her Duchy,—a Prince Berthold, who has for some time been intriguing to exclude her, under the cover of the Salique law. The Pope and the Emperor have now approved his claims, and he therefore comes to seize his Duchy. The courtiers have long seen this storm brooding in the distance, but they have hidden all knowledge of it, as far as possible, from Colombe, because they were afraid of making the Court [p. 373→] gloomy by letting her into the secret of her danger. Now, this very day Sir Guibert, a youthful courtier, but one high in office at the Court, has just received a missive from the Prince, ordering him to acquaint the Duchess at once, that he shall arrive that very day, and expects her to give up her crown to him. Guibert is a thoughtless, selfish courtier, whose nature was originally generous. He cannot bear to be the man to convey this missive to her. The other courtiers, too, though bad enough in their way, refuse to accept this hateful office. Gaucelme, however, one of the worst and most hardened of them, at last professes to be disgusted by the hypocrisy of the others, and ready to give anything to the Duchess himself. But Guibert, who thinks this Gaucelme would break the dark tidings to her too harshly, so as, perhaps, to work the death of such a gentle creature, interposes—
By your leave!
Your zeal transports you!—’Twill not serve the Prince
So much as you expect, this course you’d take.—
If she leaves quietly her palace,—well:
But if she died upon its threshold,—no:
He’d have the trouble of removing her!—
Come, gentles, we’re all—what the devil knows.
You, Gaucelme, won’t lose character beside;
You broke your father’s heart superiorly
To gather his succession. Never blush!
You’re from my province, and be comforted,
They tell of it with wonder to this day.
You can afford to let your talent sleep.
Gaucelme, however, points to the small number of courtiers collected in the ante-chamber, and the still smaller number of visitors of the common sort assembled in the vestibule without, to greet the Duchess. Their appearance, he says, will tell its own tale. The people have already got wind of Colombe’s approaching downfall. This leads to a bitter satire from Guibert, on the people’s versatility and faithlessness, more especially on that outward humility which often conceals their inward hate—
These cappings quick, and crook-and-cringings low,
Hand to the heart, and forehead to the knee,
With grin that shuts the eyes and opes the mouth—
So tender they their love; and, tender made,
Go home to curse you, the first doit you ask:
As if they had not given ample warrant [p. 374→]
To who should clap a collar on their neck,
Rings in their nose, a goad to either flank,
And take them for the brute they boast themselves.
The courtier’s colloquy is interrupted by the forced entrance of Valence, the great advocate of Cleves, who comes in the name of the people to claim redress from the young Duchess for their wrongs. Guibert, who has been formerly served by him, promises to secure the people’s envoy an audience if he will present the sealed missive from Prince Berthold. Valence, who knows nothing of its nature, and has heard nothing of the rumours of the Duchess’s approaching downfall, gladly promises to fulfil this condition, and the act concludes with the courtier’s leading him to the audience-chamber. The frank and enthusiastic nature of Valence is well contrasted in this scene with the naturally honest but artificially spoiled character of Guibert, and the more thorough worthlessness of his fellow-courtiers. The second act introduces us to the audience-chamber, in which the Duchess Colombe is still alone with her favourite attendant, Sabyne. The latter endeavours to persuade her mistress that the hour is not yet come for audience; she knowing how few there are without. But Colombe is impatient to proceed to the ceremony at once. Yet first she will receive the congratulations of Sabyne—
Stay, Sabyne, let me hasten to make sure
Of one true thanker! Here with you begins
My audience; claim you first its privilege!
It is my birth’s event they celebrate:
You need not wish me more such happy days—
But—ask some favour!—Have you none to ask?—
Has Adolf none, then?—This was far from least
Of much I waited for impatiently,
Assure yourself!—So natural it seemed,
Your gift, beside this bunch of river-bells,
Should be the power and leave to do you good
You ask my leave to-day to marry Adolf?
The rest is my concern.
Sabyne, however, refuses to ask this favour. She will not leave her mistress when she sees such designs of her approaching fall. Colombe surmises this, but will not admit to herself that there is any danger. At last she bids Sabyne give orders for the admission of the court. Sabyne obeys, though unwillingly. The following is the soliloquy of Colombe when left alone. It should be premised that it was a year ago on her birthday that the courtiers had led her from [p. 375→] her unknown retreat in Castle Ravestein to Juliers; her father having, on his death-bed, only revealed the existence of his daughter. We cannot stop longer for explanations now. Here is Colombe’s speech:—
Well, sunshine’s everywhere, and summer, too.
Next year ’tis the old place again perhaps;
The water-breeze again, the birds again—
. . . It cannot be! It is too late to be!
What part had I or choice in all of it?
Hither they brought me; I had not to think
Nor care, concern myself with doing good
Nor ill: my task was just? to live,—to live,
And, answering ends there was no need explain,
To render Juliers happy,—so they said.
All could not have been falsehood! Some was love,
And wonder, and obedience. I did all
They look’d for! Why then cease to do it now?
Yet this is to be calmly set aside,
And—ere next birthday’s dawn, for aught I know,
Things change, a claimant may arrive, and I . . .
It cannot nor it shall not be! His right?
Well, then, he has the right, I have it not;
But who bade all of you surround my life
And close its growth up with your ducal crown,
Which pluckt off rudely, leaves me perishing?
I could have been like one of you,—loved, hoped,
Feared, lived and died like one of you; but you
Would take that life away, and give me this;
And I will keep this!—I will face you. Come!
The courtiers now enter with Valence. The sight of so many imagined faithful vassals still paying her their devoirs, inspires the Duchess with fresh hope. Meantime Valence surveys her in wondering love. He has seen her once before in Cleves when she past through that city, and he met her at the head of a deputation. He has loved her ever since. He is now brought before the Duchess to tell his sad story of Cleves’ misery. She, happily unconscious, thus receives him:—
And you, Sir, are from Cleves? How fresh in mind
The hour or two I pass’d at queenly Cleves!
She entertained us bravely, but the best
Of her good pageant seemed its standers-by
With insuppressive joy on every face!
What says my ancient, famous, happy Cleves?
He answers, in an impassioned outbreak, by revealing to [p. 376→] her the real misery of Cleves. The joy she saw was but the device of loyal pride. He is about to present the petition of the city, when he remembers the missive he had undertaken first to deliver. She receives Prince Berthold’s letter, and reads it. A noble indignation towards the vassals who could so long deceive her displays itself in her following speech. It is too long to quote entirely, but it thus concludes:—
Prince Berthold, who art Juliers’ Duke, it seems,
The Pope’s choice, and the Emperor’s, and the King’s—
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 now entreats leave of the Duchess to fell Guibert to earth, who thus deceived him. Guibert throws himself on his knees before her, really moved, and endeavours to excuse himself. But now Valence again interposes. He entreats Colombe not to abandon her rights. He will arm the people for her. They are hers still. Her increasing admiration for this newly-found defender shows itself in the following short colloquy:—
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 of Cleves”—
The D. Then I remain Cleves’ Duchess!—Take you 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.
Immediately after this the Duchess retires, having constituted Valence her defender. The tide now turns in the latter’s favour. Guibert really admires and envies him, and, what is more, says so. The other courtiers follow his example. But [p. 377→] tidings are brought that the Prince has arrived, and at once all has changed again. No one now appears true to the Duchess save Valence, who is summoned through Sabyne to her presence. Thus ends the second act. In the third we are introduced to Prince Berthold and his confidant Melchior. We cannot dwell upon these characters, which are both admirably drawn. Suffice it to say, that Guibert delivers Colombe’s haughty message to the Prince. Immediately afterwards she enters with Valence. At first she feels ready to deliver up her crown, knowing how unworthily she has borne it. Then again her pride revolts from this degradation, and she entreats Valence to speak for her. Berthold calmly demands the Duchy. “Where,” he asks, “stand those who answer for her?” Valence replies—
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 pass’d 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; tho’ 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; [p. 378→]
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!
Berthold replies calmly by presenting the statement of the case on which he grounds his claim, to Colombe, and begging her herself to decide thereon. He then retires. The courtiers also retire, Guibert boiling with indignation at finding himself shrunk into such nothingness by Valence’s side. Colombe entrusts the documents to Valence, and says she will abide by his decision. He hopes that she may love him, and thinks she may become his if she loses her Duchy. Still, for the sake of Cleves, he resolves to decide without a bias. In the fourth act, we learn from a colloquy between the courtiers, that Colombe must forfeit her Duchy, at all events, if she marry a subject. This they resolve to tell Berthold of, and to acquaint him of their suspicions that there is love betwixt Colombe and Valence. Valence enters and they retire. He has become convinced that Prince Berthold has a fair right in justice to the Duchy. He hears steps approaching, and thinks the Duchess comes. But no! Berthold enters. To him, in the Duchess’s name, he is about to express her acquiescence, but is interrupted by the Prince, who informs him that he has a new claim, no less than that for Colombe’s hand in marriage. We are compelled to tell this story very hurriedly. Valence thinks Colombe will not marry the Prince for the sake of power, if she does not love him. He carries the Prince’s message to her, but lets her clearly understand that Berthold does not love her, but only demands her hand from motives of state policy. She inquires how he learnt this. He replies.
I love, and know.
The scene which ensues is one of the most exquisite we ever met with. We must quote much of it:—
The D. You love? How strange? I never cast a thought
On that! Just see our selfishness!—You seemed
So much my own. . . . . I had no ground, and yet,
I never dream’t another might divide
My power with you, much less exceed it!
Val. Lady,
I am yours wholly! [p. 379→]
The D. Oh, no, no, not mine!
’Tis not the same now, never more can be!—
Your first love, doubtless?—Well, what’s gone from me?
What have I lost in you?
Val. My heart replies,
No loss there!—So of Berthold’s proposition,—
Its obvious magnitude is well to weigh.
The D. She’s . . . yes, she must be very fair for you!
Val. I am a simple advocate of Cleves.
The D. You! With the heart and brain, that so helped me,
I fancied both exclusively my own,
Yet find are subject to a stronger sway.
She must be . . . . tell me, is she very fair?
Val. Most fair, beyond conception or belief?
The D. Black eyes?—No matter!—Colombe—the world leads
Its life without you, whom your friends professed
The single woman: see how true they were!
One lived this while, who never saw your face,
Nor heard your voice—unless . . . Is she from Cleves?
Val. Cleves knows her well!
The D. Ah, just a fancy, now!
When you poured forth the wrongs of Cleves, I said,—
Thought, that is,—afterward . . .
Val. You thought of me?
The D. Of what else? Only such a cause, I thought,
For such effect. See, what true love can do!
Cleves is his love.—I almost fear to ask—
Nor will not! This is idling. To our work!
Admit before the Prince, without reserve,
My claims misgrounded; then may follow better . . .
When you poured out Cleves’ wrongs impetuously,
Was she in your mind?
Val. All done was done for her—
To humble me!
The D. She will be proud at least!
Val. She?
The D. When you tell her!
Val. That will never be!
The D. How? Are there sweeter things you hope to tell?
No, Sir! You counselled me. I counsel you
In the one point, I,—any woman can.
Your worth, the first thing; let her own come next,
Say what you did through her, and she through you?
The praises of her beauty afterward!
Will you?
Val. I dare not!
The D. Dare not!
Val. She I love [p. 380→]
Suspects not such a love in me.
The D. You jest!
Val. The lady is above me and away!
Not only the brave form, and the bright mind,
And the great heart, combine to press me low;
But all the world calls rank divides us.
The D. Rank!
Now grant me patience! Here’s a man declares
Oracularly in another’s case,
Sees the true value and the false for them,
Nay, bids them see it; and they straight do see!
You called my court’s love worthless: so it turned.
I threw away as dross my heap of wealth,
And here you stickle for a piece or two!
First,—has she seen you?
Val. Yes!
The D. She loves you then?
Val. One flash of hope burst; then succeeded night.
And all’s at darkest now.
Here we must pause; though the scene continues to increase in beauty up to the catastrophe, which is the revelation of the real object of the subject’s love. The Duchess is surprised,—nay, disappointed. She had attributed all his ardour to loyalty. She does not like to see in it simple love. She professes therefore not to believe the lover’s confession. He only wishes, she says, to conceal his own merits—
Your service named its true source, loyalty!
The rest’s unsaid again. The Duchess bids you
Rise, Sir! The Prince’s words were in debate.
Val. Rise!—Truth, as ever, Lady, comes from you.
I should rise: I, that spoke for Cleves, can speak
For Man,—yet tremble now, that stood firm then!
I laughed—for ’twas past tears—that Cleves should starve,
With all hearts beating loud the infamy,
And no tongue daring trust as much to air;—
Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be mute?
Oh, lady, for your own sake look on me!
On all I am, and have, and do,—heart, brain,
Body and soul,—this Valence and his gifts:
I was proud once; I saw you; and they sank,
So that each magnified a thousand times
Were nothing to you: but such nothingness
What would a crown gild, or a sceptre prop,
A treasure-speed, a laurel-wreath enhance?
What is my own desert? But should your love
Have . . . there’s no language helps here . . . singled me,— [p. 381→]
Then . . . Oh, that wild word “then!” . . . be just to love,
In generosity its attribute!
Love, as you pleased love! All is cleared, a stage
For trial of the question kept so long
For you,—Is Love or Vanity the best?
You, solve it for the world’s sake: you, say first
What all will shout one day: you, vindicate
Our earth and be its angel! All is said.
Lady, I offer nothing—I am yours,
But for the cause’ sake look on me and him
And speak!
The D. I have received the Prince’s message:
Say, I prepare my answer!
Val. Take me, Cleves. [Exit.
A short soliloquy of Colombe’s concludes this act. She is still discontented with Valence, whom she perceives to have been not as unselfish as she imagined. Berthold, on the contrary, seems to her to act most generously in offering her his hand. She resolves to examine him closely before she decides. The fifth act opens with an admirable scene betwixt Berthold and Melchior his confidant, from which we have no space to make any extracts. Berthold, who takes an evil view of human nature, has no doubt that his offer of rank and wealth will meet with success. Colombe enters, and a beautiful scene follows between them, in which she endeavours to sound his heart, and on which the courtiers, fearing she may yet become Berthold’s wife, and their mistress, and remembering their own treachery, break in with the assertion that she loves Valence. She does not refute their accusations; but Berthold treats them with contempt. “Decide as you like!” he says to her, “Be my consort, or simple lady of Ravestein again.” “What!” she replies, “Wed you, and my heart away?”
Berthold. When have I made pretensions to your heart?
I give none. I shall keep your honour safe.
With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts
Yon marble woman with the marble rose,
Loose in her hand, she never will let fall,
In graceful, silent, slight security.
You will be proud of my world-wide career,
And I content in you the fair and good.
What were the use of planting a few seeds
The thankless climate never would mature,
Affections all repelled by circumstance?
In fine, he calls on her to sign the requisition which Valence [p. 382→] holds, or acknowledge him, Berthold, as her husband. Valence is summoned. He is told by Melchior, apart, that the Duchess has been accused of loving him, and that it rests with him to confirm or deny it. He thinks that she has resolved to desert him and wed Berthold, and exclaims in his agony, 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 man
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!
However, he is called upon to speak openly,—and now a revulsion of feeling takes place within his soul.
Be it her good if she accounts it so!
He says, and continues, after some further less important discourse, addressing Colombe—
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 D. (Having subscribed it.) And opportunely, sir,
Since at birth-day’s close like this of mine, [p. 383→]
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!
Berth. 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 D. (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 birthday.
Melchior. Berthold, my one hero
Of the world she gives up, one friend worth my books
Sole man I think it pays the pains to watch,—
Speak! for I know you through your Popes and Kings!
Berth. (After a pause.) Lady, well rewarded! Sir, as well deserved!
I could not imitate—I hardly envy—
I do admire you! All is for the best!
Too costly a flower were you, I see it now,
To pluck and put upon my barren helm
To wither; any garish plume will do!
I’ll not insult you, and refuse your rule:
You can so well afford to yield it me,
And I were left without it, sadly off!
As it is—for me—if that will flatter you,
A somewhat wearier life seems to remain
Than I thought possible, where—faith, their life
Begins already! they’re too occupied
To listen, and few words content me best.
(Abruptly to the Courtiers.) I am your Duke though! Who obey me here?
The D. Adolf and Sabyne follow us.
Guibert. (Starting from the Courtiers.) And I?
Do I not follow them; if I mayn’t you?
Shall I not get some little duties up
At Ravestein, and emulate the rest?
God save you, Gaucelme! ’Tis my birthday too!
Berth. You happy handful that remain with me— [p. 384→]
That is, with Dietrich, the black Barnabite,
I shall leave over you, will earn your wages,
Or Dietrich has forgot to ply his trade!
Meantime,—go copy me the precedents
Of every installation, proper styles
And pedigrees of all your Juliers’ Dukes—
While I prepare to go on my old way,
And somewhat wearily, I must confess!
The D. (with a light, joyous laugh, as she turns from them.) Come, Valence, to our friends. God’s earth—
Val. (as she falls into his arms.) And thee!
(Curtain falls.)
—Is it wonderful that, when plays containing such intense dramatic effects as these remain disregarded, the tragic stage should be at a low ebb? We have no space for further observations. Our readers can draw their own conclusions.
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. VI. Colombe’s Birthday (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1844.
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