R460822A. Colombe’s Birthday.
The People’s Journal, 22 August 1846, pp. 104–106.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 13, 402–404.
Perhaps, on returning to the “Bells and Pomegranates” of Mr. Browning, for the purpose of showing to a public, yet insufficiently acquainted with these poems, how rich they are in pictures—it will be best to alight upon some other number than that containing the story of Pippa’s mission; for, since her Innocence is set against Crime, to complete the tale of her holiday might lead us through scenes so exclusively gloomy, that our friends might thereby receive a false impression of their friend, the Poet, and imagine him one skilled only in painting sorrow, martyrdoms, wounds, and cruel sacrifices. Not even to teach the lesson of “overcoming Evil with Good,” ought those who deal in imaginative creation “to dwell for aye ’mid images of Pain.” Callousness, need of stronger excitement, morbid curiosity, and the like, may be encouraged and increased by such a mistaken course. It is often the refuge and relief of those made selfish by suffering. And the healthy and the hopeful will love to fulfill their duty by exalting yet more than by depressing the spirits of those who trust in them. Let us see if this is not done, and well done, in the dramatised tale of “Colombe’s Birthday.”
It is a question whether any creation exists more chivalrous in its tone than this legend; that is, if we somewhat refine the epithet, and (by courtesy of poetical fiction) admit it to include loyalty, delicacy—a recognition that there are few who have not some touches of a higher nature than distinguishes the churl and the worshipper of Mammon. “Colombe’s Birthday” is a tale of humanity, and grace, and poetry, vindicating themselves in that place where of all others it has been deemed the least possible to find them—a Court:—of Ambition in the moment of its triumph compelled to confess to itself and to the world its own haggard weariness—its inability to rest, its indifference to attempt new conquests—written with all the noble generosity of youth, and all the ripe experience of middle age. This and “The Blot on the Scutcheon” are the only two of the dramas in Mr. Browning’s “Bells” which could be made available on the stage—as the stage stands. “The Blot,” which was tried, failed, in part, owing to some untoward circumstances attending its production; and the story of Colombe, to secure its audience, demands what no longer exists in England—a dramatic company of gentlemen and ladies. But finely acted—that is, with an appreciation of the lights and shades of its characters—I have a firm belief that its success would surprise the Author himself—having a no less firm belief that our great Public can hardly be too largely credited with power to enjoy the most highly-toned poetry, or to sympathise with the most delicate and generous emotions. “Colombe’s Birthday,” too, needs less clearing than any other of this series of dramas.
It appears—from the play—that sometime in the seventeenth century, the Duchy of Juliers and Cleves fell for a twelvemonth under the government of a young and fair lady; supposed to be rightful heiress to the little kingdom. She had been brought up at Ravestein, an old castle down upon the Meuse: her youth, it would seem, left to its own guidance and innocence. And so she had taken state upon her lightly—had enjoyed, like an innocent girl who has seen few pageants, a gay reception which her subjects of Cleves had prepared for her—and had queened it so brightly and gently, that her presence seemed to throw something of grace and humanity over the faded formal functionaries of her little court—the Sieurs Guibert, Gaucelme, Maufroy, and Clugnet; insomuch that it was with something more than selfish anxiety for their wands and gold chains—with a touch of regret—that they received the tidings how Duchess Colombe’s claims to her inheritance were disputed by a wise and powerful rival, Prince Berthold; who was on his way to Juliers to maintain his rights. Rumours of such a revolution had been for some time menacing them; but the bolt fell (so to say) in the tidings of the immediate coming of Prince Berthold, on no luckier day than the gentle Colombe’s birthday. Little conscious of such instant peril, that gracious and delicate Lady was preparing to hold her court, and to receive the good wishes of her subjects. The drama opens at the moment when the four courtiers were waiting in the anti-chamber—at a loss how to break the calamity to their mistress—saving themselves the while. A coarser chronicler would have forgotten their reluctance in their selfish uneasiness—have made the troop all equally mechanical. But Mr. Browning knows that there is a difference even among automatons. Sir Guibert had a touch of better nature than his fellows. Some slight intercourse with the people, it may be, had rendered him a trifle less wooden and metallic than his mates. He had had dealings in Cleves, had been beholden to one Valence, an Advocate there, in winning some contest which involved his property; and was disposed to be as generous, and considerate, and pitiful—as a weak and mean man can be. At that precise moment of his perplexity, that very Advocate just mentioned had come to court on the Duchess’s birthday; all her old flatterers being kept away from her presence by the rumour of her tottering fortunes. And Valence, even, was come to sue, not to congratulate: to present a memorial on the wretchedness of Cleves, not to soothe fair Colombe with sweet wishes of many [p. 105→] happy returns of so fair a day. Now Valence was a sour, thin man of common presence, in a threadbare coat; and too full, it seemed, of his business to have studied the right way of presenting himself. The ushers would not let him enter the corridor, and had driven him back again and again; till espying Sir Guibert, Valence forced his way in, and claimed the offices of the courtier whose estate he had saved to bring him to a speech with Duchess Colombe. A bright thought struck Sir Guibert, how to pay his debt of gratitude, and relieve himself of an unpleasant responsibility in one and the same moment. He undertook to present Valence, on condition that the latter would place in the Duchess’s hand the memorial of Prince Berthold’s claims! The anxious Advocate of the people—unsuspecting, and absorbed in his own duties—fell into the trap. The doors were opened, and the four courtiers, and with them Valence, passed into the presence-chamber.
There was waiting the sweet Duchess Colombe,—and with her one faithful bower-woman, Sabyne. She must have been more, or less, than woman not to have been vexed at the thinness of the rank who came to pay court to her, as compared with the throng of the past year. Her strugglings with her misgivings—her consciousness that once having been made a ruler, she can no more return to the pleasures of girlhood—are beautifully expressed.
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!
And then the sudden heartening of herself up to believe what she wishes, when she sees the courtiers enter!
(Aside)—The same words—the same faces—the same love!
I have been over-fearful. These are few—
But these, at least, stand firmly—these are mine!
As many come as may, and if no more,
’Tis that these few suffice—they do suffice!
What succour may not next year bring me! Plainly
I feared too soon!
It was new for Advocate Valence to be dazzled by an apparition of such youth and graciousness! He had much to do, when permitted to speak, to plead the cause of the starving people of Cleves before her! But though bewildered, he was not silenced. Out spake he: told that fair and dainty lady, that the dream in which she had lived, and the pomp in which she had moved abroad, had hidden from her the misery of her people: prayed her to redress their wrongs—and moved by his own earnestness, though still confused by so fairy-like a presence, placed in her hand—not the petition of the starving sufferers of Cleves—but the memorial of Prince Berthold! The Duchess read: too proud to own herself insulted—too young and delicate not to confess her loneliness, and to ask upbraidingly why had her courtiers brought her from Ravestein, if their loyalty could protect her no better than this!—She ended by taking off her coronet, and thanking God she was no longer Duchess of such a heartless people! At the sight of her nobility flashed out the generous spirit of the People’s Advocate—more courteous in all his uncourtliness, than any of Colombe’s cowardly followers. “Sir Guibert,” said he, advancing indignantly—
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?
This burst of a generous spirit stirred Sir Guibert, mean as he was, to make humble apology, on bended knee, to the Lady. It did yet more—it stirred the young Duchess to feel and to know that loyalty might mean a nobler thing than observance out of book, and flattery of the lips, not from the heart. She bent at once an eager and respectful ear to her new champion and counsellor—listened to his eloquent tale of the woes of Cleves; and absolving the cowardly, half-penitent courtiers from further suit and service—declared that, so long as such men as Valence were among her subjects, she would not yield up her Duchy till the right was tried!—and there and then invested him with all the offices her servants had laid down!
While these things were passing, Prince Berthold arrived, unguarded;—having left his men-at-arms at Aix, and being only accompanied by Melchio, his philosopher-in-ordinary. For Prince Berthold, though an ambitious man, marking Juliers as one step to be gained towards
Aix, Cologne, Frankfort, Milan, Rome:
was not the common vulgar usurper—half swordsman, half sensualist—by aid of whom, one poorer or coarser in imagination than Mr. Browning, would have wrought out his contrast. He had a taste for what was refined and beautiful—when young, had wooed a rosy maiden, Priscilla, under a grey convent wall:—and had not forgotten, even now that he was a hard, experienced statesman, how he had wooed in vain! Further, though desirous of conquest, none was readier than Prince Berthold, to despise the courtier crew, who, appalled by his presence, and each man anxious to hold fast his place—welcomed him obsequiously; and told him with a sneer, that Duchess Colombe denied his claim, and defied himself—advised doubtless, by “that blustering Advocate.” These glimpses of a brave spirit in the lady suggested, with lightning quickness, a measure to the Prince, who had never forgotten his love failure. Why not woo and wed this high-hearted Colombe?—why not win the Duchy without discrowning its gentle Duchess? The thought pleased; and ere it had passed, the Lady had entered, with Valence at her side:—her pride and the new interest which the Advocate’s noble words had awakened, making her beauty more beautiful. But so courteous was Prince Berthold, as at once to deprive her of half her indignation. Almost he seemed to apologise to her; he, who could have enforced—for preferring—his claim; put aside, with disdain, the intervention of the cast-off courtiers; and listened with grave deference to the strangely-won friend to whom the Duchess referred him. Well might he listen when Valence could speak for his Lady and himself so nobly as he did speak. I know of few things in heroic poetry finer than the following appeal:
Berthold. Where
Stand those should answer?
Valence (advancing). The Lady is alone!
Berthold. Alone, and thus? So weak and yet so bold?
Valence. I said she was alone—
Berthold. And weak I said.
Valence. When is man strong until he feels alone?
It was some lonely strength at first, be sure,
Created organs, such as those you seek, [p. 106→]
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 Counsellor.
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, as 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,—aye, 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 out to enrich the soil!
Our conqueror? Yes!—Our despot? Yes!—Our Duke?
Know yourself, know us!
The remainder of the tale must be told more briefly: since the characters are now set in all their many-coloured hues before the reader, and he will be able to follow out the story without minute explanation: or, what is better, he is by this time eager to turn to the book and read the rest for himself. Enough to say, that Prince Berthold courteously entrusted to Valence the examination of his claims: and that these, alas for Colombe, were proved to be valid! That the Prince also confided to the Advocate’s skill his project for repairing the Lady’s losses, by offering to her his hand and the Duchy. But the Lady meanwhile had discovered, not only that her new chamberlain was loyal to his Duchess—but that the man of the people—who could speak so gloriously, think so nobly, was devoted to the woman who could meet danger so heroically! Somewhat of the Duchess-training clung to her—somewhat of the girl’s wilfulness. Prince Berthold’s noble offer flattered her fancy and soothed her pride, for Youth is more dazzled by grandeur than Age, which has learned its utter hollowness. And then, it was sweet to try how noble her pale, earnest servitor could be! What living being thus enforced, would not have wavered? The victory had been nothing without the struggle. And Colombe did waver for an hour. But there was victory; and after having fathomed to its most secret depths one of the truest and noblest hearts which ever God created—finding at every touch, a new and answering fountain of high thoughts and unselfish purposes up-springing in her own—Colombe, the Duchess, ended her birthday by choosing the better part—yielding up empty power, and embracing Life with its duties, Love with its rewards. Prince Berthold went his way, leaving a “black Barnabite” behind him as viceroy, to enforce from the courtiers the duty they were in such agonies to tender—and the Advocate returned to Cleves, with a fond and fair lady.
The closing act of this beautiful drama, rich in the loftiest poetry, could have been dwelt and drawn upon, to the pleasure of every one: most of all my own. But enough has been said to indicate—and that is the purpose of these poor sketches. There is small hope of any one’s progress in appreciating poetry, if, after having made the slight effort which Mr. Browning’s style demands, he, who has began “Colombe’s Birthday,” can lay it down till the play be played out and the curtain has fallen. I repeat, that if it be too fine for the stage, the fault is that our actors are too coarse, not that our audiences are incapable of relishing fancies so “chaste and noble.”
Henry Fothergill Chorley
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. VI. Colombe’s Birthday (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1844.
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