R530426B. Colombe’s Birthday.
The Morning Post, 26 April 1853, p. 6.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 19, 380–382.
Haymarket Theatre.—Robert Browning presents a delicate wreath of poetic flowers to a theatrical public accustomed to “strong effects”—a pure etherial stream of thought is offered to the grossly-living. How can they be expected to appreciate its refined inspiration? Browning has written poems called “Pippa Passes,” “Luria,” “Paracelsus,” &c.—sweet, delicately-imagined things, full of subtle thoughts, suggestive of much more than they positively express, pregnant with eternal truths coeval with the world’s birth, but which, reflected through the prism of his glowing fancy, become decked with new and lovely tints. How can such a genius as his, that scorns convention, reach the minds and hearts of an audience which can sympathise only with established formularies of expression? The poet’s spirit broods over the chaotic elements of his time, and draws them into shapes of deathless truth and beauty, which stand for ever as the symbols of a period—less accurate, perhaps, than detailed history, but equally truthful, if not more so—for they contain the concentrated essence of the popular mind. Can the contemporary million see the truth of his work? Can the past compass the whole? To fully grasp the meaning, and feel the merit of such a work, imagination must transport us beyond the “ignorant present,” we must be a little in advance of our age, and able to reflect calmly upon its general character.
Shakspere says, “the truest poetry is the most feigning;” and again, “When a man’s verses cannot be understood, nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward child’s understanding, it strikes a man more than a great reckoning in a little room.” The highest order of poetry or art of any kind does not immediately appeal to the popular intelligence. A long mental culture must be submitted to by the people before they can comprehend the deepest workings of the human mind. None of our greatest poets are as yet generally understood, not even Shakspere, with whose works the public is best acquainted. Owing to the popularity of certain actors, magnificent “gettings-up,” and the eulogistic commentaries of critics, many of his plays are now attractive. Some persons have become familiar with their beauties through a persevering attention to them, and national pride makes all boast of their “Immortal Bard” or “Swan of Avon”—even those who have never read him at all.
Most people go to see “Hamlet” or “Macbeth” as they go to hear “The Messiah” or “Don Giovanni.” Having been told from childhood that these are great works, they are prepared to admire them. This faith, if it beget not the power to appreciate, at least produces the will, and removes obstacles which unbiased ignorance might possibly create. People thus praise in deference to received opinions, if not from sincere conviction, or are silent from distrust of their own judgment, and dread of ridicule.
Who is it that teaches the public to understand, and, understanding, feel and love, the beauties of those divine minds whose subtle essence eludes the common grasp? From whom have they learned to appreciate the master works of human genius if not from those whose occupation it is to study and compare the various manifestation of mind produced by the form and pressure of every age and time, and who thus find a central form of loveliness towards which everything tends, who recognise one living light the same, and still the same which guides them safely through the mists of time and change, whose time is passed in constantly considering those points which, taken up but occasionally, and at random, by the mass, can never be properly judged by them. From whom, we say, but those called critics—be they public or private—that race so reviled by authors in whom they are unfortunate enough to find no merit, so beloved by those whom they praise justly or otherwise.
It is contrary to popular prejudice for a man to sit in judgment on his own work, although he possibly might do so with perfect honesty. He writes for the public, and is, we presume, especially desirous of obtaining the opinion, and, if possible, the suffrage, of those most competent to judge. The critic is the exponent of his author’s meaning. It is for him to set down “the fine phrenzies” of the poet, translate them into plain prose for the benefit of the million, and point out their merits and defects. It is for the critic to separate the tares from the wheat; it is for him to maintain a certain standard of excellence by which the public mind may be guided. His responsibility is great not only as a disposer of the artistic reputations of those whose very existence depends upon their success, but in a still higher degree, as holding a most important position with respect to the public at large. Jealous guardians of Apollo’s Temple, it is the critic’s duty to defend and conserve the mighty intellectual monuments of the past, and close its gates to the profane. He must exercise a spiritual watch over those minute but most important moral elements which no laws can touch—which the conventional functionary called the “licenser” is incapable of dealing with. He can not only prevent ill, but by keeping alive a generous sympathy with the great and beautiful, contribute most essentially to its production. The high importance of his office cannot, therefore, be justly denied. His business is not merely to record public performances, and the manner in which they may have been received, neither should he be seduced into a mistaken leniency, by a weak and unnecessary desire to go with the stream and bow to the popular will.
Flunkeyism to the mob is the worst of all flunkeyism, and he that practises it is a sycophant on the largest possible scale.
These remarks, intimately connected with the subject we are about to discuss, have been drawn from us by the recent discreditable controversy respecting “The press and the theatres,” in which an attempt was made to degrade the former to the level of an advertising agent. The question of criticism, once mooted, was as speedily narrowed into a miserable dispute about pounds, shillings, and pence. Much bitterness was displayed in some quarters, and assertions were made insulting to our critics, and betokening a lamentable ignorance of the true dignity and vast importance of their vocation. We would, therefore, wish it to be understood, once for all, that critics are not mere chroniclers of what they see and hear—they are not under obligations to managers for the seats provided them; but that they are representatives of the public—instructors of their fellow-citizens on points of high moral interest to the community—and, as such, have a right to claim at the hands of managers every possible facility for forming a fair judgment upon that which is brought before them. If the payment of a certain sum at the doors can ensure this—good. If not, it is the duty of a theatrical manager to secure it by other means; but in no case whatever can there be any merely personal privilege. Let us now return to the affairs of last night.
Mr. Robert Browning’s “Colombe’s Birthday,” produced on this occasion for the first time, and with Miss Helen Faucit, one of our very best tragic actresses, as the heroine, is one of those fresh, and exquisitely graceful productions, which we fear the many will be somewhat slow in appreciating. Colombe, of Ravestein, reigning Duchess of Jules [sic] and Cleves (Miss Helen Faucit) is one of the sweetest, most loveable, and perfectly truthful characters, which the modern stage has produced. Very young, simple-hearted, inexperienced, surrounded by fawning and unscrupulous ministers, she is unacquainted with the sufferings of her subjects under their misrule, until the truth is revealed to her by Valence, a young advocate of Cleves (Mr. Barry Sullivan), who is deputed to lay before her a statement of their grievances. Horrified at the intelligence, and finding that no dependence can be placed on those whom she had trusted, she at once determines to abdicate in favour of Prince Berthold (Mr. Howe), who has already laid claim to the duchy; subsequently, however, charmed by the eloquence of Valence, she resumes the ducal crown, entrusts the humble advocate with the entire direction of state affairs, and resolves to resist to the utmost the pretensions of Prince Berthold. His right presently appears to be incontestable—but to save her from humiliation, and himself from the disagreeable consequences which might follow the dethronement of one so popular with her subjects, he offers to marry her. In the meantime, a mutual passion has sprung up in the hearts of Colombe and Valence. By wedding the humble advocate, she must sink into obscurity, whilst, by accepting the Prince, she will retain her power and station, and may ultimately become an Empress. After a few brief struggles love ultimately triumphs, Colombe exchanges her ducal crown for a simple wreath of flowers, and becomes the wife of Valence. The plot is certainly slight, but its interest is so ingenuously sustained, the leading characters are so admirably drawn, the incidents so fresh and natural, the language so fanciful, the general construction so thoroughly unconventional, that the five acts pass lightly by without causing a moment’s ennui.
Miss Helen Faucit has returned to us in the full possession of those remarkable powers which long ago made her a cherished favourite of the London public. Never did she look, or act, better than on the present occasion; and the applause which greeted her, though frequent and cordial, was not half so much as she deserved. The fair artist was most ably supported by Mr. Barry Sullivan; the Prince was excellently personated by Mr. Howe, and the minor characters of the drama found highly efficient representatives in Messrs. Wm. Farren, Rogers, Tilbury, Braid, II. Corri, and Miss A. Vining.
“Colombe’s Birthday” is one of the best plays we have seen for many a day; but it was not received with the enthusiasm due to its rare merits. The public will probably esteem it more when they know it better.
After the final fall of the curtain, Miss Helen Faucit was called for, and the drama was announced for repetition by Mr. Barry Sullivan, “three times a-week until further notice.”
Mr. Robert Browning’s delightful drama will require all the aid which an enlightened press can give it, and we trust this may not be wanting. In times like these, the bare attempt to write a five-act play shows a most laudable ambition—a disregard for more pecuniary influences, which cannot but enlist the sympathies of those who are sufficiently patriotic to value any chivalrous effort to raise the public taste, and free our time-honoured national stage from its present disreputable dependance on the foreigner. But when the attempt is so greatly successful as in this instance—when a work is produced which sheds additional lustre upon our already brilliant dramatic literature, we think it the duty of those who lead public opinion to give it their most cordial support.
With a compliment to Mr. Buckstone for the taste and liberality which have hitherto characterised his management of the “little theatre in the Haymarket,” we must conclude this notice.
Reviewed:
Colombe’s Birthday (RB), performance, London, 25 April 1853.
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