Kitabı oku: «The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 19, No. 539, March 24, 1832», sayfa 4
THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS
FRANCIS THE FIRST
An Historical Drama. By Frances Ann Kemble
This extraordinary production has awakened an interest in the dramatic and literary world, scarcely equalled in our times. We know of its fortune upon the stage by report only; but, from our acquaintance with the requisites of the acting drama, we should conceive its permanence will be more problematical in the theatre than in the closet; and considering the conditions upon which dramatic fame is now attainable, we think the clever authoress will not have reason to regret these inequalities of success. That Miss Kemble's tragedy possesses points to be made, and passages that will tell on the stage, cannot be denied; but its interest for representation requires to be concentrated; it "wants a hero, an uncommon thing." It is well observed in the Quarterly Review, (by the way, the only notice yet taken of the tragedy, that merits attention,) that "the piece is crowded with characters of the greatest variety, all of considerable importance in the piece, engaged in the most striking situations, and contributing essentially to the main design. Instead of that simple unity of interest, from which modern tragic writers have rarely ventured to depart, it takes the wider range of that historic unity, which is the characteristic of our elder drama; moulds together, and connects by some common agent employed in both, incidents which have no necessary connexion; and—what in the present tragedy strikes us as on many accounts especially noticeable—unites by a fine though less perceptible moral link, remote but highly tragic events with the immediate, if we may so speak, the domestic interests of the play." This language is finely characteristic of the drama. Again, the interest has "so much Shakspearianism in the conception as to afford a remarkable indication of the noble school in which the young authoress has studied, and the high models which, with courage, in the present day, fairly to be called originality, she has dared to set before her. In fact, Francis the First is cast entirely in the mould of one of Shakspeare's historical tragedies." The drama too was written without any view to its representation, as the Quarterly reviewer has been "informed by persons who long ago perused the manuscript, several years before Miss Kemble appeared upon the stage, and at a time when she little anticipated the probability that she herself might be called upon to impersonate the conceptions of her own imagination. We believe that we are quite safe when we state that the drama, in its present form, was written when the authoress was not more than seventeen." Yet it should be added that the above statement is not made by way of extenuation; for, to say the truth, it needs no such adventitious aid.
A mere outline of the story will convince the reader that, as the Reviewer states, "the tragedy is alive from the beginning to the end;" and our extracts will we trust show the language to be bold and vigorous; the imagery sweetly poetical; and the workings of the passions which actuate the personages to be evidently of high promise if not of masterly spirit.
The tragedy opens with the recall of the Constable De Bourbon from Italy, through the supposed political intrigue, but really, the secret love, of the mother of Francis, Louisa of Savoy, Duchess of Angouleme, whom Miss Kemble calls the Queen Mother. In the second scene the Queen Mother communicates to Gonzales, a monk in disguise, but in, reality an emissary of the Court of Spain, her secret passion for De Bourbon, and her design in his recall.
Francis is introduced at a tourney, where he not only triumphs in the jousts, but over the heart of the beautiful Françoise de Foix.
Bourbon returns, and the second act opens with his interview with Renée, (or Margaret,) the daughter of the Queen Mother, and sister of Francis I., for whom he really entertains an affection. In the second scene the Queen Mother declares her passion to Bourbon, who, at first supposes he is to be tempted by Margaret's hand, but finding the Queen herself to be the lure, he indignantly rejects her. The character of Bourbon in this scene is admirably brought out. The artifice of the Queen—the scorn of Bourbon—and the Queen's meditated vengeance are powerfully wrought:
BOURBON.
I would have you know,
De Bourbon storms, and does not steal his honours
And though your highness thinks I am ambitious,
(And rightly thinks) I am not so ambitious
Ever to beg rewards that I can win,—
No man shall call me debtor to his tongue.
QUEEN (rising.)
'Tis proudly spoken; nobly too—but what—
What if a woman's hand were to bestow
Upon the Duke de Bourbon such high honours,
To raise him to such state, that grasping man,
E'en in his wildest thoughts of mad ambition,
Ne'er dreamt of a more glorious pinnacle?
BOURBON.
I'd kiss the lady's hand, an she were fair.
But if this world fill'd up the universe,—
If it could gather all the light that lives
In ev'ry other star or sun, or world;
If kings could be my subjects, and that I
Could call such pow'r and such a world my own,
I would not take it from a woman's hand.
Fame is my mistress, madam, and my sword
The only friend I ever wooed her with.
I hate all honours smelling of the distaff,
And, by this light, would as lief wear a spindle
Hung round my neck, as thank a lady's hand
For any favour greater than a kiss.—
QUEEN.
And how, if such a woman loved you,—how
If, while she crown'd your proud ambition, she
Could crown her own ungovernable passion,
And felt that all this earth possess'd, and she
Could give, were all too little for your love?
Oh good, my lord! there may be such a woman.
BOURBON (aside.)
Amazement! can it be, sweet Margaret—
That she has read our love?—impossible!—and yet—
That lip ne'er wore so sweet a smile!—it is.
That look is pardon and acceptance! (aloud)—
speak. (He falls at the Queen's feet.)
Madam, in pity speak but one word more,—
Who is that woman?
QUEEN (throwing off her veil.)
I am that woman!
BOURBON (starting up.)
You, by the holy mass! I scorn your proffers;
Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame
And shrinking womanhood! Oh shame! shame! shame!
(The Queen remains clasping her hands to her temples, while De Bourbon walks hastily up and down; after a long pause the Queen speaks.)
(The Queen summons her Confessor.)
Enter GONZALES.
Sir, we have business with this holy father;
You may retire.
BOURBON.
Confusion!
QUEEN.
Are we obeyed?
BOURBON (aside.)
Oh Margaret!—for thee! for thy dear sake!
[Rushes out. The Queen sinks into a chair.]
QUEEN.
Refus'd and scorn'd! Infamy!—the word chokes me!
How now! why stand'st thou gazing at me thus?
GONZALES.
I wait your highness' pleasure.—(Aside) So all is well—
A crown hath fail'd to tempt him—as I see
In yonder lady's eyes.
QUEEN.
Oh sweet revenge!
Thou art my only hope, my only dower,
And I will make thee worthy of a Queen.
Proud noble, I will weave thee such a web,—
I will so spoil and trample on thy pride,
That thou shalt wish the woman's distaff were
Ten thousand lances rather than itself.
Ha! waiting still, sir Priest! Well as them seest
Our venture hath been somewhat baulk'd,—'tis not
Each arrow readies swift and true the aim,—
Love having failed, we'll try the best expedient,
That offers next,—what sayst thou to revenge?
'Tis not so soft, but then 'tis very sure;
Say, shall we wring this haughty soul a little?
Tame this proud spirit, curb this untrain'd charger?
We will not weigh too heavily, nor grind
Too hard, but, having bow'd him to the earth,
Leave the pursuit to others—carrion birds,
Who stoop, but not until the falcon's gorg'd
Upon the prey he leaves to their base talons.
GONZALES.
It rests but with your grace to point the means.
QUEEN.
Where be the plans of those possessions
Of Bourbon's house?—see that thou find them straight:
His mother was my kinswoman, and I
Could aptly once trace characters like those
She used to write—enough—Guienne—Auvergne
And all Provence that lies beneath his claim,—
That claim disprov'd, of right belong to me.—
The path is clear, do thou fetch me those parchments.
[Exit Gonzales.
Not dearer to my heart will be the day
When first the crown of France deck'd my son's forehead,
Than that when I can compass thy perdition,—
When I can strip the halo of thy fame
From off thy brow, seize on the wide domains,
That make thy hatred house akin to empire,
And give thy name to deathless infamy. [Exit.
The King holds a Council to appoint a successor to the Constable in Italy. This scene is of stirring interest. The Queen goads the high-minded Bourbon nigh unto madness, and at length breaks out into open insult. Lautrec the brother of Françoise, and despised by Bourbon, is named the governor. In the ceremony Francis addresses Lautrec:—
FRANCIS.
With our own royal hand we'll buckle on
The sword, that in thy grasp must be the bulwark
And lode-star of our host. Approach.
QUEEN.
Not so.
Your pardon, sir; but it hath ever been
The pride and privilege of woman's hand
To arm the valour that she loves so well:
We would not, for your crown's best jewel, bate
One jot of our accustom'd state to-day:
Count Lautrec, we will arm thee, at our feet:
Take thou the brand which wins thy country's wars,—
Thy monarch's trust, and thy fair lady's favour.
Why, how now!—how is this!—my lord of Bourbon!
If we mistake not, 'tis the sword of office
Which graces still your baldrick;—with your leave,
We'll borrow it of you.
BOURBON (starting up.)
Ay, madam, 'tis the sword
You buckled on with your own hand, the day
You sent me forth to conquer in your cause;
And there it is;—(breaks the sword)—take it—and with it all
Th' allegiance that I owe to France; ay take it;
And with it, take the hope I breathe o'er it:
That so, before Colonna's host, your arms
Lie crush'd and sullied with dishonour's stain;
So, reft in sunder by contending factions,
Be your Italian provinces; so torn
By discord and dissension this vast empire;
So broken and disjoin'd your subjects' loves;
So fallen your son's ambition, and your pride.
QUEEN (rising.)
What ho—a guard within there—Charles of Bourbon,
I do arrest thee, traitor to the crown.
Enter Guard.
Away with yonder wide-mouth'd thunderer;
We'll try if gyves and straight confinement cannot
Check this high eloquence, and cool the brain
Which harbours such unmannerd hopes.
[Bourbon is forced out.
Dream ye, my lords, that thus with open ears,
And gaping mouths and eyes, ye sit and drink
This curbless torrent of rebellious madness.
And you, sir, are you slumbering on your throne;
Or has all majesty fled from the earth,
That women must start up, and in your council
Speak, think, and act for ye; and, lest your vassals,
The very dirt beneath your feet, rise up
And cast ye off, must women, too, defend ye?
For shame, my lords, all, all of ye, for shame,—
Off, off with sword and sceptre, for there is
No loyalty in subjects; and in kings,
No king-like terror to enforce their rights.
Meanwhile Lautrec proposes to his sister Françoise, the hand of his friend, the gallant Laval; whilst the fair maiden is importuned by Francis, who endeavours to make the poet Clement Marot the bearer of his intrigue. In a scene between Francis and the poet, the licentious impatience of the King, and the unsullied honour of Clement are finely contrasted.
FRANCIS.
I would I'd borne the scroll myself, thy words
Image her forth so fair.
CLEMENT.
Do they, indeed?
Then sorrow seize my tongue, for, look you, sir,
I will not speak of your own fame or honour,
Nor of your word to me: king's words, I find,
Are drafts on our credulity, not pledges
Of their own truth. You have been often pleas'd
To shower your royal favours on my head;
And fruitful honours from your kindly will
Have rais'd me far beyond my fondest hopes;
But had I known such service was to be
The nearest way my gratitude might take
To solve the debt, I'd e'en have given back
All that I hold of you: and, now, not e'en
Your crown and kingdom could requite to me
The cutting sense of shame that I endur'd
When on me fell the sad reproachful glance
Which told me how I stood in the esteem
Of yonder lady. Let me tell you, sir,
You've borrow'd for a moment what whole years
Cannot bestow—an honourable name.
Now fare you well; I've sorrow at my heart,
To think your majesty hath reckon'd thus
Upon my nature. I was poor before,
Therefore I can be poor again without
Regret, so I lose not mine own esteem.
FRANCIS.
Excellent.
Oh, ye are precious wooers, all of ye.
I marvel how ye ever ope your lips
Unto, or look upon that fearful thing,
A lovely woman.
CLEMENT.
And I marvel, sir,
At those who do not feel the majesty,—
By heaven, I'd almost said the holiness,—
That circles round a fair and virtuous woman:
There is a gentle purity that breathes
In such a one, mingled with chaste respect,
And modest pride of her own excellence,—
A shrinking nature, that is so adverse
To aught unseemly, that I could as soon
Forget the sacred love I owe to heav'n,
As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air
Inhal'd by such a being: than whom, my liege,
Heaven cannot look on anything more holy,
Or earth be proud of anything more fair. [Exit.
Gonzales, the monk, is despatched by the Queen to Bourbon in prison. At the door he meets Margaret, who had bribed her way to her lover, and was returning after ineffectual attempts to soothe him into submission, shame-struck at the exposure of her mother's guilt. The Queen intrusts Gonzales with a signet ring as the means of liberating him and conducting him to the royal chamber. Bourbon is immovable; and in revenge upon the Court, he falls in with a private scheme of Gonzales, which is to accept of his liberty, and set off to the Court of Spain. The undisguising of the treacherous monk is in these powerful lines:
