THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.
Reading edition
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:
GONZALES. Now, That day is come, ay, and that very hour: Now shout your war-cry; now unsheath your sword; I'll join the din, and make these tottering walls Tremble and nod to hear our fierce defiance. Nay, never start, and look upon my cowl— You love not priests, De Bourbon, more than I. Off, vile denial of my manhood's pride; Off, off to hell! where thou wast first invented, Now once again I stand and breathe a knight. Nay, stay not gazing thus: it is Garcia, Whose name hath reach'd thee long ere now, I trow; Whom thou hast met in deadly fight full oft, When France and Spain join'd in the battle field. Beyond the Pyrenean boundary That guards thy land, are forty thousand men: Their unfurl'd pennons flout fair France's sun, And wanton in the breezes of her sky: Impatient halt they there; their foaming steeds, Pawing the huge and rock-built barrier, That bars their further course—they wait for thee: For thee whom France hath injur'd and cast off; For thee, whose blood it pays with shameful chains, More shameful death; for thee, whom Charles of Spain Summons to head his host, and lead them on To conquest and to glory.
QUEEN. Didst ever look upon the dead? GONZALES. Ay, madam, Full oft; and in each calm or frightful guise Death comes in,—on the bloody battle-field; When with each gush of black and curdling life A curse was uttered,—when the pray'rs I've pour'd, Have been all drown'd with din of clashing arms— And shrieks and shouts, and loud artillery, That shook the slipp'ry earth, all drunk with gore— I've seen it, swoll'n with subtle poison, black And staring with concentrate agony— When ev'ry vein hath started from its bed, And wreath'd like knotted snakes, around the brows That, frantic, dash'd themselves in tortures down Upon the earth. I've seen life float away On the faint sound of a far tolling bell— Leaving its late warm tenement as fair, As though 'twere th' incorruptible that lay Before me—and all earthly taint had vanish'd With the departed spirit.
Laval returns from Italy to claim his bride. In the earlier part of the play, a hint is given of Gonzales' rancorous hate of Laval, the undercurrent of which is now revealed. Gonzales, beneath the seal of confession, obtains the secret of the crime of Françoise. In her presence, as the betrothed Laval rushes to embrace his bride, he taunts him with her guilt. The wretched Françoise, in vain conjured to assert her innocence, stabs herself. The King had been followed thither by the Queen; both now appear. Gonzales riots revenge in one of the most vigorous portions of the drama:
GONZALES. Look on thy bride! look on that faded thing, That e'en the tears thy manhood showers go fast, And bravely, cannot wake to life again! I call all nature to bear witness here— As fair a flower once grew within my home, As young, as lovely, and as dearly lov'd— I had a sister once, a gentle maid— The only daughter of my father's house, Round whom our ruder loves did all entwine, As round the dearest treasure that we own'd. She was the centre of our souls' affections— She was the bud, that underneath our strong And sheltering arms, spread over her, did blow. So grew this fair, fair girl, till envious fate Brought on the hour when she was withered. Thy father, sir—now mark—for 'tis the point And moral of my tale—thy father, then, Was, by my sire, in war ta'en prisoner— Wounded almost to death, he brought him home, Shelter'd him,—cherish'd him,—and, with a care, Most like a brother's, watch'd his bed of sickness, Till ruddy health, once more through all his veins Sent life's warm stream in strong returning tide. How think ye he repaid my father's love? From her dear home he lur'd my sister forth, And, having robb'd her of her treasur'd honour, Cast her away, defil'd,—despoil'd—forsaken— The daughter of a high and ancient line— The child of so much love—she died—she died— Upon the threshold of that home, from which My father spurn'd her—over whose pale corse I swore to hunt, through life, her ravisher— Nor ever from by bloodhound track desist, Till line and deep atonement had been made— Honour for honour given—blood for blood.
"The Queen orders Gonzales to death; but the monk accuses her of the intended murder of Françoise, and produces her written order to that effect. The King can no longer be blind to his mother's crimes; she is disgraced, degraded, and condemned to pass the rest of her days in a convent."
Here the fourth act, and the acting play closes. In the fifth De Bourbon reappears. Lautrec proposes to join him, and assassinate the King, in revenge for the ruin of Françoise. The memorable battle of Pavia ensues, and terminates with the death of the King and the triumph of Bourbon.
Triboulet, the jester of the Court of Francis, is introduced with some pleasantry, by way of relief to the darker deeds.
We cannot conclude this imperfect sketch better than by the following judicious observations from the Quarterly Review: "How high Miss Kemble's young aspirings have been—what conceptions she has formed to herself of the dignity of tragic poetry—may be discovered from this most remarkable work; at this height she must maintain herself, or soar a still bolder flight. The turmoil, the hurry, the business, the toil, even the celebrity of a theatric life must yield her up at times to that repose, that undistracted retirement within her own mind, which, however brief, is essential to the perfection of the noblest work of the imagination—genuine tragedy. Amidst her highest successes on the stage, she must remember that the world regards her as one to whom a still higher part is fallen. She must not be content with the fame of the most extraordinary work which has ever been produced by a female at her age, (for as such we scruple not to describe her Francis the First,)—with having sprung at once to the foremost rank, not only of living actors but of modern dramatists;—she must consider that she has given us a pledge and earnest for a long and brightening course of distinction, in the devotion of all but unrivalled talents in two distinct, though congenial, capacities, to the revival of the waning glories of the English theatre."