



Produced by Gary R. Young





A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON

By Robert Browning




Transcriber's comments on the preparation of this e-text:

Closing brackets i.e. "]" have been added to some of the stage
directions.

Leading blanks are reproduced from the printed text.  Eg.:

     GUENDOLEN.  Where are you taking me?
     TRESHAM.                              He fell just here.





INTRODUCTORY NOTE


ROBERT BROWNING stands, in respect to his origin and his career, in
marked contrast to the two aristocratic poets beside whose dramas his
"Blot in the 'Scutcheon" is here printed.  His father was a bank clerk
and a dissenter at a time when dissent meant exclusion from Society; the
poet went neither to one of the great public schools nor to Oxford or
Cambridge; and no breath of scandal touched his name. Born in London in
1812, he was educated largely by private tutors, and spent two years at
London University, but the influence of his father, a man of wide
reading and cultivated tastes, was probably the most important element
in his early training.  He drew well, was something of a musician, and
wrote verses from an early age, though it was the accidental reading of
a volume of Shelley which first kindled his real inspiration.  This
indebtedness is beautifully acknowledged in his first published poem,
"Pauline" (1833).

Apart from frequent visits to Italy, there is little of incident to
chronicle in Browning's life, with the one great exception of his more
than fortunate marriage in 1846 to Elizabeth Barrett, the greatest of
English poetesses.

Browning's dramatic period extended from 1835 to the time of his
marriage, and produced some nine plays, not all of which, however, were
intended for the stage.  "Paracelsus," the first of the series, has been
fairly described as a "conversational drama," and "Pippa Passes," though
it has been staged, is essentially a poem to read.  The historical
tragedy of "Strafford" has been impressively performed, but "King Victor
and King Charles," "The Return of the Druses," "Colombe's Birthday," "A
Soul's Tragedy," and "Luria," while interesting in many ways, can hardly
be regarded as successful stage-plays.  "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon" was
performed at Drury Lane, but its chances of a successful run were
spoiled by the jealousy of Macready, the manager.

The main cause of Browning's weakness as a playwright lay in the fact
that he was so much more interested in psychology than in action. But in
the present tragedy this defect is less prominent than usual, and in
spite of flaws in construction, it reaches a high pitch of emotional
intensity, the characters are drawn with vividness, and the lines are
rich in poetry.




A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON

A TRAGEDY

(1843)


     DRAMATIS PERSONAE
     MILDRED TRESHAM.
     GUENDOLEN TRESHAM.
     THOROLD, Earl Tresham.
     AUSTIN TRESHAM.
     HENRY, Earl Mertoun.
     GERARD, and other retainers of Lord Tresham.

     Time, 17--




ACT I

          SCENE I.--The Interior of a Lodge in Lord Tresham's Park.
          Many Retainers crowded at the window, supposed to command
          a view of the entrance to his Mansion.

          GERARD, the Warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons,
          etc.

     FIRST RETAINER.  Ay, do! push, friends, and then you'll push down me!
     --What for?  Does any hear a runner's foot
     Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry?
     Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant?
     But there's no breeding in a man of you
     Save Gerard yonder:  here's a half-place yet,
     Old Gerard!

     GERARD.  Save your courtesies, my friend.  Here is my place.

     SECOND RETAINER.  Now, Gerard, out with it!
     What makes you sullen, this of all the days
     I' the year?  To-day that young rich bountiful
     Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they match
     With our Lord Tresham through the country-side,
     Is coming here in utmost bravery
     To ask our master's sister's hand?

     GERARD.                             What then?

     SECOND RETAINER.  What then?  Why, you, she speaks to, if she meets
     Your worship, smiles on as you hold apart
     The boughs to let her through her forest walks,
