MAD FOLK IN COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.
(vi.) THE PRETENDERS.
“I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I
know a hawk from a handsaw.”
(“_Hamlet._”)
Last of all in the long train of madmen which has now almost passed
us come the Pretenders—characters who have feigned insanity for
some purpose. We need not, of course, devote much space here to
pseudo-lunatics like Morose in “The Silent Woman,” Bellamont in
“Northward Ho,” Malvolio and Christopher Sly. These are all sane enough
and have no wish to be thought otherwise. They are victimised by the
pretences of others, and shew none of the signs which were supposed
to characterise insanity. Thus they have small interest for us and no
place in the present section.
A somewhat different example may be taken from Day’s “Law
Tricks,”[167:1] where Polymetes, son of the reigning Duke, pretends, on
his father’s sudden return from a long journey, to be deeply immersed
in his studies, in order to avert the Duke’s reproaches for his neglect
and loose living. His page, a boy “worth his weight in pearl,” comes
to the Duke with a cock-and-bull story about an “English poet” who is
with the Prince. This is presently supplemented by Julio, who explains
that “the boy is lunatic.” His description of the supposed origin
of the lunacy is most interesting. “Coming abruptly to the Prince’s
chamber about some ordinary service, I found him in his study and a
company of bottle-nosed devils dancing the Irish hay about him, which
on the sudden so started the poor boy as he clean lost his wits, and
ever since talks thus idle as your Excellence hath heard him.” The
“studies” of Polymetes, it later appears, are in astrology!
The “true Pretenders”—if the term may be allowed—have on the other
hand considerable interest, and are well worthy of attention. Among
other things we may take into consideration the intention with which
they are portrayed, how far they fulfil that intention, how closely
they counterfeit insanity—if any such attempt is really made,—and
what worth they have as characters—how nearly, in other words, they
resemble men and women.
Beginning at the bottom of the scale, let us take Middleton’s
“Changeling,” a play already studied, in which Antonio, the
“Changeling” of the piece, counterfeits idiocy, and Franciscus his
companion, pretends to be a madman. Their devices, which form the
substance of a somewhat coarse underplot, are not successful. This
would surprise nobody; the intention of the author (or authors) being
mainly comic relief, little care is shewn and the characters are
almost worthless. Franciscus says in the last scene, “I was changed
from a little wit to be stark mad”; and Antonio, “I was changed too
from a little ass as I was to a great fool as I am!”[169:1] The last
statement we can take literally. For, after all, idiocy is fairly easy
to counterfeit, and he would be a fool indeed who could not do at least
equally well. Franciscus is rather better, and might really be very
effective on the stage. He is supposed to have “run mad for love,” and
was a “pretty poet” till the muses forsook him. He discourses most
appropriately of “Titania” and “flowery banks,” invokes his imaginary
mistress, and pledges her in imaginary wine.[169:2] He succeeds in
extorting the pity of Isabella with his ravings. The least spark
sets him alight; the mere mention of “Luna” is sufficient for him to
rhapsodise upon, and he works himself up to a state of violence which
has to be calmed by the whip. His snatches of song are equally true
to life. But he does not re-appear for any length of time after this
scene, and he never again reaches the same level of excellence. Apart
from this skill in counterfeit Franciscus appears to have no character
worthy of the name, and is therefore of small importance.
Something has already been said of the shopkeeper’s wife, Tormiella,
of Dekker’s tragi-comedy “Match me in London”; here, as in “The
Changeling,” and as in many another minor play, the feigned madness is
utilised for the plot and makes little difference to the character.
We have seen that Dekker has shewn considerable skill in weaving this
pretended madness into the plot as well as in introducing it at a
favourable place. But the scene is so short, and its place in the play
of such relatively small importance, that we need do no more here than
repeat that the “feigning” is well done and serves its purpose.
Space may also be found for Dol in Jonson’s “Alchemist.” She goes mad
for the benefit of Sir Epicure Mammon in the fourth act of the play,
but unfortunately the learned dramatist infuses little probability into
her feigning. She is not so successful a lunatic as Quarlous, though
her task is certainly less simple. She appears before Mammon “in her
fit of raving” to discourse of “Alexander’s death,” the “communion of
vowels and consonants,” “Pythagoras,” “the tongue of Eber and Javan”
and so forth. The alleged reason for this is given us earlier in the
play in a speech by Face already quoted.[170:1]
In the “Honest Whore,”[171:1] Bellafront, for her own purposes,
feigns madness. Her pretence is skilful, though Friar Anselmo does not
consider her dangerous. “How now, huswife,” he says good-humouredly,
“whether gad you?” “A-nutting forsooth,” answers Bellafront, “How do
you, gaffer? How do you, gaffer? there’s a French curt’sy for you too.”
“Do you not know me?” she enquires. “No,” reply all. “What are they?”
asks Anselmo, “come tell me, what are they?” Her answer reminds us of
“Hamlet.” “They’re fish-wives,” she says, “will you buy any gudgeons?”
At a later stage in the proceedings, she is anxious to tell everyone’s
fortunes and demands sugar-plums as a reward. This madness, however, is
not without method, for the fortune-telling leads to discoveries and
explanations. When at last Matheo, whom Bellafront wishes to marry,
declares that if her wits are restored he will consent, she at once
reveals her sanity:
“Matheo, thou art mine.
I am not mad; but put on this disguise
Only for you.”
We now come without any further slips of prolixity to the only two
pretenders for whom we can entertain the least enthusiasm—to the
classical examples of feigned madness in English Drama, Edgar and
Hamlet.
Edgar is represented as simulating “Poor Tom” of Bedlam, one of the
lunatics who roamed about the countryside, possessed by the “foul
fiend,” and dependent upon such charity as kindly hearts might prompt.
How well he counterfeits need only be suggested. It is, after all, an
easy matter for an author to portray feigned madness for a scene or two
with something like accuracy. But what a genius is required to lead his
pretender, so to say, “through fire and through flame,” place him in
all kinds of situations, cause him to change his disguise from lunatic
to peasant, then back to lunatic again, marking all the time by subtle
touches the most delicate shades of expression. The burthen of his cry,
as one would expect, is “Poor Tom’s a-cold. . . . The foul fiend follows
me.” Persistently he raves and consistently, but at times “the natural
touch” overcomes him,
“My tears begin to take his part so much
They mar my counterfeiting.”[172:1]
An even more wonderful effect of art is pointed out by Mr. Cowden
Clarke. Gloster, now blind, would seem to recognise amidst the wild
ravings of his son “some tone or inflection in Edgar’s voice . . . and
he links (his son’s conduct) with that of Lear’s daughters. Edgar,
instinctively feeling this, perseveres with his Bedlam cry, to drown
the betrayed sound of his own voice and maintain the impression of his
assumed character.” If this is really Shakespeare’s art and not the
imagination of the critic—as some might think it to be—it is but one
more illustration of his dramatic genius.
Apart from such details as these, the character of Edgar, especially
during his feigned madness, is a genuine masterpiece. At times during
the play he has certainly some of the frigidity—closely allied to
a quality which is dangerously like self-righteousness—which marks
Shakespeare’s own Isabella. But in these scenes of madness he is all
tenderness and forgiveness. His compassion on his blinded father we
feel the more keenly in contrast with Gloster’s own conduct and the
ingratitude of Lear’s children. Edgar is Shakespeare at his best and
truest—he rings true—we may even say that he stands for Truth itself.
And thus his feigned madness is no ordinary stage-device requisitioned
by an unmanageable plot. It has uses connected with the plot, indeed,
but beyond these it brings out characteristics of the man which endear
him to the most hostile spectator.
Lastly we come to Hamlet and his feigned madness. Like most of the
Pretenders he is introduced into a play where real madness also plays
a part, but unlike any of them he is actually in a condition verging
on madness. Possibly it is by a kind of self-preservative instinct
that he chooses that disguise for his purpose of deceiving the King.
Fortunately he is able to prevent his mind actually giving way, and so
he defeats the King’s designs, seeing “a cherub that sees them.” He
shrinks from nothing; his demeanour towards those whom he loves, and
especially towards Ophelia, fully bears out his supposed affliction. He
appears with doublet all unbraced,
“No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d,
Ungarter’d and down-gyved to his ancle;
Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,
And with a look so piteous in purport
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors.”[174:1]
His attitude and his words seem to confirm the judgment of Polonius:
“This is the very ecstasy of love.”[174:2] He is caught in no trap. The
presence of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern does not suffice to
“Get from him why he puts on this confusion
Grating so harshly all his days of quiet
With turbulent and dangerous lunacy.”[174:3]
Only the faithful Horatio knows that; elsewhere Hamlet “keeps aloof”
from the topic with true madman’s instinct, whenever his state is
mentioned. The King pretends to Polonius that while the disease is not
so serious as it seems, only Hamlet’s absence from Denmark can prevent
it from becoming so. In this way he gets him removed. But throughout
the play, whether in his attempts to deceive the Court or in his
foiling of the King’s design, Hamlet acts with what might be called the
craft of true madness.
It is unnecessary to insist on the complexity and the lifelike truth
of Hamlet’s character. No personage in the world’s drama has excited
more criticism. The Prince of Denmark is on all sides acknowledged to
be supreme. And for that reason it is needless to attempt to prove what
otherwise would be the main contention of this chapter—that Hamlet is
in every way the greatest of the Pretenders whom we have studied, and,
indeed, of the madmen, true and false, who form the subject of this
essay.
FOOTNOTES:
[167:1] Act iv., scene 2.
[169:1] “The Changeling,” v., 3.
[169:2] Ibid., iii., 3.
[170:1] Page 14, note 2.
[171:1] “Honest Whore,” v., 13.
[172:1] “King Lear,” iii., 6, 63-4.
[174:1] “Hamlet,” ii., 1, 78, etc.
[174:2] Ibid., l. 102.
[174:3] Ibid., iii., 1, 2-4.