shall not only soften, but heighten its comic effect. We are not only
inclined to forgive Beatrice all her scornful airs, all her biting
jests, all her assumption of superiority; but they amuse and delight us
the more, when we find her, with all the headlong simplicity of a child,
falling at once into the snare laid for her affections; when we see
_her_, who thought a man of God's making not good enough for her, who
disdained to be o'ermastered by "a piece of valiant dust," stooping like
the rest of her sex, vailing her proud spirit, and taming her wild heart
to the loving hand of him whom she had scorned, flouted, and misused,
"past the endurance of a block." And we are yet more completely won by
her generous enthusiastic attachment to her cousin. When the father of
Hero believes the tale of her guilt; when Claudio, her lover, without
remorse or a lingering doubt, consigns her to shame; when the Friar
remains silent, and the generous Benedick himself knows not what to say,
Beatrice, confident in her affections, and guided only by the impulses
of her own feminine heart, sees through the inconsistency, the
impossibility of the charge, and exclaims, without a moment's
hesitation,
O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!
Schlegel, in his remarks on the play of "Much Ado about nothing," has
given us an amusing instance of that sense of reality with which we are
impressed by Shakspeare's characters. He says of Benedick and Beatrice,
as if he had known them personally, that the exclusive direction of
their pointed raillery against each other "is a proof of a growing
inclination." This is not unlikely; and the same inference would lead us
to suppose that this mutual inclination had commenced before the opening
of the play. The very first words uttered by Beatrice are an inquiry
after Benedick, though expressed with her usual arch impertinence:--
I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned from the wars, or
no?
I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars?
But how many hath he killed? for indeed I promised to eat
all of his killing.
And in the unprovoked hostility with which she falls upon him in his
absence, in the pertinacity and bitterness of her satire, there is
certainly great argument that he occupies much more of her thoughts than
she would have been willing to confess, even to herself. In the same
manner Benedick betrays a lurking partiality for his fascinating enemy;
he shows that he has looked upon her with no careless eye, when he says,
There's her cousin, (meaning Beatrice,) an' she were not
possessed with a fury, excels her as much in beauty as the
first of May does the last of December.
Infinite skill, as well as humor, is shown in making this pair of airy
beings the exact counterpart of each other; but of the two portraits,
that of Benedick is by far the most pleasing, because the independence
and gay indifference of temper, the laughing defiance of love and
marriage, the satirical freedom of expression, common to both, are more
becoming to the masculine than to the feminine character. Any woman
might love such a cavalier as Benedick, and be proud of his affection;
his valor, his wit, and his gayety sit so gracefully upon him! and his
light scoffs against the power of love are but just sufficient to render
more piquant the conquest of this "heretic in despite of beauty." But a
man might well be pardoned who should shrink from encountering such a
spirit as that of Beatrice, unless, indeed, he had "served an
apprenticeship to the taming school." The wit of Beatrice is less
good-humored than that of Benedick; or, from the difference of sex,
appears so. It is observable that the power is throughout on her side,
and the sympathy and interest on his: which, by reversing the usual
order of things, seems to excite us _against the grain_, if I may use
such an expression. In all their encounters she constantly gets the
better of him, and the gentleman's wits go off halting, if he is not
himself fairly _hors de combat_. Beatrice, woman-like, generally has the
first word, and will have the last. Thus, when they first meet, she
begins by provoking the merry warfare:--
I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick;
nobody marks you.
BENEDICK.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?
BEATRICE.
Is it possible Disdain should die, while she hath such meet
food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must
convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.
It is clear that she cannot for a moment endure his neglect, and he can
as little tolerate her scorn. Nothing that Benedick addresses to
Beatrice personally can equal the malicious force of some of her
attacks upon him: he is either restrained by a feeling of natural
gallantry, little as she deserves the consideration due to her sex, (for
a female satirist ever places herself beyond the pale of such
forbearance,) or he is subdued by her superior volubility. He revenges
himself, however, in her absence: he abuses her with such a variety of
comic invective, and pours forth his pent-up wrath with such a ludicrous
extravagance and exaggeration, that he betrays at once how deep is his
mortification, and how unreal his enmity.
In the midst of all this tilting and sparring of their nimble and fiery
wits, we find them infinitely anxious for the good opinion of each
other, and secretly impatient of each other's scorn: but Beatrice is the
most truly indifferent of the two; the most assured of herself. The
comic effect produced by their mutual attachment, which, however natural
and expected, comes upon us with all the force of a surprise, cannot be
surpassed: and how exquisitely characteristic the mutual avowal!
BENEDICK.
By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.
BEATRICE.
Do not swear by it, and eat it.
BENEDICK.
I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat
it, that says, I love not you.
BEATRICE.
Will you not eat your word?
BENEDICK.
With no sauce that can be devised to it: I protest, I love
thee.
BEATRICE.
Why, then, God forgive me!
BENEDICK.
What offence, sweet Beatrice?
BEATRICE.
You stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest, I
loved you.
BENEDICK.
And do it with all thy heart.
BEATRICE.
I love you with so much of my heart, that there is none left
to protest.
But here again the dominion rests with Beatrice, and she appears in a
less amiable light than her lover. Benedick surrenders his whole heart
to her and to his new passion. The revulsion of feeling even causes it
to overflow in an excess of fondness; but with Beatrice temper has still
the mastery. The affection of Benedick induces him to challenge his
intimate friend for her sake, but the affection of Beatrice does not
prevent her from risking the life of her lover.
The character of Hero is well contrasted with that of Beatrice, and
their mutual attachment is very beautiful and natural. When they are
both on the scene together, Hero has but little to say for herself:
Beatrice asserts the rule of a master spirit, eclipses her by her mental
superiority, abashes her by her raillery, dictates to her, answers for
her, and would fain inspire her gentle-hearted cousin with some of her
own assurance.
Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make a curtsey, and
say, "Father, as it please you;" but yet, for all that,
cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another
curtsey, and, "Father, as it please me."
But Shakspeare knew well how to make one character subordinate to
another, without sacrificing the slightest portion of its effect; and
Hero, added to her grace and softness, and all the interest which
attaches to her as the sentimental heroine of the play, possesses an
intellectual beauty of her own. When she has Beatrice at an advantage,
she repays her with interest, in the severe, but most animated and
elegant picture she draws of her cousin's imperious character and
unbridled levity of tongue. The portrait is a little overcharged,
because administered as a corrective, and intended to be overheard.
But nature never fram'd a woman's heart
Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice:
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak; she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.
URSULA.
Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
HERO.
No: not to be so odd, and from all fashions,
As Beatrice is cannot be commendable:
But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,
She'd mock me into air: O she would laugh me
Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as die with tickling.
Beatrice never appears to greater advantage than in her soliloquy after
leaving her concealment "in the pleached bower where honeysuckles,
ripened by the sun, forbid the sun to enter;" she exclaims, after
listening to this tirade against herself,--
What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
The sense of wounded vanity is lost in bitter feelings, and she is
infinitely more struck by what is said in praise of Benedick, and the
history of his supposed love for her than by the dispraise of herself.
The immediate success of the trick is a most natural consequence of the
self-assurance and magnanimity of her character; she is so accustomed to
assert dominion over the spirits of others, that she cannot suspect the
possibility of a plot laid against herself.
A haughty, excitable, and violent temper is another of the
characteristics of Beatrice; but there is more of impulse than of
passion in her vehemence. In the marriage scene where she has beheld her
gentle-spirited cousin,--whom she loves the more for those very
qualities which are most unlike her own,--slandered, deserted, and
devoted to public shame, her indignation, and the eagerness with which
she hungers and thirsts after revenge, are, like the rest of her
character, open, ardent, impetuous, but not deep or implacable. When she
bursts into that outrageous speech--
Is he not approved in the height a villain that hath
slandered, scorned, dishonored my kinswoman? O that I were a
man! What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands;
and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander,
unmitigated rancor--O God, that I were a man! I would eat
his heart in the market-place!
And when she commands her lover, as the first proof of his affection,
"to kill Claudio," the very consciousness of the exaggeration,--of the
contrast between the real good-nature of Beatrice and the fierce tenor
of her language, keeps alive the comic effect, mingling the ludicrous
with the serious. It is remarkable that, notwithstanding the point and
vivacity of the dialogue, few of the speeches of Beatrice are capable of
a general application, or engrave themselves distinctly on the memory;
they contain more mirth than matter; and though wit be the predominant
feature in the dramatic portrait, Beatrice more charms and dazzles us by
what she is than by what she _says_. It is not merely her sparkling
repartees and saucy jests, it is the soul of wit, and the spirit of
gayety in forming the whole character,--looking out from her brilliant
eyes, and laughing on her full lips that pout with scorn,--which we have
before us, moving and full of life. On the whole, we dismiss Benedick
and Beatrice to their matrimonial bonds rather with a sense of amusement
than a feeling of congratulation or sympathy; rather with an
acknowledgment that they are well-matched, and worthy of each other than
with any well-founded expectation of their domestic tranquillity. If, as
Benedick asserts, they are both "too wise to woo peaceably," it may be
added that both are too wise, too witty, and too wilful to live
peaceably together. We have some misgivings about Beatrice--some
apprehensions that poor Benedick will not escape the "predestinated
scratched face," which he had foretold to him who should win and wear
this quick-witted and pleasant-spirited lady; yet when we recollect that
to the wit and imperious temper of Beatrice is united a magnanimity of
spirit which would naturally place her far above all selfishness, and
all paltry struggles for power--when we perceive, in the midst of her
sarcastic levity and volubility of tongue, so much of generous
affection, and such a high sense of female virtue and honor, we are
inclined to hope the best. We think it possible that though the
gentleman may now and then swear, and the lady scold, the native
good-humor of the one, the really fine understanding of the other, and
the value they so evidently attach to each other's esteem, will ensure
them a tolerable portion of domestic felicity, and in this hope we leave
them.
ROSALIND.
I come now to Rosalind, whom I should have ranked before Beatrice,
inasmuch as the greater degree of her sex's softness and sensibility,
united with equal wit and intellect, give her the superiority as a
woman; but that, as a dramatic character, she is inferior in force. The
portrait is one of infinitely more delicacy and variety, but of less
strength and depth. It is easy to seize on the prominent features in the
mind of Beatrice, but extremely difficult to catch and fix the more
fanciful graces of Rosalind. She is like a compound of essences, so
volatile in their nature, and so exquisitely blended, that on any
attempt to analyze them, they seem to escape us. To what else shall we
compare her, all-enchanting as she is?--to the silvery summer clouds
which, even while we gaze on them, shift their hues and forms dissolving
into air, and light, and rainbow showers?--to the May-morning, flush
with opening blossoms and roseate dews, and "charm of earliest
birds?"--to some wild and beautiful melody, such as some shepherd boy
might "pipe to Amarillis in the shade?"--to a mountain streamlet, now
smooth as a mirror in which the skies may glass themselves, and anon
leaping and sparkling in the sunshine--or rather to the very sunshine
itself? for so her genial spirit touches into life and beauty whatever
it shines on!
But this impression, though produced by the complete development of the
character, and in the end possessing the whole fancy, is not immediate.
The first introduction of Rosalind is less striking than interesting; we
see her a dependant, almost a captive, in the house of her usurping
uncle; her genial spirits are subdued by her situation, and the
remembrance of her banished father her playfulness is under a temporary
eclipse.
I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry!
_is_ an adjuration which Rosalind needed not when once at liberty, and
sporting "under the greenwood tree." The sensibility and even
pensiveness of her demeanor in the first instance, render her archness
and gayety afterwards, more graceful and more fascinating.
Though Rosalind is a princess, she is a princess of Arcady; and
notwithstanding the charming effect produced by her first scenes, we
scarcely ever think of her with a reference to them, or associate her
with a court, and the artificial appendages of her rank. She was not
made to "lord it o'er a fair mansion," and take state upon her like the
all-accomplished Portia; but to breathe the free air of heaven, and
frolic among green leaves. She was not made to stand the siege of daring
profligacy, and oppose high action and high passion to the assaults of
adverse fortune, like Isabel; but to "fleet the time carelessly as they
did i' the golden age." She was not made to bandy wit with lords, and
tread courtly measures with plumed and warlike cavaliers, like Beatrice;
but to dance on the green sward, and "murmur among living brooks a music
sweeter than their own."
Though sprightliness is the distinguishing characteristic of Rosalind,
as of Beatrice, yet we find her much more nearly allied to Portia in
temper and intellect. The tone of her mind is, like Portia's, genial and
buoyant: she has something, too, of her softness and sentiment; there is
the same confiding abandonment of self in her affections; but the
characters are otherwise as distinct as the situations are dissimilar.
The age, the manners, the circumstance in which Shakspeare has placed
his Portia, are not beyond the bounds of probability; nay, have a
certain reality and locality. We fancy her a contemporary of the
Raffaelles and the Ariostos; the sea-wedded Venice, its merchants and
Magnificos,--the Rialto, and the long canals,--rise up before us when we
think of her. But Rosalind is surrounded with the purely ideal and
imaginative; the reality is in the characters and in the sentiments, not
in the circumstances or situation. Portia is dignified, splendid, and
romantic; Rosalind is playful, pastoral, and picturesque: both are in
the highest degree poetical, but the one is epic and the other lyric.
Every thing about Rosalind breathes of "youth and youth's sweet prime."
She is fresh as the morning, sweet as the dew-awakened blossoms, and
light as the breeze that plays among them. She is as witty, as voluble,
as sprightly as Beatrice; but in a style altogether distinct. In both,
the wit is equally unconscious; but in Beatrice it plays about us like
the lightning, dazzling but also alarming; while the wit of Rosalind
bubbles up and sparkles like the living fountain, refreshing all around.
Her volubility is like the bird's song; it is the outpouring of a heart
filled to overflowing with life, love, and joy, and all sweet and
affectionate impulses. She has as much tenderness as mirth, and in her
most petulant raillery there is a touch of softness--"By this hand, it
will not hurt a fly!" As her vivacity never lessens our impression of
her sensibility, so she wears her masculine attire without the slightest
impugnment of her delicacy. Shakspeare did not make the modesty of his
women depend on their dress, as we shall see further when we come to
Viola and Imogen. Rosalind has in truth "no doublet and hose in her
disposition." How her heart seems to throb and flutter under her page's
vest! What depth of love in her passion for Orlando! whether disguised
beneath a saucy playfulness, or breaking forth with a fond impatience,
or half betrayed in that beautiful scene where she faints at the sight
of his 'kerchief stained with his blood! Here her recovery of her
self-possession--her fears lest she should have revealed her sex--her
presence of mind, and quick-witted excuse--
I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited.
and the characteristic playfulness which seems to return so naturally
with her recovered senses,--are all as amusing as consistent. Then how
beautifully is the dialogue managed between herself and Orlando! how
well she assumes the airs of a saucy page, without throwing off her
feminine sweetness! How her wit flutters free as air over every subject!
With what a careless grace, yet with what exquisite propriety!
For innocence hath a privilege in her
To dignify arch jests and laughing eyes.
And if the freedom of some of the expressions used by Rosalind or
Beatrice be objected to, let it be remembered that this was not the
fault of Shakspeare or the women, but generally of the age. Portia,
Beatrice, Rosalind, and the rest lived in times when more importance was
attached to things than to words; now we think more of words than of
things; and happy are we in these later days of super-refinement, if we
are to be saved by our verbal morality. But this is meddling with the
province of the melancholy Jaques, and our argument is Rosalind.
The impression left upon our hearts and minds by the character of
Rosalind--by the mixture of playfulness, sensibility, and what the
French (and we for lack of a better expression) call _naivete_--is like
a delicious strain of music. There is a depth of delight, and a subtlety
of words to express that delight, which is enchanting. Yet when we call
to mind particular speeches and passages, we find that they have a
relative beauty and propriety, which renders it difficult to separate
them from the context without injuring their effect She says some of the
most charming things in the world, and some of the most humorous: but we
apply them as phrases rather than as maxims, and remember them rather
for their pointed felicity of expression and fanciful application, than
for their general truth and depth of meaning. I will give a few
instances:--
I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time--that I was
an Irish rat--which I can hardly remember.[15]
Good, my complexion! Dost thou think, though I am
caparisoned like a man, that I have a doublet and hose in my
disposition?
We dwell here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon
a petticoat.
Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well
a dark house and a whip as madmen do; and the reason why
they are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so
ordinary that the whippers are in love too.
A traveller! By my faith you have great reason to be sad. I
fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's; then
to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes
and poor hands.
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp, and wear
strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country;
be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for
making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think
you have swam in a gondola.
Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide a
minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the
thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may
be said of him that Cupid hath clapp'd him o' the shoulder,
but I warrant him heart-whole.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten
them--but not for love.
I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and
to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel,
as doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to
petticoat.
Rosalind has not the impressive eloquence of Portia, nor the sweet
wisdom of Isabella. Her longest speeches are not her best; nor is her
taunting address to Phebe, beautiful and celebrated as it is, equal to
Phebe's own description of her. The latter, indeed, is more in
earnest.[16]
Celia is more quiet and retired: but she rather yields to Rosalind, than
is eclipsed by her. She is as full of sweetness, kindness, and
intelligence, quite as susceptible, and almost as witty, though she
makes less display of wit. She is described as less fair and less
gifted; yet the attempt to excite in her mind a jealousy of her lovelier
friend, by placing them in comparison--
Thou art a fool; she robs thee of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous,
When she is gone--
fails to awaken in the generous heart of Celia any other feeling than an
increased tenderness and sympathy for her cousin. To Celia, Shakspeare
has given some of the most striking and animated parts of the dialogue;
and in particular, that exquisite description of the friendship between
her and Rosalind--
If she be a traitor,
Why, so am I; we have still slept together,
Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together,
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we were coupled and inseparable.
The feeling of interest and admiration thus excited for Celia at the
first, follows her through the whole play. We listen to her as to one
who has made herself worthy of our love; and her silence expresses more
than eloquence.
Phebe is quite an Arcadian coquette; she is a piece of pastoral poetry.
Audrey is only rustic. A very amusing effect is produced by the contrast
between the frank and free bearing of the two princesses in disguise,
and the scornful airs of the real Shepherdess. In the speeches of Phebe,
and in the dialogue between her and Sylvius, Shakspeare has anticipated
all the beauties of the Italian pastoral, and surpassed Tasso and
Guarini. We find two among the most poetical passages of the play
appropriated to Phebe; the taunting speech to Sylvius, and the
description of Rosalind in her page's costume;--which last is finer than
the portrait of Bathyllus in Anacreon.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Artemisia Gentileschi, an Italian artist of the seventeenth century,
painted one or two pictures, considered admirable as works of art, of
which the subjects are the most vicious and barbarous conceivable. I
remember one of these in the gallery of Florence, which I looked at
once, but once, and wished then, as I do now, for the privilege of
burning it to ashes.