Having thus very briefly passed in review the various plays that Lyly
bequeathed to posterity[127], we must say a few words in conclusion on
their main characteristics, the advance they made upon their
predecessors, and their influence on later drama.
[127] I have said nothing of the _Mayde's Metamorphosis_, as most
critics are agreed in assigning it to some unknown author.
In Lyly, it is worth noticing, England has her first professional
dramatist. Unlike those who had gone before him he was no amateur, he
wrote for his living, and he wrote as one interested in the technical
side of the theatre. They had played with drama, producing indeed
interesting experiments, but accomplishing only what one would expect
from men who merely took a lay interest in the theatre, and who
possessed a certain knowledge, scholastic rather than technical, of the
methods of the classical playwrights. He, having probably learnt at
Oxford all there was to be known concerning the drama of the ancient
world, came to London, and, definitely deciding to embark upon the
dramatist's career, saw and studied such _moralities_ and plays as were
to be seen, aided and directed by the experience and knowledge of his
patron: finding in the _moralities_, allegory; in the plays of Udall and
Stevenson, farce; in _Damon and Pithias_, a romantic play upon a
classical theme; and in Gascoigne's _Supposes_, brilliant prose
dialogue. That he was induced to make such a study, and that he was
enabled to carry it out so thoroughly, was due partly, I think, to his
peculiar financial position. As secretary of de Vere, and later as
Vice-master of St Paul's School, he was independent of the actual
necessity of bread-winning, which forced even Shakespeare to pander to
the garlic-eating multitude he loathed, and wrung from him the cry,
"Alas, 'tis true I have been here and there
And made myself a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear" ...
But, on the other hand, neither post was sufficiently remunerative to
secure for him the comforts, still less the luxuries, of life. His
income required supplementing, if only for the sake of meeting his
tobacco bill, though I have a strong suspicion that the bills sent in to
him served no more useful purpose than to light his pipe. But, however,
adopting the theatre as his profession, he would naturally make a
serious study of dramatic art, and, having no need for constantly
filling the maw of present necessity, he could undertake such a study
thoroughly and at his leisure. And to this cause his peculiar importance
in the history of the Elizabethan stage is mainly due. Next to Jonson,
the most learned of all the dramatists, yet possessing little of their
poetical capacity, he set them the most conspicuous example in technique
and stage-craft, in the science of play-writing, which they would
probably have been far too busy to acquire for themselves. Lyly's eight
dramas formed the rough-hewn but indispensable foundation-stone of the
Elizabethan edifice. Spenser has been called the poet's poet, Lyly was
in his own days the playwright's dramatist.
Of his dramatic construction we have already spoken. We have noticed
that he introduced the art of disguise; that he varied his action by
songs, accompanied perhaps with pantomime. Mr Bond suggests further that
he probably did much to extend the use of stage properties and
scenery[128]. But the real importance of his plays lies in their plot
construction and character drawing, points which as yet we have only
touched upon. The way in which he manages the action of his plays shows
a skill quite unapproached by anything that had gone before, and more
pronounced than that of many which came after. Too often indeed we have
dialogues, scenes, and characters which have no connexion with the
development of the story; but when we consider how frequently
Shakespeare sinned in this respect, we cannot blame Lyly for introducing
a philosophical discussion between Plato and Aristotle, as in
_Campaspe_, or those merry altercations between his pages which added so
much colour and variety to his plays. However many interruptions there
were, he never allowed his audience to forget the main business, as
Dekker, for example, so frequently did. Nowhere, again, in Lyly's plays
are the motives inadequate to support the action, as they were in the
majority of dramas previous to 1580. Even Alexander's somewhat tame
surrender of Campaspe is quite in accordance with his royal dignity and
magnanimity; and, moreover, we are warned in the third act that the
King's love is slight and will fade away at the first blast of the war
trumpet, for as he tells us he is "not so far in love with Campaspe as
with Bucephalus, if occasion serve either of conflict or of
conquest[129]." In _Endymion_ the motives are perhaps most skilfully
displayed, and lead most naturally on to the action, and in this play,
also, Lyly is perhaps most successful in creating that dramatic
excitement which is caused by working up to an apparent deadlock (due to
the intrigues of Tellus), and which is made to resolve itself and
disappear in the final act. Closely allied with the development of
action by the presentation of motives is the weaving of the plot. And
in this Lyly is not so satisfactory, though, of course, far in advance
of his predecessors. A steady improvement, however, is discernible as he
proceeds. In the earlier plays the page element does little more than
afford comic relief: the encounters between Manes and his friends, and
between Manes and his master, can hardly be dignified by the name of
plot. It is in _Midas_, as I have already suggested, that this farcical
under-current displays incident and action of its own, turning as it
does upon the relations of the pages with Motto and the theft of the
beard. Here again the comic scenes, now connected together for the first
time, are also united with the main story. But the page element by no
means represents Lyly's only attempt at creating an underplot. It will
be seen from the story of _Endymion_ related above that in that play our
author is not contented with a single passion-nexus, if the expression
may be allowed, that of Tellus, Cynthia, and Endymion, but he gives us
another, that of Eumenides and Semele, which has no real connexion with
the action, but which seriously threatens to interrupt it at one point.
Other interests are hinted at, rather than developed, by the infatuation
of Sir Tophas for Dipsas, and by the history of the latter's husband.
Though _Midas_ is more advanced in other ways, it displays nothing like
the complexity of _Endymion_, and it is moreover, as I have said, cut in
two by the want of connexion between the incident of the golden touch
and that of the ass's ears. Lastly, in _Love's Metamorphosis_, which is
without the element of farce, the relations between the nymphs and the
shepherds complete that underplot of passion which is hinted at in
_Sapho_, in the evident fancy which Mileta shows for Phao, and developed
as we have just noticed in _Endymion_.
[128] Bond, II. pp. 265-266.
[129] _Campaspe_, Act III. Sc. IV. 31.
In this plot construction and interweaving, Lyly had no models except
the classics, and we may, therefore, say that his work in this direction
was almost entirely original. The last-mentioned play was produced at
Court some time before 1590, and we cannot doubt, was attended by our
greatest dramatist. At any rate the lessons which Shakespeare learnt
from Lyly in the matter of plot complication are visible in the
_Midsummer Night's Dream_, which was produced in 1595[130]. The
intricate mechanism of this play, reminding us with its four plots (the
Duke and Hippolyta, the lovers, the mechanics, and the fairies) of the
_miracle_ with its imposing but unimportant divinities in the Rood
gallery, its main stage whereon moved human characters, its Crypt
supplying the rude comic element in the shape of devils, and its angels
who moved from one level to another welding the whole together, was far
beyond Lyly's powers, but it was only possible even for Shakespeare
after a thorough study of Lyly's methods.
[130] Sidney Lee, _Life_, p. 151.
As I have previously pointed out, Lyly was not very successful in the
matter of character drawing. Never, even for a moment, is passion
allowed to disturb the cultured placidity of the dialogue. The
conditions under which his plays were produced may in part account for
this. The children of Paul's could hardly be expected to display much
light and shade of emotion in their acting, certainly depth of passion
was beyond their scope. But the fault, I think, lies rather in the
dramatist than in the actors. Lyly's mind was in all probability
altogether of too superficial a nature for a sympathetic analysis of the
human soul. That at least is how I interpret his character. All his work
was more "art than nature," some of it was "more labour than art." On
the technical side his dramatic advance is immense, but we may look in
vain in his dramas for any of that appreciation of the elemental facts
of human nature which can alone create enduring art. In their
characterization, Lyly's plays do little more than form a link between
Shakespeare and the old _morality_. This comes out most strongly in
their peculiar method of character grouping. By a very natural process
the _moral_ type is split up with the intention of giving it life and
variety. Thus we have those groups of pages, of maids-in-waiting, of
shepherds, of deities, etc., which are so characteristic of Lyly's
plays. There is no real distinction between page and page, and between
nymph and nymph; but their merry conversations give a piquancy and
colour to the drama which make up for, and in part conceal, the absence
of character. All that was necessary for the creation of character was
to fit these pieces of the _moral_ type together again in a different
way, and to breathe the spirit of genius into the new creation. We can
see Lyly feeling towards this solution of the problem in his portrayal
of Gunophilus, the clown of _The Woman in the Moon_. This character,
which anticipates the immortal clowns of Shakespeare, is formed by an
amalgamation of the pages in the previous plays into one comic figure.
But Lyly also attempts to create single figures, in addition to these
group characters which for the most part have little to do with the
action. Often he helps out his poverty of invention by placing
descriptions of one character in the mouth of another. "How stately she
passeth bye, yet how soberly!" exclaims Alexander watching Campaspe at a
distance, "a sweet consent in her countenance with a chaste disdaine,
desire mingled with coyness, and I cannot tell how to tearme it, a curst
yeelding modestie!"--an excellent piece of description, and one which is
very necessary for the animation of the shadowy Campaspe. At times
however Lyly can dispense with such adventitious aids. Pipenetta, the
fascinating little wench in _Midas_ and one of our dramatist's most
successful creations, needs no other illumination than her own pert
speeches. Diogenes again is an effective piece of work. But both these
are minor characters who therefore receive no development, and if we
look at the more important personages of Lyly's portrait gallery, we
must agree with Mr Bond[131] that Tellus is the best. She is a character
which exhibits considerable development, and she is also Lyly's only
attempt to embody the evil principle in woman--a hint for the
construction of that marvellous portrait of another Scottish queen, the
Lady Macbeth, which Lyly just before his death in 1606 may have seen
upon the stage.
[131] Bond, II. p. 284.
On the whole Lyly is most successful when he is drawing women, which was
only as it should be, if we allow that the feminine element is the very
pivot of true comedy. This he saw, and it is because he was the first to
realise it and to grapple with the difficulties it entailed that the
title of father of English comedy may be given him without the least
reserve or hesitation. Sapho the haughty but amorous queen, Mileta the
mocking but tender Court lady, Gallathea the shy provincial lass, and
Pipenetta the saucy little maid-servant, fill our stage for the first
time in history with their tears and their laughter, their scorn of the
mere male and their "curst yeelding modestie," their bold sallies and
their bashful blushes. Nothing like this had as yet been seen in English
literature. I have already pointed out why it was that woman asserted
her place in art at this juncture. Yet, although the revolution would
have come about in any case, all honour must be paid to the man who saw
it coming, anticipated it, and determined its fortunes by the creation
of such a number of feminine characters from every class in the social
scale. And if it be true that he only gave us "their outward husk of wit
and raillery and flirtation," if it be true that his interpretation of
woman was superficial, that he had no understanding for the soul behind
the social mask, for the emotional and passionate current, now a quiet
stream, now a raging torrent, beneath the layer of etiquette, his work
was none the less important for that.
"Blood and brain and spirit, three
Join for true felicity."
Blood his girls had and brain, but his genius was not divine enough to
bestow upon them the third essential. Yet they were alive, they were
flesh, they had wit, and in this they are undoubtedly the forerunners
not only of Shakespeare's heroines but of Congreve's and of
Meredith's--to mention the three greatest delineators of women in our
language. They are the Undines in the story of our literature, beautiful
and seductive, complete in everything but soul!
While realising that woman should be the real protagonist in comedy,
Lyly also appreciated the fact that skilful dialogue and brilliant
repartee are only less important, and that for this purpose prose was
more suitable than verse. Gascoigne's _Supposes_ was his model in both
these innovations, and yet he would undoubtedly have adopted them of his
own accord without any outside suggestion. And since _The Supposes_ was
a translation, _Campaspe_ deserves the title of the first purely English
comedy in prose. The _Euphues_ had given him a reputation for sprightly
and witty dialogue, he himself was possibly known at Court as a
brilliant conversationalist, and therefore when he came to write plays
he would naturally do all in his power to maintain and to improve his
fame in this respect. With his acute sense of form he would recognise
how clumsy had been the efforts of previous dramatists, and he knew also
how impossible it would be, in verse form, to write witty dialogue, up
to date in the subjects it handled. He therefore determined to use
prose, and, though he manipulates it somewhat awkwardly in his earlier
plays while still under the influence of the euphuistic fashion, he
steadily improves, as he gains experience of the function and needs of
dialogue, until at length he succeeds in creating a thoroughly
serviceable dramatic instrument. This departure was a great event in
English literature. Shakespeare was too much of a poet ever to dispense
altogether with verse, but he appreciated the virtue of prose as a
vehicle of comic dialogue, and he uses it occasionally even in his
earliest comedy, _Love's Labour's Lost_. Ben Jonson on the other
hand--perhaps more than any other Lyly's spiritual heir--wrote nearly
all his comedies in prose. And it is not fanciful I think to see in
Lyly's pointed dialogue, tinged with euphuism, the forerunner of
Congreve's sparkling conversation and of the epigrammatic writing of our
modern English playwrights.
Such are the main characteristics of Lyly's dramatic genius. To attempt
to trace his influence upon later writers would be to write a history of
the Elizabethan stage. In the foregoing remarks I have continually
indicated Shakespeare's debt to him in matters of detail. _The Midsummer
Night's Dream_ is from beginning to end full of reminiscences from the
plays of the earlier dramatist, transmuted, vitalized, and beautified by
the genius of our greatest poet. It is as if he had witnessed in one
day a representation of all Lyly's dramatic work, and wearied by the
effort of attention had fallen asleep and dreamt this _Dream_. _Love's
Labour's Lost_ is only less indebted to Lyly; indeed nearly all
Shakespeare's plays, certainly all his comedies, exhibit the same
influence: for he knew his Lyly through and through, and his
assimilative power was unequalled. Shakespeare might almost be said to
be a combination of Marlowe and Lyly plus that indefinable something
which made him the greatest writer of all time. Marlowe, his master in
tragedy, was also his master in poetry, in that strength of conception
and beauty of execution which together make up the soul of drama. Lyly,
besides the lesson he taught him in comedy, was also his model for
dramatic construction, brilliancy of dialogue, technical skill, and all
that comprises the science of play-making--things which were perhaps of
more moment to him, with his scanty classical knowledge, than Marlowe's
lesson which he had little need of learning. And what we have said of
Shakespeare may be said of Elizabethan drama as a whole. "Marlowe's
place," writes Mr Havelock Ellis, "is at the heart of English poetry";
his "high, astounding terms" took the world of his day by storm, his
gift to English literature was the gift of sublime beauty, of
imagination, and passion. Lyly could lay claim to none of these, but his
contribution was perhaps of more importance still. He did the
spade-work, and did it once and for all. With his knowledge of the
Classics and of previous English experiments he wrote plays that,
compared with what had gone before, were models of plot construction, of
the development of action, and even of characterization. Moreover he was
before Marlowe by some nine years in the production of true romantic
drama, and in his treatment of women. In spite, therefore, of Marlowe's
immense superiority to him on the aesthetic side, Lyly must be placed
above the author of _Edward II._ in dynamical importance.
In connexion with Lyly's influence the question of the exact nature of
his dramatic productions is worth a moment's consideration. Are they
masques or dramas? and if the latter are they strictly speaking
classical or romantic in form? As I have already suggested, the answer
to the first half of this question is that they were neither and both.
In Lyly's day drama had not yet been differentiated from masque, and his
plays, therefore, partook of the nature of both. Produced as they were
for the Court, it was natural that they should possess something of that
atmosphere of pageantry, music, and pantomime which we now associate
with the word masque. But Elizabeth was economical and preferred plain
drama to the expensive masque displays, though she was ready to enjoy
the latter, if they were provided for her by Leicester or some other
favourite. Lyly's work therefore never advanced very far in the
direction of the masque, though in its complimentary allegories it had
much in common with it. The question as to whether it should be
described as classical rather than as romantic is not one which need
detain us long. It is interesting however as it again brings out the
peculiarity of Lyly's position. It may indeed be claimed for him that
all sections of Elizabethan drama, except perhaps tragedy, are to be
found in embryo in his plays. I have said that he was the first of the
romanticists, but he was no less the first important writer of classical
drama. _Gorbuduc_ and its like had been tedious and clumsy imitations,
and, moreover, they had imitated Seneca, who was a late classic. Lyly,
though the Greek dramatists were unknown to him, had probably studied
Aristotle's _Poetics_, and was certainly acquainted with Horace's _Ars
Poetica_, and with the comedies of Terence and Plautus. He was,
therefore, an authority on matters dramatic, and could boast of a
learning on the subject of technique which few of his contemporaries or
his successors could lay claim to, and which they were only too ready to
glean second-hand. And yet, though he was wise enough to appreciate all
that the classics could teach him, he was a romanticist at heart, or
perhaps it would be better to say that he threw the beautiful and
loosely fitting garment of romanticism over the classical frame of his
dramas. And even in the matter of this frame he was not always orthodox.
He bowed to the tradition of the unities: but he frequently broke with
it; in _The Woman_ alone does he confine the action to one day; and,
though he is more careful to observe unity of place, imaginary transfers
occurring in the middle of scenes indicate his rebellion against this
restriction. Nevertheless, when all is said, he remains, with the
exception of Jonson, the most classical of all Elizabethan playwrights,
and just as he anticipates the 17th and 18th centuries in his prose, so
in his dramas we may discover the first competent handling of those
principles and restrictions which, more clearly enunciated by Ben
Jonson, became iron laws for the post-Elizabethan dramatists.
It is this "balance between classic precedent and romantic freedom[132]"
that constitutes his supreme importance, not only in Elizabethan
literature, but even in the history of subsequent English drama. From
Lyly we may trace the current of romanticism, through Shakespeare, to
Goethe and Victor Hugo; in Lyly also we may see the first embodiment of
that classical tradition which even Shakespeare's "purge" could do
nothing to check, and which was eventually to lay its dead hand upon the
art of the 18th century. May we not say more than this? Is he not the
first name in a continuous series from 1580 to our own day, the first
link in the chain of dramatic development, which binds the "singing room
of Powles" to the Lyceum of Irving? And it is interesting to notice that
the principle which he was the first to express shows at the present
moment evident signs of exhaustion; for its future developments seem to
be limited to that narrow strip of social melodrama, which lies between
the devil of the comic opera and the deep sea of the Ibsenic problem
play. Indeed it would not be altogether fanciful, I think, to say that
_The Importance of being Earnest_ finishes the process that _Campaspe_
started; and to view that process as a circle begun in euphuism, and
completed in aestheticism.
[132] Bond, II. p. 266.