WEBSTER

In my first lecture I spoke briefly of the deficiency in respect of

Form which characterizes nearly all the dramatic literature of which we

are taking a summary survey, till the example of Shakespeare and the

precepts of Ben Jonson wrought their natural effect. Teleology, or the

argument from means to end, the argument of adaptation, is not so much

in fashion in some spheres of thought and speculation as it once was,

but here it applies admirably. We have a piece of work, and we know

the maker of it. The next question that we ask ourselves is the very

natural one--how far it shows marks of intelligent design. In a play

we not only expect a succession of scenes, but that each scene should

lead, by a logic more or less stringent, if not to the next, at any

rate to something that is to follow, and that all should contribute

their fraction of impulse towards the inevitable catastrophe. That

is to say, the structure should be organic, with a necessary and

harmonious connection and relation of parts, and not merely mechanical,

with an arbitrary or haphazard joining of one part to another. It is in

the former sense alone that any production can be called a work of art.

And when we apply the word Form in this sense to some creation of the

mind, we imply that there is a life, or, what is still better, a soul

in it. That there is an intimate relation, or, at any rate, a close

analogy, between Form in this its highest attribute and Imagination,

is evident if we remember that the Imagination is the shaping faculty.

This is, indeed, its preëminent function, to which all others are

subsidiary. Shakespeare, with his usual depth of insight and the

precision that comes of it, tells us that “imagination bodies forth the

forms of things unknown.” In his maturer creations there is generally

some central thought about which the action revolves like a moon,

carried along with it in its appointed orbit, and permitted the gambol

of a Ptolemaic epicycle now and then. But the word Form has also more

limited applications, as, for example, when we use it to imply that

nice sense of proportion and adaptation which results in Style. We

may apply it even to the structure of a verse, or of a short poem in

which every advantage has been taken of the material employed, as in

Keats’s “Ode to a Grecian Urn,” which seems as perfect in its outline

as the thing it so lovingly celebrates. In all these cases there often

seems also to be something intuitive or instinctive in the working of

certain faculties of the poet, and to this we unconsciously testify

when we call it genius. But in the technic of this art, perfection

can be reached only by long training, as was evident in the case of

Coleridge. Of course, without the genius all the training in the world

will produce only a mechanical and lifeless result; but even if the

genius is there, there is nothing too seemingly trifling to deserve

its study. The “Elegy in a Country Church-yard” owes much of the charm

that makes it precious, even with those who perhaps undervalue its

sentiment, to Gray’s exquisite sense of the value of vowel sounds.

Let us, however, come down to what is within the reach and under

the control of talent and of a natural or acquired dexterity. And

such a thing is the plot or arrangement of a play. In this part of

their business our older playwrights are especially unskilled or

negligent. They seem perfectly content if they have a story which

they can divide at proper intervals by acts and scenes, and bring at

last to a satisfactory end by marriage or murder, as the case may be.

A certain variety of characters is necessary, but the motives that

compel and control them are almost never sufficiently apparent. And

this is especially true of the dramatic motives, as distinguished

from the moral. The personages are brought in to do certain things

and perform certain purposes of the author, but too often there seems

to be no special reason why one of them should do this or that more

than another. They are servants of all work, ready to be villains or

fools at a moment’s notice if required. The obliging simplicity with

which they walk into traps which everybody can see but themselves, is

sometimes almost delightful in its absurdity. Ben Jonson was perfectly

familiar with the traditional principles of construction. He tells us

that the fable of a drama (by which he means the plot or action) should

have a beginning, a middle, and an end; and that “as a body without

proportion cannot be goodly, no more can the action, either in comedy

or tragedy, without his fit bounds.” But he goes on to say “that as

every bound, for the nature of the subject, is esteemed the best that

is largest, till it can increase no more; so it behoves the action in

tragedy or comedy to be let grow till the necessity ask a conclusion;

wherein two things are to be considered--first, that it exceed not the

compass of one day; next, that there be place left for digression and

art.” The weakness of our earlier playwrights is that they esteemed

those bounds best that were largest, and let their action grow till

they had to stop it.

Many of Shakespeare’s contemporary poets must have had every advantage

that he had in practical experience of the stage, and all of them had

probably as familiar an intercourse with the theatre as he. But what

a difference between their manner of constructing a play and his! In

all his dramatic works his skill in this is more or less apparent. In

the best of them it is unrivalled. From the first scene of them he

seems to have beheld as from a tower the end of all. In “Romeo and

Juliet,” for example, he had his story before him, and he follows it

closely enough; but how naturally one scene is linked to the next,

and one event leads to another! If this play were meant to illustrate

anything, it would seem to be that our lives were ruled by chance.

Yet there is nothing left to chance in the action of the play, which

advances with the unvacillating foot of destiny. And the characters

are made to subordinate themselves to the interests of the play as to

something in which they have all a common concern. With the greater

part of the secondary dramatists, the characters seem like unpractised

people trying to walk the deck of a ship in rough weather, who start

for everywhere to bring up anywhere, and are hustled against each

other in the most inconvenient way. It is only when the plot is very

simple and straightforward that there is any chance of smooth water

and of things going on without falling foul of each other. Was it only

that Shakespeare, in choosing his themes, had a keener perception of

the dramatic possibilities of a story? This is very likely, and it is

certain that he preferred to take a story ready to his hand rather

than invent one. All the good stories, indeed, seem to have invented

themselves in the most obliging manner somewhere in the morning of the

world, and to have been camp-followers when the famous march of mind

set out from the farthest East. But where he invented his plot, as in

the “Midsummer Night’s Dream” and the “Tempest,” he is careful to have

it as little complicated with needless incident as possible.

These thoughts were suggested to me by the gratuitous miscellaneousness

of plot (if I may so call it) in some of the plays of John Webster,

concerning whose works I am to say something this evening, a

complication made still more puzzling by the motiveless conduct of many

of the characters. When he invented a plot of his own, as in his comedy

of “The Devil’s Law Case,” the improbabilities become insuperable, by

which I mean that they are such as not merely the understanding but the

imagination cannot get over. For mere common-sense has little to do

with the affair. Shakespeare cared little for anachronisms, or whether

there were seaports in Bohemia or not, any more than Calderon cared

that gunpowder had not been invented centuries before the Christian era

when he wanted an arquebus to be fired, because the noise of a shot

would do for him what a silent arrow would not do. But, if possible,

the understanding should have as few difficulties put in its way as

possible. Shakespeare is careful to place his Ariel in the not yet

wholly disenchanted Bermudas, near which Sir John Hawkins had seen a

mermaid not many years before, and lays the scene for his Oberon and

Titania in the dim remoteness of legendary Athens, though his clowns

are unmistakably English, and though he knew as well as we do that

Puck was a British goblin. In estimating material improbability as

distinguished from moral, however, we should give our old dramatists

the benefit of the fact that all the world was a great deal farther

away in those days than in ours, when the electric telegraph puts our

button into the grip of whatever commonplace our planet is capable of

producing.

Moreover, in respect of Webster as of his fellows, we must, in order to

understand them, first naturalize our minds in _their_ world. Chapman

makes Byron say to Queen Elizabeth:--

“These stars,

Whose influences for this latitude

Distilled, and wrought in with this temperate air,

And this division of the elements,

Have with your reign brought forth more worthy spirits

For counsel, valour, height of wit, and art,

Than any other region of the earth,

Or were brought forth to all your ancestors.”

And this is apt to be the only view we take of that Golden Age, as we

call it fairly enough in one, and that, perhaps, the most superficial,

sense. But it was in many ways rude and savage, an age of great crimes

and of the ever-brooding suspicion of great crimes. Queen Elizabeth

herself was the daughter of a king as savagely cruel and irresponsible

as the Grand Turk. It was an age that in Italy could breed a Cenci,

and in France could tolerate the massacre of St. Bartholomew as a

legitimate stroke of statecraft. But when we consider whether crime be

a fit subject for tragedy, we must distinguish. Merely as crime, it is

vulgar, as are the waxen images of murderers with the very rope round

their necks with which they were hanged. Crime becomes then really

tragic when it merely furnishes the theme for a profound psychological

study of motive and character. The weakness of Webster’s two greatest

plays lies in this--that crime is presented as a spectacle, and not

as a means of looking into our own hearts and fathoming our own

consciousness.

The scene of “The Devil’s Law Case” is Naples, then a viceroyalty of

Spain, and our ancestors thought anything possible in Italy. Leonora,

a widow, has a son and daughter, Romelio and Jolenta. Romelio is

a rich and prosperous merchant. Jolenta is secretly betrothed to

Contarino, an apparently rather spendthrift young nobleman, who has

already borrowed large sums of money of Romelio on the security of

his estates. Romelio is bitterly opposed to his marrying Jolenta, for

reasons known only to himself; at least, no reason appears for it,

except that the play could not have gone on without it. The reason he

assigns is that he has a grudge against the nobility, though it appears

afterwards that he himself is of noble birth, and asserts his equality

with them. When Contarino, at the opening of the play, comes to urge

his suit, and asks him how he looks upon it, Romelio answers:--

“Believe me, sir, as on the principal column

To advance our house; why, you bring honor with you,

Which is the soul of wealth. I shall be proud

To live to see my little nephews ride

O’ the upper hand of their uncles, and the daughters

Be ranked by heralds at solemnities

Before the mother; and all this derived

From your nobility. Do not blame me, sir,

If I be taken with ’t exceedingly;

For this same honor with us citizens

Is a thing we are mainly fond of, especially

When it comes without money, which is very seldom.

But as you do perceive my present temper,

Be sure I’m yours.”

And of this Contarino was sure, the irony of Romelio’s speech having

been so delicately conveyed that he was unable to perceive it.

A little earlier in this scene a speech is put into the mouth of

Romelio so characteristic of Webster’s more sententious style that I

will repeat it:--

“O, my lord, lie not idle:

The chiefest action for a man of great spirit

Is never to be out of action. We should think

The soul was never put into the body,

Which has so many rare and curious pieces

Of mathematical motion, to stand still.

Virtue is ever sowing of her seeds;

I’ th’ trenches for the soldiers, i’ th’ wakeful study

For the scholar, in the furrows of the sea

For men of our profession, of all which

Arise and spring up honour.”

This recalls to mind the speech of Ulysses to Achilles in “Troilus

and Cressida,” a piece of eloquence which, for the impetuous charge

of serried argument and poetic beauty of illustration, grows more

marvellous with every reading. But it is hardly fair to any other poet

to let him remind us of Shakespeare.

Contarino, on leaving Romelio, goes to Leonora, the mother, who

immediately conceives a violent passion for him. He, by way of a pretty

compliment, tells her that he has a suit to her, and that it is for

her picture. By this he meant her daughter, but with the flattering

implication that you would not know the parent from the child. Leonora,

of course, takes him literally, is gracious accordingly, and Contarino

is satisfied that he has won her consent also. This scene gives

occasion for a good example of Webster’s more playful style, which is

perhaps worth quoting. Still apropos of her portrait, Leonora says:--

“You will enjoin me to a strange punishment.

With what a compelled face a woman sits

While she is drawing! I have noted divers

Either to feign smiles, or suck in the lips

To have a little mouth; ruffle the cheeks

To have the dimple seen; and so disorder

The face with affectation, at next sitting

It has not been the same: I have known others

Have lost the entire fashion of their face

In half an hour’s sitting....

But indeed

If ever I would have mine drawn to th’ life,

I’d have a painter steal it at such a time

I were devoutly kneeling at my prayers;

There’s then a heavenly beauty in ’t; the soul

Moves in the superficies.”

The poet shows one of his habitual weaknesses here in being so far

tempted by the chance of saying a pretty thing as to make somebody say

it who naturally would not. There is really a worse waste than had

it been thrown away. I am inclined to think men as vain about their

portraits as Leonora makes women to be, or else the story of Cromwell’s

wart would not be so famous. However, Contarino goes away satisfied

with the result of his embassy, saying to himself:--

“She has got some intelligence how I intend to marry

Her daughter, and ingenuously perceived

That by her picture, which I begged of her,

I meant the fair Jolenta.”

There is no possible reason why he should not have conveyed this

intelligence to her himself, and Leonora must have been ingenious

indeed to divine it, except that the plot would not allow it. Presently

another match is found for Jolenta in Ercole, which Romelio favors for

reasons again known only to himself, though he is a noble quite as much

as Contarino. Ercole is the pattern of a chivalrous gentleman. Though

he at once falls in love with Jolenta, according to Marlowe’s rule that

“he never loved that loved not at first sight,” and though Romelio and

the mother both urge the immediate signing of the contract, he refuses.

“Lady, I will do

A manly office for you; I will leave you

To th’ freedom of your own soul; may it move

Whither Heaven and you please!

* * * * *

I’ll leave you, excellent lady, and withal

Leave a heart with you so entirely yours

That I protest, had I the least of hope

To enjoy you, though I were to wait the time

That scholars do in taking their degree

In the noble arts, ’t were nothing: howsoe’er,

He parts from you, that will depart from life

To do you any service; and so humbly

I take my leave.”

Never, I think, was more delicate compliment paid to a woman than in

that fine touch which puts the service of her on a level with the

“noble arts.” On this ground of sentiment idealized by devotion,

Webster always moves with the assured ease and dignified familiarity of

a thorough gentleman.

Ercole’s pretension to the hand of Jolenta leads, of course, to a

duel with Contarino. They had been fellow-students together at Padua,

and the scene in which the preliminaries of the duel are arranged is

pitched on as nobly grave a key as can be conceived. Lamb very justly

calls it “the model of a well-arranged and gentlemanlike difference.”

There is no swagger and no bravado in it, as is too commonly apt to be

the case in the plays of that age. There is something Spanish in its

dignity. To show what its tone is, I quote the opening. It is Contarino

who first speaks.

“Sir, my love to you has proclaimed you one

Whose word was still led by a noble thought,

And that thought followed by as fair a deed.

Deceive not that opinion. We were students

At Padua together, and have long

To th’ world’s eye shown like friends; was it hearty

On your part to me?

_Erc._ Unfeigned.

_Con._ You are false

To the good thought I held of you, and now

Join the worst part of man to you, your malice,

To uphold that falsehood: sacred innocence

Is fled your bosom. Signior, I must tell you,

To draw the picture of unkindness truly

Is to express two that have dearly loved

And fall’n at variance; ’t is a wonder to me,

Knowing my interest in the fair Jolenta,

That you should love her.

_Erc._ Compare her beauty and my youth together

And you will find the fair effects of love

No miracle at all.”

They fight, and both fall mortally wounded, as it is supposed. Ercole

is reported dead, and Contarino dying, having first made a will in

favor of Jolenta. Romelio, disguised as a Jew, to avenge the injury to

himself in the death of Ercole, and to make sure that Contarino shall

not survive to alter his will, gets admission to him by bribing his

surgeons, and stabs him. This saves his life by reopening the old wound

and letting forth its virus. Of course both he and Ercole recover, and

both conceal themselves, though why, it is hard to say, except that

they are not wanted again till towards the end of the play. Romelio,

unaware of his mother’s passion for Contarino, tells her, as a piece of

good news she will be glad to hear, of what he has done. She at once

resolves on a most horrible and unnatural revenge. Her speech has a

kind of savage grandeur in it which Webster was fond of showing, for

he rightly felt that it was his strongest quality, though it often

tempted him too far, till it became bestial in its ferocity. It is to

be observed that he was on his guard here, and gives us a hint, as you

will see, in a highly imaginative passage, that Leonora’s brain was

turning:--

“I will make you chief mourner, believe it.

Never was woe like mine. O, that my care

And absolute study to preserve his life

Should be his absolute ruin! Is he gone, then?

There is no plague i’ th’ world can be compar’d

To impossible desire; for they are plagu’d

In the desire itself. Never, O, never

Shall I behold him living, in whose life

I liv’d far sweetlier than in mine own!

A precise curiosity has undone me: why did I not

Make my love known directly? ’T had not been

Beyond example for a matron

To affect i’ th’ honourable way of marriage

So youthful a person. O, I shall run mad!

For as we love our youngest children best,

So the last fruit of our affection,

Wherever we bestow it, is most strong,

Most violent, most unresistible,

Since ’t is indeed our latest harvest-home,

Last merriment ’fore winter; and we widows,

As men report of our best picture-makers,

We love the piece we are in hand with better

Than all the excellent work we have done before.

And my son has depriv’d me of all this! Ha, my son!

I’ll be a Fury to him; like an Amazon lady,

I’d cut off this right pap that gave him suck,

To shoot him dead. I’ll no more tender him,

Than had a wolf stol’n to my teat i’ the night

And robb’d me of my milk; nay, such a creature

I should love better far. Ha, ha! what say you?

I do talk to somewhat, methinks; it may be

My evil Genius. Do not the bells ring?

I have a strange noise in my head: O, fly in pieces!

Come, age, and wither me into the malice

Of those that have been happy! Let me have

One property more than the devil of hell;

Let me envy the pleasure of youth heartily;

Let me in this life fear no kind of ill,

That have no good to hope for; let me die

In the distraction of that worthy princess

Who loathed food, and sleep, and ceremony,

For thought of losing that brave gentleman

She would fain have sav’d, had not a false conveyance

Express’d him stubborn-hearted. Let me sink

Where neither man nor memory may ever find me.”

Webster forestalled Balzac by two hundred years in what he says of a

woman’s last passion. The revenge on which she fixes is, at the cost

of her own honor, to declare Romelio illegitimate. She says that his

true father was one Crispiano, a Spanish gentleman, the friend of her

husband. Naturally, when the trial comes on, Crispiano, unrecognized,

turns up in court as the very judge who is to preside over it. He first

gets the year of the alleged adultery fixed by the oath of Leonora

and her maid, and then professes to remember that Crispiano had told

him of giving a portrait of himself to Leonora, has it sent for, and,

revealing himself, identifies himself by it, saying, prettily enough

(those old dramatists have a way of stating dry facts so fancifully as

to make them blossom, as it were),

“Behold, I am the shadow of this shadow.”

He then proves an alibi at the date in question by his friend Ariosto,

whom meanwhile he has just promoted to the bench in his own place, by

virtue of a convenient commission from the king of Spain, which he

has in his pocket. At the end of the trial, the counsel for Leonora

exclaimed:--

“Ud’s foot, we’re spoiled;

Why, our client is proved an honest woman!”

Which I cite only because it reminds me to say that Webster has a sense

of humor more delicate, and a way of showing it less coarse, than most

of his brother dramatists. Meanwhile Webster saves Romelio from being

hateful beyond possibility of condonation by making him perfectly

fearless. He says finely:--

“I cannot set myself so many fathom

Beneath the height of my true heart as fear.

Let me continue

An honest man, which I am very certain

A coward can never be.”

The last words convey an important and even profound truth. And let

me say now, once for all, that Webster abounds, more than any of his

contemporaries except Chapman, in these metaphysical apothegms, and

that he introduces them naturally, while Chapman is too apt to drag

them in by the ears. Here is another as good, I am tempted to say, as

many of Shakespeare’s, save only in avarice of words. When Leonora is

suborning Winifred, her maid, to aid her in the plot against her son,

she says:--

“Come hither:

I have a weighty secret to impart,

But I would have thee first confirm to me

How I may trust that thou canst keep my counsel

Beyond death.

_Win._ Why, mistress, ’t is your only way

To enjoin me first that I reveal to you

The worst act I e’er did in all my life;

One secret so shall bind another.

_Leon._ Thou instruct’st me

Most ingeniously; for indeed it is not fit,

Where any act is plotted that is naught,

Any of counsel to it should be good;

And, in a thousand ills have happ’d i’ th’ world,

The intelligence of one another’s shame

Hath wrought far more effectually than the tie

Of conscience or religion.”

The plot has other involutions of so unpleasant a nature now through

change of manners that I shall but allude to them. They are perhaps

intended to darken Romelio’s character to the proper Websterian sable,

but they certainly rather make an eddy in the current of the action

than hasten it as they should.

I have briefly analyzed this play because its plot is not a bad sample

of a good many others, and because the play itself is less generally

known than Webster’s deservedly more famous “Vittoria Corombona” and

the “Duchess of Malfi.” Before coming to these, I will mention his

“Appius and Virginia,” a spirited, well-constructed play (for here

the simplicity of the incidents kept him within bounds), and, I think,

as good as any other founded on a Roman story except Shakespeare’s. It

is of a truly Roman temper, and perhaps, therefore, incurs a suspicion

of being cast iron. Webster, like Ben Jonson, knew, theoretically at

least, how a good play should be put together. In his preface to “The

Devil’s Law-Case” he says: “A great part of the grace of this lay in

action; yet can no action ever be gracious, where the decency of the

language and ingenious structure of the scene arrive not to make up a

perfect harmony.”

“The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona,” produced in 1612, and the

“Duchess of Malfi,” in 1616, are the two works by which Webster is

remembered. In these plays there is almost something like a fascination

of crime and horror. Our eyes dazzle with them. The imagination that

conceived them is a ghastly imagination. Hell is naked before it.

It is the imagination of nightmare, but of no vulgar nightmare. I

would rather call it fantasy than imagination, for there is something

fantastic in its creations, and the fantastic is dangerously near to

the grotesque, while the imagination, where it is most authentic, is

most serene. Even to elicit strong emotion, it is the still small voice

that is most effective; nor is Webster unaware of this, as I shall show

presently. Both these plays are full of horrors, yet they do move pity

and terror strongly also. We feel that we are under the control of a

usurped and illegitimate power, but it is power. I remember seeing a

picture in some Belgian church where an angel makes a motion to arrest

the hand of the Almighty just as it is stretched forth in the act of

the creation. If the angel foresaw that the world to be created was

to be such a one as Webster conceived, we can fully understand his

impulse. Through both plays there is a vapor of fresh blood and a scent

of church-yard mould in the air. They are what children call _creepy_.

Ghosts are ready at any moment: they seem, indeed, to have formed a

considerable part of the population in those days. As an instance of

the almost ludicrous way in which they were employed, take this stage

direction from Chapman’s “Revenge of Bussy d’Ambois.” “Music, and

the ghost of Bussy enters leading the ghosts of the Guise, Monsieur,

Cardinal Guise, and Chatillon; they dance about the body and _exeunt_.”

It is fair to say that Webster’s ghosts are far from comic.

Let me briefly analyze “The White Devil.” Vittoria Corombona, a

beautiful woman, is married to Camillo, whom she did not love. She

becomes the paramour of the Duke of Brachiano, whose Duchess is

the sister of Francesco de’ Medici and of Cardinal Monticelso. One

of the brothers of Vittoria, Flamineo, is secretary to Brachiano,

and contrives to murder Camillo for them. Vittoria, as there is no

sufficient proof to fix the charge of murder upon her, is tried for

incontinency, and sent to a house of Convertites, whence Brachiano

spirits her away, meaning to marry her. In the mean while Brachiano’s

Duchess is got out of the way by poison; the lips of his portrait,

which she kisses every night before going to bed, having been smeared

with a deadly drug to that end. There is a Count Ludovico, who had

proffered an unholy love to the Duchess, but had been repulsed by her,

and he gladly offers himself as the minister of vengeance. Just as

Brachiano is arming for a tournament arranged for the purpose by his

brother-in-law, the Duke of Florence, Ludovico poisons his helmet,

so that he shortly dies in torture. Ludovico then murders Vittoria,

Zanche, her Moorish maid, and Flamineo, and is himself shot by the

guards of the young Duke Giovanni, son of Brachiano, who break in

upon him just as he has completed his butchery. There are but four

characters in the play unstained with crime--Cornelia, Vittoria’s

mother; Marcello, her younger son; the Duchess of Brachiano; and her

son, the young Duke. There are three scenes in the play remarkable for

their effectiveness, or for their power in different ways--the trial

scene of Vittoria, the death scene of Brachiano, and that of Vittoria.

There is another--the burial of Marcello--which is pathetic as few men

have known how to be so simply and with so little effort as Webster.

“_Fran. de’ Med._ Your reverend mother

Is grown a very old woman in two hours.

I found them winding of Marcello’s corse;

And there is such a solemn melody,

’Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies--

Such as old grandams watching by the dead

Were wont to outwear the nights with--that, believe me,

I had no eyes to guide me forth the room,

They were so o’ercharg’d with water.

_Flam._ I will see them.

_Fran. de’ Med._ ’T were much uncharity in you, for your sight

Will add unto their tears.

_Flam._ I will see them:

They are behind the traverse; I’ll discover

Their superstitious howling.

[_Draws the curtain._ Cornelia, Zanche, _and three other_

Ladies _discovered winding_ Marcello’s _corse_. _A song._

_Cor._ This rosemary is wither’d; pray, get fresh;

I would have these herbs grow up in his grave

When I am dead and rotten. Reach the bays;

I’ll tie a garland here about his head;

’T will keep my boy from lightning. This sheet

I have kept this twenty year, and every day

Hallow’d it with my prayers. I did not think

He should have wore it.

_Zanche._ Look you who are yonder.

_Cor._ O, reach me the flowers.

_Zanche._ Her ladyship’s foolish.

_Lady._ Alas, her grief

Hath turn’d her child again!

_Cor._ You ’re very welcome:

There’s rosemary for you; and rue for you;

[_To_ Flamineo.

Heart’s-ease for you; I pray make much of it:

I have left more for myself.

_Fran. de’ Med._ Lady, who’s this?

_Cor._ You are, I take it, the grave-maker.

_Flam._ So.

_Zanche._ ’T is Flamineo.

_Cor._ Will you make me such a fool? Here’s a white hand:

Can blood so soon be wash’d out? Let me see:

When screech-owls croak upon the chimney-tops,

And the strange cricket i’ the oven sings and hops,

When yellow spots do on your hands appear,

Be certain then you of a corse shall hear.

Out upon ’t, how ’t is speckled! h’as handled a toad, sure.

Cowslip-water is good for the memory:

Pray, buy me three ounces of ’t.

_Flam._ I would I were from hence.

_Cor._ Do you hear, sir?

I’ll give you a saying which my grandmother

Was wont, when she heard the bell toll, to sing o’er

Unto her lute.

_Flam._ Do, an you will, do.

_Cor._ ‘Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,

[Cornelia _doth this in several forms of distraction_.

Since o’er shady groves they hover,

And with leaves and flowers do cover

The friendless bodies of unburied men.

Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,

And (when gay tombs are robb’d) sustain no harm,

But keep the wolf far thence, that’s foe to men,

For with his nails he’ll dig them up again.’

They would not bury him ’cause he died in a quarrel;

But I have an answer for them:

‘Let holy church receive him duly,

Since he paid the church-tithes truly.’

His wealth is summ’d, and this is all his store;

This poor men get, and great men get no more.

Now the wares are gone, we may shut up shop.

Bless you all, good people!

[_Exeunt_ Cornelia, Zanche, _and_ Ladies.

_Flam._ I have a strange thing in me, to the which

I cannot give a name, without it be

Compassion. I pray, leave me.”

In the trial scene the defiant haughtiness of Vittoria, entrenched in

her illustrious birth, against the taunts of the Cardinal, making one

think of Browning’s Ottima, “magnificent in sin,” excites a sympathy

which must check itself if it would not become admiration. She dies

with the same unconquerable spirit, not shaming in death at least the

blood of the Vitelli that ran in her veins. As to Flamineo, I think

it plain that but for Iago he would never have existed; and it has

always interested me to find in Webster more obvious reminiscences of

Shakespeare, without conscious imitation of him, than in any other

dramatist of the time. Indeed, the style of Shakespeare cannot be

imitated, because it is the expression of his individual genius.

Coleridge tells us that he thought he was copying it when writing

the tragedy of “Remorse,” and found, when all was done, that he had

reproduced Massinger instead. Iago seems to me one of Shakespeare’s

most extraordinary divinations. He has embodied in him the corrupt

Italian intellect of the Renaissance. Flamineo is a more degraded

example of the same type, but without Iago’s motives of hate and

revenge. He is a mere incarnation of selfish sensuality. These two

tragedies of “Vittoria Corombona” and the “Duchess of Malfi” are, I

should say, the most vivid pictures of that repulsively fascinating

period that we have in English. Alfred de Musset’s “Lorenzaccio” is,

however, far more terrible, because there the horror is moral wholly,

and never physical, as too often in Webster.

There is something in Webster that reminds me of Victor Hugo. There

is the same confusion at times of what is big with what is great, the

same fondness for the merely spectacular, the same insensibility to

repulsive details, the same indifference to the probable or even to the

natural, the same leaning toward the grotesque, the same love of effect

at whatever cost; and there is also the same impressiveness of result.

Whatever other effect Webster may produce upon us, he never leaves us

indifferent. We may blame, we may criticise, as much as we will; we may

say that all this ghastliness is only a trick of theatrical blue-light;

we shudder, and admire nevertheless. We may say he is melodramatic,

that his figures are magic-lantern pictures that waver and change shape

with the curtain on which they are thrown: it matters not; he stirs us

with an emotion deeper than any mere artifice could stir.