If Shakespeare's fondness for the ludicrous sometimes led to faults in
his tragedies (which was not often the case), he has made us amends by
the character of Falstaff. This is perhaps the most substantial comic
character that ever was invented. Sir John carries a most portly
presence in the mind's eye; and in him, not to speak it profanely, 'we
behold the fullness of the spirit of wit and humour bodily'. We are as
well acquainted with his person as his mind, and his jokes come upon us
with double force and relish from the quantity of flesh through which
they make their way, as he shakes his fat sides with laughter, or 'lards
the lean earth as he walks along'. Other comic characters seem, if we
approach and handle them, to resolve themselves into air, 'into thin
air'; but this is embodied and palpable to the grossest apprehension: it
lies 'three fingers deep upon the ribs', it plays about the lungs and
the diaphragm with all the force of animal enjoyment. His body is like a
good estate to his mind, from which he receives rents and revenues of
profit and pleasure in kind, according to its extent, and the richness
of the soil. Wit is often a meagre substitute for pleasurable sensation;
an effusion of spleen and petty spite at the comforts of others, from
feeling none in itself. Falstaff's wit is an emanation of a fine
constitution; an exuberance of good-humour and good-nature; an
overflowing of his love of laughter, and good-fellowship; a giving vent
to his heart's ease and over-contentment with himself and others. He
would not be in character, if he were not so fat as he is; for there is
the greatest keeping in the boundless luxury of his imagination and the
pampered self-indulgence of his physical appetites. He manures and
nourishes his mind with jests, as he does his body with sack and sugar.
He carves out his jokes, as he would a capon, or a haunch of venison,
where there is cut and come again; and pours out upon them the oil of
gladness. His tongue drops fatness, and in the chambers of his brain 'it
snows of meat and drink'. He keeps up perpetual holiday and open house,
and we live with him in a round of invitations to a rump and dozen.--Yet
we are not to suppose that he was a mere sensualist. All this is as much
in imagination as in reality. His sensuality does not engross and
stupify his other faculties, but 'ascends me into the brain, clears away
all the dull, crude vapours that environ it, and makes it full of
nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes'. His imagination keeps up the ball
after his senses have done with it. He seems to have even a greater
enjoyment of the freedom from restraint, of good cheer, of his ease, of
his vanity, in the ideal exaggerated descriptions which he gives of
them, than in fact. He never fails to enrich his discourse with
allusions to eating and drinking, but we never see him at table. He
carries his own larder about with him, and he is himself 'a tun of man'.
His pulling out the bottle in the field of battle is a joke to show his
contempt for glory accompanied with danger, his systematic adherence to
his Epicurean philosophy in the most trying circumstances. Again, such
is his deliberate exaggeration of his own vices, that it does not seem
quite certain whether the account of his hostess's bill, found in his
pocket, with such an out-of-the-way charge for capons and sack with only
one halfpenny-worth of bread, was not put there by himself as a trick to
humour the jest upon his favourite propensities, and as a conscious
caricature of himself. He is represented as a liar, a braggart, a
coward, a glutton, &c., and yet we are not offended but delighted with
him; for he is all these as much to amuse others as to gratify himself.
He openly assumes all these characters to show the humorous part of
them. The unrestrained indulgence of his own ease, appetites, and
convenience, has neither malice nor hypocrisy in it. In a word, he is an
actor in himself almost as much as upon the stage, and we no more object
to the character of Falstaff in a moral point of view than we should
think of bringing an excellent comedian, who should represent him to the
life, before one of the police offices. We only consider the number of
pleasant lights in which he puts certain foibles (the more pleasant as
they are opposed to the received rules and necessary restraints of
society) and do not trouble ourselves about the consequences resulting
from them, for no mischievous consequences do result. Sir John is old as
well as fat, which gives a melancholy retrospective tinge to the
character; and by the disparity between his inclinations and his
capacity for enjoyment, makes it still more ludicrous and fantastical.
The secret of Falstaff's wit is for the most part a masterly
presence of mind, an absolute self-possession, which nothing can
disturb. His repartees are involuntary suggestions of his self-love;
instinctive evasions of everything that threatens to interrupt the
career of his triumphant jollity and self-complacency. His very size
floats him out of all his difficulties in a sea of rich conceits;
and he turns round on the pivot of his convenience, with every
occasion and at a moment's warning. His natural repugnance to every
unpleasant thought or circumstance of itself makes light of
objections, and provokes the most extravagant and licentious answers
in his own justification. His indifference to truth puts no check
upon his invention, and the more improbable and unexpected his
contrivances are, the more happily does he seem to be delivered of
them, the anticipation of their effect acting as a stimulus to the
gaiety of his fancy. The success of one adventurous sally gives him
spirits to undertake another: he deals always in round numbers, and
his exaggerations and excuses are 'open, palpable, monstrous as the
father that begets them'. His dissolute carelessness of what he says
discovers itself in the first dialogue with the Prince.
Falstaff. By the lord, thou say'st true, lad; and is not mine
hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?
P. Henry. As the honey of Hibla, my old lad of the castle; and is
not a buff-jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
Falstaff. How now, how now, mad wag, what in thy quips and thy
quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff-jerkin?
P. Henry. Why, what a pox have I to do with mine hostess of the
tavern?
In the same scene he afterwards affects melancholy, from pure
satisfaction of heart, and professes reform, because it is the
farthest thing in the world from his thoughts. He has no qualms of
conscience, and therefore would as soon talk of them as of anything
else when the humour takes him.
Falstaff. But Hal, I pr'ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I
would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to
be bought: an old lord of council rated me the other day in the
street about you, sir; but I mark'd him not, and yet he talked very
wisely, and in the street too.
P. Henry. Thou didst well, for wisdom cries out in the street, and
no man regards it.
Falstaff. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to
corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm unto me, Hal; God forgive
thee for it. Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing, and now I am,
if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I
must give over this life, and I will give it over, by the lord; an I
do not, I am a villain. I'll be damn'd for never a king's son in
Christendom.
P. Henry. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow. Jack?
Falstaff. Where thou wilt, lad, I'll make one; an I do not, call me
villain, and baffle me.
P. Henry. I see good amendment of life in thee, from praying to
purse-taking.
Falstaff. Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a man to
labour in his vocation.
Of the other prominent passages, his account of his pretended resistance
to the robbers, 'who grew from four men in buckram into eleven' as the
imagination of his own valour increased with his relating it, his
getting off when the truth is discovered by pretending he knew the
Prince, the scene in which in the person of the old king he lectures the
prince and gives himself a good character, the soliloquy on honour, and
description of his new-raised recruits, his meeting with the chief
justice, his abuse of the Prince and Poins, who overhear him, to Doll
Tearsheet, his reconciliation with Mrs. Quickly who has arrested him for
an old debt and whom he persuades to pawn her plate to lend him ten
pounds more, and the scenes with Shallow and Silence, are all
inimitable. Of all of them, the scene in which Falstaff plays the part,
first, of the King, and then of Prince Henry, is the one that has been
the most often quoted. We must quote it once more in illustration of our
remarks.
Falstaff. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendeth thy time, but
also how thou art accompanied: for though the camomile, the more it is
trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the
sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word,
partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and
a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If then thou
be son to me, here lies the point;--Why, being son to me, art thou so
pointed at? Shaft the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat
blackberries? A question not to be ask'd. Shall the son of England prove
a thief, and take purses? a question not to be ask'd. There is a thing,
Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our
land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers do report,
doth defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not
speak to thee in drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion;
not in words only, but in woes also:--and yet there is a virtuous man,
whom I have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.
P. Henry. What manner of man, an it like your majesty?
Falstaff. A goodly portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a
cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I
think, his age some fifty, or, by'r-lady, inclining to threescore;
and now I do remember me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should
be lewdly given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his
looks. If then the fruit may be known by the tree, as the tree by
the fruit, then peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that
Falstaff: him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou
naughty varlet, tell me, where hast thou been this month?
P. Henry. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and
I'll play my father.
Falstaff. Depose me? if thou dost it half so gravely, so
majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a
rabbit-sucker, or a poulterer's hare.
P. Henry. Well, here I am set.
Falstaff. And here I stand:--judge, my masters.
P. Henry. Now, Harry, whence come you?
Falstaff. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.
P. Henry. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.
Falstaff. S'blood, my lord, they are false:--nay, I'll tickle ye for
a young prince, i'faith.
P. Henry. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on
me. Thou art violently carried away from grace: there is a devil
haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man; a tun of man is thy
companion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that
bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of dropsies, that
huge bombard of sack, that stuft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted
Manning-tree ox with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice,
that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years?
wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and
cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in
craft? wherein crafty, but in villainy? wherein villainous, but in
all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing?
Falstaff. I would, your grace would take me with you: whom means
your grace?
P. Henry. That villainous, abominable mis-leader of youth, Falstaff,
that old white-bearded Satan.
Falstaff. My lord, the man I know.
P. Henry. I know thou dost.
Falstaff. But to say, I know more harm in him than in myself, were
to say more than I know. That he is old (the more the pity) his
white hairs do witness it: but that he is (saving your reverence) a
whore-master, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God
help the wicked! if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old
host that I know is damned: if to be fat be to be hated, then
Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord; banish Peto,
banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind
Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and
therefore more valiant, being as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish
not him thy Harry's company; banish plump Jack, and banish all the
world.
P. Henry. I do, I will.
[Knocking; and Hostess and Bardolph go out.]
Re-enter Bardolph, running.
Bardolph. O, my lord, my lord; the sheriff, with a most monstrous
watch, is at the door.
Falstaff. Out, you rogue! play out the play: I have much to say in
the behalf of that Falstaff.
One of the most characteristic descriptions of Sir John is that
which Mrs. Quickly gives of him when he asks her, 'What is the gross
sum that I owe thee?'
Hostess. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself, and the money
too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my
Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire on Wednesday
in Whitsunweek, when the prince broke thy head for likening his
father to a singing man of Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as
I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady thy wife.
Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come
in then, and call me gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of
vinegar; telling us, she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou
didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee, they were ill for a
green wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs,
desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people;
saying, that ere long they should call me madam? And didst thou not
kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put thee now to
thy book-oath; deny it, if thou canst.
This scene is to us the most convincing proof of Falstaff's power of
gaining over the goodwill of those he was familiar with, except
indeed Bardolph's somewhat profane exclamation on hearing the
account of his death, 'Would I were with him, wheresoe'er he is,
whether in heaven or hell.'
One of the topics of exulting superiority over others most common in
Sir John's mouth is his corpulence and the exterior marks of good
living which he carries about him, thus 'turning his vices into
commodity'. He accounts for the friendship between the Prince and
Poins, from 'their legs being both of a bigness'; and compares
Justice Shallow to 'a man made after supper of a cheese-paring'.
There cannot be a more striking gradation of character than that
between Falstaff and Shallow, and Shallow and Silence. It seems
difficult at first to fall lower than the squire; but this fool,
great as he is, finds an admirer and humble foil in his cousin
Silence. Vain of his acquaintance with Sir John, who makes a butt of
him, he exclaims, 'Would, cousin Silence, that thou had'st seen that
which this knight and I have seen!'--'Aye, Master Shallow, we have
heard the chimes at midnight,' says Sir John. To Falstaff's
observation, 'I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this
mettle', Silence answers, 'Who, I? I have been merry twice and once
ere now.' What an idea is here conveyed of a prodigality of living?
What good husbandry and economical self-denial in his pleasures?
What a stock of lively recollections? It is curious that Shakespeare
has ridiculed in Justice Shallow, who was 'in some authority under
the king', that disposition to unmeaning tautology which is the
regal infirmity of later times, and which, it may be supposed, he
acquired from talking to his cousin Silence, and receiving no
answers.
Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich.
Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John:
marry, good air. Spread Davy, spread Davy. Well said, Davy.
Falstaff. This Davy serves you for good uses.
Shallow. A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet. By the
mass, I have drank too much sack at supper. A good varlet. Now sit
down, now sit down. Come, cousin.
The true spirit of humanity, the thorough knowledge of the stuff we
are made of, the practical wisdom with the seeming fooleries in the
whole of the garden-scene at Shallow's country-seat, and just before
in the exquisite dialogue between him and Silence on the death of
old Double, have no parallel anywhere else. In one point of view,
they are laughable in the extreme; in another they are equally
affecting, if it is affecting to show what a little thing is human
life, what a poor forked creature man is!
The heroic and serious part of these two plays founded on the story
of Henry IV is not inferior to the comic and farcical. The
characters of Hotspur and Prince Henry are two of the most beautiful
and dramatic, both in themselves and from contrast, that ever were
drawn. They are the essence of chivalry. We like Hotspur the best
upon the whole, perhaps because he was unfortunate.--The characters
of their fathers, Henry IV and old Northumberland, are kept up
equally well. Henry naturally succeeds by his prudence and caution
in keeping what he has got; Northumberland fails in his enterprise
from an excess of the same quality, and is caught in the web of his
own cold, dilatory policy. Owen Glendower is a masterly character.
It is as bold and original as it is intelligible and thoroughly
natural. The disputes between him and Hotspur are managed with
infinite address and insight into nature. We cannot help pointing
out here some very beautiful lines, where Hotspur describes the
fight between Glendower and Mortimer.
--When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,
In single opposition hand to hand,
He did confound the best part of an hour
In changing hardiment with great Glendower:
Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;
Who then affrighted with their bloody looks,
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank,
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
The peculiarity and the excellence of Shakespeare's poetry is, that
it seems as if he made his imagination the hand-maid of nature, and
nature the plaything of his imagination. He appears to have been all
the characters, and in all the situations he describes. It is as if
either he had had all their feelings, or had lent them all his
genius to express themselves. There cannot be stronger instances of
this than Hotspur's rage when Henry IV forbids him to speak of
Mortimer, his insensibility to all that his father and uncle urge to
calm him, and his fine abstracted apostrophe to honour, 'By heaven
methinks it were an easy leap to pluck bright honour from the moon,'
&c. After all, notwithstanding the gallantry, generosity, good
temper, and idle freaks of the mad-cap Prince of Wales, we should
not have been sorry if Northumberland's force had come up in time to
decide the fate of the battle at Shrewsbury; at least, we always
heartily sympathize with Lady Percy's grief when she exclaims:
Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers,
To-day might I (hanging on Hotspur's neck)
Have talked of Monmouth's grave.
The truth is, that we never could forgive the Prince's treatment of
Falstaff; though perhaps Shakespeare knew what was best, according
to the history, the nature of the times, and of the man. We speak
only as dramatic critics. Whatever terror the French in those days
might have of Henry V, yet to the readers of poetry at present,
Falstaff is the better man of the two. We think of him and quote him
oftener.