But let us pause a moment longer to inquire whether, amid so many
abortive and distorted branches, the old theatrical stock, abandoned by
chance to itself, will not produce at some point a sound and living
shoot. When a man like Dryden, so gifted, so well informed and
experienced, works with a will, there is hope that he will some time
succeed; and once, in part at least, Dryden did succeed. It would be
treating him unjustly to be always comparing him with Shakespeare; but
even on Shakespeare's ground, with the same materials, it is possible to
create a fine work; only the reader must forget for a while the great
inventor, the inexhaustible creator of vehement and original souls, and
to consider the imitator on his own merits, without forcing an
overwhelming comparison.
There is vigor and art in this tragedy of Dryden, "All for Love. He has
informed us, that this was the only play written to please
himself."[412] And he had really composed it learnedly, according to
history and logic. And what is better still, he wrote it in a manly
style. In the preface he says: "The fabric of the play is regular
enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place,
and action, more exactly observed, than perhaps the English theatre
requires. Particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only
of the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy
conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of
it."[413] He did more; he abandoned the French ornaments, and returned
to national tradition: "In my style I have professed to imitate the
divine Shakespeare; which that I might perform more freely, I have
disincumbered myself from rhyme.... Yet, I hope, I may affirm, and
without vanity, that by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout
the play; and particularly, that I prefer the scene betwixt Antony and
Ventidius in the first act, to anything which I have written in this
kind."[414] Dryden was right; if Cleopatra is weak, if this feebleness
of conception takes away the interest and mars the general effect, if
the new rhetoric and the old emphasis at times suspend the emotion and
destroy the likelihood, yet on the whole the drama stands erect, and
what is more, moves on. The poet is skilful; he has planned, he knows
how to construct a scene, to represent the internal struggle by which
two passions contend for a human heart. We perceive the tragical
vicissitude of the strife, the progress of a sentiment, the overthrow of
obstacles, the slow growth of desire or wrath, to the very instant when
the resolution, rising up of itself or seduced from without, rushes
suddenly in one groove. There are natural words; the poet thinks and
writes too genuinely not to discover them at need. There are manly
characters: he himself is a man; and beneath his courtier's pliability,
his affectations as a fashionable poet, he has retained his stern and
energetic character. Except for one scene of recrimination, his Octavia
is a Roman matron; and when, even in Alexandria, in Cleopatra's palace,
she comes to look for Antony, she does it with a simplicity and
nobility, not to be surpassed. "Cæsar's sister," cries out Antony,
accosting her. Octavia answers:
"That's unkind.
Had I been nothing more than Cæsar's sister,
Know, I had still remain'd in Cæsar's camp:
But your Octavia, your much injured wife,
Though banish'd from your bed, driven from your house,
In spite of Cæsar's sister, still is yours.
'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness,
And prompts me not to seek what you should offer;
But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride.
I come to claim you as my own; to show
My duty first, to ask, nay beg, your kindness:
Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it."[415]
Antony humiliated, refuses the pardon Octavia has brought him and tells
her:
"I fear, Octavia, you have begg'd my life,...
Poorly and basely begg'd it of your brother.
_Octavia._ Poorly and basely I could never beg,
Nor could my brother grant....
My hard fortune
Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes.
But the conditions I have brought are such,
You need not blush to take: I love your honour,
Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said
Octavia's husband was her brother's slave.
Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loath;
For, though my brother bargains for your love,
Makes me the price and cement of your peace,
I have a soul like yours; I cannot take
Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve.
I'll tell my brother we are reconciled;
He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march
To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens;
No matter where. I never will complain,
But only keep the barren name of wife,
And rid you of the trouble."[416]
This is lofty; this woman has a proud heart, and also a wife's heart:
she knows how to give and how to bear; and better, she knows how to
sacrifice herself without self-assertion, and calmly; no vulgar mind
conceived such a soul as this. And Ventidius, the old general, who with
her and previous to her, comes to rescue Antony from his illusion and
servitude, is worthy to speak in behalf of honor, as she had spoken for
duty. Doubtless he was a plebeian, a rude and plain-speaking soldier,
with the frankness and jests of his profession, sometimes clumsy, such
as a clever eunuch can dupe, "a thick-skulled hero," who, out of
simplicity of soul, from the coarseness of his training, unsuspectingly
brings Antony back to the meshes, which he seemed to be breaking
through. Falling into a trap, he tells Antony that he has seen Cleopatra
unfaithful with Dolabella:
"_Antony._ My Cleopatra?
_Ventidius._ Your Cleopatra.
Dolabella's Cleopatra.
Every man's Cleopatra.
_Antony._ Thou best.
_Ventidius._ I do not lie, my lord.
Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left,
And not provide against a time of change?
You know she's not much used to lonely nights."[417]
It was just the way to make Antony jealous and bring him back furious to
Cleopatra. But what a noble heart has this Ventidius, and how we catch,
when he is alone with Antony, the manly voice, the deep tones which had
been heard on the battlefield! He loves his general like a good and
honest dog, and asks no better than to die, so it be at his master's
feet. He growls stealthily on seeing him cast down, crouches round him,
and suddenly weeps:
"_Ventidius._ Look, emperor, this is no common dew. [_Weeping._]
I have not wept this forty years; but now
My mother comes afresh into my eyes,
I cannot help her softness.
_Antony._ By Heaven, he weeps! poor, good old man, he weeps!
The big round drops course one another down
The furrows of his cheeks.--Stop them, Ventidius,
Or I shall blush to death: they set my shame,
That caused them full before me.
_Ventidius._ I'll do my best.
_Antony._ Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends:
See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not
For my own grief, but thine. Nay, Father!"[418]
As we hear these terrible sobs, we think of Tacitus's veterans, who
escaping from the marshes of Germany, with scarred breasts, white heads,
limbs stiff with service, kissed the hands of Drusus, carried his
fingers to their gums, that he might feel their worn and loosened teeth,
incapable to bite the wretched bread which was given to them:
"No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours
In desperate sloth, miscall'd philosophy.
Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you,
And long to call you chief: By painful journies,
I led them, patient both of heat and hunger,
Down from the Parthian marshes to the Nile.
'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces,
Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in them.
They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates
Than yon trim bands can buy."[419]
And when all is lost, when the Egyptians have turned traitors and there
is nothing left but to die well, Ventidius says:
"There yet remain
Three legions in the town. The last assault
Lopt off the rest: if death be your design--
As I must wish it now--these are sufficient
To make a heap about us of dead foes,
An honest pile for burial.... Chuse your death;
For, I have seen in him such various shapes,
I care not which I take: I'm only troubled.
The life I bear is worn to such a rag,
'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, indeed.
We threw it from us with a better grace;
That, like two lions taken in the toils,
We might at least thrust out our paws, and wound
The hunters that inclose us."[420]...
Antony begs him to go, but he refuses; and then he entreats Ventidius
to kill him:
"_Antony._ Do not deny me twice.
_Ventidius._ By Heaven I will not.
Let it not be to outlive you.
_Antony._ Kill me first,
And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve
Thy friend, before thyself.
_Ventidius._ Give me your hand.
We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor!
[_Embraces._]
... I will not make a business of a trifle:
And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you.
Pray, turn your face.
_Antony._ I do: strike home, be sure.
_Ventidius._ Home, as my sword will reach."[421]
And with one blow he kills himself. These are the tragic, stoical
manners of a military monarchy, the great profusion of murders and
sacrifices wherewith the men of this overturned and shattered society
killed and died. This Antony, for whom so much has been done, is not
undeserving of their love: he has been one of Cæsar's heroes, the first
soldier of the van; kindness and generosity breathe from him to the
last; if he is weak against a woman, he is strong against men; he has
the muscles and heart, the wrath and passions of a soldier; it is this
fever-heat of blood, this too quick sentiment of honor, which has caused
him ruin; he cannot forgive his own crime; he possesses not that lofty
genius which, dwelling in a region superior to ordinary rules,
emancipates a man from hesitation, from discouragement and remorse; he
is only a soldier, he cannot forget that he has not executed the orders
given to him:
"_Ventidius._ Emperor!
_Antony._ Emperor? Why, that's the style of victory;
The conquering soldier, red with unfelt wounds,
Salutes his general so; but never more
Shall that sound reach my ears.
_Ventidius._ I warrant you.
_Antony._ Actium, Actium! Oh----
_Ventidius._ It sits too near you.
_Antony._ Here, here it lies; a lump of lead by day;
And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers,
The hag that rides my dreams...."
"_Ventidius._ That's my royal master;
And, shall we fight?
_Antony._ I warrant thee, old soldier.
Thou shalt behold me once again in iron;
And at the head of our old troops, that beat
The Parthians, cry aloud, 'Come, follow me.'"[422]
He fancies himself on the battlefield, and already his impetuosity
carries him away. Such a man is not fit to govern men; we cannot master
fortune until we have mastered ourselves; this man is only made to belie
and destroy himself, and to be veered round alternately by every
passion. As soon as he believes Cleopatra faithful, honor, reputation,
empire, everything vanishes:
"_Ventidius._ And what's this toy,
In balance with your fortune, honour, fame?
_Antony._ What is't, Ventidius? it outweighs them all.
Why, we have more than conquer'd Cæsar now.
My queen's not only innocent, but loves me....
Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art,
And ask forgiveness of wrong'd innocence!
_Ventidius._ I'll rather die than take it. Will you go?
_Antony._ Go! Whither? Go from all that's excellent!
... Give, you gods,
Give to your boy, your Cæsar,
This rattle of a globe to play withal,
This gewgaw world; and put him cheaply off:
I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra."[423]
Dejection follows excess; these souls are only tempered against fear;
their courage is but that of the bull and the lion; to be fully
themselves, they need bodily action, visible danger; their temperament
sustains them; before great moral sufferings they give away. When Antony
thinks himself deceived, he despairs, and has nothing left but to die:
"Let him (Cæsar) walk
Alone upon't. I'm weary of my part.
My torch is out; and the world stands before me,
Like a black desert at the approach of night;
I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on."[424]
Such verses remind us of Othello's gloomy dreams, of Macbeth's, of
Hamlet's even; beyond the pile of swelling tirades and characters of
painted cardboard, it is as though the poet had touched the ancient
drama, and brought its emotion away with him.
By his side another also has felt it, a young man, a poor adventurer, by
turns a student, actor, officer, always wild and always poor, who lived
madly and sadly in excess and misery, like the old dramatists, with
their inspiration, their fire, and who died at the age of thirty-four,
according to some of a fever caused by fatigue, according to others of a
prolonged fast, at the end of which he swallowed too quickly a morsel of
bread bestowed on him in charity. Through the pompous cloak of the new
rhetoric, Thomas Otway now and then reached the passions of the other
age. It is plain that the times he lived in marred him, that he blunted
himself the harshness and truth of the emotion he felt, that he no
longer mastered the bold words he needed, that the oratorical style, the
literary phrases, the classical declamation, the well-poised antitheses,
buzzed about him, and drowned his note in their sustained and monotonous
hum. Had he but been born a hundred years earlier! In his "Orphan" and
"Venice Preserved" we encounter the sombre imaginations of Webster,
Ford, and Shakespeare, their gloomy idea of life, their atrocities,
murders, pictures of irresistible passions, which riot blindly like a
herd of savage beasts, and make a chaos of the battlefield, with their
yells and tumult, leaving behind them but devastation and heaps of dead.
Like Shakespeare, he represents on the stage human transports and
rages--a brother violating his brother's wife, a husband perjuring
himself for his wife; Polydore, Chamont, Jaffier, weak and violent
souls, the sport of chance, the prey of temptation, with whom transport
or crime, like poison poured into the veins, gradually ascends, envenoms
the whole man, is communicated to all whom he touches, and contorts and
casts them down together in a convulsive delirium. Like Shakespeare, he
has found poignant and living words,[425] which lay bare the depths of
humanity, the strange creaking of a machine which is getting out of
order, the tension of the will stretched to breaking-point,[426] the
simplicity of real sacrifice, the humility of exasperated and craving
passion, which begs to the end, and against all hope, for its fuel and
its gratification.[427] Like Shakespeare, he has conceived genuine
women[428]--Monima, above all, Belvidera, who, like Imogen, has given
herself wholly, and is lost as in an abyss of adoration for him whom she
has chosen, who can but love, obey, weep, suffer, and who dies like a
flower plucked from the stalk, when her arms are torn from the neck
around which she has locked them. Like Shakespeare again, he has found,
at least once, the grand bitter buffoonery, the harsh sentiment of human
baseness; and he has introduced into his most painful tragedy, an impure
caricature, an old senator, who unbends from his official gravity in
order to play at his mistress's house the clown or the valet. How
bitter! how true was his conception, in making the busy man eager to
leave his robes and his ceremonies! how ready the man is to abase
himself, when, escaped from his part, he comes to his real self! how the
ape and the dog crop up in him! The senator Antonio comes to his
Aquilina, who insults him; he is amused; hard words are a relief to
compliments; he speaks in a shrill voice, runs into a falsetto like a
zany at a country fair:
"_Antonio._ Nacky, Nacky, Nacky--how dost do, Nacky? Hurry,
durry. I am come, little Nacky. Past eleven o'clock, a late hour; time
in all conscience to go to bed, Nacky.--Nacky did I say? Ay, Nacky,
Aquilina, lina, lina, quilina; Aquilina, Naquilina, Acky, Nacky, queen
Nacky.--Come, let's to bed.--You fubbs, you pug you--You little
puss.--Purree tuzzy--I am a senator.
_Aquilina._ You are a fool, I am sure.
_Antonio._ May be so too, sweet-heart. Never the worse senator for
all that. Come, Nacky, Nacky; let's have a game at romp, Nacky!
... You won't sit down? Then look you now; suppose me a bull,
a Basan-bull, the bull of bulls, or any bull. Thus up I get, and with
my brows thus bent--I broo; I say I broo, I broo, I broo. You won't
sit down, will you---I broo.... Now, I'll be a senator again, and
thy lover, little Nicky, Nacky. Ah, toad, toad, toad, toad, spit in my
face a little, Nacky; spit in my face, pry'thee, spit in my face, never
so little; spit but a little bit--spit, spit, spit, spit when you are
bid, I say; do pry'thee, spit.--Now, now spit. What, you won't spit, will
you? Then I'll be a dog.
_Aquilina._ A dog, my lord!
_Antonio._ Ay a dog, and I'll give thee this t'other purse to let me be
a dog--and to use me like a dog a little. Hurry durry, I will--here 'tis.
(Gives the purse.)... Now bough waugh waugh, bough, waugh.
_Aquilina._ Hold, hold, sir. If curs bite, they must be kicked, sir. Do
you see, kicked thus?
_Antonio._ Ay, with all my heart. Do, kick, kick on, now I am under
the table, kick again--kick harder--harder yet--bough, waugh, waugh,
bough.--Odd, I'll have a snap at thy shins.--Bough, waugh, waugh,
waugh, bough--odd, she kicks bravely."[429]
At last she takes a whip, thrashes him soundly, and turns him out of the
house. He will return, we may be sure of that; he has spent a pleasant
evening; he rubs his back, but he was amused. In short, he was but a
clown who had missed his vocation, whom chance has given an embroidered
silk gown, and who turns out at so much an hour political harlequinades.
He feels more natural, more at his ease, playing Punch than aping a
statesman.
These are but gleams: for the most part Otway is a poet of his time,
dull and forced in color; buried, like the rest, in the heavy, gray,
clouded atmosphere, half English and half French, in which the bright
lights brought over from France, are snuffed out by the insular fogs. He
is a man of his time; dike the rest, he writes obscene comedies, "The
Soldier's Fortune, The Atheist, Friendship in Fashion." He depicts
coarse and vicious cavaliers, rogues on principle, as harsh and corrupt
as those of Wycherley, Beaugard, who vaunts and practises the maxims of
Hobbes; the father, an old, corrupt rascal, who brags of his morality,
and whom his son coldly sends to the dogs with a bag of crowns: Sir
Jolly Jumble, a kind of base Falstaff, a pander by profession, whom the
courtesans call "papa, daddy," who, "if he sits but at the table with
one, he'll be making nasty figures in the napkins:"[430] Sir Davy Dunce,
a disgusting animal, "who has such a breath, one kiss of him were enough
to cure the fits of the mother; 'tis worse than assafœtida. Clean
linen, he says, is unwholesome...; he is continually eating of garlic,
and chewing tobacco";[431] Polydore, who, enamored of his father's ward,
tries to force her in the first scene, envies the brutes, and makes up
his mind to imitate them on the next occasion.[432] Otway defiles even
his heroines.[433] Truly this society sickens us. They thought to cover
all their filth with fine correct metaphors, neatly ended poetical
periods, a garment of harmonious phrases and noble expressions. They
thought to equal Racine by counterfeiting his style. They did not know
that in this style the outward elegance conceals an admirable propriety
of thought; that if it is a masterpiece of art, it is also a picture of
manners; that the most refined and accomplished in society alone could
speak and understand it; that it paints a civilization, as Shakespeare's
does; that each of these lines, which appear so stiff, has its
inflection and artifice; that all passions, and every shade of passions,
are expressed in them--not, it is true, wild and entire, as in
Shakespeare, but pared down and refined by courtly life; that this is a
spectacle as unique as the other; that nature perfectly polished is as
complex and as difficult to understand as nature perfectly intact; that
as for the dramatists we speak of, they were as far below the one as
below the other; and that, in short, their characters are as much like
Racine's as the porter of M. de Beauvilliers or the cook of Mme de
Sévigné were like Mme de Sévigné or M. de Beauvilliers.[434]