A single incongruous part may destroy the harmonious effect of many
beauties, without, however, making the object ugly. Ugliness requires
the presence of several incongruous parts which we must be able to take
in at a glance if the effect produced is to be the opposite of that
which we call beauty.
Accordingly ugliness in itself can be no subject for poetry. Yet Homer
has described its extreme in Thersites, and described it by its
coexistent parts. Why did he allow himself in the case of ugliness what
he wisely refrained from as regards beauty? Will not the effect of
ugliness be as much hindered by the successive enumeration of its
elements, as the effect of beauty is neutralized by a similar treatment?
Certainly it will, and therein lies Homer’s justification. The poet can
make ugliness his theme only because it acquires through his description
a less repulsive aspect, and ceases in a measure to produce the effect
of ugliness. What he cannot employ by itself, he uses as an ingredient
to excite and strengthen certain mixed impressions, with which he must
entertain us in the absence of those purely agreeable.
These mixed sensations are those of the ridiculous and the horrible.
Homer makes Thersites ugly in order to make him ridiculous. Mere
ugliness, however, would not have this effect. Ugliness is imperfection,
and the ridiculous requires a contrast between perfections and
imperfections.[149] This is the explanation of my friend, to which I
would add that this contrast must not be too sharp and decided, but that
the opposites must be such as admit of being blended into each other.
All the ugliness of Thersites has not made the wise and virtuous Æsop
ridiculous. A silly, monkish conceit sought to transfer to the writer
the γέλοιον of his instructive fables by representing his person as
deformed. But a misshapen body and a beautiful soul are like oil and
vinegar, which, however much they may be stirred together, will always
remain distinct to the taste. They give rise to no third. Each one
produces its own effect,—the body distaste, the soul delight. The two
emotions blend into one only when the misshapen body is at the same time
frail and sickly, a hinderance and source of injury to the mind. The
result, however, is not laughter, but compassion; and the object, which
before we had simply respected, now excites our interest. The frail,
misshapen Pope must have been more interesting to his friends than the
strong, handsome Wycherley.
But although Thersites is not ridiculous on account of his ugliness
alone, he would not be ridiculous without it. Many elements work
together to produce this result; the ugliness of his person
corresponding with that of his character, and both contrasting with the
idea he entertains of his own importance, together with the
harmlessness, except to himself, of his malicious tongue. The last point
is the οὐ φθαρτικόν (the undeadly), which Aristotle[150] takes to be an
indispensable element of the ridiculous. My friend also makes it a
necessary condition that the contrast should be unimportant, and not
interest us greatly. For, suppose that Thersites had had to pay dearly
for his spiteful detraction of Agamemnon, that it had cost him his life
instead of a couple of bloody wales, then we should cease to laugh at
him. To test the justice of this, let us read his death in Quintus
Calaber.[151] Achilles regrets having slain Penthesilea. Her noble
blood, so bravely shed, claims the hero’s respect and compassion,
feelings which soon grow into love. The slanderous Thersites turns this
love into a crime. He inveighs against the sensuality which betrays even
the bravest of men into follies:
ἥτ’ ἄφρονα φῶτα τίθησι
καὶ πινυτόν περ ἐόντα.
Achilles’ wrath is kindled. Without a word he deals him such a blow
between cheek and ear that teeth, blood, and life gush from the wound.
This is too barbarous. The angry, murderous Achilles becomes more an
object of hate to me than the tricky, snarling Thersites. The shout of
delight raised by the Greeks at the deed offends me. My sympathies are
with Diomedes, whose sword is drawn on the instant to take vengeance on
the murderer of his kinsman. For Thersites as a man is of my kin also.
But suppose that the attempts of Thersites had resulted in open mutiny;
that the rebellious people had actually taken to the ships, and
treacherously abandoned their commanders, who thereupon had fallen into
the hands of a vindictive enemy; and that the judgment of the gods had
decreed total destruction to fleet and nation: how should we then view
the ugliness of Thersites? Although harmless ugliness may be ridiculous,
hurtful ugliness is always horrible.
I cannot better illustrate this than by a couple of admirable passages
from Shakespeare. Edmund, bastard son of the Earl of Gloucester in King
Lear, is no less a villain than Richard, Duke of Gloucester, who, by the
most hideous crimes, paved his way to the throne, which he ascended
under the title of Richard the Third. Why does he excite in us far less
disgust and horror? When the bastard says,[152]—
Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law
My services are bound; wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me,
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines
Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as generous, and my shape as true
As honest Madam’s issue? why brand they thus
With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?
Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take
More composition and fierce quality,
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,
Go to creating a whole tribe of fops
Got ’tween asleep and wake?