WITH the exception of Goldsmith’s comedy, “She Stoops to Conquer,” the
only eighteenth century plays that still keep the stage are Sheridan’s
three, “The Rivals,” “The Critic,” and “The School for Scandal.” Once in
a while, to be sure, a single piece by one or another of Goldsmith’s and
Sheridan’s contemporaries makes a brief reappearance in the modern
theatre. I have seen Goldsmith’s earlier and inferior comedy, “The
Good-natured Man,” as well as Towneley’s farce, “High Life Below
Stairs,” both given by amateurs; and I have seen Colman’s “Heir at Law”
(1797) acted by professionals. Doubtless other eighteenth century plays,
such as Cumberland’s “West Indian” and Holcroft’s “Road to Ruin,” are
occasionally revived and run for a few nights. Sometimes this happens
even to an earlier piece, such as Farquhar’s “Beaux’ Stratagem” (1707),
which retained its popularity all through the eighteenth century. But
things of this sort, though listened to with a certain respectful
attention, are plainly tolerated as interesting literary survivals, like
an old miracle or morality play, say the “_Secunda Pastorum_” or
“Everyman,” revisiting the glimpses of the moon. They do not belong to
the repertoire.
Sheridan’s plays, on the other hand, have never lost their popularity as
acting dramas. “The School for Scandal” has been played oftener than any
other English play outside of Shakespeare; and “The Rivals” is not far
behind it. Even “The Critic,” which is a burlesque and depends for its
effect not upon plot and character but upon the sheer wit of the
dialogue and the absurdity of the situations—even “The Critic”
continues to be presented both at private theatricals and upon the
public stage, and seldom fails to amuse. There is no better proof of
Sheridan’s extraordinary dramatic aptitude than is afforded by a
comparison of “The Critic” with its model, Buckingham’s “Rehearsal.” To
Boswell’s question why “The Rehearsal” was no longer played, Dr. Johnson
answered, “Sir, it had not wit enough to keep it sweet”; then paused and
added in good Johnsonese, “it had not vitality sufficient to preserve it
from putrefaction.” “The Rehearsal” did have plenty of wit, but it was
of the kind which depends for its success upon a knowledge of the
tragedies it burlesqued. These are forgotten, and so “The Rehearsal” is
dead. But “The Critic” is not only very much brighter, but it satirizes
high tragedy in general and not a temporary literary fashion or a
particular class of tragedy: and, therefore, nearly a century and a half
after its first performance, “The Critic” is still very much alive. The
enduring favor which Sheridan’s plays have won must signify one of two
things: either that they touch the springs of universal comedy, _la
comédie humaine_—the human comedy, as Balzac calls it: go down to the
deep source of laughter, which is also the fountain of tears; or else
that, whatever of shallowness or artificiality their picture of life may
have, their cleverness and artistic cunning are such that they keep
their freshness after one hundred and fifty years. Such is the
antiseptic power of art.
The latter, I think, is Sheridan’s case. His quality was not genius, but
talent, yet talent raised to a very high power. His comedy lacks the
depth and mellowness of the very greatest comedy. His place is not among
the supreme creative humorists, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Aristophanes,
Molière. Taine says that in Sheridan all is brilliant, but that the
metal is not his own, nor is it always of the best quality. Yet he
acknowledges the wonderful vivacity of the dialogue, and the animated
movement of every scene and of the play as a whole. Sheridan, in truth,
was inventive rather than original. His art was eclectic, derivative,
but his skill in putting together his materials was unfailing. He wrote
the comedy of manners: not the comedy of character. In the greatest
comedy, in “The Merchant of Venice,” or “_Le Misanthrope_,” or “Peer
Gynt” there is poetry, or at least there is seriousness. But in the
comedy of manners, or in what is called classical comedy, i.e., pure,
unmixed comedy, the purpose is merely to amuse.
He never drives his plowshare through the crust of good society into the
substratum of universal ideas. We are not to look in the comedy of
manners for wisdom and far-reaching thoughts; nor yet for profound,
vital, subtle studies of human nature. Sheridan’s comedies are the
sparkling foam on the crest of the wave: the bright, consummate flower
of high life: finished specimens of the playwright’s art: not great
dramatic works.
Yet when all deductions have been made, Sheridan’s is a most dazzling
figure. The brilliancy and versatility of his talents were indeed
amazing. Byron said: “Whatsoever Sheridan has done, or chosen to do, has
been _par excellence_ always the best of its kind. He has written the
best comedy, the best drama, the best farce and the best address; and,
to crown all, delivered the very best oration ever conceived or heard in
this country.” By the best comedy Byron means “The School for Scandal”;
the best drama was “The Duenna,” an opera or music drama; the best
address was the monologue on Garrick; and the best oration was the
famous speech on the Begums of Oude in the impeachment proceedings
against Warren Hastings: a speech which held the attention of the House
of Commons for over five hours at a stretch, and was universally
acknowledged to have outdone the most eloquent efforts of Burke and Pitt
and Fox.
Sheridan came naturally by his aptitude for the theatre. His father was
an actor and declamation master and had been manager of the Theatre
Royal in Dublin. His mother had written novels and plays. Her unfinished
comedy, “A Journey to Bath,” furnished a few hints towards “The Rivals,”
the scene of which, you will remember, is at Bath, the fashionable
watering place which figures so largely in eighteenth century letters:
in Smollett’s novel, “Humphrey Clinker,” in Horace Walpole’s
correspondence, in Anstey’s satire, “The New Bath Guide,” and in
Goldsmith’s life of Beau Nash, the King of the Pumproom. Histrionic and
even dramatic ability has been constantly inherited. There are families
of actors, like the Kembles and the Booths; and it is noteworthy how
large a proportion of our dramatic authors have been actors, or in
practical touch with the stage: Marlowe, Greene, Jonson, Shakespeare,
Otway, Lee, Cibber, the Colmans, father and son, Macklin, Garrick,
Foote, Knowles, Boucicault, Robertson, Tom Taylor, Pinero, Stephen
Phillips. These names by no means exhaust the list of those who have
both written and acted plays. Sheridan’s career was full of adventure.
He eloped from Bath with a beautiful girl of eighteen, a concert singer,
daughter of Linley, the musical composer, and was married to her in
France. In the course of this affair he fought two duels, in one of
which he was dangerously wounded. Now what can be more romantic than a
duel and an elopement? Yet notice how the identical adventures which
romance uses in one way, classical comedy uses in quite another. These
personal experiences doubtless suggested some of the incidents in “The
Rivals”; but in that comedy the projected duel and the projected
elopement end in farce, and common sense carries it over romance, which
it is the whole object of the play to make fun of, as it is embodied in
the person of Miss Lydia Languish.
It was Sheridan who said that easy writing was sometimes very hard
reading. Nevertheless, whatever he did had the air of being dashed off
carelessly. All his plays were written before he was thirty. He was a
man of the world, who was only incidentally a man of letters. He sat
thirty years in the House of Commons, was Under Secretary for Foreign
Affairs under Fox, and Secretary to the Treasury under the coalition
ministry. He associated intimately with that royal fribble, the Prince
Regent, and the whole dynasty of dandies, and became, as Thackeray said
of his forerunner, Congreve, a tremendous swell, but on a much slenderer
capital. It is one of the puzzles of Sheridan’s biography where he got
the money to pay for Drury Lane Theatre, of which he became manager and
lessee. He was a shining figure in the world of sport and the world of
politics, as well as in the world of literature and the drama. He had
the sanguine, improvident temperament, and the irregular,
procrastinating habits of work which are popularly associated with
genius. The story is told that the fifth act of “The School for Scandal”
was still unwritten while the earlier acts were being rehearsed for the
first performance; and that Sheridan’s friends locked him up in a room
with pen, ink, and paper, and a bottle of claret, and would not let him
out till he had finished the play. This anecdote is not, I believe,
authentic; but it shows the current impression of his irresponsible
ways. His reckless expenses, his betting and gambling debts resulted in
his arrest and imprisonment, and writs were served upon him in his last
illness. I do not think that Sheridan affected a contempt for the
profession of letters; but there was perhaps a touch of affectation in
his rather _dégagé_ attitude toward his own performances. It is an
attitude not uncommon in literary men who are also—like
Congreve—“tremendous swells.” “I hate your authors who are _all_
author,” wrote Byron, who was himself a bit of a snob. When Voltaire
called upon Congreve, the latter disclaimed the character of author, and
said he was merely a private gentleman, who wrote for his own amusement.
“If you were merely a private gentleman,” replied Voltaire, “I would not
have thought it worth while to come to see you.”
Dramatic masterpieces are not tossed off lightly from the nib of the
pen; and doubtless Sheridan worked harder at his plays than he chose to
have the public know and was not really one of that “mob of gentlemen
who write with ease” at whom Pope sneers. Byron and many others testify
to the coruscating wit of his conversation; and it is well-known that he
did not waste his good things, but put them down in his notebooks and
worked them up to a high polish in the dialogue of his plays. It is
noticeable how thriftily he leads up to his jokes, laying little traps
for his speakers to fall into. Thus in “The Rivals,” where Faulkland is
complaining to Captain Absolute about Julia’s heartless high spirits in
her lover’s absence, he appeals to his friend to mark the contrast:
“Why Jack, have _I_ been the joy and spirit of the company?”
“No, indeed, you have not,” acknowledges the Captain.
“Have _I_ been lively and entertaining?” asks Faulkland.
“O, upon my word, I acquit you,” answers his friend.
“Have _I_ been full of wit and humor?” pursues the jealous
lover.
“No, faith, to do you justice,” says Absolute, “you have been
confoundedly stupid.”
The Captain could hardly have missed this rejoinder; it was fairly put
into his mouth by the wily dramatist.
Again observe how carefully the way is prepared for the repartee in the
following bit of dialogue from “The School for Scandal”: Sir Peter
Teazle has married a country girl and brought her up to London, where
she shows an unexpected zest for the pleasures of the town. He is
remonstrating with her about her extravagance and fashionable ways.
Sir Peter: “Madam, I pray had you any of these elegant expenses when you
married me?”
Lady Teazle: “Lud, Sir Peter, would you have me be out of the fashion?”
Sir Peter: “The fashion indeed! What had you to do with the fashion
before you married me?”
Lady Teazle: “For my part—I should think you would like to have your
wife thought a woman of taste.”
Sir Peter: “Aye, there again—Taste! Zounds, Madam, you had no taste
when you married me.”
The retort is inevitable and a modern playwriter—say, Shaw or
Pinero—would leave the audience to make it, Lady Teazle answering
merely with an ironical bow. But Sheridan was not addressing subtle
intellects, and he doesn’t let us off from the lady’s answer in good
blunt terms: “That’s very true indeed, Sir Peter! After having married
you I should never pretend to taste again, I allow.” But why expose
these tricks of the trade? All playwrights have them, and Sheridan uses
them very cleverly, if rather transparently. Another time-honored stage
convention which Sheridan practises is the labelling of his characters.
Names like Malaprop, O’Trigger, Absolute, Languish, Acres, etc., are
descriptive; and the realist might ask how their owners came by them, if
he were pedantic enough to cross-question the innocent old comedy
tradition, which is of course unnatural and indefensible enough if we
choose to take such things seriously.
About the comparative merits of Sheridan’s two best plays, tastes have
differed. “The Rivals” has more of humor; “The School for Scandal” more
of wit; but both have plenty of each. On its first appearance, January
17, 1775, “The Rivals” was a failure, owing partly to its excessive
length, partly to bad acting, partly to a number of outrageous puns and
similar witticisms which the author afterwards cut out, and partly to
the offense given by the supposed caricature of an Irish gentleman in
the person of Sir Lucius O’Trigger. Sheridan withdrew the play and
revised it thoroughly, shortening the acting time by an hour and
redistributing the parts among the members of the Covent Garden Theatre
company. At its second performance, eleven days later, it proved a
complete success, and has remained so ever since. It has always been a
favorite play with the actors, because it offers so many fine rôles to
an all-star company. It affords at least four first-class parts to the
comic artist: Sir Anthony Absolute, Mrs. Malaprop, Bob Acres, and Sir
Lucius O’Trigger: while it has an unusually spirited _jeune premier_, a
charming though utterly unreasonable heroine, a good soubrette in Lucy,
and entertaining minor characters in Fag and David.
As we have no manuscript of the first draft of “The Rivals,” it is
impossible to say exactly what changes the author made in it. But as the
text now stands it is hard to understand why Sir Lucius O’Trigger was
regarded as an insult to the Irish nation. Sheridan was an Irishman and
he protested that he would have been the last man to lampoon his
compatriots. Sir Lucius is a fortune hunter, indeed, and he is always
spoiling for a fight; but he is a gentleman and a man of courage; and
even in his fortune hunting he is sensitive upon the point of honor: he
will get Mrs. Malaprop’s consent to his addresses to her niece, and “do
everything fairly,” for, as he says very finely, “I am so poor that I
can’t afford to do a dirty action.” The comedy Irishman was nothing new
in Sheridan’s time. He goes back to Jonson and Shakespeare. In the
eighteenth century his name was Teague; in the nineteenth, Pat or Mike.
We are familiar with this stock figure of the modern stage, his brogue,
his long-skirted coat and knee breeches, the blackthorn shillalah in his
fist and the dudeen stuck into his hatband. The Irish naturally resent
this grotesque: their history has been tragical and they wish to be
taken seriously. We have witnessed of late their protest against one of
their own comedies, “The Playboy of the Western World.” But perhaps they
have become over touchy. There is not any too much fun in the world, and
if we are to lose all the funny national peculiarities from caricature
and farce and dialect story, if the stage Irishman has got to go, and
also the stage Yankee, Dutchman, Jew, Ole Olsen, John Bull, and the
burnt cork artist of the negro minstrel show, this world will be a
gloomier place. Be that as it may, Sir Lucius O’Trigger is no
caricature: he doesn’t even speak in brogue, and perhaps the nicest
stroke in his portrait is that innocent inconsequence which is the
essence of an Irish bull. “Hah, my little ambassadress,” he says to
Lucy, with whom he has an appointment, “I have been looking for you; I
have been on the South Parade this half hour.”
“O gemini!” cries Lucy, “and I have been waiting for your worship on the
North.”
“Faith,” answers Sir Lucius, “maybe that was the reason we did not
meet.”
A great pleasure in the late sixties and early seventies used to be the
annual season of English classical comedy at Wallack’s old playhouse;
and not the least pleasant feature of this yearly revival was the
performance of “The Rivals,” with John Gilbert cast for the part of Sir
Anthony, Mrs. Gilbert as Mrs. Malaprop, and Lester Wallack himself, if I
remember rightly, in the rôle of the Captain. But, of course, the comic
hero of the piece is Bob Acres; and this, I think, was Jefferson’s great
part. I saw him three times in Bob Acres, at intervals of years, and it
was a masterpiece of high comedy acting: so natural, so utterly without
consciousness of the presence of spectators, that it was less like
acting than like the thing itself. The interpretation of the character,
too, was so genial and sympathetic that one was left with a feeling of
great friendliness toward the unwarlike Bob, and his cowardice excited
not contempt but only amusement. The last time that I saw Joe Jefferson
in “The Rivals,” he was a very old man, and there was a pathetic
impression of fatigue about his performance, though the refinement and
the warm-heartedness with which he carried the part had lost nothing
with age.
Historically Sheridan’s plays represent a reaction against sentimental
comedy, which had held the stage for a number of years, beginning,
perhaps, with Steele’s “Tender Husband” (1703) and numbering, among its
triumphs, pieces like Moore’s “Foundling” (1748), Kelly’s “False
Delicacy,” and several of Cumberland’s plays. Cumberland, by the way,
who was intensely jealous of Sheridan, was the original of Sir Fretful
Plagiary in “The Critic,” Sheridan’s only condescension to personal
satire. He was seemingly a vain and pompous person, and well deserved
his castigation. The story is told of Cumberland that he took his
children to see “The School for Scandal” and when they laughed rebuked
them, saying that he saw nothing to laugh at in this comedy. When this
was reported to Sheridan, his comment was, “I think that confoundedly
ungrateful, for I went to see Cumberland’s last tragedy and laughed
heartily at it all the way through.”
With Goldsmith and Sheridan gayety came back to the English stage. In
their prefaces and prologues both of them complain that the comic muse
is dying and is being succeeded by “a mawkish drab of spurious breed who
deals in sentimentals,” genteel comedy, to wit, who comes from France
where comedy has now become so very elevated and sentimental that it has
not only banished humor and Molière from the stage, but it has banished
all spectators too. Goldsmith laments the disgusting solemnity that had
lately infected literature and sneers at the moralizing comedies that
deal with the virtues and distresses of private life instead of
ridiculing its faults. Joseph Surface in “The School for Scandal” is
Sheridan’s portrait of the sentimental, moralizing hypocrite, whose
catchword is “the man of sentiment”; and whose habit of uttering lofty
moralities is so ingrained that he vents them even when no one is
present who can be deceived by them.
Surface: “The man who does not share in the distresses of a
brother—even though merited by his own misconduct—deserves—”
“O Lud,” interrupts Lady Sneerwell, “you are going to be moral, and
forget that you are among friends.”
“Egad, that’s true,” rejoins Joseph, “I’ll keep that sentiment till I
see Sir Peter.”
“The Critic” has a slap or two at sentimental comedy. A manuscript play
has been submitted to Mr. Dangle, who reads this stage direction,
“_Bursts into tears and exit_,” and naturally asks, “What is this, a
tragedy?” “No,” explains Mr. Sneer, “that’s a genteel comedy, not a
translation—only taken from the French: it is written in a style which
they have lately tried to run down; the true sentimental and nothing
ridiculous in it from the beginning to the end. . . . The theatre, in
proper hands, might certainly be made the school of morality; but now, I
am sorry to say it, people seem to go there principally for their
entertainment.” Another of these moral comedies is entitled “‘The
Reformed Housebreaker’ where, by the mere force of humour, housebreaking
is put in so ridiculous a light, that if the piece has its proper run
. . . bolts and bars will be entirely useless by the end of the season.”
Sheridan has often been called the English Beaumarchais. The comedies of
Beaumarchais, “The Barber of Seville” and “The Marriage of Figaro” were
precisely contemporaneous with Sheridan’s, and, like the latter, they
were a reaction against sentimentalism, against the so-called _comédie
larmoyante_ or tearful comedies of La Chaussée and other French
dramatists. With Beaumarchais laughter and mirth returned once more to
the French stage. He goes back for a model to Molière, as Sheridan goes
back to English Restoration comedy, and particularly to Congreve, whom
he resembles in the wit of his dialogue and the vivacity of his
character painting, but whom he greatly excels in the invention of plot
and situation. Congreve’s plots are intricate and hard to follow, highly
improbable and destitute of climaxes. On the other hand, Sheridan is a
master of plot. The duel scene in “The Rivals,” the auction scene and
the famous screen scene in “The School for Scandal” are three of the
most skilfully managed situations in English comedy. Congreve’s best
play, “The Way of the World” (1700), was a failure on the stage. But
whatever Sheridan’s shortcomings, a want of practical effectiveness, of
acting quality, was never one of them. Sheridan revived society drama,
what Lamb called the artificial comedy of the seventeenth century. Lydia
Languish, with her romantic notions, and Mrs. Malaprop with her “nice
derangement of epitaphs” are artificial characters. Bob Acres is for the
most part delightfully natural, but his system of referential or
sentimental swearing—“Odds blushes and blooms” and the like—is an
artificial touch. The weakest feature of “The Rivals” is the underplot,
the love affairs of Faulkland and Julia. Faulkland’s particular variety
of jealousy is a “humor” of the Ben Jonsonian sort, a sentimental alloy,
as Charles Lamb pronounced it, and anyway infinitely tiresome. In modern
acting versions this business is usually abridged. As Jefferson played
it, Julia’s part was cut out altogether, and Faulkland makes only one
appearance (Act II, Scene I), where his presence is necessary for the
going on of the main action.
There is one particular in which Congreve and Sheridan sin alike. They
make all the characters witty. “Tell me if Congreve’s fools are fools
indeed,” wrote Pope. And Sheridan can never resist the temptation of
putting clever sayings into the mouths of simpletons. The romantic Miss
Languish is nearly as witty as the very unromantic Lady Teazle. I need
not quote the good things that Fag and Lucy say, but Thomas the
coachman, and the stupid old family servant David say things equally
good. It is David, e.g., who, when his master remarks that if he is
killed in the duel his honor will follow him to the grave, rejoins, “Now
that’s just the place where I could make shift to do without it.” Sir
Anthony is witty, Bob Acres himself is witty, and even Mrs.
Malaprop—foolish old woman—delivers repartees. Mrs. Malaprop’s verbal
blunders, by the way, are a good instance of that artificial high polish
so characteristic of Sheridan’s art. There are people in earlier
comedies who make ludicrous misapplications of words—Shakespeare’s
Dogberry, e.g., or Dame Quickly, but they do it naturally and
occasionally. Sheridan reduces these accidents to a system—a science.
No one in real life was ever so perseveringly and so brilliantly wrong
as Mrs. Malaprop.
Dramatically this is out of character and is, therefore, a fault, though
a fault easy to forgive since it results in so much clever talk. It is a
fault, as I have said, which Congreve shares with Sheridan, his heir and
continuator. Perhaps the lines of character are not cut quite so deep in
Sheridan as in Congreve nor has his dialogue the elder dramatist’s
condensed, epigrammatic solidity. But on the whole, “The Rivals” and
“The School for Scandal” are better plays than Congreve ever wrote.