Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  In the same year as “Eastward Ho!” appeared the best and completest piece of work which we owe to the single hand of Marston. A more brilliant and amusing play than “The Dutch Courtesan,” better composed, better constructed, and better written, it would be difficult to discover among the best comic and romantic works of its incomparable period. The slippery and sanguinary strumpet who gives its name to the play is sketched with such admirable force and freedom of hand as to suggest the existence of an actual model who may unconsciously have sat for the part under the scrutiny of eyes as keen and merciless as ever took notes for a savagely veracious caricature — or for an unscrupulously moral exposure. The jargon in which her emotions are expressed is as Shakespearean in its breadth and persistency as that of Dr. Caius or Captain Fluellen; but the reality of those emotions is worthy of a less farcical vehicle for the expression of such natural craft and passion. The sisters, Beatrice and Crispinella, seem at first too evidently imitated from the characters of Aurelia and Phoenixella in the earliest surviving comedy of Ben Jonson; but the “comedy daughter,” as Dickens (or Skimpole) would have expressed it, is even more coarsely and roughly drawn than in the early sketch of the more famous dramatist. On the other hand, it must be allowed — though it may not be recognized without a certain sense of surprise — that the nobler and purer type of womanhood or girlhood which we owe to the hand of Marston is far above comparison with any which has been accomplished or achieved by the studious and vehement elaboration of Ben Jonson’s. The servility of subservience which that great dramatist exacts from his typically virtuous women — from the abject and anaemic wife of a Corvino or a Fitzdottrel — is a quality which could not coexist with the noble and loving humility of Marston’s Beatrice. The admirable scene in which she is brought face to face with the impudent pretentions of the woman who asserts herself to have been preferred by the betrothed lover of the expectant bride is as pathetic and impressive as it is lifelike and original; and even in the excess of gentleness and modesty which prompts the words, “I will love you the better; I cannot hate what he affected,” there is nothing less noble or less womanly than in the subsequent reply to the harlot’s repeated taunts and inventions of insult: “He did not ill not to love me, but sure he did not well to mock me: gentle minds will pity, though they cannot love; yet peace and my love sleep with him.” The powerful soliloquy which closes the scene expresses no more than the natural emotion of the man who has received so lovely a revelation of his future bride’s invincible and single-hearted love:

  Cannot that woman’s evil, jealousy, Despite disgrace, nay, which is worse, contempt, Once stir thy faith?

  Coarse as is often the language of Marston’s plays and satires, the man was not coarse-minded — not gross of spirit nor base of nature — who could paint so delicately and simply a figure so beautiful in the tenderness of its purity.

  The farcical underplot of this play is worthy of Molière in his broader mood of farce. Hardly any Jourdain or Pourceaugnac, any George Dandin or Comtesse d’Escarbagnas of them all, undergoes a more grotesque experience or plays a more ludicrous part than is devised for Mr. and Mrs. Mulligrub by the ingenuity of the indefatigable Cocledemoy — a figure worthy to stand beside any of the tribe of Mascarille as fourbum imperator. The animation and variety of inventive humor which keep the reader’s laughing attention awake and amused throughout these adventurous scenes of incident and intrigue are not more admirable than the simplicity and clearness of evolution or composition which recall and rival the classic masterpieces of Latin and French comedy. There is perhaps equal fertility of humor, but there certainly is not equal harmony of structure in the play which Marston published next year— “Parasitaster; or, the Fawn”; a name probably suggested by that of Ben Jonson’s “Poetaster,” in which the author had himself been the subject of a greater man’s rage and ridicule. The wealth and the waste of power displayed and paraded in this comedy are equally admirable and lamentable; for the brilliant effect of its various episodes and interludes is not more obvious than the eclipse of the central interest, the collapse of the serious design, which results from the agglomeration of secondary figures and the alternations of perpetual by-play. Three or four better plays might have been made out of the materials here hurled and huddled together into one. The Isabelle of Molière is not more amusing or more delightful in her audacity of resource, in her combination of loyalty with duplicity, innocence with intrigue, than the daring and single-hearted young heroine of this play; but the “École des Maris” is not encumbered with such a crowd of minor interests and characters, of subordinate humors and complications, as the reader of Marston’s comedy finds interposed and intruded between his attention and the main point of interest. He would fain see more of Dulcimel and Tiberio, the ingenious and enterprising princess, the ingenuous and responsive prince; he is willing to see as much as is shown him of their fathers, the masquerading philosopher and the self-complacent dupe; Granuffo, the patrician prototype of Captain John Bunsby, may take a seat in the chambers of his memory beside the commander of the Cautious Clara; the humors of a jealous foul-minded fool and a somewhat audaciously virtuous wife may divert him by the inventive and vigorous exposure of their various revolutions and results; but the final impression is one of admiring disappointment and possibly ungrateful regret that so much energetic satire and so much valuable time should have been spent on the somewhat nauseous follies of “sickly knights” and “vicious braggarts” that the really admirable and attractive parts of the design are cramped and crowded out of room for the due development of their just and requisite proportions.

  A more eccentric, uneven, and incomposite piece of work than “The Insatiate Countess” it would be difficult to find in English or in other literature. The opening scene is picturesque and impressive; the closing scene of the serious part is noble and pathetic; but the intervening action is of a kind which too often aims at the tragic and hits the burlesque. The incessant inconstancy of passion which hurries the fantastic heroine through such a miscellaneous multitude of improvised intrigues is rather a comic than a tragic motive for the conduct of a play; and the farcical rapidity with which the puppets revolve makes it impossible for the most susceptible credulity to take any real interest or feel any real belief in the perpetual rotation of their feverish moods and motives, their irrational doings and sufferings. The humor of the underplot constantly verges on horse-play, and is certainly neither delicate nor profound; but there is matter enough for mirth in it to make the reader duly grateful for the patient care and admirable insight which Mr. Bullen has brought to bear upon the really formidable if apparently trivial task of reducing the chaotic corruption and confusion of the text to reasonable form and comprehensible order. William Barkstead, a narrative poet of real merit, and an early minister at the shrine of Shakespeare, has been credited with the authorship of this play: I am inclined to agree with the suggestion of its latest editor — its first editor in any serious sense of the word — that both he and Marston may have had a hand in it. His “Myrrha” belongs to the same rather morbid class of poems as Shakespeare’s “Venus and Adonis” and Marston’s “Pygmalion’s Image.” Of the three Shakespeare’s is not more certainly the finest in occasional touches of picturesque poetry than it is incomparably the most offensive to good taste and natural instinct on the score of style and treatment. Marlowe’s “Hero and Leander” can only be classed with these elaborate studies of sensual aberration or excess by those “who can see no difference between Titian and French photographs.” (I take leave, for once in a way, to quote from a private letter — long since addressed to the present commentator by the most illustrious of writers on art.)

  There are some pretty verses and some ingenious touches in Marston’s “Entertainment,” offered to Lady Derby by her daughter and son-in-law; but the Latinity of his city pageant can scarcely have satisfied the pupil of Buchanan, unless indeed the reputation of King James’s tutor as a Latin versifier or master of prosody has been
scandalously usurped under the falsest of pretences: a matter on which I am content to accept the verdict of Landor. His contribution to Sir Robert Chester’s problematic volume may perhaps claim the singular distinction of being more incomprehensible, more crabbed, more preposterous, and more inexplicable than any other copy of verses among the “divers poetical essays — done by the best and chiefest of our modern writers, with their names subscribed to their particular works,” in which Marston has the honor to stand next to Shakespeare; and however far he may be from any pretention to rival the incomparable charm of Shakespeare’s opening quatrain — incomparable in its peculiar melody and mystery except with other lyrics of Shakespeare’s or of Shelley’s, it must, I think, be admitted that an impartial student of both effusions will assign to Marston rather than to Shakespeare the palm of distinction on the score of tortuous obscurity and enigmatic verbiage. It may be — as it seems to me — equally difficult to make sense of the greater and the lesser poet’s riddles and rhapsodies; but on the whole I cannot think that Shakespeare’s will be found so desperately indigestible by the ordinary intelligence of manhood as Marston’s. “The turtles fell to work, and ate each other up,” in a far more comprehensible and reasonable poem of Hood’s; and most readers of Chester’s poem and the verses appended to it will be inclined to think that it might have been as well — except for a few lines of Shakespeare’s and of Jonson’s which we could not willingly spare — if the Phoenix and Turtle had set them the example.

  If the apparently apocryphal Mountebank’s Masque be really the work of Marston — and it is both coarse enough and clever enough to deserve the attribution of his authorship — there is a singular echo in it from the opening of Jonson’s “Poetaster,” the furious dramatic satire which blasted for upward of two centuries the fame or the credit of the poet to whose hand this masque has been hitherto assigned. In it, after a full allowance of rough and ribald jocosity, the presence of a poet becomes manifest with the entrance of an allegoric figure whose declamatory address begins with these words:

  Light, I salute thee; I, Obscurity, The son of Darkness and forgetful Lethe; I, that envy thy brightness, greet thee now, Enforced by Fate.

  Few readers of these lines will forget the verses with which Envy plays prologue to “Poetaster; or, his Arraignment”:

  Light, I salute thee, but with wounded nerves, Wishing thy golden splendor pitchy darkness.

  Whoever may be the author of this masque, there are two or three couplets well worth remembrance in one of the two versions of its text:

  It is a life is never ill To lie and sleep in roses still.

  * * * * * * * *

  Who would not hear the nightingale still sing, Or who grew ever weary of the spring? The day must have her night, the spring her fall, All is divided, none is lord of all.

  These verses are worthy of a place in any one of Mr. Bullen’s beautiful and delightful volumes of lyrics from Elizabethan song-books; and higher praise than this no lyrical poet could reasonably desire.

  An inoffensive monomaniac, who thought fit to reprint a thing in dramatic or quasi-dramatic form to which I have already referred in passing— “Histriomastix; or, the Player Whipt” — thought likewise fit to attribute to John Marston, of all men on earth, a share in the concoction of this shapeless and unspeakable piece of nonsense. The fact that one of the puppets in the puppet-show is supposed to represent a sullen scholar, disappointed, impoverished, and virulent, would have suggested to a rational reader that the scribbler who gave vent to the impotence of his rancor in this hopeless ebullition of envious despair had set himself to ape the habitual manner of Jonson and the occasional manner of Marston with about as much success as might be expected from a malignant monkey when attempting to reproduce in his grimaces the expression of human indignation and contempt. But to students of natural or literary history who cannot discern the human from the simious element it suggests that the man thus imitated must needs have been the imitator of himself; and the fact that the whole attempt at satire is directed against dramatic poetry — that all the drivelling venom of a dunce’s denunciation, all the virulent slaver of his grovelling insolence, is aimed at the stage for which Marston was employed in writing — weighs nothing in the scales of imbecility against the consideration that Marston’s or Jonson’s manner is here and there more or less closely imitated; that we catch now and then some such echo of his accent, some such savor of his style, as may be discovered or imagined in the very few scattered lines which show any glimmer of capacity for composition or versification. The eternal theme of envy, invented by Jonson and worked to death by its inventor, was taken up again by Marston and treated with a vigorous acerbity not always unworthy of comparison with Jonson’s; the same conception inspired with something of eloquence the malignant idiocy of the satirical dunce who has left us, interred and embedded in a mass of rubbish, a line or two like these which he has put into the mouth of his patron saint or guardian goddess, the incarnate essence of Envy:

  Turn, turn, thou lackey to the winged time! I envy thee in that thou art so slow, And I so swift to mischief.

  But the entire affair is obviously an effusion and an example of the same academic sagacity or lucidity of appreciation which found utterance in other contemporary protests of the universities against the universe. In that abyss of dulness “The Return from Parnassus,” a reader or a diver who persists in his thankless toil will discover this pearl of a fact — that men of culture had no more hesitation in preferring Watson to Shakespeare than they have in preferring Byron to Shelley. The author of the one deserves to have been the author of the other. Nobody can have been by nature such a fool as to write either: art, education, industry, and study were needful to achieve such composite perfection of elaborate and consummate idiocy.

  There is a good deal of bad rubbish, and there is some really brilliant and vigorous writing, in the absurdly named and absurdly constructed comedy of “Jack Drum’s Entertainment”; but in all other points — in plot, incident, and presentation of character — it is so scandalously beneath contempt that I am sorry to recognize the hand of Marston in a play which introduces us to a “noble father,” the model of knightly manhood and refined good sense, who on the news of a beloved daughter’s disappearance instantly proposes to console himself with a heavy drinking-bout. No graver censure can be passed on the conduct of the drama than the admission that this monstrous absurdity is not out of keeping with the rest of it. There is hardly a single character in all its rabble rout of lunatics who behaves otherwise than would beseem a probationary candidate for Bedlam. Yet I fear there is more serious evidence of a circumstantial kind in favor of the theory which would saddle the fame of Marston with the charge of its authorship than such as depends on peculiarities of metre and eccentricities of phrase. Some other poet — though I know of none such — may have accepted and adopted his theory that “vengeance” must count in verse as a word of three syllables: I can hardly believe that the fancy would sound sweet in any second man’s ear: but this speciality is not more characteristic than other and more important qualities of style — the peculiar abruptness, the peculiar inflation, the peculiar crudity — which denote this comedy as apparently if not evidently Marstonian. On the other hand, if it were indeed his, it is impossible to conjecture why his name should have been withheld from the title-page; and it must not be forgotten that even our own day is not more fertile than was Marston’s in the generation of that slavish cattle which has always since the age of Horace fed ravenously and thievishly on the pasture-land of every poet who has discovered or reclaimed a field or a province of his own.

  But our estimate of John Marston’s rank or regiment in the noble army of contemporary poets will not be in any way affected by acceptance or rejection of any apocryphal addition to the canon of his writings. For better and for worse, the orthodox and undisputed roll of them will suffice to decide that question beyond all chance of intelligent or rational dispute. His rank is high in his own reg
iment; and the colonel of that regiment is Ben Jonson. At first sight he may seem rather to belong to that brighter and more famous one which has Webster among its captains, Dekker among its lieutenants, Heywood among its privates, and Shakespeare at its head. Nor did he by any means follow the banner of Jonson with such automatic fidelity as that imperious martinet of genius was wont to exact from those who came to be “sealed of the tribe of Ben.” A rigid critic — a critic who should push rigidity to the verge of injustice — might say that he was one of those recruits in literature whose misfortune it is to fall between two stools — to halt between two courses. It is certain that he never thoroughly mastered either the cavalry drill of Shakespeare or the infantry drill of Jonson. But it is no less certain that the few finest passages which attest the power and the purity of his genius as a poet are above comparison with any such examples of tragic poetry as can be attributed with certainty or with plausibility to the hand which has left us no acknowledged works in that line except “Sejanus his Fall” and “Catiline his Conspiracy.” It is superfluous to add that “Volpone” was an achievement only less far out of his reach than “Hamlet.” But this is not to say or to imply that he does not deserve an honorable place among English poets. His savage and unblushing violence or vehemence of satire has no taint of gloating or morbid prurience in the turbid flow of its fitful and furious rhetoric. The restless rage of his invective is as far as human utterance can find itself from the cynical infidelity of an Iago. Of him we may say with more rational confidence what was said of that more potent and more truculent satirist:

  An honest man he is, and hates the slime That sticks on filthy deeds.

  We may wish that he had not been so much given to trampling and stamping on that slime as to evoke such malodorous exhalations as infect the lower and shallower reaches of the river down which he proceeds to steer us with so strenuous a hand. But it is in a spirit of healthy disgust, not of hankering delight, that he insists on calling the indignant attention of his readers to the baser and fouler elements of natural or social man as displayed in the vicious exuberance or eccentricity of affectation or of self-indulgence. His real interest and his real sympathies are reserved for the purer and nobler types of womanhood and manhood. In his first extant tragedy, crude and fierce and coarse and awkward as is the general treatment of character and story, the sketch of Mellida is genuinely beautiful in its pathetic and subdued simplicity; though certainly no such tender and gentle figure was ever enchased in a stranger or less attractive setting. There is an odd mixture of care and carelessness in the composition of his plays which is exemplified by the fact that another personage in the first part of the same dramatic poem was announced to reappear in the second part as a more important and elaborate figure; but this second part opens with the appearance of his assassin, red-handed from the murder: and the two parts were published in the same year. And indeed, except in “Parasitaster” and “The Dutch Courtesan,” a general defect in his unassisted plays is the headlong confusion of plot, the helter-skelter violence of incident, which would hardly have been looked for in the work of a professional and practised hand. “What you Will” is modestly described as “a slight-writ play”: but slight and slovenly are not the same thing; nor is simplicity the equivalent of incoherence. I have already observed that Marston is apt to be heaviest when he aims at being lightest; not, like Ben Jonson, through a laborious and punctilious excess of conscience which is unwilling to let slip any chance of effect, to let pass any detail of presentation; but rather, we are tempted to suspect, through a sardonic sense of scorn for the pefunctory task on which his ambitious and impatient hand is for the time employed. Now and then, however — or perhaps it would be more accurate to say once or twice — a gayer note is struck with a lighter touch than usual: as, for instance, in the excellent parody of Lyly put into the mouth of an idiot in the first scene of the fifth act of the first part of “Antonio and Mellida.” “You know, the stone called lapis, the nearer it comes to the fire, the hotter it is; and the bird which the geometricians call avis, the farther it is from the earth, the nearer it is to the heaven; and love, the nigher it is to the flame, the more remote (there’s a word, remote!) — the more remote it is from the frost.” Shakespeare and Scott have condescended to caricature the style or the manner of the inventor of euphuism: I cannot think their burlesque of his elaborate and sententious triviality so happy, so humorous, or so exact as this. But it is not on his capacity as a satirist or humorist, it is on his occasionally triumphant success as a serious or tragic poet, that the fame of Marston rests assuredly established. His intermittent power to rid himself for a while of his besetting faults, and to acquire or assume for a moment the very excellences most incompatible with these, is as extraordinary for the completeness as for the transience of its successful effects. The brief fourth act of “Antonio and Mellida” is the most astonishing and bewildering production of belated human genius that ever distracted or discomfited a student. Verses more delicately beautiful followed by verses more simply majestic than these have rarely if ever given assurance of eternity to the fame of any but a great master in song: