The use of a substituted bride, Diaphanta, to prevent Alsemero from finding out Beatrice is not a virgin is almost farcical, especially when the substitute enjoys herself so much that she won’t leave Alsemero’s bed. De Flores saves the day by arranging a fire, and now Beatrice loves him as much as she had despised him: “The east is not more beauteous than his service”…“Here’s a man worth loving”…“A wondrous necessary man.”
In the end, having recognized her crimes, she makes her last great speech. There is much talk of blood in the final scene: the power of blood and beauty combined to deform their possessor; the “bridge of blood” Beatrice should have gone “a thousand leagues about” to avoid; the blood on De Flores’s clothes; Tomazo’s revenge, “urgent in … blood”; and Beatrice’s climactic figure:
I am that of your blood was taken from you…
Let the common sewer take it from distinction.…
where the blood of kinship becomes the blood let by the doctor as a cure, and drained away as mere sewage. De Flores is triumphant in death:
I loved this woman in spite of her heart.…
… her honor’s prize
Was my reward; I thank life for nothing
But that pleasure; it was so sweet to me,
That I have drunk up all, left none behind
For any man to pledge me.
Here, as the complex plot—murder, madness, adultery, perverted love—is unraveled, Middleton writes poetry of a high order. To do so in situations that may strike us as close to farcical—fit for parody—was his great achievement, and others—Tourneur, Webster—came near, on occasion, to writing at the same level. Indeed it is here that we see the ultimate irrelevance of those parodies of Nigel Dennis and Thomas Pynchon. The plots are close to the sensationalism of Grand Guignol; to endow them with high poetry was a feat never to be matched in the tragedies of four succeeding centuries.
A WOMAN KILLED
WITH KINDNESS
THOMAS HEYWOOD
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
MASTER FRANKFORD
MISTRESS ANNE FRANKFORD, his wife
SIR FRANCIS ACTON, her brother
SIR CHARLES MOUNTFORD
MASTER MALBY
MASTER WENDOLL, befriended by Frankford
MASTER CRANWELL, an old gentleman
Serving-woman and ANNE’S two little children
Carters, Coachman
PROLOGUE
I come but like a harbinger,1 being sent
To tell you what these preparations mean.
Look for no glorious state; our Muse is bent
Upon a barren subject, a bare scene.
We could afford this twig a timber-tree,
Whose strength might boldly on your favors build;
Our russet, tissue; drone, a honey-bee;
Our barren plot, a large and spacious field;
Our coarse fare, banquets; our thin water, wine;
Our brook, a sea; our bat’s eyes, eagle’s sight;
Our poet’s dull and earthly Muse, divine;
Our ravens, doves; our crow’s black feathers, white.
But gentle thoughts, when they may give the foil,
Save them that yield, and spare where they may spoil
1. The officer who goes ahead of the court to arrange for its entertainment.
A WOMAN KILLED
WITH KINDNESS
ACT I, SCENE I
Enter Master John Frankford, Mistress Anne [Frankford,] Sir Francis Acton, Sir Charles Mountford, Master Malby, Master Wendoll, and Master Cranwell
SIR F. Some music, there! None lead the bride a dance?
SIR C. Yes, would she dance The Shaking of the Sheets;
But that’s the dance her husband means to lead her.
WEN. That’s not the dance that every man must dance,
According to the ballad.
SIR F. Music, ho!
By your leave, sister,—by your husband’s leave,
I should have said,—the hand that but this day
Was given you in the church I’ll borrow.—Sound!
This marriage music hoists me from the ground.
FRANK. Ay, you may caper; you are light and free!
Marriage hath yoked my heels; pray, then, pardon me.
SIR F. I’ll have you dance too, brother!
SIR C. Master Frankford
Y’are a happy man, sir, and much joy
Succeed your marriage mirth: you have a wife
So qualified, and with such ornaments
Both of the mind and body. First, her birth
Is noble, and her education such
As might become the daughter of a prince;
Her own tongue speaks all tongues, and her own hand
Can teach all strings to speak in their best grace,
From the shrill’st treble to the hoarsest bass.
To end her many praises in one word,
She’s Beauty and Perfection’s eldest daughter,
Only found by yours, though many a heart hath sought her.
FRANK. But that I know your virtues and chaste thoughts,
I should be jealous of your praise, Sir Charles.
CRAN. He speaks no more than you approve.
MAL. Nor flatters he that gives to her her due.
ANNE. I would your praise could find a fitter theme
Than my imperfect beauties to speak on!
Such as they be, if they my husband please
They súffice me now I am marrièd.
This sweet content is like a flattering glass,
To make my face seem fairer to mine eye;
But the least wrinkle from his stormy brow
Will blast the roses in my cheeks that grow.
SIR F. A perfect wife already, meek and patient!
How strangely the word husband fits your mouth,
Not married three hours since! Sister, ’tis good;
You that begin betimes thus must needs prove
Pliant and duteous in your husband’s love.—
Gramercies, brother! Wrought her to’t already,—
“Sweet husband,” and a curtsey, the first day?
Mark this, mark this, you that are bachelors,
And never took the grace of honest man;
Mark this, against1 you marry, this one phrase:
In a good time that man both wins and woos
That takes his wife down in her wedding shoes.
FRANK. Your sister takes not after you, Sir Francis:
All his wild blood your father spent on you;
He got her in his age, when he grew civil.
All his mad tricks were to his land entailed,
And you are heir to all; your sister, she
Hath to her dower her mother’s modesty.
SIR C. Lord, sir, in what a happy state live you!
This morning, which to many seems a burden,
Too heavy to bear, is unto you a pleasure.
This lady is no clog, as many are;
She doth become you like a well-made suit,
In which the tailor hath used all his art;
Not like a thick coat of unseasoned frieze,2
Forced on your back in summer. She’s no chain
To tie your neck, and curb ye to the yoke;
But she’s a chain of gold to adorn your neck.
You both adorn each other, and your hands,
Methinks, are matches. There’s equality
In this fair combination; y’are both
Scholars, both young, both being descended nobly.
There’s music in this sympathy; it carries
Consort and expectation of much joy,
Which God bestow on you from this first day
Until your dissolution,—that’s for aye!
SIR F. We keep you here too long, good brother Frankford.
Into the hall; away! Go cheer your guests.
What! Bride and bridegroom both withdrawn at once?
If you be missed, th
e guests will doubt their welcome,
And charge you with unkindness.
FRANK. To prevent it,
I’ll leave you here, to see the dance within.
ANNE. And so will I.
Exeunt Frankford and Mistress Frankford
SIR F. To part you it were sin.—
Now, gallants, while the town musicians
Finger their frets3 within, and the mad lads
And country lasses, every mother’s child,
With nosegays and bride-laces4 in their hats,
Dance all their country measures, rounds and jigs,
What shall we do? Hark! They’re all on the hoigh;5
They toil like mill-horses, and turn as round,—
Marry, not on the toe! Ay, and they caper,
Not without cutting; you shall see, to-morrow,
The hall-floor pecked and dinted like a mill-stone,
Made with their high shoes. Though their skill be small,
Yet they tread heavy where their hobnails fall.
SIR C. Well, leave them to their sports!—Sir Francis Acton,
I’ll make a match with you! Meet to-morrow
At Chevy Chase; I’ll fly my hawk with yours.
SIR F. For what? for what?
SIR C. Why, for a hundred pound.
SIR F. Pawn me some gold of that!
SIR C. Here are ten angels;6
I’ll make them good a hundred pound to-morrow
Upon my hawk’s wing.
SIR F. ’Tis a match; ’tis done.
Another hundred pound upon your dogs;—
Dare ye, Sir Charles?
SIR C. I dare; were I sure to lose,
I durst do more than that; here’s my hand.
The first course for a hundred pound!
SIR F. A match.
WEN. Ten angels on Sir Francis Acton’s hawk;
As much upon his dogs!
CRAN. I am for Sir Charles Mountford: I have seen
His hawk and dog both tried. What! Clap ye hands,
Or is’t no bargain?
WEN. Yes, and stake them down.
Were they five hundred, they were all my own.
SIR F. Be stirring early with the lark to-morrow;
I’ll rise into my saddle ere the sun
Rise from his bed.
SIR C. If there you miss me, say
I am no gentleman! I’ll hold my day.
SIR F. It holds on all sides.—Come, to-night let’s dance;
Early to-morrow let’s prepare to ride:
We had need be three hours up before the bride.
Exeunt
SCENE II
Enter Nick and Jenkin, Jack Slime, Roger Brickbat, [Cicely,] with Country Wenches, and two or three Musicians
JEN. Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver, to trace withal, Jack Slime, traverse you with Cicely Milkpail; I will take Jane Trubkin, and Roger Brickbat shall have Isbell Motley. And now that they are busy in the parlor, come, strike up; we’ll have a crash7 here in the yard.
NICK. My humor is not compendious: dancing I possess not, though I can foot it; yet, since I am fallen into the hands of Cicely Milkpail, I consent.
SLIME. Truly, Nick, though we were never brought up like serving courtiers, yet we have been brought up with serving creatures,—ay, and God’s creatures, too; for we have been brought up to serve sheep, oxen, horses, bogs, and such like; and, though we be but country fellows, it may be in the way of dancing we can do the horsetrick as well as the serving-men.
BRICK. Ay, and the cross-point8 too.
JEN. O Slime! O Brickbat! Do not you know that comparisons are odious? Now we are odious ourselves, too; therefore there are no comparisons to be made betwixt us.
NICK. I am sudden, and not superfluous;
I am quarrelsome, and not seditious;
I am peaceable, and not contentious;
I am brief, and not compendious.
SLIME. Foot it quickly! If the music overcome not my melancholy, I shall quarrel; and if they suddenly do not strike up, I shall presently strike thee down.
JEN. No quarreling, for God’s sake! Truly, if you do, I shall set a knave between ye.
SLIME. I come to dance, not to quarrel. Come, what shall it be.? Rogero?9
JEN. Rogero? No; we will dance The Beginning of the World.
CIC. I love no dance so well as John come kiss me now.
NICK. I that have ere now deserved a cushion, call for the Cushiondance.
BRICK. For my part, I like nothing so well as Tom Tyler.
JEN. No; we’ll have The Hunting of the Fox.
SLIME. The Hay, The Hay! There’s nothing like The Hay.10
NICK. I have said, do say, and will say again—
JEN. Every man agree to have it as Nick says!
ALL. Content.
NICK. It hath been, it now is, and it shall be—
CIC. What, Master Nicholas? What?
NICK. Put on your Smock a’ Monday.
JEN. So the dance will come cleanly off! Come, for God’s sake, agree of something: if you like not that, put it to the musicians; or let me speak for all, and we’ll have Sellenger’s Round.
ALL. That, that, that!
NICK. No, I am resolved thus it shall be: First take hands, then take ye to your heels!
JEN. Why, would you have us run away?
NICK. No; but I would have ye shake your heels.—Music, strike up!
[They dance; Nick dancing, speaks stately and scurvily,11 the rest, after the country fashion]
JEN. Hey! Lively, my lasses! Here’s a turn for thee!
Exeunt
SCENE III
Wind horns. Enter Sir Charles [Mountford,] Sir Francis [Acton,] Malby, Cranwell, Wendoll, Falconer, and Huntsmen
SIR C. So; well cast off! Aloft, aloft! Well flown!
O, now she takes her at the souse,12 and strikes her
Down to th’ earth, like a swift thunder-clap.
WEN. She hath struck ten angels out of my way.
SIR F. A hundred pound from me.
SIR C. What, falconer!
FALC. At hand, sir!
SIR C. Now she hath seized the fowl and ’gins to plume her,13
Rebeck14 her not; rather stand still and check her!
So, seize her gets,15 her jesses,16 and her bells! Away!
SIR F. My hawk killed, too.
SIR C. Ay, but ’twas at the querre
Not at the mount, like mine.
SIR F. Judgment, my masters!
CRAN. Yours missed her at the ferre.17
WEN. Ay, but our merlin first had plumed the fowl,
And twice renewed18 her from the river too.
Her bells, Sir Francis, had not both one weight,
Nor was one semi-tune above the other.
Methinks, these Milan bells do sound too full,
And spoil the mounting of your hawk.
SIR C. ’Tis lost.
SIR F. I grant it not. Mine likewise seized a fowl
Within her talons, and you saw her paws
Full of the feathers; both her petty singles19
And her long singles griped her more than other;
The terrials20 of her legs were stained with blood,
Not of the fowl only, she did discomfit
Some of her feathers; but she brake away.
Come, come; your hawk is but a rifler.21
SIR C. How!
SIR F. Ay, and your dogs are trindle-tails22 and curs.
SIR C. You stir my blood.
You keep not one good hound in all your kennel,
Nor one good hawk upon your perch.
SIR F. How, knight!
SIR C. So, knight. You will not swagger, sir?
SIR F. Why, say I did?
SIR C. Why, sir,
I say you would gain as much by swaggering
As you have got by wagers on your dogs.
You will come short in all things.
SIR F. Not in this!
Now I’l
l strike home.
[Strikes Sir Charles]
SIR C. Thou shalt to thy long home,
Or I will want my will.
SIR F. All they that love Sir Francis, follow me!
SIR C. All that affect Sir Charles, draw on my part!
CRAN. On this side heaves my hand.
WEN. Here goes my heart.
[They divide themselves. Sir Charles Mountford, Cranwell, Falconer, and Huntsman, fight against Sir Francis Acton, Wendoll, his Falconer and Huntsman; and Sir Charles hath the better, and beats them away, killing both of Sir Francis’s men.] Exeunt all but Sir Charles Mountford
SIR C. My God, what have I done? What have I done?
My rage hath plunged me into a sea of blood,
In which my soul lies drowned. Poor innocents,
For whom we are to answer! Well, ’tis done,
And I remain the victor. A great conquest,
When I would give this right hand, nay, this head,
To breathe in them new life whom I have slain!—
Forgive me, God! ’Twas in the heat of blood,
And anger quite removes me from myself.
It was not I, but rage, did this vile murder;
Yet I, and not my rage, must answer it.
Sir Francis Acton, he is fled the field;
With him all those that did partake his quarrel;
And I am left alone with sorrow dumb,
And in my height of conquest overcome.
Enter Susan
SUSAN. O God! My brother wounded ’mong the dead!
Unhappy jests, that in such earnest ends!
The rumor of this fear stretched to my ears,
And I am come to know if you be wounded.
SIR C. O, sister, sister! Wounded at the heart.
SUSAN. My God forbid!
SIR C. In doing that thing which he forbad.
I am wounded, sister.
SUSAN. I hope, not at the heart.
SIR C. Yes, at the heart.
SUSAN. O God! A surgeon, there.
SIR C. Call me a surgeon, sister, for my soul!
The sin of murder, it hath pierced my heart
And made a wide wound there; but for these scratches,
They are nothing, nothing.
SUSAN. Charles, what have you done?
Sir Francis hath great friends, and will pursue you
The Duchess of Malfi Page 4