Part 10 (1/2)
One of the most characteristic descriptions of Sir John is that which Mrs.
Quickly gives of him when he asks her ”What is the gross sum that I owe thee?”
”_Hostess._ Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself, and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the Prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man of Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was was.h.i.+ng thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady thy wife.
Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and call me gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling us, she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people; saying, that ere long they should call me madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty s.h.i.+llings? I put thee now to thy book-oath; deny it, if thou canst.”
This scene is to us the most convincing proof of Falstaff's power of gaining over the good will of those he was familiar with, except indeed Bardolph's somewhat profane exclamation on hearing the account of his death, ”Would I were with him, wheresoe'er he is, whether in heaven or h.e.l.l.”
One of the topics of exulting superiority over others most common in Sir John's mouth is his corpulence and the exterior marks of good living which he carries about him, thus ”turning his vices into commodity.” He accounts for the friends.h.i.+p between the Prince and Poins, from ”their legs being both of a bigness;” and compares Justice Shallow to ”a man made after supper of a cheese-paring.” There cannot be a more striking gradation of character than that between Falstaff and Shallow, and Shallow and Silence.
It seems difficult at first to fall lower than the squire; but this fool, great as he is, finds an admirer and humble foil in his cousin Silence.
Vain of his acquaintance with Sir John, who makes a b.u.t.t of him, he exclaims, ”Would, cousin Silence, that thou had'st seen that which this knight and I have seen!”--”Aye, Master Shallow, we have heard the chimes at midnight,” says Sir John. To Falstaff's observation, ”I did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle,” Silence answers, ”Who, I? I have been merry twice and once ere now.” What an idea is here conveyed of a prodigality of living? What good husbandry and economical self-denial in his pleasures? What a stock of lively recollections? It is curious that Shakspeare has ridiculed in Justice Shallow, who was ”in some authority under the king,” that disposition to unmeaning tautology which is the regal infirmity of later times, and which, it may be supposed, he acquired from talking to his cousin Silence, and receiving no answers.
”_Falstaff._ You have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich.
_Shallow._ Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John: marry, good air. Spread Davy, spread Davy. Well said, Davy.
_Falstaff._ This Davy serves you for good uses.
_Shallow._ A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet. By the ma.s.s, I have drunk too much sack at supper. A good varlet. Now sit down, now sit down. Come, cousin.”
The true spirit of humanity, the thorough knowledge of the stuff we are made of, the practical wisdom with the seeming fooleries in the whole of the garden-scene at Shallow's country-seat, and just before in the exquisite dialogue between him and Silence on the death of old Double, have no parallel anywhere else. In one point of view, they are laughable in the extreme; in another they are equally affecting, if it is affecting to shew _what a little thing is human life_, what a poor forked creature man is!
TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
This is justly considered as one of the most delightful of Shakspeare's comedies. It is full of sweetness and pleasantry. It is perhaps too good-natured for comedy. It has little satire, and no spleen. It aims at the ludicrous rather than the ridiculous. It makes us laugh at the follies of mankind, not despise them, and still less bear any ill-will towards them. Shakspeare's comic genius resembles the bee rather in its power of extracting sweets from weeds or poisons, than in leaving a sting behind it. He gives the most amusing exaggeration of the prevailing foibles of his characters, but in a way that they themselves, instead of being offended at, would almost join in to humour; he rather contrives opportunities for them to shew themselves off in the happiest lights, than renders them contemptible in the perverse construction of the wit or malice of others.--There is a certain stage of society in which people become conscious of their peculiarities and absurdities, affect to disguise what they are, and set up pretensions to what they are not. This gives rise to a corresponding style of comedy, the object of which is to detect the disguises of self-love, and to make reprisals on these preposterous a.s.sumptions of vanity, by marking the contrast between the real and the affected character as severely as possible, and denying to those, who would impose on us for what they are not, even the merit which they have. This is the comedy of artificial life, of wit and satire, such as we see it in Congreve, Wycherley, Vanburgh, etc. To this succeeds a state of society from which the same sort of affectation and pretence are banished by a greater knowledge of the world or by their successful exposure on the stage; and which by neutralising the materials of comic character, both natural and artificial, leaves no comedy at all--but _the sentimental_. Such is our modern comedy. There is a period in the progress of manners anterior to both these, in which the foibles and follies of individuals are of nature's planting, not the growth of art or study; in which they are therefore unconscious of them themselves, or care not who knows them, if they can but have their whim out; and in which, as there is no attempt at imposition, the spectators rather receive pleasure from humouring the inclinations of the persons they laugh at, than wish to give them pain by exposing their absurdity. This may be called the comedy of nature, and it is the comedy which we generally find in Shakspeare.--Whether the a.n.a.lysis here given be just or not, the spirit of his comedies is evidently quite distinct from that of the authors above mentioned, as it is in its essence the same with that of Cervantes, and also very frequently of Moliere, though he was more systematic in his extravagance than Shakspeare. Shakspeare's comedy is of a pastoral and poetical cast. Folly is indigenous to the soil, and shoots out with native, happy, unchecked luxuriance. Absurdity has every encouragement afforded it; and nonsense has room to flourish in. Nothing is stunted by the churlish, icy hand of indifference or severity. The poet runs riot in a conceit, and idolises a quibble. His whole object is to turn the meanest or rudest objects to a pleasurable account. The relish which he has of a pun, or of the quaint humour of a low character, does not interfere with the delight with which he describes a beautiful image, or the most refined love. The Clown's forced jests do not spoil the sweetness of the character of Viola; the same house is big enough to hold Malvolio, the Countess, Maria, Sir Toby, and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. For instance, nothing can fall much lower than this last character in intellect or morals: yet how are his weaknesses nursed and dandled by Sir Toby into something ”high fantastical,” when on Sir Andrew's commendation of himself for dancing and fencing, Sir Toby answers--”Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? Are they like to take dust like mistress Moll's picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig! I would not so much as make water but in a cinque-pace. What dost thou mean? Is this a world to hide virtues in? I did think by the excellent const.i.tution of thy leg, it was framed under the star of a galliard!”--How Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and the Clown afterwards _chirp over their cups_, how they ”rouse the night-owl in a catch, able to draw three souls out of one weaver!” What can be better than Sir Toby's unanswerable answer to Malvolio, ”Dost thou think because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?”--In a word, the best turn is given to everything, instead of the worst. There is a constant infusion of the romantic and enthusiastic, in proportion as the characters are natural and sincere: whereas, in the more artificial style of comedy, everything gives way to ridicule and indifference, there being nothing left but affectation on one side, and incredulity on the other.--Much as we like Shakspeare's comedies, we cannot agree with Dr. Johnson that they are better than his tragedies; nor do we like them half so well. If his inclination to comedy sometimes led him to trifle with the seriousness of tragedy, the poetical and impa.s.sioned pa.s.sages are the best parts of his comedies. The great and secret charm of TWELFTH NIGHT is the character of Viola. Much as we like catches and cakes and ale, there is something that we like better. We have a friends.h.i.+p for Sir Toby; we patronise Sir Andrew; we have an understanding with the Clown, a sneaking kindness for Maria and her rogueries; we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathise with his gravity, his smiles, his cross garters, his yellow stockings, and imprisonment in the stocks. But there is something that excites in us a stronger feeling than all this--it is Viola's confession of her love.
”_Duke._ What's her history?
_Viola._ _A blank, my lord, she never told her love:_ She let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud.
Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. _Was not this love indeed?_ We men may say more, swear more, but indeed, Our shews are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love.
_Duke._ But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
_Viola._ I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too;--and yet I know not.”--
Shakspeare alone could describe the effect of his own poetry.
”Oh, it came o'er the ear like the sweet south That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.”
What we so much admire here is not the image of Patience on a monument, which has been generally quoted, but the lines before and after it. ”They give a very echo to the seat where love is throned.” How long ago it is since we first learnt to repeat them; and still, still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the pa.s.sing wind draws from the trembling strings of a harp left on some desert sh.o.r.e! There are other pa.s.sages of not less impa.s.sioned sweetness. Such is Olivia's address to Sebastian, whom she supposes to have already deceived her in a promise of marriage.
”Blame not this haste of mine: if you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by: there before him, And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full a.s.surance of your faith, _That my most jealous and too doubtful soul_ _May live at peace_.”
V