Shakespeare: His Life, Art, And Characters Part 6

The scene of these two plays, which are substantially one, takes in the whole period of time from the hero's first conquest till his death; so that the action ranges at large over divers kingdoms and empires. Except the hero, there is little really deserving the name of characterization, this being a point of art which Marlowe had not yet reached, and which he never attained but in a moderate degree, taking Shakespeare as the standard. But the hero is drawn with grand and striking proportions, and perhaps seems the larger, that the bones of his individuality stand out in undue prominence; the author lacking that balance of powers which is requisite, to produce the symmetry and roundness met with in the higher forms of Nature. And he knew not, apparently, how to express the hero's greatness _in word_, but by making him bethump the stage with tempestuous verbiage; which, to be sure, is not the style of greatness at all, but only of one trying to be great, and _trying_ to be so, because he is not so. For to talk big is the instinct of ambitious littleness. But Tamburlaine is also represented _in act_ as a most magnanimous prodigy: amidst his haughtiest strides of conquest, we have strains of gentleness mingling with his iron sternness; and he everywhere appears lifted high with generous pa.s.sions and impulses: if he regards not others, he is equally ready to sacrifice himself, his ease, pleasure, and even life, in his prodigious l.u.s.t of glory.

As to the rest, this drama consists rather of a long series of speeches than any genuine dialogue. And the persons all speak from one brain, the hero talking just like the others, only more so; as if the author had no way to discriminate character but by different degrees of the same thing: in which respect the work has often reminded me of divers more civilized stage preparations, such as Addison's _Cato_, Young's _Revenge, et id genus omne_. For the proper const.i.tuent of dramatic dialogue is, that the persons strike fire out of each other by their sharp collisions of thought, so that their words relish at once of the individual speaking and the individual spoken to. Moreover the several parts of this work are not moulded together in any thing like vital unity; the materials seem bundled up arbitrarily, and for stage effect, instead of being a.s.sorted on any principle of organic coherence; every thing thus going by the author's will, not by any law of reason or art. But this is a high region, from which there was in that age but one man big enough to be seen; so it's no use speaking of the rest. Therewithal the work affects us, throughout, as a dead-level of superlatives; everywhere we have nearly the same boisterous wind of tragical storm-and-stress: so that the effect is much like that of a picture all foreground, with no perspective, no proportionateness of light and shade, to give us distinct impressions.

_The Jew of Malta_ shows very considerable advance towards a chaste and sober diction, but not much either in development of character or composition of parts. Barabas the Jew is a horrible monster of wickedness and cunning, yet not without strong lines of individuality.

The author evidently sought to compa.s.s the effect of tragedy by acc.u.mulation of murders and other h.e.l.lish deeds; which shows that he had no steady ideas as to wherein the true secret of tragic terror lies: he here strives to reach it by overfilling the senses; whereas its proper method stands in the joint working of the moral and imaginative powers, which are rather stifled than kindled by causing the senses to "sup full of horrors." The piece, however, abounds in quick and caustic wit; in some parts there is a good share of dialogue as distinguished from speech-making; and the versification is far more varied and compact than in _Tamburlaine_. Still the work, as a whole, shows little that can properly be called dramatic power as distinguished from the general powers of rhetoric and wit.

_The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus_, probably written before 1590, exhibits Marlowe in a higher vein of workmans.h.i.+p. I think it must be acknowledged that he here wields the right elements and processes of tragic effect with no ordinary subtlety and power.

Faustus, the hero, is a mighty necromancer, who has studied himself into direct communion with preternatural beings, and beside whom Friar Bacon sinks into a tame forger of bugbears. A Good Angel and a Bad Angel figure in the piece, each trying to win Faustus to his several way. Lucifer is ambitious to possess "his glorious soul," and the hero craves Lucifer's aid, that he may work wonders on the Earth. At his summons, Mephistophilis, who acts as Lucifer's prime minister, visits him to negotiate an arrangement. I must quote a brief pa.s.sage from their interview:

"_Faust_. Tell me, what is that Lucifer thy lord?

_Meph_. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.

_Faust_. Was not that Lucifer an angel once?

_Meph_. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of G.o.d.

_Faust_. How comes it, then, that he is Prince of Devils?

_Meph_. O, by aspiring pride and insolence!

For which G.o.d threw him from the face of Heaven.

_Faust_. And what are you that live with Lucifer?

_Meph_. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, And are for ever d.a.m.n'd with Lucifer.

_Faust_. Where are you d.a.m.n'd?

_Meph_. In h.e.l.l.

_Faust_. How comes it, then, that thou art out of h.e.l.l?

_Meph. Why, this is h.e.l.l, nor am I out of it_: Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of G.o.d, And tasted the eternal joys of Heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand h.e.l.ls In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss?

_O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands, Which strike a terror to my fainting soul.

Faust_. What! is great Mephistophilis so pa.s.sionate For being deprived of the joys of Heaven?

Learn thou of Faustus manly fort.i.tude, And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.

Go, bear these tidings to great Lucifer: Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death, Say, he surrenders up to him his soul, So he will spare him four-and-twenty years, Letting him live in all voluptuousness; Having thee ever to attend on me, To give me whatsoever I shall ask, To tell me whatsoever I demand, To slay mine enemies, and aid my friends, And always be obedient to my will."

This pa.s.sage, especially the hero's cool indifference in questioning about things which the fiend shudders to consider, has often struck me as not altogether unworthy to be thought of in connection with Milton.

The result of the interview is, that Faustus makes a compact with Lucifer, draws blood from his own arm, and with it writes out a deed of gift, a.s.suring his soul and body to the fiend at the end of twenty-four years. Thenceforth he spends his time in exercising the mighty spells and incantations thus purchased: he has the power of making himself invisible, and entering whatsoever houses he lists; he pa.s.ses from kingdom to kingdom with the speed of thought; wields the elements at will, and has the energies of Nature at his command; summons the Grecian Helen to his side for a companion; and holds the world in wonder at his acts. Meanwhile the knowledge which h.e.l.l has given him of Heaven haunts him; he cannot shake off the thought of what the awful compact binds him to; repentance carries on a desperate struggle in him with the necromantic fascination, and at one time fairly outwrestles it; but he soon recovers his purpose, renews his pledge to Lucifer, and finally performs it.

This feature of the representation suggests a great thought, perhaps I should say, principle of man's moral being, which Shakespeare has more than once worked upon with surpa.s.sing effect. For it is remarkable that, in _Macbeth_, the thinking of the Weird Sisters (and he cannot choose but think of them) fires the hero's moral and imaginative forces into convulsive action, and thus causes him to shrink back from the very deed to which the prophetic greetings stimulate him. So, again, in _Hamlet_, the intimations of the Ghost touching "the secrets of its prison-house" kindle the hero full of "thoughts beyond the reaches of his soul," which entrance him in meditation, unstring his resolution, and render him morally incapable of the office to which that same Ghost has called him.

_The Jew of Malta_, has divers pa.s.sages in a far higher and richer style of versification than any part of _Tamburlaine_. The author's diction has grown more pliant and facile to his thought; consequently it is highly varied in pause and movement; showing that in his hand the n.o.ble instrument of dramatic blank-verse was fast growing into tune for a far mightier hand to discourse its harmonies upon. I must add that considerable portions both of this play and the preceding are meant to be comical. But the result only proves that Marlowe was incapable of comedy. No sooner does he attempt the comic vein than his whole style collapses into mere balderdash. In fact, though plentifully gifted with wit, there was not a particle of real humour in him; none of that subtle and perfusive essence out of which the true comic is spun; for these choice powers can hardly live but in the society of certain moral elements that seem to have been left out of his composition.

_Edward the Second_, probably the latest, certainly much the best, of Marlowe's dramas, was printed in 1598. Here, for the first time, we meet with a genuine specimen of the English Historical Drama. The scene covers a period of twenty years; the incidents pa.s.s with great rapidity, and, though sometimes crushed into indistinctness, are for the most part well used both for historic truth and dramatic effect; and the dialogue, generally, is nervous, animated, and clear. In the great article of character, too, this play has very considerable merit. The King's insane dotage of his favourites, the upstart vanity and insolence of Gaveston, the artful practice and doubtful virtue of Queen Isabella, the factious turbulence of the n.o.bles, irascible, arrogant, regardless of others' liberty, jealous of their own, sudden of quarrel, eager in revenge, are all depicted with a goodly mixture of energy and temperance. Therewithal the versification moves, throughout, with a freedom and variety, such as may almost stand a comparison with Shakespeare in what may be called his earlier period; as when, for instance, _King Richard the Second_ was written. It is probable, however, that by this time, if not before, Marlowe had begun to feel the power of that music which was to charm him, and all others of the time, out of audience and regard. For we have very good evidence, that before Marlowe's death Shakespeare had far surpa.s.sed all of that age who had ever been competent to teach him in any point of dramatic workmans.h.i.+p.

Marlowe is of consequence, _mainly_, as one of the first and greatest improvers of dramatic poetry in so far as relates to diction and metrical style; which is my reason for emphasizing his work so much in that regard. But, as this is a virtue much easier felt than described, I can best show what it is, by giving a taste of it; which however must be brief:

"_Edw_. What, Lord Arundel, dost thou come alone?

_Arun_. Yea, my good lord, for Gaveston is dead.

_Edw_. Ah, traitors! have they put my friend to death?

Tell me, Arundel, died he ere thou cam'st, Or didst thou see my friend to take his death?

_Arun_. Neither, my lord; for, as he was surpris'd, Begirt with weapons and with enemies round, I did your Highness' message to them all, Demanding him of them, entreating rather, And said, upon the honour of my name, That I would undertake to carry him Unto your Highness, and to bring him back.

_Edw_. And, tell me, would the rebels deny me that?

_Spen_. Proud recreants!

_Edw_. Yea, Spenser, traitors all!

_Arun_. I found them at the first inexorable: The Earl of Warwick would not bide the hearing; Mortimer hardly; Pembroke and Lancaster Spake least; and when they flatly had denied, Refusing to receive me pledge for him, The Earl of Pembroke mildly thus bespake: 'My lords, because our sovereign sends for him, And promiseth he shall be safe return'd, I will this undertake, to have him hence, And see him redeliver'd to your hands.'

_Edw_. Well, and how fortunes it that he came not?

_Spen_. Some treason or some villainy was cause.

_Arun_. The Earl of Warwick seiz'd him on the way; For, being deliver'd unto Pembroke's men, Their lord rode home, thinking the prisoner safe; But, ere he came, Warwick in ambush lay, And bare him to his death, and in a trench Strake off his head, and march'd unto the camp.

_Spen_. A b.l.o.o.d.y part, flatly 'gainst law of arms!

_Edw_. O, shall I speak, or shall I sigh, and die?

_Spen_. My lord, refer your vengeance to the sword Upon these barons; hearten up your men; Let them not unreveng'd murder your friends; Advance your standard, Edward, in the field, And march to fire them from their starting-holes.

_Edw_. I will have heads and lives for him as many As I have manors, castles, towns, and towers!-- Treacherous Warwick! traitorous Mortimer!

If I be England's king, in lakes of gore Your headless trunks, your bodies will I trail, That you may drink your fill, and quaff in blood, And stain my royal standard with the same; You villains that have slain my Gaveston!-- And, in this place of honour and of trust, Spenser, sweet Spenser, I adopt thee here; And merely of our love we do create thee Earl of Gloucester and Lord Chamberlain.

_Spen_. My lord, here is a messenger from the barons, Desires access unto your Majesty.

_Edw_. Admit him.

_Herald_. Long live King Edward, England's lawful lord!

_Edw_. So wish not they, I wis, that sent thee hither."

This, to be sure, does not read much like, for instance, Hotspur's speech, beginning,

"O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,"

nor is there any thing in Marlowe that does. In the pa.s.sage quoted, however, (and there are many more like it,) we have the rhymeless ten-syllable iambic verse as the basis; but this is continually diversified, so as to relieve the ear and keep it awake, by occasional spondees, dibrachs, anapests, and amphibrachs, and by the frequent use of trochees in all parts of the verse, but especially at the beginning, and by a skilful s.h.i.+fting of the pause to any part of the line. It thus combines the natural ease and variety of prose with the general effect of metrical harmony, so that the hearing does not surfeit nor tire. As to the general _poetic_ style of the performance, the kindling energy of thought and language that often beats and flashes along the sentences, there is much both in this and in _Faustus_ to justify the fine enthusiasm of Drayton:

"Next, Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs, Had in him those brave translunary things That the first poets had: his raptures were All air and fire, which made his verses clear; For that fine madness still he did retain Which rightly should possess a poet's brain."