The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman

by George Chapman

  Brantôme further relates a midnight attack upon Bussy, about a month later, by a number of his jealous rivals, when he had a narrow escape from death. Of this incident another account has been given by Margaret of Valois in her Mémoires. Margaret and her brother, the Duke of Anjou, were devoted to one another, and Bussy was for a time a paramour of the Queen of Navarre. Though she denies the liaison, she says of him that there was not “en ce siècle-là de son sexe et de sa qualité rien de semblable en valeur, reputation, grace, et esprit.” Margaret, L’Estoile, and Brantôme all relate similar incidents during Bussy’s sojourn at court in the year 1578, and the last-named adds:

  “Si je voulois raconter toutes les querelles qu’il a eues, j’aurois beaucoup affaire; hélas! il en a trop eu, et toutes les a desmeslées à son très-grand honneur et heur. Il en vouloit souvant par trop à plusieurs, sans aucun respect; je luy ay dict cent fois; mais il se fioit tant en sa valeur qu’il mesprisoit tous les conseils de ses amis . . . Dieu ayt son âme! Mais il mourut (quand il trespassa) un preux trés vaillant et généreux.”

  It is plain, therefore, that Chapman in his picture of Bussy’s quarrels and encounters-at-arms was deviating little, except in details of names and dates, from the actual facts of history. Bussy’s career was so romantic that it was impossible for even the most inventive dramatist to embellish it. This was especially true of its closing episode, which occupies the later acts of Chapman’s drama — the intrigue with the Countess of Montsoreau and the tragic fate which it involved. It is somewhat singular that the earliest narratives of the event which have come down to us were published subsequently to the play. The statement, accepted for a long time, that De Thou’s Historiæ sui Temporis was the basis of Chapman’s tragedy, has been completely disproved. The passage in which he narrates the story of Bussy’s death does not occur in the earlier editions of his work, and first found its way into the issue published at Geneva in 1620. A similar narrative appeared in the following year in L’Estoile’s Journal, which first saw the light in 1621, ten years after its author’s death. But under a thin disguise there had already appeared a detailed history of Bussy’s last amour and his fall, though this, too, was later than Chapman’s drama. A novelist, François de Rosset, had published a volume of tales entitled Les Histoires Tragiques de Nostre Temps. The earliest known edition is one of 1615, though it was preceded, probably not long, by an earlier edition full of “fautes insupportables,” for which Rosset apologizes. He is careful to state in his preface that he is relating “des histoires autant veritables que tristes et funestes. Les noms de la pluspart des personnages sont seulement desguisez en ce Theatre, à fin de n’affliger pas tant les familles de ceux qui en ont donné le sujet.” The fate of Bussy forms the subject of the seventeenth history, entitled “De la mort pitoyable du valeureux Lysis.” Lysis was the name under which Margaret of Valois celebrated the memory of her former lover in a poem entitled “L’esprit de Lysis disant adieu à sa Flore.” But apart from this proof of identification, the details given by Rosset are so full that there can be no uncertainty in the matter. Indeed, in some of his statements, as in his account of the first meeting between the lovers, Rosset probably supplies facts unrecorded by the historians of the period.

  From a comparison of these more or less contemporary records it is evident that, whatever actual source Chapman may have used, he has given in many respects a faithful portrait of the historical Bussy D’Ambois. It happened that at the time of Bussy’s death the Duke of Anjou, his patron, was in London, laying ineffective siege to the hand of Elizabeth. This coincidence may have given wider currency in England to Bussy’s tragic story than would otherwise have been the case. But a quarter of a century later this adventitious interest would have evaporated, and the success of Chapman’s play would be due less to its theme than to its qualities of style and construction. To these we must therefore now turn.

  With Chapman’s enthusiasm for classical literature, it was natural that he should be influenced by classical models, even when handling a thoroughly modern subject. His Bussy is, in certain aspects, the miles gloriosus of Latin drama, while in the tragic crisis of his fate he demonstrably borrows, as is shown in this edition for the first time, the accents of the Senecan Hercules on Mount Œta (cf. notes on V, iv, 100 and 109). Hence the technique of the work is largely of the semi-Senecan type with which Kyd and his school had familiarized the English stage. Thus Bussy’s opening monologue serves in some sort as a Prologue; the narrative by the Nuntius in Act II, i, 35-137, is in the most approved classical manner; an Umbra or Ghost makes its regulation entrance in the last Act, and though the accumulated horrors of the closing scenes violate every canon of classical art, they had become traditional in the semi-Senecan type of play, and were doubtless highly acceptable to the audiences of the period. But while the Senecan and semi-Senecan methods had their dangers, their effect on English dramatists was in so far salutary that they necessitated care in plot-construction. And it is doubtful whether Chapman has hitherto received due credit for the ingenuity and skill with which he has woven into the texture of his drama a number of varied threads. Bussy’s life was, as has been shown, crowded with incidents, and the final catastrophe at La Coutancière had no direct relation with the duels and intrigues of his younger days at Court. Chapman, however, has connected the earlier and the later episodes with much ingenuity. Departing from historical truth, he represents Bussy as a poor adventurer at Court, whose fortunes are entirely made by the patronage of Monsieur. His sudden elevation turns his head, and he insults the Duke of Guise by courting his wife before his face, thus earning his enmity, and exciting at the same time the ridicule of the other courtiers. Hence springs the encounter with Barrisor and his companions, and this is made to serve as an introduction to the amour between Bussy and Tamyra, as Chapman chooses to call the Countess of Montsurry. For Barrisor, we are told (II, ii, 202 ff.), had long wooed the Countess, and the report was spread that the “main quarrel” between him and Bussy “grew about her love,” Barrisor thinking that D’Ambois’s courtship of the Duchess of Guise was really directed towards “his elected mistress.” On the advice of a Friar named Comolet, to whom Chapman strangely enough assigns the repulsive rôle of go-between, Bussy wins his way at night into Tamyra’s chamber on the plea that he has come to reassure her that she is in no way guilty of Barrisor’s blood. Thus the main theme of the play is linked with the opening incidents, and the action from first to last is laid in Paris, whither the closing scenes of Bussy’s career are shifted. By another ingenious departure from historical truth the Duke of Anjou, to whom Bussy owes his rise, is represented as the main agent in his fall. He is angered at the favour shown by the King to the follower whom he had raised to serve his own ends, and he conspires with Guise for his overthrow. He is the more eagerly bent upon this when he discovers through Tamyra’s waiting-woman that the Countess, whose favours he has vainly sought to win, has granted them to Bussy. It is he who, by means of a paper, convinces Montsurry of his wife’s guilt, and it is he, together with Guise, who suggests to the Count the stratagem by which Tamyra is forced to decoy her paramour to his doom. All this is deftly contrived and does credit to Chapman’s dramatic craftsmanship. It is true that the last two Acts are spun out with supernatural episodes of a singularly unconvincing type. The Friar’s invocation of Behemoth, who proves a most unserviceable spirit, and the vain attempts of this scoundrelly ecclesiastic’s ghost to shield D’Ambois from his fate, strike us as wofully crude and mechanical excursions into the occult. But they doubtless served their turn with audiences who had an insatiable craving for such manifestations, and were not particular as to the precise form they took.

  In point of character-drawing the play presents a more complex problem. Bussy is a typically Renaissance hero and appealed to the sympathies of an age which set store above all things on exuberant vitality and prowess, and was readier than our own to allow them full rein. The King seems to be giving voice to Chapman’s conception of Bu
ssy’s character, when he describes him in III, ii, 90 ff. as

  “A man so good that only would upholdMan in his native noblesse, from whose fallAll our dissentions arise,” &c.

  And in certain aspects Bussy does not come far short of the ideal thus pictured. His bravery, versatility, frankness, and readiness of speech are all vividly portrayed, while his mettlesome temper and his arrogance are alike essential to his rôle, and are true to the record of the historical D’Ambois. But there is a coarseness of fibre in Chapman’s creation, an occasional foul-mouthed ribaldry of utterance which robs him of sympathetic charm. He has in him more of the swashbuckler and the bully than of the courtier and the cavalier. Beaumont and Fletcher, one cannot help feeling, would have invested him with more refinement and grace, and would have given a tenderer note to the love-scenes between him and Tamyra. Bussy takes the Countess’s affections so completely by storm, and he ignores so entirely the rights of her husband, that it is difficult to accord him the measure of sympathy in his fall, which the fate of a tragic hero should evoke.

  Tamyra appeals more to us, because we see in her more of the conflict between passion and moral obligation, which is the essence of drama. Her scornful rejection of the advances of Monsieur (II, ii), though her husband palliates his conduct as that of “a bachelor and a courtier, I, and a prince,” proves that she is no light o’ love, and that her surrender to Bussy is the result of a sudden and overmastering passion. Even in the moment of keenest expectation she is torn between conflicting emotions (II, ii, 169-182), and after their first interview, Bussy takes her to task because her

  “Conscience is too nice,And bites too hotly of the Puritane spice.”

  But she masters her scruples sufficiently to play the thorough-going dissembler when she meets her husband, and she keeps up the pretence when she declares to Bussy before the Court (III, ii, 138), “Y’are one I know not,” and speaks of him vaguely in a later scene as “the man.” So, too, when Montsurry first tells her of the suspicions which Monsieur has excited in him, she protests with artfully calculated indignation against the charge of wrong-doing with this “serpent.” But the brutal and deliberate violence of her husband when he knows the truth, and the perfidious meanness with which he makes her the reluctant instrument of her lover’s ruin, win back for her much of our alienated sympathy. Yet at the close her position is curiously equivocal. It is at her prayer that Bussy has spared Montsurry when “he hath him down” in the final struggle; but when her lover is mortally wounded by a pistol shot, she implores his pardon for her share in bringing him to his doom. And when the Friar’s ghost seeks to reconcile husband and wife, the former is justified in crying ironically (V, iv, 163-64):

  “See how she merits this, still kneeling by,And mourning his fall, more than her own fault!”

  Montsurry’s portraiture, indeed, suffers from the same lack of consistency as his wife’s. In his earlier relations with her he strikes a tenderer note than is heard elsewhere in the play, and his first outburst of fury, when his suspicions are aroused, springs, like Othello’s, from the depth of his love and trust (IV, i, 169-70):

  “My whole heart is wounded,When any least thought in you is but touch’d.”

  But there is nothing of Othello’s noble agony of soul, nor of his sense that he is carrying out a solemn judicial act on the woman he still loves, in Montsurry’s long-drawn torture of his wife. Indeed a comparison of the episodes brings into relief the restraint and purity of Shakespeare’s art when handling the most terrible of tragic themes. Yet the Moor himself might have uttered Montsurry’s cry (V, i, 183-85),

  “Here, here was sheThat was a whole world without spot to me,Though now a world of spot.”

  And there is something of pathetic dignity in his final forgiveness of his wife, coupled with the declaration that his honour demands that she must fly his house for ever.

  Monsieur and the Guise are simpler types. The former is the ambitious villain of quality, chafing at the thought that there is but a thread betwixt him and a crown, and prepared to compass his ends by any means that fall short of the actual killing of the King. It is as a useful adherent of his faction that he elevates Bussy, and when he finds him favoured by Henry he ruthlessly strikes him down, all the more readily that he is his successful rival for Tamyra’s love. He is the typical Renaissance politician, whose characteristics are expounded with characteristically vituperative energy by Bussy in III, ii, 439-94.

  Beside this arch-villain, the Guise, aspiring and factious though he be, falls into a secondary place. Probably Chapman did not care to elaborate a figure of whom Marlowe had given so powerful a sketch in the Massacre at Paris. The influence of the early play may also be seen in the handling of the King, who is portrayed with an indulgent pen, and who reappears in the rôle of an enthusiastic admirer of the English Queen and Court. The other personages in the drama are colourless, though Chapman succeeds in creating the general atmosphere of a frivolous and dissolute society.

  But the plot and portraiture in Bussy D’Ambois are both less distinctive than the “full and heightened” style, to which was largely due its popularity with readers and theatre-goers of its period, but which was afterwards to bring upon it such severe censure, when taste had changed. Dryden’s onslaught in his Dedication to the Spanish Friar (1681) marks the full turn of the tide. The passage is familiar, but it must be reproduced here:

  “I have sometimes wondered, in the reading, what has become of those glaring colours which annoyed me in Bussy D’Ambois upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what I supposed a fallen star, I found I had been cozened with a jelly; nothing but a cold dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross hyperboles; the sense of one line expanded prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all, uncorrect English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry and true nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life, and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil’s manes; and I have indignation enough to burn a D’Ambois annually to the memory of Jonson.”

  Dryden’s critical verdicts are never lightly to be set aside. He is singularly shrewd and unprejudiced in his judgements, and has a remarkable faculty of hitting the right nail on the head. But Chapman, in whom the barbarian and the pedant were so strongly commingled, was a type that fell outside the wide range of Dryden’s appreciation. The Restoration writer fails, in the first place, to recognize that Bussy D’Ambois is pitched advisedly from first to last in a high key. Throughout the drama men and women are playing for great stakes. No one is ever at rest. Action and passion are both at fever heat. We move in an atmosphere of duels and state intrigues by day, of assignations and murders by night. Even the subordinate personages in the drama, the stewards and waiting-women, partake of the restless spirit of their superiors. They are constantly arguing, quarrelling, gossiping — their tongues and wits are always on the move. Thus Chapman aimed throughout at energy of expression at all costs. To this he sacrificed beauty of phrase and rhythm, even lucidity. He pushed it often to exaggerated extremes of coarseness and riotous fancy. He laid on “glaring colours” till eye and brain are fatigued. To this opening phrase of Dryden no exception can be taken. But can his further charges stand? Is it true to say of Bussy D’Ambois that it is characterised by “dwarfish thought dressed up in gigantic words,” that it is “a hideous mingle of false poetry and true nonsense”? The accusation of “nonsense” recoils upon its maker. Involved, obscure, inflated as Chapman’s phrasing not infrequently is, it is not mere rhodomontade, sound, and fury, signifying nothing. There are some passages (as the Notes testify) where the thread of his meaning seems to disappear amidst his fertile imagery, but even here one feels not that sense is lacking, but that one has failed to find the clue to the zigzag movements of Chapman’s brain. Nor is it fair to speak of Chapman as dressing up dwarfish thoughts in s
tilted phrases. There is not the slightest tendency in the play to spin out words to hide a poverty of ideas; in fact many of the difficulties spring from excessive condensation. Where Chapman is really assailable is in a singular incontinence of imagery. Every idea that occurs to him brings with it a plethora of illustrations, in the way of simile, metaphor, or other figure of speech; he seems impotent to check the exuberant riot of his fancy till it has exhausted its whole store. The underlying thought in many passages, though not deserving Dryden’s contemptuous epithet, is sufficiently obvious. Chapman was not dowered with the penetrating imagination that reveals as by a lightning flash unsuspected depths of human character or of moral law. But he has the gnomic faculty that can convey truths of general experience in aphoristic form, and he can wind into a debatable moral issue with adroit casuistry. Take for instance the discussion (II, i, 149-79) on the legitimacy of private vengeance, or (III, i, 10-30) on the nature and effect of sin, or (V, ii) on Nature’s “blindness” in her workings. In lighter vein, but winged with the shafts of a caustic humour are Bussy’s invectives against courtly practices (I, i, 84-104) and hypocrisy in high places (III, ii, 25-59), while the “flyting” between him and Monsieur is perhaps the choicest specimen of Elizabethan “Billingsgate” that has come down to us. It was a versatile pen that could turn from passages like these to the epic narrative of the duel, or Tamyra’s lyric invocation of the “peaceful regents of the night” (II, ii, 158), or Bussy’s stately elegy upon himself, as he dies standing, propped on his true sword.