Brook open scorn, faint powers! — Make good the camp! — No, fly! — yes, what? — wild rage! — To be a prosperous villain! yet some heat, some hold; But to burn temples, and yet freeze, O cold! Give me some health; now your blood sinks: thus deeds Ill nourished rot: without Jove nought succeeds.
And yet this passage occurs in a poem which contains such a passage as the following:
And now with undismayed resolve behold, To save you — you — for honor and just faith Are most true gods, which we should much adore — With even disdainful vigor I give up An abhorred life! — You have been good to me, And I do thank thee, heaven. O my stars, I bless your goodness, that with breast unstained, Faith pure, a virgin wife, tried to my glory, I die, of female faith the long-lived story; Secure from bondage and all servile harms, But more, most happy in my husband’s arms.
The lofty sweetness, the proud pathos, the sonorous simplicity of these most noble verses might scarcely suffice to attest the poet’s possession of any strong dramatic faculty. But the scene immediately preceding bears evidence of a capacity for terse and rigorous brevity of dialogue in a style as curt and condensed as that of Tacitus or Dante:
Sophonisba. What unjust grief afflicts my worthy lord?
Massinissa. Thank me, ye gods, with much beholdingness; For, mark, I do not curse you.
Sophonisba. Tell me, sweet, The cause of thy much anguish.
Massinissa. Ha, the cause? Let’s see; wreathe back thine arms, bend down thy neck, Practise base prayers, make fit thyself for bondage.
Sophonisba. Bondage!
Massinissa. Bondage: Roman bondage.
Sophonisba. No, no!
Massinissa. How then have I vowed well to Scipio?
Sophonisba. How then to Sophonisba?
Massinissa. Right: which way Run mad? impossible distraction!
Sophonisba. Dear lord, thy patience; let it maze all power, And list to her in whose sole heart it rests To keep thy faith upright.
Massinissa. Wilt thou be slaved?
Sophonisba. No; free.
Massinissa. How then keep I my faith?
Sophonisba. My death Gives help to all. From Rome so rest we free: So brought to Scipio, faith is kept in thee.
Massinissa. Thou darest not die! — Some wine. — Thou darest not die!
Sophonisba. How near was I unto the curse of man, Joy! How like was I yet once to have been glad! He that ne’er laughed may with a constant face Contemn Jove’s frown. Happiness makes us base.
This verse, unmusical to an English ear, is good Italian metre; possibly an intentional and deliberate example of the poet’s Italian predilections, and if so certainly a less irrational and inexplicable one than the intrusion of some villanously bad Italian lines and phrases into the text of “Antonio and Mellida.”
In other words — intolerable or unimaginable division or divulsion of mind and spirit between two contending calls of honor, two irreconcilable claims of duty. Modern editors of this great scene have broken up the line into pieces, marked or divided by superfluous dashes and points of exclamation. Campbell, who had the good taste to confute his own depreciatory criticism of Marston by including the passage among his “Selections,” was the first, as far as I know, to adopt this erroneous and rather spasmodic punctuation.
The man or the boy does not seem to me enviable who can read or remember these verses without a thrill. In sheer force of concision they recall the manner of Alfieri; but that noble tragic writer could hardly have put such fervor of austere passion into the rigid utterance, or touched the note of emotion with such a glowing depth of rapture. That “bitter and severe delight” — if I may borrow the superb phrase of Landor — which inspires and sustains the imperial pride of self-immolation might have found in his dramatic dialect an expression as terse and as sincere: it could hardly have clothed itself with such majestic and radiant solemnity of living and breathing verse. The rapid elliptic method of amoebaean dialogue is more in his manner than in any English poet’s known to me except the writer of this scene; but indeed Marston is in more points than one the most Italian of our dramatists. His highest tone of serious poetry has in it, like Alfieri’s, a note of self-conscious stoicism and somewhat arrogant self-control; while as a comic writer he is but too apt, like too many transalpine wits, to mistake filth for fun, and to measure the neatness of a joke by its nastiness. Dirt for dirt’s sake has never been the apparent aim of any great English humorist who had not about him some unmistakable touch of disease — some inheritance of evil or of suffering like the congenital brain-sickness of Swift or the morbid infirmity of Sterne. A poet of so high an order as the author of “Sophonisba” could hardly fail to be in general a healthier writer than such as these; but it cannot be denied that he seems to have been somewhat inclined to accept the illogical inference which would argue that because some wit is dirty all dirt must be witty — because humor may sometimes be indecent, indecency must always be humorous. “The clartier the cosier” was an old proverb among the northern peasantry while yet recalcitrant against the inroads of sanitary reform: “the dirtier the droller” would seem to have been practically the no less irrational motto of many not otherwise unadmirable comic writers. It does happen that the drollest character in all Marston’s plays is also the most offensive in his language— “the foulest-mouthed profane railing brother”; but the drollest passages in the whole part are those that least want washing. How far the example of Ben Jonson may have influenced or encouraged Marston in the indulgence of this unlovely propensity can only be conjectured; it is certain that no third writer of the time, however given to levity of speech or audacity in the selection of a subject, was so prone — in Shakespeare’s phrase — to “talk greasily” as the authors of “Bartholomew Fair” and “The Dutch Courtesan.”
In the two parts of his earlier tragedy the interest is perhaps, on the whole, rather better sustained than in “The Wonder of Women.” The prologue to “Antonio’s Revenge” (the second part of the “Historie of Antonio and Mellida”) has enjoyed the double correlative honor of ardent appreciation by Lamb and responsive depreciation by Gifford. Its eccentricities and perversities of phrase may be no less noticeable, but should assuredly be accounted less memorable, than its profound and impassioned fervor of grave and eloquent harmony. Strange, wayward and savage as is the all but impossible story, rude and crude and crabbed as is the pedantically exuberant language of these plays, there are touches in them of such terrible beauty and such terrible pathos as to convince any competent reader that they deserve the tribute of such praise and such dispraise. The youngest student of Lamb’s “Specimens” can hardly fail to recognize this when he compares the vivid and piercing description of the death of Mellida with the fearful and supernatural impression of the scene which brings or thrusts before us the immolation of the child, her brother.
One strange phrase in the very first line is surely a palpable misprint — ramps for cramps.
The labored eccentricity of style which signalizes and disfigures the three chief tragedies or tragic poems of Marston is tempered and subdued to a soberer tone of taste and a more rational choice of expression in his less ambitious and less unequal works. It is almost impossible to imagine any insertion or addition from the hand of Webster which would not be at once obvious to any reader in the text of “Sophonisba” or in either part of “Antonio and Mellida.” Their fierce and irregular magnificence, their feverish and strenuous intemperance of rhetoric, would have been too glaringly in contrast with the sublime purity of the greater poet’s thought and style In the tragicomedy of “The Malcontent,” published two years later than the earlier and two years earlier than the later of these poems, if the tone of feeling is but little changed or softened, the language is duly clarified and simplified. “The Malcontent, (augmented) by Marston, with the additions written by John Webster,” is as coherent, as harmonious, as much of a piece throughout, as was the text of the play in its earlier state. Not all the conscientious art and skill
of Webster could have given this uniformity to a work in which the original design and execution had been less in keeping with the bent of his own genius and the accent of his natural style. Sad and stern, not unhopeful or unloving, the spirit of this poem is more in harmony with that of Webster’s later tragedies than with that of Marston’s previous plays; its accent is sardonic rather than pessimistic, ironical rather than despondent. The plot is neither well conceived nor well constructed; the catastrophe is little less than absurd, especially from the ethical or moral point of view; the characters are thinly sketched, the situations at once forced and conventional; there are few sorrier or stranger figures in serious fiction than that of the penitent usurper when he takes to his arms his repentant wife, together with one of her two paramours, in a sudden rapture of forgiving affection; the part which gives the play its name is the only one drawn with any firmness of outline, unless we except that of the malignant and distempered old parasite; but there is a certain interest in the awkward evolution of the story, and there are scenes and passages of singular power and beauty which would suffice to redeem the whole work from condemnation or oblivion, even though it had not the saving salt in it of an earnest and evident sincerity. The brooding anger, the resentful resignation, the impatient spirit of endurance, the bitter passion of disdain, which animate the utterance and direct the action of the hero, are something more than dramatically appropriate; it is as obvious that these are the mainsprings of the poet’s own ambitious and dissatisfied intelligence, sullen in its reluctant submission and ardent in its implacable appeal, as that his earlier undramatic satires were the tumultuous and turbid ebullitions of a mood as morbid, as restless, and as honest. Coarse, rough, and fierce as those satires are, inferior alike to Hall’s in finish of verse and to Donne’s in weight of matter, it seems to me that Dr. Grosart, their first careful and critical editor, is right in claiming for them equal if not superior credit on the score of earnestness. The crude ferocity of their invective has about it a savor of honesty which atones for many defects of literary taste and executive art; and after a more thorough study than such rude and unattractive work seems at first to require or to deserve, the moral and intellectual impression of the whole will not improbably be far more favorable than one resulting from a cursory survey or derived from a casual selection of excerpts. They bring no manner of support to a monstrous and preposterous imputation which has been cast upon their author; the charge of having been concerned in a miserably malignant and stupid attempt at satire under the form of a formless and worthless drama called “Histriomastix”; though his partnership in another anonymous play — a semi-romantic semi-satirical comedy called “Jack Drum’s Entertainment” — is very much more plausibly supportable by comparison of special phrases as well as of general style with sundry mannerisms as well as with the habitual turn of speech in Marston’s acknowledged comedies. There is a certain incomposite and indigestive vigor in the language of this play which makes the attribution of a principal share in its authorship neither utterly discreditable to Marston nor absolutely improbable in itself; and the satire aimed at Ben Jonson, if not especially relevant to the main action, is at all events less incongruous and preposterous in its relation to the rest of the work than the satirical or controversial part of Dekker’s “Satiromastix.” But on the whole, if this play be Marston’s, it seems to me the rudest and the poorest he has left us, except perhaps the comedy of “What you Will,” in which several excellent and suggestive situations are made less of than they should have been, and a good deal of promising comic invention is wasted for want of a little more care and a little more conscience in cultivation of material and composition of parts. The satirical references to Jonson are more pointed and effective in this comedy than in either of the two plays last mentioned; but its best claim to remembrance is to be sought in the admirable soliloquy which relates the seven years’ experience of the student and his spaniel. Marston is too often heaviest when he would and should be lightest — owing apparently to a certain infusion of contempt for light comedy as something rather beneath him, not wholly worthy of his austere and ambitious capacity. The parliament of pages in this play is a diverting interlude of farce, though a mere irrelevance and impediment to the action; but the boys are less amusing than their compeers in the anonymous comedy of “Sir Giles Goosecap,” first published in the year preceding: a work of genuine humor and invention, excellent in style if somewhat infirm in construction, for a reprint of which we are indebted to the previous care of Marston’s present editor. Far be it from me to intrude on the barren and boggy province of hypothetical interpretation and controversial commentary; but I may observe in passing that the original of Simplicius Faber in “What you Will” must surely have been the same hanger-on or sycophant of Ben Jonson’s who was caricatured by Dekker in his “Satiromastix” under the name of Asinius Bubo. The gross assurance of self-complacent duncery, the apish arrogance and imitative dogmatism of reflected self-importance and authority at second hand, are presented in either case with such identity of tone and coloring that we can hardly imagine the satire to have been equally applicable to two contemporary satellites of the same imperious and masterful egoist.
This abortion of letters is such a very moon-calf, begotten by malice on idiocy, that no human creature above the intellectual level of its author will ever dream of attempting to decipher the insignificant significance which may possibly — though improbably — lie latent under the opaque veil of its inarticulate virulence.
That the same noble poet and high-souled humorist was not responsible for the offence given to Caledonian majesty in the comedy of “Eastward Ho!” the authentic word of Jonson would be sufficient evidence; but I am inclined to think it a matter of almost certain likelihood — if not of almost absolute proof — that Chapman was as innocent as Jonson of a jest for which Marston must be held responsible — though scarcely, I should imagine, blamable at the present day by the most rabid of Scottish provincialists. In the last scene of “The Malcontent” a court lady says to an infamous old hanger-on of the court: “And is not Signor St. Andrew a gallant fellow now?” to which the old hag replies: “Honor and he agree as well together as a satin suit and woollen stockings.” The famous passage in the comedy which appeared a year later must have been far less offensive to the most nervous patriotism than this; and the impunity of so gross an insult, so obviously and obtrusively offered, to the new knightships and lordships of King James’s venal chivalry and parasitic nobility, may naturally have encouraged the satirist to repeat his stroke next year — and must have astounded his retrospection, when he found himself in prison, and under threat of worse than imprisonment, together with his unoffending associates in an admirable and inoffensive comedy. It is impossible to suppose that he would not have come forward to assume the responsibility of his own words — as it is impossible to imagine that Jonson or Chapman would have given up his accomplice to save himself. But the law of the day would probably have held them all responsible alike.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 339
