Skip to main content

Full text of "On some of Shakespeare's female characters: Ophelia, Portia, Desdemona, Juliet, Imogen, Rosalind, Beatrice, Hermione"

See other formats 


SHAKESPEARE'S 
FEMALE    CHARACTERS 


0  degli  altri  poeti  onore  e  lume, 
Vagliami  il  lungo  studio  e  il  grande  amore, 
Che  m'  ha  fatto  cercar  lo  tuo  volume  ! " 

— DANTE  :  Inferno,  Canto  I. 

0  thou  of  bards  the  glory  and  the  light, 
Be  it  not  wholly  vain,  that  year  on  year 
With  a  great  love  I  have  explored  thy  book. 


,s/ 

.       •         ,:  . 


ON    SOME    OF 

SHAKESPEARE'S 
FEMALE    CHARACTERS 


OPHELIA  IMOGEN 

PORTIA  ROSALIND 

DESDEMONA  BEATRICE 

JULIET  HERMIONE 


HELENA    FAUCIT,    LADY    MARTIN 


SEVENTH     EDITION 


WILLIAM    BLACKWOOD    AND    SONS 

EDINBURGH     AND     LONDON 

M  C  M  I  V 


All  Rights  r€strvtd 


DEDICATED   BY  PERMISSION 

TO 

HER    tMOST    GRACIOUS    ^MAJESTY 

QUEEN    VICTORIA 

January  1885. 


2032326 


L  '  E  N  V  0  I. 


TT7HEN  the   first    of    these    letters   was    published    in 
Blackwood's   Magazine,   they   were   preceded   by   the 
following  note: — 

"  These  two  or  three  letters  were  written  in  the  autumn, 
at  the  instigation,  and  for  the  gratification,  of  a  dear  and 
gifted  friend  who  has  since  passed  away.  No  thought  of 
their  being  made  public  was  in  my  mind,  so  they  naturally 
ran  into  many  personal  details  which  I  knew  would  make 
them  more  interesting  to  an  intimate  friend,  but  which 
otherwise  I  should  not  have  thought  worth  recording. 
These  details,  I  am  told,  I  could  not  remove  without 
altering  the  nature  of  my  slight  attempts  to  illustrate  by 
the  pen  characters  which,  with  much  greater  pleasure  to 
myself,  I  have  had  to  illustrate  upon  the  stage.  The  few 
friends  who  have  seen  them  appear  to  be  of  one  mind,  that 
my  '  thoughts '  may  have  an  interest  for  a  wider  circle ; 
and,  indeed,  I  have  been  entreated,  past  all  refusing,  to 
give  them  to  the  world.  But  I  confess  to  yielding  up  my 
own  wish  for  privacy  with  great  reluctance,  all  the  more 
because  the  fear  haunts  me  that  I  may  appear  to  be  dictat- 
ing,— to  say,  as  it  were,  '  This  is  Shakespeare's  Ophelia ' ; 
whereas  I  only  mean  this  is  Ophelia  as  she  has  appeared 


viii  I/ENVOI. 

to  my  mind — as  she  has  lived  and  lives  for  me.  I  hope 
this  may  be  understood." 

Miss  Geraldine  E.  Jewsbury,  the  valued  friend  here 
referred  to,  had  often  pressed  me  to  put  into  writing  the 
substance  of  what  I  had  said  when  we  talked  together  of 
Shakespeare's  heroines.  She  had  seen  me  embody  most 
of  them  upon  the  stage,  and  knowing  how  much  of  my 
inner  life  had  gone  into  these  impersonations,  it  pleased 
her  to  think  that  I  might  in  writing  do  something  to 
awaken  in  the  minds  of  others  the  impressions  which  had 
grown  up  in  my  own  through  the  reverent  study  of  the 
best  part  of  my  life,  and  been  tested  and  confirmed  by  the, 
to  me  at  least,  vital  experience  of  the  stage.  I  shrank  from 
the  task,  with  the  natural  diffidence  of  one  who  not  only 
had  never  been  accustomed  to  this  mode  of  expression,  but 
who  also  felt  profoundly  that  no  critical  analysis  or  ex- 
position can  ever  do  for  the  illustration  of  Shakespeare 
what  may  be  done  by  the  living  presentment  of  the  stage. 
But  my  friend,  I  knew,  was  dying,  and  how  could  I  resist 
her  kind  assurances  that  I  might  do  good  by  yielding  to 
her  wish?  When  I  consented,  this  gave  her  genuine 
pleasure ;  and  her  pleasure,  when  she  read  what  I  had 
written,  was  expressed  in  words  that  encouraged  me  to 
make  it  public. 

It  was  indeed  a  surprise  to  me  to  find  how  warmly  the 
letters  on  Ophelia,  Portia,  and  Desdemona  were  received. 
I  was  urged  to  go  on,  and  to  extend  them  to  others  of 
Shakespeare's  heroines.  This  I  have  done,  adding  to  them 
studies  of  Juliet,  Imogen,  Kosalind,  Beatrice,  and  Hermione. 
I  have  resisted  the  temptation  to  go  still  further,  and  to 
write  of  Lady  Macbeth,  Constance  of  Bretagne,  Miranda, 
Isabella,  and  Cordelia,  all  of  whom  it  has  been  my  happy 
fortune  to  illustrate  on  the  stage.  I  studied  them  all  with 


L'ENVOI.  ix 

the  same  devotion  that  I  gave  to  the  heroines  of  whom 
I  have  written.  Like  them,  they  became  living  realities 
for  me,  and  in  impersonating  them  I  learned  much,  which 
would  not  otherwise  have  been  learned,  as  to  the  master 
poet's  conception  and  purpose,  as  all  conscientious  imper- 
sonators of  Shakespeare's  characters  cannot  fail  to  learn. 
But  I  fear  I  have  already  taxed  too  greatly  the  patience  of 
those  who  have  read  my  studies ;  and,  if  there  be  any 
value  in  them,  they  will  suffice  to  effect  the  object  with 
which  they  were  written,  which  was  to  show  that,  over 
and  above  natural  gifts  of  temperament,  of  voice,  figure, 
and  deportment,  there  must  go  to  the  impersonation  of  any 
of  Shakespeare's  great  characters  a  thorough  study  of  the 
entire  play,  as  well  as  of  the  particular  character  to  be 
represented,  for  only  by  this  study  can  the  actor  hope  to 
identify  himself  so  completely  with  that  character  that 
its  development  will  become,  as  it  ought  to  be,  as  spon- 
taneous and  harmonious  as  the  growth  of  a  plant  from 
the  germ  into  a  perfect  flower. 

How  it  grows  thus  who  may  tell  ?  Not  the  artist  him- 
self, at  any  rate.  I  have  often  been  asked — indeed,  this 
kind  of  questioning  began  when  I  had  been  only  a  few 
months  on  the  stage — how  I  did  this,  how  I  did  that,  by 
what  means  I  produced  such  and  such  an  effect,  how  I 
came  to  adopt  such  and  such  a  shade  of  expression,  or 
make  such  and  such  a  movement.  Questions  of  this  kind 
irritated  me,  because  they  seemed  to  imply  that  the  actor's 
art  was  something  wholly  mechanical,  to  which  the  impulse 
of  the  moment  was  a  stranger,  and  that  no  part  of  what 
it  did  at  its  best  was  to  be  regarded  as  the  unconscious 
emanation  of  one's  own  very  self.  To  such  questions, 
therefore,  I  could  never  reply.  How  could  I  reply,  when 
I  myself  never  knew  how  the  result  was  produced  for 


X  L  ENVOI. 

which  I  was  asked  to  account?  Of  course,  I  never  went 
upon  the  stage  in  any  character  until  I  had  carefully  con- 
sidered how  I  might  best  convey  to  others  the  idea  I  had 
formed  of  what  the  author  intended  should  be  made  pal- 
pable there  to  "the  very  faculties  of  eye  and  ear."  But 
there  is  something  which  no  previous  study  can  formulate, 
something  that  gives  the  crowning  charm  to  the  actor's 
impersonation,  but  of  which  he  is  himself  at  the  moment 
unconscious.  When,  therefore,  such  questions  were  put 
to  me,  I  could  no  more  answer  them  than  a  poet  could 
explain  how  a  noble  image  or  a  perfect  phrase  flashed  upon 
his  brain,  or  a  painter  say  how  in  painting  a  face  some 
subtle  and  suggestive  shade  of  expression  found  its  way 
into  his  pigments. 

How  true  are  Mr  Euskin's  words : — 

Art  must  not  be  talked  about.  The  fact  that  there  is  talk 
about  it  at  all  signifies  that  it  is  all  done,  or  cannot  'be  done. 
No  true  painter  ever  speaks,  or  ever  has  spoken,  much  of  his  art. 
The  greatest  speak  nothing.  .  .  .  The  moment  a  man  can  really 
do  his  work  he  becomes  speechless  about  it.  All  words  become 
idle  to  him,  and  all  theories.  Does  a  bird  need  to  tbeorise  about 
building  its  nest,  or  boast  of  it  when  built?  All  good  work  is 
essentially  done  that  way — without  hesitation,  without  difficulty, 
without  boasting ;  and  in  the  doers  of  the  best  there  is  an  inner 
and  involuntary  power,  which  approximates  literally  to  the  in- 
stinct of  an  animal — nay,  I  am  certain,  that  in  the  most  perfect 
human  artists,  reason  does  not  supersede  instinct,  but  is  added 
to  an  instinct  as  much  more  divine  than  that  of  the  lower  animals 
as  the  human  body  is  more  beautiful  than  theirs ;  that  a  great 
singer  sings  not  with  less  instinct  than  tbe  nightingale  but  with 
more — only  more  various,  applicable,  and  governable  ;  that  a 
great  architect  does  not  build  with  less  instinct  than  the  beaver 
or  the  bee,  but  with  more — with  an  innate  cunning  of  proportion 
that  embraces  all  beauty,  and  a  divine  ingenuity  of  skill  that 
improvises  all  construction.  But  be  that  as  it  may — be  the 


L  ENVOI.  XI 

instinct  less  or  more  than  that  of  inferior  animals — like  or  unlike 
theirs,  still  the  human  art  is  dependent  on  that  first,  and  then 
upon  an  amount  of  practice,  of  science,  and  of  imagination  dis- 
ciplined by  thought,  which  the  true  possessor  of  it  knows  to  be 
incommunicable,  and  the  true  critic  of  it  inexplicable,  except 
through  long  process  of  laborious  years.  That  journey  of  life's 
conquest,  in  which  hills  on  hills,  alps  on  alps  arose  and  sank, 
do  you  think  you  can  make  another  trace  it  painlessly  by 
talking?1 

What  is  thus  beautifully  said  I  believe  to  be  no  less  true 
of  the  actor's  art,  in  the  only  right  sense  of  that  word,  than 
it  is  of  all  other  arts.  No  one  who  does  me  the  honour 
to  read  these  studies  will  gather  from  them  what  I  did 
upon  the  stage,  or  how  I  did  it,  for  this  is  more  than  I 
myself  could  tell.  This  much,  however,  they  may  perhaps 
learn  from  them — that  if  I  succeeded  there  in  moving  the 
hearts  or  raising  the  imaginations  of  my  audiences,  it  was 
because  all  that  I  had  assimilated  from  the  study  of  the 
best  literature  and  of  the  best  art  within  my  reach,  all 
that  I  had  tried  in  a  humble  and  devout  spirit  to  learn  and 
to  practise  of  what  was  pure  and  unselfish,  honourable  and 
worthy  in  thought  and  in  act,  together  with  all  that  my 
own  heart  and  experience  of  life  had  taught  me,  was  turned 
to  account  in  the  endeavour  to  present  a  living  picture  of 
womanhood  as  divined  by  Shakespeare,  and  held  up  by 
him  as  an  ideal  for  woman  to  aspire  to,  and  for  men  to 
revere. 

Whatever  gifts  I  had  as  an  actress  were  ever  regarded 
by  me  as  a  sacred  trust  to  be  used  for  widening  and  re- 
fining the  sympathies  of  my  audiences,  by  transporting 
them  into  a  world  larger,  purer,  brighter,  grander  than 
that  of  their  everyday  life,  and  for  bringing  closer  to 

1  Sesame  and  Lilies,  p.  149,  ed.  1871. 


xii  I/ENVOI. 

their  minds  and  hearts  the  "nobler  thoughts  and  nobler 
cares,"  which  are  the  richest  blessing  that  the  poets  have 
brought  us.  Working  in  this  spirit,  I  had  my  reward  in 
the  bond  of  sympathy,  often  bordering  on  affection,  which 
grew  up  between  myself  and  the  unknown  world  of  those 
to  whom  I  spoke.  It  gave  me  strength  and  inspiration  to 
vanquish  difficulty  and  fatigue,  and  to  strive  ever  to  give 
a  fuller  truth  and  completeness  to  my  conceptions.  In  a 
thousand  ways  it  was  brought  home  to  me  that  I  did  good, 
and  therefore  I  honoured  and  revered  my  art  as  well  as 
loved  it.  With  those  who,  having  practised  it  in  its  higher 
walks,  and  practised  it  with  success,  have  spoken  of  it  with 
disparagement,  I  have  no  sympathy.  I  should  indeed  be 
ungrateful  were  it  otherwise.  I  look  back  upon  my  life 
with  profound  thankfulness,  that  I  was  able  by  the  practice 
of  my  art,  while  keeping  alive  within  myself  all  that  in  my 
earliest  dreams  I  had  imagined  of  what  was  fairest,  and 
best,  and  highest  in  thought  and  character,  to  awaken  a 
kindred  feeling  in  those  to  whom  it  was  my  privilege  to 
give  a  living  interpretation  to  the  conceptions  of  the 
highest  dramatic  genius.1 

H.  F.  M. 

1  When  the  fifth  edition  of  this  book  was  called  for  in  1893  the  above 
Preface  was  written  but  discarded.  It  contains,  however,  so  full  an  expres- 
sion of  the  authoress's  views  of  her  art,  and  of  the  spirit  in  which  she  worked 
in  it,  that  it  seems  not  unworthy  of  being  preserved. 


CONTENTS. 


I.     OPHELIA,     .        .     \ 

.     I  In    fetters     to    Miss     Oeraldine    E. 
.11.      .rU.ttJ.iA.          .          .        >        _       , 

<      Jewsbury. 

III.  DESDEMONA,      .     J  V  45 

IV.  JULIET,        .        .      ) 

}  In  letters  to  Mrs  S.  C.  HaU 
V.     JULIET  (Concluded],  )  (  105 

VI.     IMOGEN,    PRINCESS  j 

B  r/ro  a  letter  to  Miss  Anna  Swcmwick  .          155 

VII.     ROSALIND,  .        .        In  a  letter  to  Robert  Browning         .          225 

VIII.     BEATRICE,  .        .        In  a  letter  to  John  RusTcin  .  .          287 

IX.     HERMIONE,          .        In  a  letter  to  Lord  Tennyson  .          335 

APPENDIX- 
MR  BROWNING'S  "BLOT  ON  THE  SCUTCHEON,"       .           .  395 
ANECDOTE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS,  ....  397 

ACTING  OF  "ANTIGONE"  IN  DUBLIN,         .  .  .  397 

"THE  LADY  OF  LYONS,"      .....  399 

LADY  MACBETH,       ......  400 

NOTE  TO  LETTER  ON  ROSALIND,     ....  404 


I. 


OPHELIA 


I. 

OPHELIA. 


BRYNTYSILIO,  August  10,  1880. 
"  0  rose  of  May  !  Sweet  Ophelia  !  " 

4  ND  so  you  ask  me,  my  friend — indeed,  I  may  almost  say 
•£*•  that  you  insist — after  our  late  talk  over  her,  that  I  should 
put  down  in  writing  my  idea  of  Ophelia,  so  that  you  may  make, 
as  you  tell  me,  a  new  study  of  her  character. 

You  are  accustomed  to  write  fluently  all  your  thoughts,  and 
therefore  you  will  hardly  believe  what  a  difficult  task  you  have 
set  me.  My  views  of  Shakespeare's  women  have  been  wont  to 
take  their  shape  in  the  living  portraiture  of  the  stage,  and  not 
in  words.  I  have,  in  imagination,  lived  their  lives  from  the 
very  beginning  to  the  end ;  and  Ophelia,  as  I  have  pictured 
her  to  myself,  is  so  unlike  what  I  hear  and  read  about  her, 
and  have  seen  represented  on  the  stage,  that  I  can  scarcely 
hope  to  make  any  one  think  of  her  as  I  do.  It  hurts  me  to 
hear  her  spoken  of,  as  she  often  is,  as  a  weak  creature,  wanting 
in  truthfulness,  in  purpose,  in  force  of  character,  and  only 
interesting  when  she  loses  the  little  wits  she  had.  And  yet 
who  can  wonder  that  a  character  so  delicately  outlined,  and 
shaded  in  with  touches  so  fine,  should  be  often  gravely  mis- 
understood ] 


4  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Faint  and  delicate,  however,  as  these  shadowings  are,  they 
are  yet  so  true  to  nature,  and  at  the  same  time  so  full  of  sug- 
gestion, that  I  look  on  Ophelia  as  one  of  the  strongest  proofs 
our  great  master  has  left  us  of  his  belief  in  the  actor's  art 
(his  own),  and  of  his  trust  in  the  power  possessed,  at  least  by 
sympathetic  natures,  of  filling  up  his  outlines,  and  giving  full 
and  vivid  life  to  the  creatures  of  his  brain.  Without  this  belief 
could  he  have  written  as  he  did,  when  boys  and  beardless  youths 
were  the  only  representatives  of  his  women  on  the  stage  1  Yes, 
he  must  have  looked  beyond  "the  ignorant  present,"  and  known 
that  a  time  would  come  when  women,  true  and  worthy,  should 
find  it  a  glory  to  throw  the  best  part  of  their  natures  into  these 
ideal  types  which  he  has  left  to  testify  to  his  faith  in  womanhood, 
and  to  make  them  living  realities  for  thousands  to  whom  they 
would  else  have  been  unknown.  Think  of  a  boy  as  Juliet !  as 
"  heavenly  Rosalind "  !  as  "  divine  Imogen "  !  or  the  gracious 
lady  of  Belmont,  "  richly  left,"  but  still  more  richly  endowed  by 
nature — "The  poor  rude  world,"  says  Jessica,  "hath  not  her 
fellow."  Think  of  a  boy  as  Miranda,  Cordelia,  Hermione,  Des- 
demona — who  "  was  heavenly  true  " — as  the  bright  Beatrice,  and 
so  on,  through  all  the  wondrous  gallery !  How  could  any  youth, 
however  gifted  and  specially  trained,  even  faintly  suggest  these 
fair  and  noble  women  to  an  audience  1  Women's  words,  women's 
thoughts,  coming  from  a  man's  lips,  a  man's  heart — it  is  monstrous 
to  think  of !  One  quite  pities  Shakespeare,  who  had  to  put  up 
with  seeing  his  brightest  creations  thus  marred,  misrepresented, 
spoiled. 

Ophelia  was  one  of  the  pet  dreams  of  my  girlhood — partly, 
perhaps,  from  the  mystery  of  her  madness.  In  my  childhood 
I  was  much  alone — taken  early  away  from  school  because  of 
delicate  health ;  often  sent  to  spend  months  at  the  seaside,  in 
the  charge  of  kind  but  busy  people,  who,  finding  me  happy 
with  my  books  on  the  beach,  left  me  there  long  hours  by  myself. 
I  had  begged  from  home  the  Shakespeare  I  had  been  used  to 
read  there — an  acting  edition  by  John  Kemble.  This  and  the 
Arabian  Nights — how  dear  these  books  were  to  me!  Then 
I  had  the  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost. 
Satan  was  my  great  hero.  I  think  I  knew  him  by  heart.  His 


OPHELIA.  5 

address  to  the  council  I  have  often  declaimed  to  the  waves, 
when  sure  of  being  unobserved.  I  had  also  a  translation — I 
do  not  know  by  whom  (poor  enough,  but  good  enough  for  me 
then) — of  Dante's  Inferno,  some  lines  of  which  sank  deep  into 
my  heart.  I  have  not  seen  the  book  for  years ;  but  they  are 
still  there : — 

"  Up  !  be  bold  ! 

Vanquish  fatigue  by  energy  of  mind  ! 

For  not  on  plumes,  or  canopied  in  state, 

The  soul  wins  fame  !  " 1 

How  often  since,  in  life's  hard  struggles  and  trials,  have  these 
lines  helped  me  ! 

My  books  were  indeed  a  strange  medley,  but  they  were  all 
that  were  within  my  reach,  and  I  found  them  satisfying.  They 
filled  my  young  heart  and  mind  with  what  fascinated  me  most 
— the  gorgeous,  the  wonderful,  the  grand,  the  heroic,  the  self- 
denying,  the  self-devoting. 

Like  all  children,  I  kept,  as  a  rule,  my  greatest  delight  to 
myself.  I  remember  on  some  occasions,  after  I  had  returned 
home  to  my  usual  studies,  when  a  doubt  arose  about  some 
passage  which  had  happened  to  be  in  the  little  storehouse  of 
my  memory,  being  able  to  repeat  whole  chapters  and  scenes  of 
my  favourites  to  the  amused  ears  of  those  around  me.  But  I 
never  revealed  how  much  my  life  was  wrapped  up  in  them,  even 

1  I  have  lately  found  among  my  old  school-books  this  little  volume,  which 
first  introduced  me  to  Dante.  It  is  entitled,  The  Inferno  of  Dante  Alighieri, 
translated  into  English  Blank  Verse  ^oith  Notes  by  Nathaniel  Howard. 
London :  1807.  The  passage  referred  to  in  the  text  occurs  in  canto  xxiv. 
(lines  46  to  54  of  the  original).  It  is  scored  in  pencil  on  the  margin  with  an 
emphasis,  which  shows  how  much  it  had  impressed  me.  My  memory  de- 
ceived me  as  to  the  sequence  of  the  lines,  which  are  as  follows : — 

"  '  Up,'  cried  the  sage,  '  now  needs  thy  arduous  strength, 
For  not  on  plumes,  or  canopied  in  state, 
The  soul  wins  fame,  without  whose  vital  smile 
Whoe'er  consumes  away  his  gift  of  life, 
Expires,  and  leaves  such  vestige  of  himself 
As  smoke  in  air,  or  unregarded  foam 
Quick-dying  in  the  water.     Up  !  be  bold  ! 
Vanquish  fatigue  by  energy  of  mind, 
That  conquers  every  struggle,  if  uncrushed 
Beneath  the  burden  of  the  body's  frame.' " 


6  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

to  my  only  sister,  dear  as  she  was  to  me.  She  was  many  years 
older  than  myself,  and  too  fond  of  fun  to  share  in  my  day-and- 
night  dreams.  I  knew  I  should  only  be  laughed  at. 

Thus  I  had  lived  again  and  again  through  the  whole  childhood 
and  lives  of  many  of  Shakespeare's  heroines,  long  before  it  was 
my  happy  privilege  to  impersonate  and  make  them,  in  my 
fashion,  my  own.  During  the  few  years  I  acted  under  Mr 
Macready's  management,  almost  the  first,  as  you  know,  in  my 
theatrical  life,  I  was  never  called  upon  to  act  the  character  of 
Ophelia — I  suppose,  because  the  little  snatches  of  song  (though 
merely,  one  might  say,  the  humming  of  a  tune)  kept  still  alive 
the  tradition  that  an  accomplished  singer  was  required  for  the 
part.  I  had  my  wish,  however,  when  in  Paris,  a  little  later,  I 
was  asked,  as  a  favour,  to  support  Mr  Macready  in  Hamlet  by 
acting  Ophelia.  I  need  not  say  how  nervous  I  felt — all  the 
more  because  of  this  singing  tradition.  The  performances  were 
given  in  the  Salle  Ventadour,  on  the  "  off-nights  "  of  the  Italian 
Opera. 

Oh  how  difficult  it  is,  however  much  you  have  lived  in  a 
thing,  to  make  real  your  own  ideal,  and  give  it  an  utterance  and 
a  form !  To  add  to  my  fright,  I  was  told,  just  before  entering 
on  the  scene,  that  Grrisi  and  many  others  of  the  Italian  group 
were  sitting  in  a  private  box  on  the  stage.  But  I  believe  I  sang 
in  tune,  and  I  know  I  soon  forgot  Grisi  and  all  else.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  I  somehow  drew  my  audience  with  me.  And 
what  an  audience  it  was  !  Ho  obtrusive  noisy  applause,  for  there 
was  no  organised  claque  for  the  English  plays ;  but  what  an  in- 
describable atmosphere  of  sympathy  surrounded  you !  Every 
tone  was  heard,  every  look  was  watched,  felt,  appreciated.  I 
seemed  lifted  into  "an  ampler  ether,  a  diviner  air."  Think,  if 
this  were  so  in  Desdemona,  in  Ophelia,  what  it  must  have  been 
to  act  Juliet  to  them  !  I  was  in  a  perfect  ecstasy  of  delight.  I 
remember  that,  because  of  the  curtailment  of  some  of  the  scenes 
in  Romeo  and  Juliet  (the  brilliant  Mercutio  was  cut  out),  I  had 
to  change  my  dress  very  quickly,  and  came  to  the  side  scene 
breathless.  I  said  something  to  Mr  Serle,  the  acting  manager, 
about  the  hot  haste  of  it  all — no  pause  to  gather  oneself  up 
for  the  great  exertion  that  was  to  follow.  He  replied,  "  Never 


OPHELIA.  7 

mind,  you  will  feel  no  fatigue  after  this."  And  he  was  right. 
The  inspiration  of  the  scene  is  at  all  times  the  best  anodyne  for 
pain  and  bodily  fatigue.  But  who  could  think  of  either  before  an 
audience  so  sensitively  alive  to  every  touch  of  the  artist's  hand  ? 

But  to  return  to  "sweet  Ophelia."  I  learned  afterwards  that, 
among  the  audience,  when  I  first  attempted  the  part,  were  many 
of  the  finest  minds  in  Paris ;  and  some  of  these  found  "  most 
pretty  things  "  to  say  of  the  Ophelia  to  which  I  had  introduced 
them.  Many  came  after  the  play  to  my  dressing-room,  in  the 
French  fashion,  among  them  Georges  Sand — to  say  them,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but,  having  had  this  ordeal  to  go  through  before,  after 
acting  Desdemona,  the  character  in  which  I  first  appeared  in 
Paris,  my  English  shyness  took  me  out  of  the  theatre  as  soon 
as  I  had  finished,  and  before  the  play  ended.  All  this  was, 
of  course,  pleasant.  But  what  really  gratified  me  most  was, 
to  learn  that  Mr  Macready,  sternest  of  critics,  watched  me  on 
each  night  in  the  scenes  of  the  fourth  act ;  and  among  the  kind 
things  he  said,  I  cannot  forget  his  telling  me  that  I  had  thrown 
a  new  light  on  the  part,  and  that  he  had  never  seen  the  mad 
scenes  even  approached  before.  How  I  treated  them,  it  would 
be  difficult  to  describe  to  you  in  words,  because  they  were  the 
outcome  of  the  whole  character  and  life  of  Ophelia,  as  these 
had  shaped  themselves  in  my  youthful  dream. 

And  now  to  tell  you,  as  nearly  as  I  can,  what  that  dream  was. 

I  pictured  Ophelia  to  myself  as  the  motherless  child  of  an 
elderly  Polonius.  His  young  wife  had  first  given  him  a  son, 
Laertes,  and  had  died  a  few  years  later,  after  giving  birth  to 
the  poor  little  Ophelia.  The  son  takes  much  after  his  father, 
and,  his  student-life  over,  seeks  his  pleasure  in  the  gayer  life 
of  France ;  fond  of  his  little  sister  in  a  patronising  way,  in 
their  rare  meetings,  but  neither  understanding  nor  caring  to 
understand  her  nature. 

The  baby  Ophelia  was  left,  as  I  fancy,  to  the  kindly  but 
thoroughly  unsympathetic  tending  of  country-folk,  who  knew 
little  of  "inland  nurture."  Think  of  her, — sweet,  fond,  sen- 
sitive, tender-hearted,  the  offspring  of  a  delicate  dead  mother, 
tended  only  by  roughly  •  mannered  and  uncultured  natures ! 
One  can  see  the  sweet  child,  with  no  playmates  of  her  kind, 


8  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

wandering  by  the  streams,  plucking  flowers,  making  wreaths 
and  coronals,  learning  the  names  of  all  the  wild -flowers  in 
glade  and  dingle,  having  many  favourites,  listening  with  eager 
ears  when  amused  or  lulled  to  sleep  at  night  by  the  country 
songs,  whose  words  (in  true  country  fashion,  not  too  refined) 
come  back  again  vividly  to  her  memory,  with  the  fitting  mel- 
odies, as  such  things  strangely  but  surely  do,  only  when  her 
wits  had  flown.  Thus  it  is  that,  when  she  has  been  "blasted 
with  ecstasy,"  all  the  country  customs  return  to  her  mind :  the 
manner  of  burying  the  dead,  the  strewing  the  grave  with 
flowers,  "  at  his  head,  a  grass  green  turf ;  at  his  heels,  a  stone," 
— with  all  the  other  country  ceremonies.  I  think  it  important 
to  keep  in  view  this  part  of  her  supposed  life,  because  it  puts 
to  flight  all  the  coarse  suggestions  which  unimaginative  critics 
have  often  made,  to  explain  how  Ophelia  came  to  utter  snatches 
of  such  ballads  as  never  ought  to  issue  from  a  young  and  cul- 
tured woman's  lips. 

When  we  see  Ophelia  first,  this  "Kose  of  May"  is  just 
budding ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  as  a  bud,  never  as  a  full  flower, 
that  she  lived  her  brief  life. 

"  Et,  rose — elle  a  vecu,  ce  que  vivent  les  roses, 
L'espace  d'un  matin." 

She  was  still  very  young,  in  her  early  'teens,  according  to  what 
Laertes  says,  when  he  last  sees  her.  We  can  imagine  her  formal, 
courtierly  father,  on  one  of  his  rare  visits  to  his  country  home 
(ill  spared  from  his  loved  court  duties),  noting  with  surprise  his 
little  daughter  growing  into  the  promise  of  a  charming  woman- 
hood. The  tender  beauty  of  this  budding  rose  must  be  no  longer 
left  to  blush  unseen ;  this  shy,  gentle  nature  must  be  developed, 
made  into  something  more  worthy  of  her  rank.  She  must  imbibe 
the  court  culture,  and  live  in  its  atmosphere.  She  must  become 
a  court  lady ;  and  this  hitherto  half-forgotten  flower  must  be 
made  to  expand,  under  his  own  eye  and  teaching,  into  the  com- 
pleteness of  a  full-blown  hothouse  exotic. 

When  we  first  see  her,  we  may  fairly  suppose  that  she  has 
been  only  a  few  months  at  court.  It  has  taken  off  none  of  the 
bloom  of  her  beautiful  nature.  That  remains  pure  and  fresh 


OPHELIA.  9 

and  simple  as  she  brought  it  from  her  country  home.  One 
change  has  taken  place,  and  this  a  great  one.  Her  heart  has 
been  touched,  and  has  found  its  ideal  in  the  one  man  about 
the  court  who  was  likely  to  reach  it,  both  from  his  rare  and 
attractive  qualities,  and  a  certain  loneliness  in  his  position  not 
very  unlike  her  own.  How  could  she  help  feeling  flattered — 
drawn  towards  this  romantic,  desolate  Hamlet,  the  observed  of 
all  observers,  whose  "music  vows"  have  been  early  whispered 
in  her  ears]  On  the  other  hand,  what  sweet  repose  it  must 
have  been  to  the  tired,  moody  scholar,  soldier,  prince,  dis- 
satisfied with  the  world  and  all  its  ways,  to  open  his  heart 
to  her,  and  to  hear  the  shy  yet  eloquent  talk  which  he  would 
woo  from  her — to  watch  the  look,  manner,  and  movements  of 
this  graceful  child  of  nature — watch,  too,  her  growing  wonder 
at  her  new  surroundings,  the  court  ceremonies,  the  strange 
diversities  of  character,  and  to  note  the  impressions  made 
upon  her  by  them, — what  delight  to  trace  and  analyse  the 
workings  of  this  pure,  impressionable  mind,  all  the  more  in- 
teresting and  wonderful  to  him  because  of  the  contrast  she 
presented  to  the  parent  stem !  In  all  this  there  was  for  him 
the  subtle  charm  which  the  deep,  philosophical  intellect  must 
ever  find  in  the  pure  unconscious  innocence  and  wisdom  of  a 
guileless  heart. 

One  can  see  how  the  tiresome  officiousness  and  the  plati- 
tudes of  Polonius  irritate  Hamlet  beyond  endurance.  What 
a  contrast  the  daughter  presents  to  him  !  Restful,  intelligent, 
unobtrusive,  altogether  charming,  and  whom  he  loves  "best, 
O  most  best,  believe  it.  ...  Thine  evermore,  most  dear  lady, 
while  this  machine  is  to  him,  Hamlet."  And  to  Ophelia,  how 
great  must  have  been  the  attraction  of  an  intercourse  with  a 
mind  like  Hamlet's,  when  first  she  saw  him,  and  had  been 
sought  by  his  "  solicitings  "  !  How  alluring,  how  subtlely  sweet 
to  one  hitherto  so  lonely,  so  tender-hearted,  shy,  and  diffident 
of  her  power  to  please ;  yet,  though  she  knew  it  not,  so  well 
fitted  to  understand  and  to  appreciate  all  the  finest  qualities 
of  the  young  Lord  Hamlet !  We  see  how  often  and  often 
they  had  met,  by  Polonius's  own  telling.  Nor  could  he  pos- 
sibly have  been  ignorant  that  they  did  so  meet.  He  says — 


10  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  But  what  might  you  think, 
When  I  had  seen  this  hot  love  on  the  wing, 
(As  I  perceived  it,  I  must  tell  you  that, 
Before  my  daughter  told  me)." 

Then,  all  that  her  brother  says  to  her  shows  complete  indif- 
ference to  her  feelings.  I  never  could  get  over  the  shock  of 
his  lecturing  her  "touching  the  lord  Hamlet,"  when  we  first 
see  them  together  as  he  is  starting  for  France.  Poor  maiden ! 
to  have  this  treasured  secret  of  her  inner  life,  her  very  life,  her 
very  soul,  a  secret  so  sweet,  so  sacred,  so  covered  over,  as  she 
thinks,  from  all  eyes — thus  dragged  rudely  to  the  light;  dis- 
cussed in  the  most  commonplace  tone,  and  her  very  maidenly 
modesty  questioned !  Who  will  say  she  is  not  truthful,  when, 
on  being  asked,  as  she  is  soon  after,  by  her  father,  "  What  is't, 
Ophelia,  he  hath  said  to  you?"  she  replies  at  once,  notwith- 
standing all  her  pain,  "So  please  you,  something  touching  the 
lord  Hamlet "  ?  Think  how  her  whole  nature  must  again  have 
shrunk  and  quivered,  while  listening  to  the  cautious  and  worldly 
platitudes  of  her  father,  which  follow  !  Then,  to  be  commanded 
to  deny  herself  to  the  one  being  dear  to  her,  and  with  whom 
she  had  sympathy :  what  a  feeling  of  degradation  as  well  as 
anguish  must  have  been  behind  the  few  words  she  utters !  "  I 
shall  obey,  my  lord." 

Ophelia  naturally  had  her  attendants,  whose  duty  it  was  to 
tell  her  father  of  these  meetings,  and  who  evidently  did  so. 
They  were  clearly  not  objected  to  by  him,  and  he  let  the  inter- 
views go  on,  till  he  thought  it  might  be  as  well,  by  interfering, 
to  find  out  if  Hamlet  were  in  earnest  in  his  attachment,  and  if 
it  would  be  sanctioned  by  the  king  and  queen.  By  this  inter- 
ference his  worldly  wisdom  overreached  itself.  It  came  at  the 
wrong,  the  worst  time.  He  bids  Ophelia  deny  Hamlet  access 
to  her,  trusting  that  this  will  make  the  Prince  openly  avow  his 
love ;  and  was,  of  course,  in  entire  ignorance  of  the  fearful 
scene,  the  dread  revelation,  which  had  meanwhile  taken  place, 
and  which  was  destined  to  cut  Hamlet's  life  in  twain,  obliterate 
from  it  all  "trivial  fond  records,"  and  shake  to  its  foundations 
all  faith  in  womanhood,  hitherto  most  sacred  to  him  in  the 
name  and  person  of  his  mother,  the  mother  whom  from  his  boy- 


OPHELIA.  1 1 

hood  he  had  fondly  loved,  and  whom  he  had  seen  so  cherished 
and  adored  by  his  dead  father. 

Pause  a  moment  with  me,  and  think  of  the  extraordinary 
attractions  of  this  mother.  Another  Helen  of  Troy  she  seems 
to  me,  in  the  wonderful  fascination  which  she  exercises  on  all 
who  come  within  her  influence ;  not  perhaps  designedly,  but, 
like  the  Helena  of  the  second  part  of  Goethe's  Faust,  by  an  un- 
toward fate  which  drew  on  all  insensibly  to  love  her  : — 

"  Wehe  mir  !    Welch  streng  Geschick 
Verfolgt  mich,  uberall  der  Manner  Busen 
So  zu  bethbren,  dass  sie  weder  sich 
Noch  sonst  ein  Wiirdiges  verschonten." 

"  Woe's  me,  what  ruthless  fate 
Pursues  me,  that,  where'er  I  go,  I  thus 
Befool  men's  senses,  so  they  not  respect 
Themselves,  nor  aught  that's  worthy  ! " 

What  a  picture  is  presented  of  the  depth  of  her  husband's  love,  in 
Hamlet's  words  that  he  would  not  "  beteem  the  winds  of  heaven 
visit  her  cheek  too  roughly "  !  And  this  spell  still  exercises 
itself  upon  his  spirit  after  his  death.  Observe  how  tenderly 
he  calls  Hamlet's  attention  to  the  queen  in  the  closet  scene  : — 

"  But  look,  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits  ! 
Oh,  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul !  " 

Claudius,  his  successor,  perils  his  very  soul  for  her.  See  what 
he  says  of  her: — 

"  She's  so  conjunctive  to  my  life  and  soul, 
That,  as  the  star  moves  not  but  in  his  sphere 
I  could  not  but  by  her." 

She  is  tenderness  itself  to  her  son.  "The  queen  his  mother," 
says  Claudius,  "lives  almost  by  his  looks." 

I  cannot  believe  that  Gertrude  knew  of  the  murder  of  her 
husband.  His  spirit  does  not  even  hint  that  she  was  privy  to 
it ;  if  she  had  been,  could  he  have  spoken  of  her  so  tenderly  as 
he  does?  Hamlet,  in  the  height  of  his  passion,  does  indeed 
charge  her  with  this  guilty  knowledge  in  the  words — 

"  Almost  as  bad,  good  mother, 
As  kill  a  king,  and  marry  with  his  brother. " 


12  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Again,  he  calls  Claudius  in  her  hearing  "a  murderer  and  a 
villain";  but  in  both  cases  the  imputation  clearly  wakens  no 
echo  in  her  soul,  and  she  puts  it  down,  with  much  else  that  he 
says,  to  "the  heat  and  flame  of  his  distemper."  "The  black 
and  grained  spots"  in  her  soul,  of  which  she  speaks,  are  the 
stings  of  her  awakened  conscience,  to  which  her  husband's  spirit 
had  warned  Hamlet  to  leave  her — remorse  for  her  too  speedy 
forgetfulness  of  her  noble  husband,  and  almost  immediate  mar- 
riage with  his  brother,  towards  whom  she  must  have  previously 
shown  some  preference,  the  shame  of  which  Hamlet's  passionate 
words  have  brought  home  to  her  so  unexpectedly  and  so  irre- 
sistibly. 

Gertrude  evidently  sees  with  satisfaction  the  growing  love 
between  Hamlet  and  Ophelia.  She  loves  the  "  sweet  maid,"  and 
hopes  to  see  their  betrothal,  and  to  strew  her  bridal  bed.  On  her 
side,  Ophelia  has  felt  fully  the  gracious  kindness  of  the  queen ; 
has  gratefully  returned  the  affection  shown  to  her ;  and,  like  the 
rest,  has  been  drawn  closely  towards  her  by  her  beauty  and  win- 
ning graciousness.  A  proof  of  this  attachment  breaks  out  in  her 
madness,  when  she  clamours  for,  and  will  not  be  denied,  the 
presence  of  "the  beauteous  majesty  of  Denmark." 

Ophelia's  conduct  in  reference  to  the  meeting  with  Hamlet, 
concerted  by  her  father  and  the  king,  has  drawn  upon  her  head 
a  world  of,  I  think,  most  unjust  censure  and  indignation. 
"When  the  poor  girl  is  brought,  half  willingly,  half  unwillingly, 
to  that  (for  her)  fatal  interview,  we  must  not  forget  the  pre- 
vious one,  described  by  her  to  her  father,  when  she  rushes  in 
affrighted,  and  recounts  Hamlet's  sudden  and  forbidden  intru- 
sion upon  her  in  her  closet,  where  she  was  sewing ;  exhibiting 
a  garb  and  plight  in  which  no  sane  gentleman  would  venture 
to  approach  a  lady — slovenly,  "his  stockings  foul'd,  ungarter'd, 
and  down-gyved  to  his  ankle,"  the  woe-worn  look,  the  sigh  so 
piteous  and  profound,  the  eyes,  as  he  went  backward  out  of 
the  chamber,  bending  to  the  last  their  light  upon  herself.  Her 
father's  interpretation  is,  that  "  he  is  mad  for  her  love " ;  and 
he  assigns  as  the  cause  for  this  outbreak,  that  she  "did  repel 
his  letters,  and  denied  his  access."  Here  his  worldly  wisdom  is 
again  at  fault. 


OPHELIA.  1 3 

"  I  am  sorry  that  with  better  heed  and  judgment 
I  had  not  quoted  him  :  I  feared  he  did  but  trifle, 
And  meant  to  wreck  thee." 

All  this  is  startling  and  sad  enough,  but  not  entirely  hopeless  or 
remediless.  Ophelia  has,  at  least,  the  solace  of  hoping,  believing, 
that  she  is  beloved  by  her  "soul's  idol."  Could  she,  then,  but 
see  him  once  again,  she  might  learn  whether  Hamlet's  strange 
agitation  were  really  what  was  represented, — whether,  as  her 
father  had  said,  he  were  indeed  "  mad  for  her  love  "  !  In  this 
state  of  mind,  surely  she  is  not  to  be  much  blamed,  or  judged 
very  harshly,  if  she  consented  to  lend  herself  to  the  arrangement 
proposed  by  her  father;  acutely  painful  though  it  must  have 
been  to  her  sensitive  nature,  after  denying  him  access  to  her 
repeatedly,  thus  seemingly  to  thrust  herself  upon  her  lover's 
notice,  and  become,  as  it  were,  the  partner  in  a  trick.  She  has, 
also,  the  sanction  of  his  mother,  the  queen,  who  says  : — 

"And,  for  your  part,  Ophelia,  I  do  wish, 
That  your  good  beauties  be  the  happy  cause 
Of  Hamlet's  wildness  ;  so  shall  I  hope  your  virtues 
Will  bring  him  to  his  wonted  way  again, 
To  both  your  honours." 

Her  fault,  if  fault  it  were,  was  cruelly  expiated.  She  will 
test  his  affection  by  offering  to  return  his  love-tokens,  his  gifts 
and  letters — anything  to  end  this  torturing  suspense.  We  can 
believe  how  cautiously,  how  tenderly  her  approaches  are  made 
to  her  so  deeply  loved,  and,  as  she  fears,  so  sadly  afflicted  Prince. 
That  Ophelia  should,  after  repeatedly  denying  her  presence  to 
him,  thus  place  herself  in  his  path,  and  challenge  his  notice,  at 
once  excites  in  Hamlet's  mind  a  suspicion  of  some  device  to  cir- 
cumvent him.  Saluting  her  at  first  gently,  his  tone  alters,  as 
he  sees  in  the  offer  of  the  return  of  his  "  remembrances  "  a  repe- 
tition, he  believes,  of  the  plot  laid  for  him  before  in  the  persons 
of  Eosencrantz  and  Guildenstern.  That  he  is  again  to  be  thus 
played  with,  and  that  this  innocent  girl,  as  he  had  thought  her, 
should  lend  herself  to  entrap  him,  drives  him  past  his  patience ; 
and  without  mercy  he  begins  to  pour  down  upon  her  the  full 
vials  of  his  wrath.  In  their  last  interview  he  has  been  touchingly 
gentle  and  sad :  voiceless — showing  a  pathos  beyond  words :  like 


14      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

the  reluctant  parting  of  the  soul  from  the  body.  Now,  his  rude, 
meaningless  words,  his  violent  manner,  his  shrill  voice,  "out  of 
tune  and  harsh,"  the  absence  of  all  courtesy,  convince  her  that  he 
is  mad  indeed. 

How  can  it  be  otherwise  ?  In  all  their  former  intercourse  he 
had  appeared  to  her  as 

' '  The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state, 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form, 
The  observed  of  all  observers  !  " 

His  gifts  were  offered  to  her  with  "words  of  so  sweet  breath 
composed  as  made  the  things  more  rich."  Now  he  could  not 
be  more  pitiless  if  the  worst  of  her  sex  stood  before  him,  and 
not  this  young  creature,  this  tender  willow,  swaying,  bending 
before  the  storm-bursts  of  his  wrath,  the  cutting  winds  of  his 
fierce  words.  Many  of  these  words,  these  reproaches,  must  have 
passed  harmless  over  the  innocent  head  which  did  not  know 
their  meaning.1  But  what  a  picture  (who  could  paint  it1?)  is 
that  of  the  stunned,  bewildered,  heart-stricken  lamb,  thus  stand- 
ing alone  to  hear  the  sins  of  all  her  sex  thrown  at  her !  She 
can  only  whisper  a  prayer  or  two  for  him — no  thought  of  her 
_nwn  desolation  comes  to  her.  "Oh,  help  him,  you  sweet 
Heavens !  ...  Oh  Heavenly  powers,  restore  him ! "  When 
suddenly  challenged,  "Where's  your  father?"  the  question  re- 
calls to  her  remembrance,  what  she  has  for  the  time  forgotten 
in  deeper  matter,  that  he  is  at  this  very  moment  acting  the  de- 
grading part  of  an  eavesdropper.  What  can  she  do  but  stammer 
out  in  reply,  "At  home,  my  lord"?  Shall  she  expose  the  old 
man,  when  thus  called  to  answer  for  him,  to  the  insults,  the 
violence  of  Hamlet's  mad  anger,  which  she  fears  would  have 
fallen  upon  his  head  had  she  told  the  truth  ?  No ;  like  Desde- 
mona  she  faces  the  falsehood,  and,  to  screen  her  father,  takes 
it  upon  her  own  soul:  "Oh,  who  has  done  this  deed?  .  .  . 

1  "I  have  heard  of  your  paintings  too,  well  enough  ;  God  has  given  you 
one  face,  and  you  make  yourselves  another :  you  jig,  you  amble,  and  you 
lisp,  and  nick-name  God's  creatures,  and  make  your  wantonness  your  ignor- 
ance. Go  to,  I'll  no  more  on't ;  it  hath  made  me  mad.  ...  To  a  nunnery, 
go!" 


OPHELIA.  15 

Nobody ;  I  myself.     Farewell ;  commend  me  to  my  kind  lord." 
Who  thinks  of  condemning  Desdemona  ?     As  Emilia  says,  "  Oh, 
she  was  heavenly  true."     And  yet  I  have  seen  Ophelia's  answef 
brought  forward  as  a  proof  of  her  weakness  of  character;  and 
this  weakness  asserted  to  be  the  cause  of  Hamlet's  failure,  or,  at   ; 
least,  to  play  an  important  part  in  the  tragedy  of  his  character.  ' 
Such  weakness  I  call  strength,  in  the  highest,  most  noble,  because  ; 
most  self-forgetting,  sense  of  the  word. 

And  so  Ophelia,  in  her  "weakness,"  fears  to  tell  the  truth, 
lest,  in  this  too  terrible  paroxysm  of  madness  which  now  pos- 
sesses him,  Hamlet  might  possibly  kill  her  father.  But  this 
catastrophe,  alas !  is  soon  to  follow,  and  proves  to  be  the  drop 
too  much  in  her  cup  of  lonely  anguish.  When  Hamlet  has  left 
the  scene,  even  then,  I  think,  no  sob  is  heard,  no  tears  are  shed : 
there  is  no  time  yet  for  self-pity.  Her  soul's  agony  is  too  deep 
for  tears — beyond  all  utterance  of  the  common  kind.  First  in 
her  thoughts  is  the  "  noble  mind  o'erthrown,"  and  "  most  sove- 
reign reason,  like  sweet  bells  jangled."  At  last,  when  she  has 
gone  through  the  catalogue  of  his  rare  virtues,  his  princely  qual- 
ities, his  noble  attributes — all  "quite,  quite  down"! — at  the 
end  she  looks  at  herself — she  who  had  "  suck'd  the  honey  of  his 
music  vows."  What  is  left  for  her  ? — for  her,  "  of  ladies  most 
deject  and  wretched  "  1  "  Oh,  woe  is  me  !  To  have  seen  what 
I  have  seen,  see  what  I  see  !  "  This  is  all  she  says,  "  still  harp- 
ing on  "  Hamlet. 

In  the  usual  stage  arrangement  Ophelia  leaves  the  scene  with 
these  words.  Shakespeare  makes  her  remain;  and  how  greatly 
does  this  heighten  the  pathos  of  her  position !  Her  heartless 
father,  knowing  nothing,  seeing  nothing  of  the  tragedy  that  is 
going  on  before  his  eyes,  unconscious  from  first  to  last  how 
deeply  she  has  been  wounded,  and  still  treating  her  merely  as 
a  tool,  says — 

"  How  now,  Ophelia  ! 

You  need  not  tell  us  what  Lord  Hamlet  said  ; 

We  heard  it  all." 

He  and  the  king  had  only  eyes  and  ears  for  Hamlet ;  and  so  she 
drifts  away  from  them  into  a  shoreless  "sea  of  troubles,"  un- 
heeded and  unmissed. 


16      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"We  see  her  once  again,  playing  a  sort  of  automaton  part  in 
the  play-scene — sitting  patiently,  watchfully,  with  eyes  only  for 
the  poor  stricken  one  who  asks  to  lay  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
You  notice,  in  the  little  that  passes  between  them,  how  gently 
she  treats  her  wayward,  smitten  lover.  And  then,  having  no 
clue  to  his  trouble,  no  thread  by  which  to  link  it  with  the  past, 
she  is  scared  away,  with  the  rest,  on  the  poisoning  of  Gonzago, 
at  what  appears  to  be  a  fresh  outbreak  of  Hamlet's  malady.  By 
this  tune  her  own  misery  and  desolation  will  have  come  home 
to  her  fully — her  wounded  heart,  her  wrecked  happiness  must 
be  more  than  the  young,  unaccustomed  spirit  can  stand  up 
against.  She  is  not  likely,  after  her  previous  experience,  to 
seek  solace  in  her  father's  sympathy :  nor  is  hers  a  nature  to 
seek  it  anywhere.  If  found,  it  must  come  to  her  by  the  way. 
The  queen  is,  by  this  time,  wrapped  up  in  her  own  griefs — in- 
clined to  confess  herself  to  Heaven,  repent  what's  past.  "0 
Hamlet !  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart  in  twain.  .  .  .  What  shall 
I  do?"  She  is  grieved  enough  for  Ophelia  when  she  sees  her 
"  distract,"  but  has  had  no  time  to  waste  a  thought  upon  her 
amid  her  own  numerous  fast-growing  cares — not  even,  as  it 
seems,  to  break  to  her  the  news  of  her  father's  death.  There 
might  have  been  some  drop  of  comfort,  if  the  queen  had  spoken 
to  her  of  Hamlet,  and  told  her,  as  she  told  the  king,  "  He  weeps 
for  what  is  done  ! "  As  it  was,  most  likely,  in  the  usual  marvel- 
loving  way  of  common  people,  the  news  of  Polonius's  death  by 
Hamlet's  hand  was  conveyed  to  Ophelia's  ears  by  her  attendants 
hurriedly,  without  any  preparation.  Shock  upon  shock !  The 
heart  already  stricken,  the  young  brain  undisciplined  in  life's 
storms,  and  in  close  and  subtle  sympathy  with  him  who  was 
her  very  life,  she  catches  insensibly  the  infection  of  his  mind's 
disease,  her  wits  go  wandering  after  his,  and,  like  him,  she  falls 
down — "  quite,  quite  down."  One  feels  the  mercifulness  of  this. 
The  "  sweet  Heavens,"  to  which  she  had  appealed  to  help  Ham- 
let, had  helped  her !  Her  mind,  in  losing  memory,  loses  the 
remembrance  of  all  the  woful  past,  and  goes  back  to  her  child- 
hood, with  its  simple  folk-lore  and  nursery -rhymes.  Still, 
through  all  this,  we  have  the  indication  of  dimly  remembered 
wrongs  and  griefs.  She  says  she  hears  "there's  tricks  i'  the 


OPHELIA.  17 

world,  and  hems,  and  beats  her  heart ;  .  .  .  speaks  things  in 
doubt,  that  carry  but  half  sense :  .  .  .  would  make  one  think 
there  might  be  thought,  though  nothing  sure,  yet  much  unhap- 
pily." But  the  deeper  suffering — the  love  and  grief  together 
— cannot  (perhaps  never  could)  find  expression  in  words.  The 
soul's  wreck,  the  broken  heart,  are  seen  only  by  Him  who  knows 
all.  Happily,  there  is  no  vulgar  comment  made  upon  the  deep 
affection  which  she  had  so  silently  cherished — no  commonplace, 
pitying  words.  "  Oh !  this,"  says  the  king,  "  is  the  poison  of 
deep  grief;  it  springs  all  from  her  father's  death."  Laertes 
says — 

"  0  rose  of  May  ! 

0  Heavens  !  is't  possible,  a  young  maid's  wits 
Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life  ? " 

He  comes  a  little  nearer  the  truth  in  what  follows — 

"  Nature  is  fine  in  love  :  and,  where  'tis  fine, 
It  sends  some  precious  instance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves." 

But  one  sees  he  has  not  the  faintest  insight  into  the  real  cause 
of  her  loss  of  wits.  The  revenge  he  seeks  upon  Hamlet  is  for 
his  father — 

"  His  means  of  death,  his  obscure  funeral — 
No  trophy,  sword,  nor  hatchment  o'er  his  bones, 
No  noble  rite,  nor  formal  ostentation — 
Cry  to  be  heard,  as  'twere  from  heaven  to  earth, 
That  I  must  call't  in  question. " 

A  matter  of  family  pride  in  Laertes,  as  well  as  grief  for  his 
father's  loss.  Then  at  her  grave,  he  says — 

"Oh,  treble  woe 

Fall  ten  times  treble  on  that  cursed  head, 
Whose  wicked  deed  thy  most  ingenious  sense 
Deprived  thee  of  ! " 

Only  "  when  they  shall  meet  at  compt "  will  Hamlet  even  know 
the  grief  he  has  brought  upon,  the  wrong  he  has  done  to,  this 


18  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHAEACTERS: 

deep  and  guileless  spirit.  So  far  as  we  see,  he  has  indeed 
blotted  her  from  his  mind  as  a  "  trivial  fond  record."  He  is  so 
self-centred,  so  enwrapped  in  his  own  suffering,  that  he  has  no 
thought  to  waste  on  the  delicate  girl  whom  he  had  wooed  with 
such  a  "fire  of  love,"  and  had  taught  to  listen  to  his  most 
honeyed  vows.  He  casts  her  from  him  like  a  worthless  weed, 
without  a  word  of  explanation  or  a  quiver  of  remorse.  Let  us 
hope  that  when  he  sees  her  grave,  his  conscience  stings  him ;  but 
beyond  ranting  louder  than  Laertes  about  what  he  would  do  for 
her  sake — and  she  dead! — there  is  not  much  sign  of  his  love 
being  at  any  time  worthy  of  the  sweet  life  lost  for  it. 

Perhaps  you  will  think  that,  in  the  fulness  of  my  sympathy 
for  Ophelia,  I  feel  too  little  for  Hamlet.  But  this  is  not  really 
so.  One  cannot  judge  Hamlet's  actions  by  ordinary  rules.  He 
is  involved  in  the  meshes  of  a  ruthless  destiny,  from  which  by 
nature  and  temperament  he  is  powerless  to  extricate  himself.  In 
the  infirmity  of  a  character  which  expends  its  force  in  words 
and  shrinks  from  resolute  action,  he  unconsciously  drags  down 
Ophelia  with  him.  They  are  the  victims  of  the  same  inexorable 
fate.  I  could  find  much  to  say  in  explanation  and  in  extenua- 
tion of  the  shortcomings  of  one  upon  whom  a  task  was  laid, 
which  he  of  all  men,  by  the  essential  elements  of  his  character, 
was  least  fitted  to  accomplish. 

But  you  see  I  only  touch  upon  his  character  so  far  as  it  bears 
upon  Ophelia,  on  what  he  has  been  to  her  and  what  he  is.  Be- 
fore the  story  begins,  he  has  offered  her  his  love  "  in  honourable 
fashion."  Then  we  hear  from  her  of  the  silent  interview  which 
so  affrights  her.  After  this,  when  for  the  first  time  we  see  them 
together,  he  treats  her  as  only  a  madman  could,  and  in  a  way 
which  not  even  his  affectation  of  madness  can  excuse.  Again,  in 
the  play-scene  which  follows,  the  same  wilfulness,  even  insolence, 
of  manner  is  shown  to  her.  Now,  whatever  his  own  troubles,  per- 
plexities, heart-breaks,  might  be,  it  is  hard  to  find  an  apology  for 
such  usage  of  one  whose  heart  he  could  not  but  know  that  he 
had  won.  He  is  even  tenderer,  more  considerate,  to  his  mother, 
whom  he  thinks  so  wanton  and  so  guilty,  than  to  this  young 
girl,  whom  he  has  "importuned  with  love,"  and  "given  counte- 
nance to  his  speech  with  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven." 


OPHELIA.  1 9 

I  cannot,  therefore,  think  that  Hamlet  comes  out  well  in  his 
relations  with  Ophelia.  I  do  not  forget  what  he  soyp  at  her 
grave : — 

"  I  loved  Ophelia  ;  forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 
Make  up  my  sum  ! " 

But  I  weigh  his  actions  against  his  words,  and  find  them  here  of 
little  worth.  The  very  language  of  his  letter  to  Ophelia,  which 
Polonius  reads  to  the  king  and  queen,  has  not  the  true  ring  in 
it.  It  comes  from  the  head,  and  not  from  the  heart — it  is  a 
string  of  euphuisms,  which  almost  justifies  Laertes'  warning  to 
his  sister,  that  the  "trifling  of  Hamlet's  favour"  is  but  "the 
perfume  and  suppliance  of  a  minute."  Hamlet  loves,  I  have 
always  felt,  only  in  a  dreamy  imaginative  way,  with  a  love  as 
deep,  perhaps,  as  can  be  known  by  a  nature  fuller  of  thought 
and  contemplation  than  of  sympathy  and  passion.  Ophelia  does 
not  sway  his  whole  being,  perhaps  no  woman  could,  as  he  sways 
hers.  Had  she  done  so,  not  even  the  task  imposed  upon  him  by 
his  father's  spirit  could  have  made  him  blot  her  love  from  his 
mind  as  a  "  trivial  fond  record,"  for  it  would  have  been  inter- 
woven inseparably  with  his  soul,  once  and  for  ever. 

When  Ophelia  comes  before  us  for  the  last  time,  with  her  lap 
full  of  flowers,  to  pay  all  honour  and  reverence,  as  she  thinks,  in 
country  fashion,  to  her  father's  grave,  the  brother  is  by  her  side, 
of  whom  she  had  said  before,  most  significantly,  that  he  should 
"know  of  it.  ...  I  cannot  choose  but  weep,  to  think  they 
should  lay  him  i'  the  cold  ground."  Then  that  brother  can 
lavish  in  her  heedless  ears  the  kind  phrases,  the  words  of  love, 
of  which,  perhaps,  in  her  past  days  he  had  been  too  sparing. 
"  0  rose  of  May  !  dear  maid,  kind  sister,  sweet  Ophelia  !  "  But 
the  smiles  are  gone  which  would  once  have  greeted  these  fond 
words.  He  has  passed  out  of  her  memory,  even  as  she  had 
passed  out  of  his,  when  he  was  "  treading  the  primrose  path  of 
dalliance"  in  sunny  France.  She  has  no  thought  but  to  bury 
the  dead — her  dead  love — her  old  father  taking  the  outward 
form  of  it.  Even  the  flowers  she  has  gathered  have  little  beauty 
or  sweetness — "rosemary  for  remembrance;  pray  you,  love,  re- 


20      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

member : "  the  lover  has  said  he  never  gave  her  aught !  "  I 
loved  you  not" — "rue,"  for  desolation;  fennel,  and  columbines 
— a  daisy,  the  only  pleasant  flower — with  pansies  for  thoughts. 
Violets  she  would  give,  but  cannot.  "  They  withered  all "  with 
her  dead  love. 

To  Ophelia's  treatment  of  her  brother  in  this  scene  I  ventured 
to  give  a  character  which  I  cannot  well  describe  to  you,  but 
which,  as  I  took  care  it  should  not  be  obtrusive,  and  only  as  a 
part  of  the  business  of  the  scene,  I  felt  sure  that  my  great 
master,  the  actor-author,  would  not  have  objected.  I  tried  to 
give  not  only  his  words,  but,  by  a  sympathetic  interpretation, 
his  deeper  meaning — a  meaning  to  be  apprehended  only  by  that 
sympathy  which  arises  in,  and  is  the  imagination  of,  the  heart 

When  Laertes  approaches  Ophelia,  something  in  his  voice  and 
look  brings  back  a  dim,  flitting  remembrance ;  she  gives  him  of 
her  flowers,  and  motions  him  to  share  in  the  obsequies  she  is 
paying.  "When  her  eyes  next  fall  upon  him,  she  associates  him 
somehow  with  the  "  tricks  i'  the  world."  A  faint  remembrance 
comes  over  her  of  his  warning  words,  of  the  shock  they  gave 
her,  and  of  the  misery  which  came  so  soon  afterwards.  These 
she  pieces  together  with  her  "  half  sense,"  and  thinks  he  is  the 
cause  of  all.  She  looks  upon  him  with  doubt,  even  aversion; 
and,  when  he  would  approach  her,  shrinks  away  with  threatening 
gestures  and  angry  looks.  All  this  was  shown  only  at  intervals, 
and  with  pauses  between — mostly  by  looks  and  slight  action — 
a  fitful  vagueness  being  indicated  throughout.  The  soul  of 
sense  being  gone,  the  sweet  mind  had  become  "such  stuff  as 
dreams  are  made  of."  The  body  bore  some  resemblance  to  the 
rose  of  May ;  but  it  was  only  as  the  casket  without  the  jewel. 
Nothing  was  left  there  of  the  thoughtful,  reticent,  gentle  Ophelia. 
The  unobtrusive  calm  which  had  formerly  marked  her  demean- 
our had  changed  to  waywardness.  The  forcing  her  way  into 
the  presence  of  the  queen,  where  she  had  been  used  to  go  only 
when  summoned,  clamouring  for  her  will,  and  with  her  winks, 
nods,  and  gestures,  "  strewing  dangerous  conjectures  in  ill-breed- 
ing minds,"  tells  with  a  terrible  emphasis  how  all  is  changed, 
and  how  her  reason,  too,  has  become  "like  sweet  bells  jangled, 
out  of  tune  and  harsh." 


OPHELIA.  21 

Poor  rose  of  May !  Who  does  not  give  a  sigh,  a  sob  of  grief, 
at  miserable  Gertrude's  beautiful  account  of  the  accidental 
watery  death  of  this  fragile  bud,  cut  down  by  a  cold  spring 
storm,  before  her  true  midsummer  had  arrived?  She  sings  her 
own  requiem,  and  carries  the  flowers  of  her  innocence  along 
with  her  to  the  end.  Like  the  fabled  swan,  with  her  death- 
song  on  her  lips,  she  floats  unconsciously  among  the  water-lilies, 
till  the  kindly  stream  embraces  and  takes  her  to  itself,  and  to 
"that  blessed  last  of  deaths,  where  death  is  dead." 

Dear  friend,  these  are  little  better  than  rough  notes.  I  have 
written  much,  yet  seem  to  have  said  nothing  of  what  I  would 
fain  have  said.  "Piece  out  my  imperfections  with  your 
thoughts." 

Yours  always  affectionately, 

HELENA   FAUCIT   MARTIN. 
To  Miss  GERALDINE  E.  JEWSBURY. 


II. 

PORTIA 


II. 

P  0  K  T  I  A. 


BRYNTYSILIO,  NEAR  LLANGOLLEN, 
September  1,  1880. 

"  In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left." 

TT  is  such  a  pleasure  to  me,  dear  friend,  to  do  anything  to  be- 
-  guile  your  thoughts  from  the  pain  and  weariness  of  your 
sick-bed,  that  I  will  try  once  more  to  do  as  you  wish,  and  put 
on  paper  some  of  the  ideas  which  have  guided  me  in  represent- 
ing Portia.  Your  letter  tells  me  that  she  is  "  one  of  your  great 
heroines,"  and  that  you  desire  to  hear  about  her  most  of  all.  I  am 
very  glad  to  know  that  you  hold  her  to  be  a  "  real,  typical,  great 
lady  and  woman."  This  is  my  own  idea.  I  have  always  classed 
her  with  Vittoria  Colonna,  Cassandra  Fedele,  and  women  of  that 
stamp;  and  I  have  loved  her  all  the  more,  perhaps,  that  from 
the  days  of  Shakespeare  to  our  own  the  stage  has  done  her  but 
scanty  justice. 

But  it  is  of  little  moment  to  consider  how  far  away  from 
Shakespeare  has  been  the  Portia  of  the  English  stage,  as  we 
gather  from  its  annals.  Eather  should  we  try  to  form  a  clear 
and  definite  conception  of  her  character,  and  of  her  influence 
upon  the  main  incidents  of  the  play,  by  a  conscientious  study  of 
her  in  the  leaves  of  the  great  master's  "  unvalued  book."  This, 
then,  is  how  she  pictures  herself  to  my  mind. 


26      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

I  have  always  looked  upon  her  as  a  perfect  piece  of  Nature's 
handiwork.  Her  character  combines  all  the  graces  of  the  richest 
womanhood  with  the  strength  of  purpose,  the  wise  helpfulness, 
and  sustained  power  of  the  noblest  manhood.  Indeed,  in  this 
instance,  Shakespeare  shows  us  that  it  is  the  woman's  keener  wit 
and  insight  which  see  into  and  overcome  the  difficulty  which  has 
perplexed  the  wisest  heads  in  Venice.  For,  without  a  doubt, 
as  it  seems  to  me  at  least,  it  is  to  her  cultivated  and  bright 
intelligence,  and  not  alone  to  the  learned  Dr  Bellario,  her  cousin, 
that  Bassanio  is  indebted  for  the  release  of  his  friend  Antonio. 

She  comes  before  us  at  a  time  when,  like  another  sweet  Italian 
lady,  she  has  "seen  no  age,  nor  known  no  sorrow."  Alas  for 
the  sad  fate  which  awaits  poor  Desdemona !  But  Portia  has 
known  no  sorrow  while  she  is  before  us,  and  we  leave  her  in  the 
gratified  joy  of  having  not  only  given  to  her  husband  "her 
house,  her  servants,  and  herself,"  but  of  having  also,  by  her  fine 
intelligence,  rescued  and  restored  to  him  his  best -loved  friend 
and  kinsman. 

To  know  how  she  has  been  able  to  accomplish  this,  we  must 
go  back  to  her  youth.  I  think  of  her  then  as  the  cherished 
child  of  a  noble  father — a  father  proud  of  his  child's  beauty,  and 
of  the  promise  which  he  sees  in  her  of  rare  gifts  both  of  mind 
and  heart.  These  gifts  he  spares  no  pains  to  foster.  He  is 
himself  no  ordinary  man.  He  anticipates  the  danger  to  which 
his  beautiful  and  wealthy  heiress  may  be  exposed ;  and  it  was  by 
one  of  those  "good  inspirations "  which,  as  Nerissa  says,  "holy 
men  have  at  their  death,"  that  he  fixed  upon  the  device  of  the 
three  caskets,  "  whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning,  chooses "  his 
beloved  daughter. 

From  the  first  his  aim  has  been  to  train  her  to  succeed  him 
in  his  high  position.  With  this  view  he  has  surrounded  her 
with  all  that  is  beautiful  in  art  and  ennobling  in  study,  and 
placed  her  in  the  society  of  scholars,  poets,  soldiers,  statesmen, 
the  picked  and  noblest  minds  of  her  own  and  other  lands. 
Amid  this  throng  of  honoured  guests,  not  the  least  honoured, 
we  may  be  sure,  was  the  learned  "cousin,  Dr  Bellario."  This 
cousin  of  hers  we  may  suppose  to  have  been  a  constant  visitor 
at  princely  Belmont,  and,  indeed,  to  have  been  her  instructor 


PORTIA.  27 

in  jurisprudence — a  not  unfitting  branch  of  the  future  heiress 
of  Belmont's  education.  One  can  imagine  how  the  girl  Portia 
would  turn  to  him  for  help  in  her  youthful  perplexities,  and  how 
charmed  he  must  have  been  to  see  the  hopeful  dawning  of  that 

"intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect," 

of  which  she  was  afterwards  to  give  so  signal  a  proof.  It  is 
obvious,  at  any  rate,  that  she  took  an  interest  in  his  pursuits. 
Perhaps  they  have,  even  in  those  early  days,  "  turned  over  many 
books  together,"  and  so  she  may  have  in  some  measure  uncon- 
sciously fitted  herself  for  the  great  task  which  awaited  her  in 
the  future. 

Her  father  may  have  seen  with  pleased  surprise  the  bias  of  her 
mind  towards  such  studies ;  and  this,  as  well  as  her  affection  for 
her  learned  teacher,  may  have  led  him  to  take  her  to  some  of  the 
famous  trials  of  the  day,  so  that  when  her  own  hour  of  trial 
comes,  when  heart  and  head  must  alike  be  strong,  and  her  self- 
possession  is  taxed  to  the  uttermost,  she  knows  at  least  the  forms 
of  the  court,  and  through  no  technical  ignorance  would  be  likely 
to  betray  herself.  If  this  were  not  so,  how  could  she,  however 
assured  of  her  power  to  overcome  the  Jew,  have  dared  to  venture 
into  the  presence  of  such  an  assembly  as  that  "great  court  of 
Venice,"  where  any  failure  would  have  been  disastrous,  not  merely 
to  herself,  but  to  Bellario  1 

Thus  richly  left,  richly  endowed,  we  find  her,  by  her  wise 
father's  will,  not  allowed  to  "choose  one  or  refuse  none,"  but 
forced  to  submit  to  be  wooed,  and  sought  by  "  renowned  suitors  " 
"  whom  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast."  She  feels 
this  to  be  hard ;  but  so  deep  is  her  reverence  for  her  father,  that 
she  has  schooled  herself  to  bow  implicitly  to  his  will.  "If  I 
live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as  chaste  as  Diana,  unless 
I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my  father's  will."  She  tells  us, 
in  her  own  playful  way,  how  little  the  various  "  suitors  who  are 
already  come  "  have  won  upon  her — the  Neapolitan  prince  who 
loves,  and  "  does  nothing  but  talk  of  his  horse " ;  the  young 
county  Palatine  who  "smiles  not,"  "doth  nothing  but  frown," 
and  is  full  of  "unmannerly  sadness";  the  French  lord,  M.  Le 


28  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Bon,  who  is  "  every  man  in  no  man,"  and  who,  in  imitating  all, 
has  ended  by  retaining  no  individuality.  But  one  thing  he  must 
have  been — amusing ;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  in  aftertimes  he 
will  be  not  unfrequently  a  guest  at  Belmont.  Then,  after  de- 
scriptions of  the  English,  the  Scottish,  and  the  German  suitors, 
with  their  peculiarities  hit  off  to  a  nicety,  we  find  her  prettily 
excusing  herself  by  saying,  "  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a 
mocker."  But  there  is  no  malice  in  her  mind.  Her  descriptions 
make  us  see  the  men  as  though  they  were  before  us  :  few  words, 
but  vivid  pictures. 

The  next  two  we  are  allowed  to  judge  of  for  ourselves  as  they 
come  before  us  with  all  the  pomp  of  their  great  retinues.  The 
Prince  of  Morocco  bears  himself  nobly,  and  in  "  choosing  wrong  " 
shows  at  least  that  he  rates  Portia  highly  :  "  Never  so  rich  a  gem 
was  set  in  worse  than  gold."  And  in  taking  leave  he  says  :  "I 
have  too  grieved  a  heart  to  take  a  tedious  leave  ;  thus  losers 
part."  Then  arrives  the  Prince  of  Aragon,  who,  after  refusing  to 
"  choose  what  many  men  desire,"  and  "  rank  him  with  the  bar- 
barous multitudes,"  assumes  desert,  and  chooses  the  silver  casket 
containing  the  fool's  head. 

Portia  cannot  have  been  an  unmoved  spectator  of  these  scenes. 
How  must  her  heart  have  throbbed  when  in  danger  of  having  to 
accept  such  unwelcome  husbands !  For,  although  heart-whole, 
yet  she  is  not  "  fancy  free."  We  learn  from  her  dame  d'honneur 
and  friend,  Nerissa,  that  in  her  father's  time  there  was  one 
visitor,  a  "Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a  soldier,"  whom  Nerissa 
considered  of  all  men  the  "best  deserving  a  fair  lady."  Portia 
responds  very  briefly,  but  suggestively  :  "  I  remember  him  well ; 
and  I  remember  him  worthy  of  thy  praise."  Often,  no  doubt, 
has  she  wondered  why  he  has  not  presented  himself  among  her 
suitors.  Unconsciously,  perhaps,  the  languor  of  hope  deferred 
speaks  in  the  first  words  we  hear  from  her  lips  :  "  By  my  troth, 
Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  a-weary  of  this  great  world."  The  one 
who  she  thought  might  possibly  have  been  among  the  first  comers 
comes  not  at  all. 

After  the  departure  of  the  Prince  of  Aragon  arrives  a  mes- 
senger to  announce  the  arrival  of  the  "Lord  Bassanio."  He 
comes  at  last !  but  at  what  a  cost  she  guesses  not.  "We  know, 


PORTIA.  29 

from  his  description  to  Antonio,  what  he  thinks  of  her :  "  Oh, 
she  is  fair,  and  fairer  than  that  word,  of  wondrous  virtues." 
Something  stately  as  well  as  gracious  there  must  have  been  in 
her  beauty,  for  he  likens  her  to  "  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus' 
Portia."  We  know,  in  any  case,  that  he  is  welcome.  In  the 
choosing  of  the  caskets,  the  "soldier  and  the  scholar"  also 
shows  himself  something  of  a  poet.  How  charmingly  he  apos- 
trophises "  fair  Portia's  counterfeit "  ! — 

"What  demigod 
Hath  come  so  near  creation  ?     Move  these  eyes  ? 

.      .      Here  are  sever'd  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath  :  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  such  sweet  friends.     Here  in  her  hairs 
The  painter  plays  the  spider,  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  to  entrap  the  hearts  of  men 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs  :  but  her  eyes — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?  having  made  one, 
Methinks  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 
And  leave  itself  unfurnish'd." 

And  here,  as  often  in  other  places,  I  ask  myself — Were  the 
painters  of  Shakespeare's  day  grateful  to  him  for  what  he  said 
of  their  art1?  Or  was  it  then,  as  too  often  now,  that  the  fol- 
lower of  each  art  lived  only  in  his  own,  looking  down  upon 
and  knowing  little  of  all  the  others ;  forgetting  that  it  is  out 
of  the  commingling  of  all  arts  that  perfect  work  in  any  direc- 
tion must  come — as  in  nature  all  the  elements,  all  the  seasons, 
unite  to  form  the  exquisite  harmonies  and  ever-varying  pictures 
which  we  behold  and  admire  in  creation  1 

Throughout  the  early  part  of  the  last  of  the  casket  scenes, 
what  tortures  of  suspense  must  Portia  have  endured,  for  by 
this  time  her  heart  has  made  its  choice  !  How  she  must  try 
to  rest  her  faith  in  her  father's  love,  and  in  the  hope  that 
the  "good  inspiration"  which  devised  this  choice  of  caskets, 
may  prove  itself  in  the  choice  of  the  one  "  who  shall  rightly 
love "  !  Hard  it  is  for  her  to  know  the  right  casket  and  yet 
to  give  no  hint ;  and  not  only  not  be  herself  "  forsworn,"  but 
by  ordering  her  suite  "  to  stand  aloof,"  far  apart  from  the 
caskets,  to  ensure  that  no  accident  shall,  unintentionally  on 
the  part  of  a  bystander,  direct  Bassanio's  choice ! 


30  SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHAKACTERS: 

With  what  a  heart-leap  she  finds  him  choose  the  right  casket ! 
with  what  excess  of  happiness  ! — 

"  0  love,  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy, 
In  measure  rein  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess ; 
I  feel  too  much  thy  blessing  :  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! " 

Then,  when  Bassanio  comes  to  claim  her  according  to  the  "  gentle 
scroll,"  how  frankly  and  nobly  she  gives  him  not  only  all  he 
asks — herself — but  her  very  all — with  the  desire  that  she  could 
be  "  trebled  twenty  times  herself  " — "  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings, 
friends,  exceed  account "  ! 

And  now  when  congratulations  are  over,  and  their  happiness 
appears  complete,  the  evil  news  arrives,  brought  by  Bassanio's 
friends  Solanio,  Lorenzo,  and  Jessica,  of  the  overthrow  of 
Antonio's  fortune — that  all  his  ventures  had  failed — that  the 
time  has  gone  by  within  which  the  bond  might  be  redeemed, 
and  that  nothing  now  can  drive  the  inexorable  Jew  "  from 
the  envious  plea  of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond."  Thus 
all  at  once  come^  the  test  which  is  to  show  that  the  union 
of  Portia  with  Bassanio  is  indeed  a  "marriage  of  true  minds." 
It  is  enough  that  Antonio  is  the  bosom  friend  of  Bassanio — 
"the  semblance  of  his  soul" — to  assure  her  that  he  is  worthy 
to  be  hers  also.  For,  in  her  own  words, — 

"In  companions 

That  do  converse  and  waste  the  time  together, 
Whose  souls  do  bear  an  equal  yoke  of  love, 
There  must  be  needs  a  like  proportion 
Of  lineaments,  of  manners,  and  of  spirit." 

Moreover,  what  a  picture  of  that  friend  has  Bassanio  given  ! — 

"The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest  man  ; 

and  one  in  whom 

The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears, 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy." 

At  first,  Portia  evidently  does  not  realise  the  extent  of  the 
Jew's  malignity.  She  feels  that,  at  any  sacrifice,  he  must  be 
bought  over  to  cancel  his  bond,  and  she  believes  that  this  is 
possible.  After  having  read  Antonio's  letter,  she  has  but  one 


POKTIA.  31 

thought — to  hasten  Bassanio's  departure,  with  ample  means  to 
satisfy  the  Jew.  But  first  she  must  give  him  the  right  to  use 
her  means  as  his  own ;  he  must  indeed  be  lord  of  all : — 

"  First  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife  : 
And  then  away  to  Venice  to  your  friend. " 

During  the  time,  brief  as  it  can  be  made,  of  the  preparation 
for  the  marriage  ceremony,  Portia  will  have  heard  all  the  par- 
ticulars of  the  "merry  bond";  she  will  have 'discovered  that 
money  alone,  however  squandered,  cannot  shake  the  obdurate 
Jew's  determination.  Accustomed,  as  I  have  before  suggested, 
by  her  peculiar  training,  to  look  with  a  judicial  mind  upon 
serious  matters,  she,  after  many  questionings  about  its  terms, 
hits  by  a  happy  instinct,  as  I  believe,  upon  the  flaw  in  the 
bond.  She  will  say  nothing  of  this  to  Bassanio  before  con- 
sulting her  learned  cousin ;  but  hurries  him  away  with  her 
wealth  to  use  as  his  own,  and  then  herself  hastens  towards 
Venice,  after  despatching  a  messenger  to  Bellario,  with  a  letter 
informing  him  of  her  approach,  as  well  as  of  her  belief  that  she 
has  found  a  flaw  in  the  bond,  and  requesting  his  presence  at 
the  trial. 

We  find  her,  before  her  departure,  in  the  brightest  spirits, 
feeling  virtually  assured  of  success,  and  even  jesting  in  her  new 
happiness  with  Nerissa  as  to  who  shall 

"  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two, 
And  wear  her  dagger  with  the  braver  grace." 

This  state  of  mind,  it  appears  to  me,  could  not  have  been 
possible,  had  Portia  known  what  was  before  her.  She  is  at 
ease,  because  she  is  sure  of  the  full  sympathy  of  her  friend  and 
cousin,  Bellario,  and  counts  with  confidence  on  his  presence 
in  Venice  to  take  the  lead  in  court ;  and  so,  after  giving  her 
house  into  the  care  of  Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  who  are  to  be 
treated  in  their  absence  as  Lord  Bassanio  and  herself,  she  goes 
gaily  on  to  Venice  with  Nerissa.  They  will  have  to  haste  away, 
for  they  "  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day." 

In  the  play  we  see  that  Portia  sends  Balthazar,  her  trusty 
servant  whom  she  has  "  ever  found  honest,  true,"  to  Dr  Bellario 
with  her  letter  of  instructions,  and  bids  him  wait  for  her  at  "  the 


32  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

traject,1  the  common  ferry  which  trades  to  Venice."  But  either 
her  mind  must  have  changed,  or  she  must  have  met  messengers 
from  Bellario  on  the  road,  who  tell  her  of  his  illness  and  inability 
to  help  her  in  person.  Consequently,  she  hurries  on  to  Padua ; 
but  when  they  meet — for  that  they  do  meet  is  certain — all  her 
first  joyful  anticipations  receive  a  woful  shock.  She  finds  her 
dear  old  friend  grievously  sick.  What  is  to  be  done  ?  There  is 
no  help  near  ;  no  time  to  be  lost !  The  Jew  "  plies  the  Duke  at 
morning  and  at  night."  Bellario's  aid,  she  learns,  has  been  sum- 
moned already  by  the  Duke  as  a  last  resource.  In  this  extremity, 
with  no  other  help  at  hand,  Bellario  doubtless  proposes  that 
Portia  shall  go  in  his  stead,  recommended  by  him  as  a  "young 
doctor  of  Rome,"  then  visiting  him.  This  must  be  done,  or  all 
is  lost.  Bellario  confirms  her  belief  as  to  the  flaw  in  the  bond, 
and  furnishes  her  with  his  "  own  opinions  "  upon  all  the  points 
of  law  most  vital  to  the  question.  They  "  turn  o'er  many  books 
together,"  and  Portia  proceeds  to  Venice,  furnished,  as  Bellario 
writes  to  the  Duke,  with  the  Doctor's  opinion,  "  which,  bettered 
with  his  own  learning  (the  greatness  whereof  I  cannot  enough 
commend),  goes  with  him,  at  my  importunity,  to  fill  up  your 
Grace's  request  in  my  stead."  All  this  suggests  to  me  that 
Portia's  eye  had  been  the  first  to  see  the  flaw  in  the  bond,  and 
that  her  own  impression  had  been  confirmed  by  the  great  lawyer. 
Grave  and  anxious  must  have  been  her  thoughts  as  she  crossed 
the  lagoons  by  "  the  common  ferry  which  trades  to  Venice."  Hers 
was  not  a  mind,  however,  to  shrink  before  difficulty ;  and,  con- 
firmed as  she  has  been  by  the  opinion  of  the  great  doctor  of 
laws,  she  feels  sure  of  success,  if  she  can  but  be  true  to  herself, 
and  "forget  she  is  a  woman."  All  the  gay  light-heartedness 
with  which  she  started  from  Belmont  has  vanished  under  this 
unexpected  aspect  of  affairs.  With  what  trepidation,  with  what 
anxious  sense  of  responsibility,  must  she  find  herself  engaged  in 
such  a  task — the  mark  for  every  eye,  the  "observed  of  all  ob- 
servers "  !  Nothing  but  her  deep  love,  and  grateful  happy  heart, 

1  One  of  the  most  persistent  errors  of  the  text,  carried  on  from  the  first 
folio,  is  "tranect,"  when  Shakespeare  evidently  wrote  "traject,"  the  equi- 
valent for  "traghetto,"  the  word  which  may  be  seen  at  every  ferry  in 
Venice— "  Traghetto  della  Salute,"  &c. 


PORTIA.  33 

could  sustain  her  through  such  a  trial  To  cease  to  be  a  woman 
for  the  time  is  not  so  hard,  perhaps,  to  one  who  has  all  her  life 
been  accustomed  to  a  position  of  command  and  importance ;  but, 
in  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  this  case,  the  effort  must  have 
been  one  of  extreme  difficulty. 

How  skilfully,  firmly,  and  gently  she  begins  her  task  !  We 
may  believe  that  she  had  some  sympathy  with  Shylock.  She 
has  lately  made  his  undutiful  daughter  welcome,  because  she  is 
wedded  to  her  husband's  friend.  She  cannot  approve  of  Jessica's 
uncalled-for  accusation  of  her  father  : — 

' '  I  have  heard  him  swear    .    .    . 
That  he  would  rather  have  Antonio's  flesh, 
Than  twenty  times  the  value  of  the  sum 
That  he  did  owe  him." 

But  with  her  usual  thoughtful  kindness  she  feels  for  the  stranger 
Jewess,  and,  during  her  own  absence,  puts  her  in  a  position  in 
which  her  servants  must  show  her  all  respect. 

Jessica  must  have  had,  no  doubt,  a  sad  enough  life  after  her 
mother's  death.  We  see  that  Shylock  was  not  of  a  nature  to 
win  love  or  respect  from  those  immediately  about  him.  Mean- 
ness and  distrust  were  in  the  atmosphere  which  he  made  around 
him  in  his  home  life.  Jessica  says,  "  Our  house  is  hell."  That 
she  can,  despite  her  training,  appreciate  goodness  and  virtue,  may 
be  inferred  from  what  she  says  of  Portia — 

"  Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match, 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 
And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawn'd  with  the  other  ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow." 

Still,  I  believe  Portia  to  have  more  sympathy  with  the  Jew 
than  with  his  daughter.  She  feels  for  the  race  that  has  been 
proscribed,  insulted,  execrated,  from  generation  to  generation. 
She  finds  some  excuse  for  the  deep  hereditary  hate  which  the 
Jew  has  for  his  Christian  oppressor,  and  for  his  desire  of 
vengeance  in  the  name  and  for  the  sake  of  his  persecuted  tribe. 
She  would  have  understood  his  yearning  for  the  death  of  the  man 
who  had  "  disgraced  and  hindered  him  of  half  a  million " ;  but 
not  that  he  himself  should  desire  to  be  the  cruel  executioner. 
C 


34      SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHAKACTEES: 

The  Duke,  in  his  opening  address  to  Shylock,  tells  him  what 
it  is  "  thought "  he  will  do  : — 

"  That  thou  but  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act ;  and  then,  'tis  thought, 
Thou'lt  show  thy  mercy  and  remorse  more  strange 
Than  is  thy  strange  apparent  cruelty,"  &c. 

As  if  the  "stony  adversary,  the  inhuman  wretch,"  had  been 
keeping  up  the  show  of  enforcing  the  letter  of  his  bond  out  of 
mere  wantonness  !  The  "  gentle  answer  "  expected  was  not  likely 
to  be  given  after  such  an  appeal :  a  much  less  merciless  adversary 
would  hardly  have  been  moved  by  it.  Who  likes  it  to  be  taken 
for  granted  that  he  is  going  to  do  a  good  action  1 — to  be  told 
that  it  is  expected]  Such  an  appeal  would  be  likely  to  make 
even  a  gentle  nature  perverse.  The  treatment  of  the  Jew  by  the 
friends  of  Antonio  is  also  little  calculated  to  bend  him  from  his 
purpose.  It  would  only,  if  possible,  harden  his  heart  still  more. 

At  this  point  enters  the  "young  doctor  of  Eome,  his  name 
Balthazar."  We  may  conceive  the  angry  eyes  with  which  the 
Jew  looks  at  him.  But,  instead  of  insulting  and  taunting  him 
like  the  rest  and  as  he  had  expected,  the  stranger  simply  asks  if 
he  is  Shylock,  and  says,  "Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you 
follow  " — thus  putting  him  at  his  ease,  and  securing  Shylock's 
attention  by  the  assurance  "that  the  Venetian  law  cannot 
impugn  him "  in  acting  as  he  did.  Antonio  is  asked  if  he  con- 
fesses the  bond.  He  does  confess  it.  Then  the  climax  seems 
to  have  been  reached.  The  "something  else"  is  kept  in  the 
background  until  every  other  argument  has  failed.  The  Jew 
must  now  take  the  initiative.  The  young  doctor  owns  that  they 
are  in  his  power.  He  is  in  the  right — confessed  by  all  to  be  so ; 
and  therefore  he  can  afford  to  be — he  "must  be  merciful."  The 
rude,  unmannerly  answer  of  the  Jew,  "On  what  compulsion 
must  I?  tell  me  that,"  is  met  with  grave  gentleness.  This 
quality  of  mercy  must  not  be  "strained."  There  is  no  com- 
pulsion in  it :  of  its  own  sweet  will  it  "  droppeth  upon  the  place 
beneath."  The  blessing  it  brings  is  to  the  giver  as  well  as  to 
the  receiver :  its  region  is  beyond  and  above  kingly  sceptres  ;  it 
is  in  the  hearts  of  the  highest  ones  of  earth,  and  is  an  attribute  of 


PORTIA.  35 

"  God  himself  "—his  God  as  well  as  the  Christian's— the  God  of 
Abraham,  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob  ! 

In  Portia  we  see  embodied  the  spirit  of  good,  which  it  is  her 
first,  her  paramount  desire,  should  prevail  over  the  spirit  of  evil. 
She  would  gladly  have  given  largely  of  her  fortune  to  turn 
Shylock  from  his  cruel  purpose — to  give  him  an  insight  into  the 
happiness,  the  blessedness,  of  showing  mercy  and  forgiveness. 
She  who  has  lately  been  made  so  happy  in  her  gratified  love, 
what  would  she  not  give,  out  of  her  full  heart,  to  prove  her 
gratitude  to  the  All-Giver,  and  soften  for  His  use,  however  little 
that  might  be,  this  one  human  heart  ? 

After  this  sublime  appeal,  the  Jew  is  again  assured  of  the 
"justice  of  his  plea,"  so  that  his  sacrifice  in  giving  it  up  shall  be 
the  nobler.  He  is  only  asked  to  "mitigate  "  it :  at  some  (perhaps 
not  far-off)  time  he  may  himself  have  to  pray  to  his  God  for 
mercy,  and  the  thought  of  that  same  needful  prayer  should  surely 
teach  him  "to  render  the  deeds  of  mercy."  This,  alas!  only 
brings  from  his  stubborn  heart  the  cry — 

"  My  deeds  upon  my  head  !     I  crave  the  law, 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  my  bond." 

Then  the  temptation  of  money  is  held  out  to  him.  The  loan 
is  to  be  paid  thrice — nay,  "  ten  times "  over.  To  no  avail. 
Portia,  as  a  last  resource,  tries  to  bring  before  his  mind's  eye  the 
horror  of  the  deed — the  gash,  the  quivering  flesh,  which  is  to  be 
"  cut  off  nearest  the  merchant's  heart " — the  seat  of  life.  She 
sees  in  imagination  the  fainting,  dying  man,  and,  with  a  shudder, 
turns  to  Shylock,  and  bids  him  at  least  have  by  a  surgeon  to  stop 
the  wounds,  "lest  he  do  bleed  to  death."  No,  not  even  that. 
"  'Tis  not  in  the  bond."  He  will  not  do  even  "  thus  much  for 
charity."  Now  all  is  clear. 

At  this  point,  I  have  always  felt  in  the  acting  that  my  desire 
to  find  extenuations  for  Shylock's  race  and  for  himself  leaves  me, 
and  my  heart  grows  almost  as  stony  as  his  own.  I  see  his 
fiendish  nature  fully  revealed.  I  have  seen  in  fancy  the  knife 
sharpened  to  cut  quickly  through  the  flesh ;  the  scales  brought 
forward  to  weigh  it;  have  watched  the  cruel,  eager  eyes,  all 
strained  and  yearning  to  see  the  blood  welling  from  the  side 


36  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"nearest  the  heart,"  and  gloating  over  the  fancied  agonies  and 
death-pangs  of  his  bitter  foe.  This  man-monster,  this  pitiless 
savage  nature,  is  beyond  the  pale  of  humanity :  it  must  be  made 
powerless  to  hurt.  I  have  felt  that  with  him  the  wrongs  of  his 
race  are  really  as  nothing  compared  with  his  own  remorseless  hate. 
He  is  not  longer  the  wronged  and  suffering  man ;  and  I  longed  to 
pour  down  on  his  head  the  "justice"  he  has  clamoured  for,  and 
will  exact  without  pity. 

The  Jew  has  been  probed  to  the  uttermost.  It  is  now  clear, 
beyond  all  question,  that  it  is  Antonio's  life  which  this  "  merry 
bond  "  was  intended  to  purchase,  and  that  nothing  short  of  it  will 
satisfy  Shylock's  "lodged  hate."  He  has  by  his  own  confession 
brought  his  life  within  the  compass  of  the  law.  Then,  like  a 
crushing  avalanche,  slowly  but  surely  sweeps  down  upon  him  the 
avenging,  much-forbearing  power,  the  "something  else"  which 
has  hitherto  been  held  in  hand  by  the  young  doctor.  Then  the 
blood,  which  "  is  not  in  the  bond,"  which  has  not  been  bargained 
for,  flows  in  to  wash  away  the  bond  (better  now  had  it  been  torn 
up,  as  Portia  wished),  and  to  bring  on  the  murderous  Jew  his 
just  punishment,  the  forfeiture  of  life,  substance,  all.  Thus  the 
blood  which  he  had  so  yearned  to  shed,  but  has  overlooked  in 
the  bond,  is  ordained  to  be  the  Nemesis  which  shall  overwhelm 
and  destroy  him,  sweep  him  from  his  pride  of  place  among  his 
tribe,  rob  him  of  half  his  dearly-gotten  wealth,  and  take  away 
his  desire  to  accumulate  more,  by  forcing  him  to  "  render  it  upon 
his  death  to  the  gentleman  who  lately  stole  his  daughter." 

Blow  upon  blow  !  For  now  as  a  crowning  shame  the  Jew 
must  go  through  the  form  of  being  made  a  Christian.  We  may 
be  sure  that  Portia  would  not  have  included  this  in  the  judg- 
ment which  she  pronounces  as  the  mouthpiece  of  the  court.  It 
is  Antonio,  who,  when  asked  by  her,  "  What  mercy  can  you 
render  him,  Antonio?"  after  disposing  of  his  substance,  and  re- 
questing that  the  fine  should  be  reduced  from  the  whole  to  one- 
half  of  his  goods,  closes  with  the  stipulation  that  "  for  this  favour 
he  presently  become  a  Christian."  This  looks  like  a  piece  of 
cruelty,  unworthy  of  Antonio's  character.  Can  he  believe  that 
the  mere  name  of  Christian  could  "soften  that — than  which 
what's  harder  ? — his  Jewish  heart "  ?  And  yet  we  cannot  accuse 


PORTIA.  37 

Antonio  of  malignity.  "A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the 
earth,"  say  his  friends  and  those  who  know  him  best.  We  must 
not  take  Shylock's  report  of  him.  Shylock  speaks  out  of  the 
hate  he  bears  him,  because  of  his  interference  with  what  he  calls 
his  "well-won  thrift."  Antonio  "has  brought  down  the  rate  of 
usance,"  helped  the  poor,  wrested  from  Shylock's  grasp  despairing 
wretches  whom  he  would  have  stripped  of  their  all,  then  thrown 
aside  to  starve  or  die  as  they  might. 

"  He  seeks  my  life  ;  his  reason  well  I  know  : 
I  oft  deliver'd  from  his  forfeitures 
Many  that  have  at  times  made  moan  to  me  : 
Therefore  he  hates  me." 

When  Antonio  asks  that  Shylock  shall  be  made  a  Christian, 
we  must  remember  that  he  himself  has  only  just  escaped  the 
sharpened  knife  which,  in  imagination,  had  been  already  tasting 
his  life-blood.  Still,  even  this  would  not  make  wilfully  cruel 
this 

"  kindest  man, 

The  best-condition 'd  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies." 

We  must  take  his  demand  as  a  proof  of  the  state  of  feeling 
which  prevailed  at  the  time  in  which  he  lived — a  time  when 
Christians,  even  the  best  of  them,  had  inherited  the  worst  pre- 
judices against  the  Jews.  Their  ancient  misdemeanours,  their 
exactions,  their  usurious  practices,  their  oppressions,  all  were 
remembered  against  them,  while  no  voice  was  raised  in  extenu- 
ation or  excuse.  All  agreed  in  despising  and  execrating  this 
vindictive  and  extortionate  race.  Antonio  had  seen  Shylock 
exercising  his  craft  and  turning  it  to  the  vilest  uses.  Perhaps  he 
thinks,  in  the  spirit  of  his  age,  that  forcing  him  to  be  a  Christian 
may  work  some  miraculous  change  in  his  heart.  We  must  at 
least  believe  that  he  did  not  put  this  indignity  upon  him  in  mere 
wantonness  of  spirit. 

After  declining  the  Duke's  courtesies,  on  the  plea  of  the 
necessity  for  her  immediate  return  to  Padua,  Portia,  in  her  haste 
to  be  home  a  day  before  her  husband,  is  not  inclined  to  linger 
on  the  road,  even  to  receive,  as  the  young  doctor,  the  thanks  of 


38  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Antonio  and  her  husband;  but,  seeing  the  ring  on  Bassanio's 
linger,  the  thought  passes  across  her  mind  of  testing  how  deeply 
he  values  it.  After  the  long  strain  upon  her  brain,  the  sense  of 
relief  which  follows  the  deliverance  of  Antonio  must  find  vent  in 
some  new  channel.  The  "marriage-bells"  which  for  the  first 
time  ring  in  her  heart  must  not  yet  be  heard  by  others.  She 
must  keep  up  and  carry  out  her  self-imposed  character  to  the 
end.  So,  as  she  cannot  take  gold,  she  asks  Antonio  for  his 
gloves,  which  she  will  wear  for  his  sake — gloves  were  dainties 
in  those  days — and  Bassanio  for  his  ring.  The  latter  request 
being  refused,  the  doctor  affects  to  be  slightly  indignant,  refuses 
to  accept  aught  else,  and  takes  a  hasty  leave.  The  ring  is  sent 
after  him,  as  we  know,  at  Antonio's  intercession,  and  the  clerk 
despatched  for  the  Jew's  signature  to  the  deed,  which  is  to  "  be 
well  welcome"  to  Lorenzo — and  the  journey  to  Belmont  is 
begun. 

Here  messengers  must  have  overtaken  Portia  on  her  way  back 
(but  not,  as  on  her  journey  to  Venice,  messengers  bearing  ill 
news),  with  letters  which  make  her  aware  of  the  good  fortune  of 
Antonio,  in  that  "  three  of  his  argosies  have  richly  come  to 
harbour  suddenly."  Portia  has  presumed  a  little  too  much  on 
having  the  start  of  Bassanio  by  many  hours,  and,  as  we  learn 
from  Stephano,  she  has  strayed  about  by  holy  crosses  on  her  way 
home — 

"  Where  ehe  kneels  and  prays 
For  happy  wedlock  hours." 

Thus  it  is  that,  notwithstanding  all  the  means  at  her  disposal, 
and  the  help  which  she  could  command  from  her  trusty  servant 
Balthazar,  Portia  arrives  only  so  immediately  before  her  husband, 
who  was  not  likely  to  pause  by  the  way,  that  she  has  barely  time 
to  warn  her  household  to  take  no  notice  of  her  having  been  absent, 
when  a  trumpet  proclaims  the  tidings  of  the  near  approach  of 
Bassanio  and  his  suite.  At  once  she  welcomes  him  " home"  and 
bids  Antonio  welcome  to  "  our  house  ";  and  thus  graciously  makes 
him  feel  that  it  is  only  as  the  mistress  of  his  friend's  house  that 
she  bids  him  welcome. 

What  a  scene  is  before  them !  Nature  welcomes  them  in 
the  tranquil  moonlight,  so  congenial  to  their  own  thoughts  and 


PORTIA.  39 

wearied  senses ;  and  even  the  weight  of  their  excess  of  happi- 
ness is  lifted  from  them  by  the  pleasant  little  embarrassment 
caused  by  the  parting  with  the  rings,  which  Portia  has  happily 
devised  to  bring  about  the  discovery  that  she  was  the  doctor  and 
Nerissa  the  clerk. 

Think,  too,  of  the  exquisite  contrast  between  the  opening  of 
the  play  and  its  close.  It  begins  in  the  blaze  of  garish  day,  in 
the  bustling  streets  of  Venice.  Yet  are  the  first  words  of  the 
great  Venetian  merchant  tinged  with  sadness — "In  truth,  I 
know  not  why  I  am  so  sad " — a  sadness  prophetic  of  the  com- 
ing storm  in  which  he  was  so  soon  to  be  involved  by  his  devo- 
tion to  his  friend.  It  closes  far  away  from  the  great  city,  in  a 
garden  faintly  lighted  by  the  moon,  as  she  pales  before  the 
coming  morn,  no  trace  of  sadness  left  in  the  merchant's  heart — 
for  have  not  his  devotion,  his  very  danger,  led  to  the  happiest 
issues  1 

And  now  the  newly-made  husband,  who  left  Belmont  in  the 
deepest  dejection  and  full  of  anxiety  for  his  best  friend,  returns 
to  it  with  that  friend,  all  trouble  over,  and  is  welcomed  by  its 
mistress  as  its  lord.  This  friend's  safety  he  owes  also  to  the 
noble  lady,  who  before  had  given  him  so  generously  her  house, 
her  servants,  and  herself.  The  deeds  of  his  after-life  must  speak 
for  him,  for  she  had  indeed  "bereft  him  of  all  words."  And 
so  the  curtain  falls,  Portia  having  strewed  blessings  upon  all 
around  her. 

But  I  could  never  part  with  my  characters  when  the  curtain  fell 
and  the  audience  departed.  As  I  had  lived  with  them  through 
their  early  lives,  so  I  also  lived  into  their  future.  I  saw  Bas- 
sanio  and  Antonio  despatched  by  Portia  the  next  day  to  Padua 
to  talk  over  with  her  cousin  Bellario  the  critical  scene  so  lately 
gone  through,  and  bearing  with  them  her  injunctions  and  fond 
messages  to  bring  the  sick  man  back,  if  possible,  to  be  nursed 
into  health  at  Belmont. 

For  Portia  I  have  always  dreamed  out  a  holier  and  far  more 
difficult  task.  I  do  not  believe  that  such  a  woman  as  I  conceive 
her  to  have  been  would  leave  the  despised,  deserted  Jew  to  his 
fate.  When  she  finds  that  even  Antonio's  "  mercy  "  is  not  of 
the  kind  to  satisfy  her  woman's  heart,  she  vows  to  herself  that, 


40  SHAKESPEAKK'S  FEMALE  CHAKACTERS: 

out  of  her  own  great  happiness,  and  in  abounding  gratitude  for 
it,  she  will  devote  herself  to  the  all  but  impossible  task  of  con- 
verting this  "  inexorable  Jew."  She  goes  alone  to  his  wretched, 
lonely  home,  to  which  he  has  been  accompanied  only  by  the 
execrations  of  the  mob.  These  still  ring  in  his  sick  ears  as  he 
lies  there  stunned,  bewildered,  defeated,  deserted.  But  sharper, 
more  harrowing  than  all,  are  his  self-upbraidings  that  he  should 
have  left  a  loophole  in  the  bond  by  which  the  hated  Christian 
merchant  has  escaped.  In  his  rage,  in  his  bitter  self-accusations, 
he  lashes  himself  into  a  state  of  frenzy.  If  left  alone  much 
longer  to  these  wild,  mad  moods,  he  might  destroy  himself. 
But,  before  he  has  time  for  this,  conies  to  his  door,  and  will  not 
be  denied,  this  noble  lady.  He  knows  her  not,  roughly  enough 
forbids  her  entrance ;  but  with  gentle  force,  and  with  the  charm 
of  her  winning  manners  and  noble  and  gracious  presence,  she 
contrives  to  gain  an  entrance.  It  is  little  she  can  do  in  her  first 
visits.  Still  she  repeats  them,  bringing  wine  and  oil  and  nourish- 
ment for  the  sick  body,  and  sacred  ointment  for  the  bruised 
mind.  The  reviled,  despised  Jew  finds  himself  for  the  first  time 
(for,  oh,  so  long  !)  tended,  thought  of,  cared  for.  Why  should 
this  be  1  Never  has  this  been  since  his  early  days, — since  his 
beloved  Leah  left  him,  perhaps  in  his  early  manhood,  when  the 
grief  at  her  loss  hardened  his  heart.  Her'  gentle  presence  by 
his  side  through  life  might  have  softened  down  his  worst  pas- 
sions, which  were  only  aggravated  by  the  blow  sustained  in  her 
loss.  His  young  daughter  may  have  resembled  her  mother  in 
feature,  but  not  in  character;  he  has  therefore  cared  little  for 
her — put  no  faith,  no  trust  in  her.  The  Jew  would  find  in 
Portia  a  likeness  to  his  beautiful  Leah ;  would,  in  his  weakness, 
fancy  the  tender  sympathetic  eyes,  looking  so  gently  on  him, 
were  hers ;  would  hear  her  voice  when  "  in  accents  very  low," 
and  with  "a  most  silver  flow" 

"  Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 

Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  though  undescried, 
Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness, 

Through  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride," 

she  sought  first  to  draw  from  him  a  slow  permission  for  her 
visits.     Then  on  the  Jew's  side  would  come  a  looking  forward 


POKTIA.  41 

to  their  recurrence ;  then  a  hoping,  wishing  for  them,  until  grad- 
ually she  had  drawn  from  him  from  time  to  time  the  story  of  his 
life,  of  his  woes,  of  his  own  wrongs,  of  the  wrongs  of  his  race,  of 
his  sweet  lost  wife ;  of  his  ungrateful  daughter,  who  in  her  flight 
took  not  only  his  ducats,  his  jewels,  but  the  ring  given  him  by 
Leah,  "when  he  was  a  bachelor."  We  can  imagine  what  a 
sympathising  ear  was  lent  to  all  his  tale  ;  how  she  gave  him  "  a 
world  of  sighs," — this  man,  who  had  through  life  chiefly  met 
with  curses  and  execrations.  We  can  imagine,  too,  how,  little 
by  little,  she  reminded  him  of  words  which  somewhere,  at  some 
time — but  little  heeded  then — he  had  heard  tell  of  that  "  quality 
of  mercy,"  "  which  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven  upon 
the  place  beneath" — that  place  being  his  poor,  withered  heart. 
He  would  see  now  "  the  deeds  of  mercy."  He  would  not  recog- 
nise the  hand  which,  as  the  "  reverend  doctor,"  had  dealt  out 
such  uncompromising  "justice."  But  he  would  begin  to  feel 
that,  had  he  gained  his  cruel  will,  and  his  "deeds  been  on  his 
head  " — had  he  been  let  to  use  that  hungry  knife, — there  would 
have  been  "  the  smell  o'  the  blood "  under  his  nostrils  day  and 
night ;  and  that  same  blood  would  have  been  upon  his  soul  for 
ever.  Not  even  the  solemn  rites  of  his  fathers  could  have  washed 
it  away  ! 

These  are  his  own  reflections ;  not  forced  upon  him  by  Portia. 
He  will  recognise  her  life  of  self-denial.  He  will  know  that 
with  every  luxury,  every  happiness  around  her,  she  leaves  them 
all  continually  to  sit  with,  and  comfort,  and  console  his  sick 
body  and  broken  spirit.  He  cannot  understand  it.  How  can 
he  show  that  he  is  grateful "?  He  will  do  as  she  wishes  ;  will  see 
the  daughter  on  whom  he  has  poured  his  curse;  will  put  his 
blessing  in  the  place  of  it;  will  even  look  upon  her  Christian 
husband. 

But  I  have  imagined  both  daughter  and  husband  much  altered, 
purified.  Lorenzo,  on  reflection,  has  been  ashamed,  not  perhaps 
so  much  of  stealing  the  Jew's  daughter,  as  of  accepting  the  stolen 
ducats  and  jewels  which  she  brought  with  her,  and  would  be 
longing,  if  he  dared,  to  make  restitution  and  confess  his  mean- 
ness. Jessica,  under  the  roof  of  Portia,  and  within  the  sphere 
of  her  noble  influence,  could  not  fail  to  grow  better  and  purer. 


42      SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHAKACTEES: 

She  early  shows  herself  capable  of  appreciating  Portia's  character 
when  Lorenzo  asks  her,  "  How  dost  thou  like  the  Lord  Bassanio's 
wife?" 

"  Past  all  expressing.     It  is  very  meet 
The  Lord  Bassanio  live  an  upright  life  : 
For  having  such  a  blessing  in  his  lady, 
He  finds  the  joys  of  heaven  here  on  earth." 

As  her  character  improves,  becoming  chastened  and  ennobled,  she 
will  reflect  upon  the  graceless  step  she  took  in  leaving  her  old, 
lonely  father,  whatever  might  have  been  his  faults,  and  in  rob- 
bing him,  too.  How  can  she  look  for  happiness  in  her  wedded 
life,  she  who  has  commenced  it  so  unworthily?  Oh  that  she 
could  make  reparation !  She  must  know  the  sentence  passed 
upon  her  father  in  the  court  at  Venice.  How,  then,  can  she  be 
happy  ?  And  so  some  day,  permission  being  obtained  by  Portia, 
she  may  be  seen  at  the  feet  of  the  old  man,  there  sobbing  out 
her  grief  and  her  contrition ;  and  he  will  remember  that  he  made 
her  "  home  a  hell,"  and  look  gently  upon  her.  Will  this  be  for 
him  the  first  taste  of  the  blessedness  of  mercy ?  "It  blesseth 
him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes." 

I  think  that  the  Jew  will  not  live  long.  His  body  and  mind 
have  been  too  sorely  bruised  and  shaken.  But  Portia's  spell 
will  be  upon  him  to  the  end.  His  last  looks  will  be  upon  the 
eyes  which  have  opened  his,  and  shown  him  the  "  light  to  lighten 
his  darkness  "  ;  and  he  who  was  despised,  reviled,  and  himself  at 
war  with  all  men,  will  now  have  felt  the  happiness  of  bestowing 
forgiveness,  and  the  blessed  hope  of  being  himself  forgiven. 

And  so  I  have  thought  out  Portia.  She  will  have,  like  other 
mortals,  sorrows,  sufferings,  troubles.  But  she  will  bear  them 
humbly,  patiently,  bravely.  The  hand  and  heart  will  ever  re- 
main open  to  help  and  comfort  others.  She  will  retain  her  gay, 
bright  spirit.  She  will  have  always  her  gracious,  attractive 
manners,  and  will  spread  around  her  in  her  home  an  atmosphere 
which  will  make  Belmont  an  earthly  paradise  to  those  fortunate 
ones  who  are  welcomed  to  it.  But  only  her  husband  will  know 
all  her  winning  goodness  :  for  him  will  be  kept  the  inner  life, 
the  insight  into  her  heart  of  hearts :  to  him  alone  she  will  be 
the  friend  of  friends,  "  the  perfect  wife." 


PORTIA.  43 

Much  of  what  I  have  written  you  will  perhaps  think  fanciful. 
But  this  is  how  Portia  has  pictured  herself  to  my  thoughts.  Dear 
friend,  does  it  at  all  explain  to  you  the  secret  of  what  you  so 
kindly  call  my  "wonderful  silent  acting  in  the  casket  scene"? 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

HELENA   F.   MARTIN. 
To  Miss  GERALDINE  E.  JEWSBURT. 


[One  or  two  of  my  friends,  who  have  seen  this  letter  when 
printed  only  for  private  circulation,  and  on  whose  opinion  I 
place  a  high  value,  have  objected  to  my  "dream"  about  Portia's 
conduct  towards  Shylock,  after  the  curtain  falls,  as  being  con- 
ceived too  much  in  the  feeling  of  the  present  century.  I  have, 
therefore,  reconsidered  the  matter,  but  cannot  give  up  my  first 
impression. 

Shakespeare,  in  the  self-defence  which  he  puts  into  the  Jew's 
mouth,  says  all  he  can  for  him.  In  his  day,  with  the  strong 
antagonism  felt  toward  the  Jews  by  his  audiences,  he  would  not, 
whatever  he  felt,  have  dared  to  say  more  in  their  favour ;  and  I 
always  maintain  that  Shakespeare  wrote  his  plays  most  distinctly 
for  audiences,  and  not  for  closet  readers  merely,  although  he 
shows  the  marvel  of  his  genius  in  being  so  fitted  for  both  that 
each  claims  him  as  their  own.  But  I  believe  that,  as  he  foresaw 
the  woman  who  was  to  simulate  the  doctor,  and  put  into  Portia's 
heart  that  "  most  excellent  gift  of  charity,"  and  into  her  mouth 
that  divine  speech  of  mercy,  so  he  would  not  blame  me  if  I 
thought  her  one  of  the  exceptional  beings  who  have  lived  in  all 
ages,  who  have  gone  out  of  and  beyond  the  bounded  present,  and 
acted  the  part  which,  in  our  own  age,  though  always  exciting 
admiration,  would  in  no  way  create  surprise. 

With  the  essence  of  Christianity  within  her,  the  Jew,  who  had 
by  the  enforced  change  of  his  creed  become  an  outcast  even  from 
his  tribe,  was  the  nearest  to  her  pity.  His  merciless  nature 
when  outraged  could  only  be  appeased  by,  as  it  were,  dipping 
his  revenge,  when  opportunity  came,  in  the  blood,  and  watching 


44  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

the  slow  torturing  death-throes  of  his  foe.  Where,  then,  could 
such  a  creature  find  a  resting-place,  when  thwarted  in  the  line 
of  action  which  even  the  law  of  his  land,  he  had  been  assured, 
could  not  impugn]  Never  could  despair  he  deeper  than  his, 
and  never  was  help  more  needed.  And  who  so  fit  to  give  help 
as  the  one  who  had  unconsciously  brought  all  this  misery  on  his 
head? 

Shylock's  money,  as  Portia  knew,  had  been  borrowed  to  bring 
the  lover  of  her  choice  to  woo  and  win  her.  His  daughter  had 
been  induced  to  leave  her  home,  and  take  with  her  his  precious 
gold  and  jewels,  by  the  friend  and  with  the  knowledge  of  her 
husband,  and  by  that  husband's  wish  had  been  made  welcome  to 
her  home.  Portia  knows  all  this  if  the  Jew  does  not;  and, 
knowing  this,  would  not  her  heart  be  the  first  to  think  of  and 
turn  in  pity  towards  the  miserable  and  forsaken  outcast?  To 
her  he  was  as  no  common  Jew.  His  means  as  usurer  had 
helped  to  perfect  her  life.  Could  her  happiness  be  unalloyed 
while  another  suffered  shame  and  misery,  no  matter  whether 
deserved  or  not,  because  of  her  ]  I  still  "  dream  "  that  it  could 
not,  and  believe  that,  quietly  and  privately,  as  her  high  station 
permitted,  she  might  have  done  what  no  other  dared,  or  perhaps 
cared  to  do. 

HELENA  FATJCIT  MARTIN. 

31  ONSLOW  SQUARE,  LONDON.] 


Ill 

DESDEMONA 


III. 

DESDEMONA. 


BEYNTYSILIO,  NEAR  LLANGOLLEN,  NORTH  WALES, 
September  10,  1880. 

"  My  fair  warrior."     "  Oh,  she  was  heavenly  true  !  " 

T7"ES,  my  dear  friend,  I  will  try  to  gratify  your  wish,  that  I 
should  put  before  you  in  words  the  Desdemona  that  was 
in  my  heart  and  mind  in  the  days  when  I  was  first  called  to 
personate  her  upon  the  stage.  It  was  among  my  earliest  efforts, 
and  I  was  then  a  very  young  girl ;  but  she  had  been  long  for 
me  a  heroine  into  whose  life  I  had  entered  with  a  passionate 
sympathy  which  I  cannot  even  now  recall  without  emotion.  In 
the  gallery  of  heroes  and  heroines  which  my  young  imagination 
had  fitted  up  for  my  daily  and  nightly  reveries,  Desdemona  filled 
a  prominent  place.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  A  being  so 
bright,  so  pure,  so  unselfish,  generous,  courageous — so  devoted 
in  her  love,  so  unconquerable  in  her  allegiance  to  her  "kind 
lord,"  even  while  dying  by  his  hand;  and  all  this  beauty  of 
body  and  mind  blasted  by  the  machinations  of  a  soulless  villain, 
who  "out  of  her  own  goodness"  made  the  net  that  enmeshed  her 
too  credulous  husband  and  her  absolutely  guileless  self ! 

The  manner,  too,  of  her  death  increased  her  hold  upon  my 
imagination.  Owing,  I  suppose,  to  delicate  health  and  the  weak 
action  of  my  heart,  the  fear  of  being  smothered  haunted  me  con- 


48      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

tinually.  The  very  thought  of  being  in  a  crowd,  of  any  pressure 
near  me,  would  fill  me  with  terror.  I  would  give  up  any  pleasure 
rather  than  face  it.  Thus  it  was,  I  suppose,  that  because  of  this 
continued  terror  of  my  own,  the  manner  of  Desdemona's  death 
had  a  fearful  significance  for  me.  That  she  should,  in  the  midst 
of  this  frightful  death-agony,  be  able  not  only  to  forgive  her  tor- 
turer, but  to  keep  her  love  for  him  unchanged,  was  a  height  of 
nobleness  surpassing  that  of  all  the  knights  and  heroes  I  had 
ever  heard  or  read  of.  Hers,  too,  was  "the  pang  without  the 
palm."  Juliet,  Cordelia,  Imogen,  Hermione,  sufferers  as  they 
were,  had  no  such  trial  as  this.  For  hers  was  the  supreme 
anguish  of  dying,  while  the  one  in  whose  regard  she  desired  to 
stand  highest  believed  her  tainted  and  impure !  To  a  loving, 
noble  woman,  what  fate  could  be  more  terrible  ? 

Of  course  I  did  not  know  in  those  days  that  Desdemona  is 
usually  considered  a  merely  amiable,  simple,  yielding  creature, 
and  that  she  is  generally  so  represented  on  the  stage.  This  is 
the  last  idea  that  would  have  entered  my  mind.  To  me  she 
was  in  all  things  worthy  to  be  a  hero's  bride,  and  deserving  the 
highest  love,  reverence,  and  gratitude  from  the  noble  Moor. 
"  Gentle  "  she  was,  no  doubt  (the  strong  are  naturally  gentle) — 
and  Othello  in  one  place  calls  her  so.  But  he  uses  the  epithet 
in  the  Italian  and  old  English  sense,  implying  that  union  of 
nobility  of  person  and  of  disposition  which  shows  itself  in  an 
unconscious  grace  of  movement  and  of  outward  appearance.  This 
was  what  I  imagine  was  in  Wordsworth's  mind  when  speaking 
of  "  the  gentle  lady  married  to  the  Moor " ;  and,  when  he  dis- 
coursed on  that  favourite  theme  on  which,  he  says,  "  right  voluble 
I  am,"  I  can  fancy  that  he  drew  his  heroine  in  much  the  same 
lines  as  those  in  which  she  presented  herself  to  my  young  imag- 
ination. I  cannot  think  he  would  have  singled  her  out  in  his 
famous  sonnet,  had  he  not  thought  her  as  brave  as  she  was  gen- 
erous, as  high  of  heart  as  she  was  sweet  of  nature,  or  had  he 
regarded  her  as  a  soft,  insipid,  plastic  creature,  ready  to  do  any 
one's  bidding,  and  submit  placidly  to  any  ill-usage  from  mere 
weakness  and  general  characterless  docility.  Oh,  no !  Such 
creatures  do  not  win  the  love  of  the  purest  and  noblest,  the 
attachment  and  admiration  of  all. 


DESDEMONA.  49 

It  was  well  for  me  that  I  never  saw  Desdemona,  or  indeed  any 
of  Shakespeare's  heroines,  on  the  stage,  before  I  had  to  imper- 
sonate them  myself.  I  was  thus  hampered  by  no  traditions, 
and  my  ideals  were  not  interfered  with  by  recollections  of  what 
others  had  done.  I  struggled,  as  best  I  could,  to  give  expression 
to  the  characters  as  I  had  thought  them  out  for  myself,  looking 
only  at  the  text,  and  ignoring  all  commentators  and  critics,  who 
perplexed  but  did  not  help  me.  Crude  and  imperfect  as  my 
conceptions  were — and  no  one  found  this  out  sooner  than  my- 
self, as  time  and  experience  widened  and  corrected  them — they 
yet  seemed  to  make  themselves  felt  by  my  audiences,  who,  to  my 
surprise  and  delight,  were  always  most  encouraging  and  indulg- 
ent to  me. 

Very  often  I  meet  people  who  tell  me  they  saw  my  first  per- 
formances, and  speak  of  them  as  though  they  were  great  triumphs. 
(You  ask  me  to  talk  of  myself,  so  you  see  I  do.)  They  were 
better  satisfied  than  I  was,  because  I  knew  that  I  could  do  much 
better  with  further  study  and  practice. 

But  ah,  how  my  heart  ached  when  sometimes  great  names 
were  flung  at  me !  A  Siddons,  an  O'Neill — what  could  I  know 
of  them  1  How  they  thought  about  my  heroines — for  they  were 
mine,  a  part  of  me — I  could  not  tell.  Did  they  look  at  them 
with  the  same  eyes,  think  the  same  thoughts  about  them,  as  I 
did  1  No  one  could  tell  me  that.  I  was  only  told  with  what 
grand  effect  one  spoke  certain  lines,  how  another  looked  and 
sobbed  and  fainted  in  a  certain  situation.  Fortunately  for  me, 
the  critics  then,  as  now,  did  not  all  agree.  I  was  not  allowed  to 
see  the  newspapers ;  but  unkind  criticisms  are  sure  to  find  their 
way  to  one  somehow,  through  one  channel  or  another,  and  to 
make  their  sting  felt.  A  critic,  to  be  of  use,  and  give  a  lesson 
worth  learning,  should  point  out  first  what  is  good — for  no  work 
worth  speaking  of  at  all  can  be  without  some  good — then  the 
faults  specified  can  be  listened  to  in  a  patient  and  proper  spirit. 

Happily,  however,  there  were  not  a  few  who  did  not  daunt 
me  with  tales  of  my  predecessors,  but  encouraged  me  to  persevere 
in  my  own  course,  to  trust  to  my  own  conceptions,  and  to  believe 
that  these  would  work  out  a  more  adequate  expression  as  I  gained 
a  greater  mastery  of  my  art.  Among  such,  my  Desdemona  was 
D 


50  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTEKS: 

peculiarly  welcomed  as  rescuing  the  character,  as  I  was  told,  out 
of  the  commonplace,  and  lifting  her  into  her  true  position  in  the 
tragedy.  This  view  was  especially  pressed  upon  me  by  Mr  Elton, 
the  gentleman  who  acted  Brabantio — an  excellent  actor  in  Mr 
Macready's  picked  company,  who,  alas !  was  drowned  in  a  ship- 
wreck a  year  or  two  later.  He  told  me  that  my  Desdemona  was 
a  new  creation  for  him ;  that,  to  use  his  own  phrase — and  I  re- 
member it  well — it  restored  the  balance  of  the  play  by  giving  her 
character  its  due  weight  in  the  action,  so  that,  as  he  said,  he  had 
then  seen  the  tragedy  for  the  first  time  in  its  true  chiaro-oscuro. 
Words  no  less  encouraging  fell  from  Mr  Macready,  my  Othello. 
He  told  me  my  brightness  and  gaiety  in  the  early  happy  scenes  at 
Cyprus  helped  him  greatly,  and  that,  when  sadder,  I  was  not 
lachrymose  ;  and,  above  all,  that  I  added  intensity  to  the  last  act 
by  "being  so  difficult  to  kill."  Indeed  I  felt  in  that  last  scene 
as  if  it  were  a  very  struggle  for  my  own  life.  I  would  not  die 
with  my  honour  tarnished,  without  the  chance  of  disabusing  my 
husband's  mind  of  the  vile  thoughts  that  clouded  it.  I  felt  for 
him  as  well  as  for  myself — for  I  knew  what  remorse  and  misery 
would  overwhelm  him  when  he  came  to  know  how  cruelly  he 
had  wronged  me ;  and  therefore  I  threw  into  my  remonstrances 
all  the  power  of  passionate  appeal  I  could  command. 

I  recall  with  gratitude  the  comfort  and  instruction  for  which  I 
was  indebted  to  my  good  friend  Brabantio — my  "  cruel  father," 
as  I  used  to  call  him.  He  was  the  kindest  and  gentlest  of  men ; 
thoroughly  well  read,  of  fine  tastes,  and  an  accomplished  rather 
than  a  powerful  actor.  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  I  sat  by  his 
side  in  the  green-room  at  the  reading  of  Robert  Browning's  beauti- 
ful drama,  "  The  Blot  in  the  Scutcheon."  As  a  rule,  Mr  Mac- 
ready  always  read  the  new  plays.  But  owing,  I  suppose,  to  some 
press  of  business,  the  task  was  intrusted  on  this  occasion  to  the 
head  prompter — a  clever  man  in  his  way,  but  wholly  unfitted  to 
bring  out,  or  even  understand,  Mr  Browning's  conception.  Con- 
sequently, the  delicate,  subtle  lines  were  twisted,  perverted,  and 
sometimes  even  made  ridiculous  in  his  hands.  My  "  cruel  father  " 
was  a  warm  admirer  of  the  poet.  He  sat  writhing  and  indignant, 
and  tried  by  gentle  asides  to  make  me  see  the  real  meaning  of 
the  verse.  Unhappily  the  mischief  proved  irreparable ;  for  some 


DESDEMONA.  51 

of  the  actors  during  the  rehearsals  chose  to  continue  to  misunder- 
stand the  text,  and  never  took  the  interest  in  the  play  which 
they  must  have  done  had  Mr  Macready  read  it  first — for  he  had 
great  power  as  a  reader.  I  have  always  thought  it  was  in  a  great 
measure  owing  to  this  contretemps  that  a  play  so  thoroughly 
dramatic  failed,  despite  its  painful  story,  to  make  the  great  suc- 
cess which  was  justly  its  due.1 

Kind  Mr  Elton !  In  those  cold,  cheerless,  wintry  days,  his 
salutation  was  always  the  same :  "  Well,  how  does  Spring 
Morning1?"  And  if  my  eyes  and  heart  were  heavy  from  hav- 
ing heard  my  faults  harshly  censured  at  home,  he  would  say — 
noticing,  I  suppose,  my  depressed  manner — "So  April  showers 
have  been  falling ! "  When  I  asked  him  to  watch  and  check 
my  faults,  he  positively  refused,  saying  that  "I  heard  already 
too  much  of  them.  I  must  remember  I  was  passing  through 
my  novitiate — not,  like  most  others,  before  a  provincial,  but 
before  a  London  audience,  and  that  I  must  expect  to  have  much 
to  learn.  But  if  I  kept  always  thinking  of  myself  and  my 
shortcomings,  I  should  spoil  my  style,  the  charm  of  which  was 
my  self-forgetfulness  and  power  of  identifying  myself  with  the 
character  I  was  acting.  How  was  I  to  be  a  real  Juliet  or  Des- 
demona  if  I  had  my  defects  always  uppermost  in  my  mind  1  I 
must  trust  to  their  falling  away  from  me  by  thought  and  prac- 
tice in  my  art."  He  was  the  more  tender,  I  can  now  see,  partly 
in  consequence  of  my  extreme  sensitiveness  and  my  dissatisfac- 
tion with  my  own  efforts,  and  partly  from  seeing  too  strong  a 
disposition  in  Mr  Macready  to  take  exception  to  everything  I 
did  that  was  not  exactly  in  accordance  with  his  own  notions. 
"My  dear,  you  are  entirely  wrong  in  this  conception,"  was  a 
phrase  constantly  in  his  mouth.  The  young  girl  was  expected 
to  take  the  same  view  as  the  ripe  artist,  who  had  had  great  ex- 
perience, no  doubt,  but  who  had  also  confirmed  habits,  and  whose 
strong  masculine  mind  had  in  it  but  little  of  the  feminine 
element.  But  I  believed  in  him,  and  could  not  act  by  his  side 
without  being  moved  and  influenced  by  his  intense  earnestness 
and  power.  I  tried  hard  to  do  what  he  advised — too  much  per- 
haps ;  for  you  may  remember,  I  was  accused  of  having  caught 
1  See  Appendix,  p.  395. 


52      SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

his  manner  and  expression.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  do 
otherwise,  considering  the  many  hours  we  had  to  pass  under  his 
direction.  Eehearsals  began  at  ten  in  the  morning,  and  usually 
went  on  until  three  or  four.  When  reviving  an  old,  or  bringing 
out  a  new  play,  these  rehearsals  were  as  a  rule  continued  daily 
for  three  weeks  at  least,  sometimes  for  four  or  five. 

Still,  unflinching  disciplinarian  as  he  was,  Mr  Macready  was 
not  always  stern.  He  could  joke,  and  had  "pretty  things  to 
say  "  upon  occasion.  I  always  did  my  best  to  be  punctual ;  but 
I  had  to  drive  three  miles  to  the  theatre — a  distance  which,  if 
I  had  acted  the  previous  night,  I  found  rather  trying  in  the 
early  winter  mornings.  I  remember  well  one  morning  when  I 
was  a  little  late,  I  found  that  I  had  been  already  "  called  "  for 
the  stage.  On  reaching  it,  I  made  my  apologies,  but  said  that 
if  they  looked  at  the  time  they  would  find  I  was  but  ten 
minutes  after  the  hour,  and  I  understood  that  ten  minutes' 
grace  was  always  given.  "Ah,"  said  Mr  Macready,  turning 
gravely  to  me,  "not  to  you!  We  all  agree  that  you  do  not 
require  it :  you  have  enough  already."  A  rebuke  so  pleasantly 
given  was  not  likely  to  hurt  much. 

Then  with  all  his  sternness,  how  tender-hearted  he  was  in  the 
case  of  illness !  All  knew  that,  for  the  great  exertion  of  the 
lungs  in  this  my  first  girlhood,  Nature  revenged  herself  by  in- 
flicting on  me  a  cough  which  harassed  and  distressed  me  night 
and  day.  Often,  often  has  Mr  Macready  said  to  me ;  "  My 
poor  child,  your  cough  goes  to  my  heart.  How  I  wish  I  could 
spare  you ! "  And  when  at  last,  in  my  third  winter,  I  was 
ordered  to  give  up  my  work  and  go  to  a  milder  climate  for  a 
year,  he  never  omitted  writing  to  me  week  by  week,  advising 
me  what  books  to  read,  and  encouraging  me  to  write  and  give 
him  my  criticisms  upon  them ; l  sending  me  news  of  the  theatre ; 
and,  best  of  all,  bidding  me  get  well  soon,  as  I  was  greatly 

1  Mr  Macready  was  not,  so  far  as  I  knew,  given  to  writing  verses.  It 
was,  therefore,  a  very  pleasant  surprise  to  me,  when  he  sent  back  my  album 
about  the  time  spoken  of  in  the  text,  with  these  lines  addressed  to  myself : — 

"  'Tis  not  the  dove-like  softness  of  thine  eyes 
My  pensive  gaze  that  draws,  however  fair  ; 
A  holier  charm  within  their  beauty  lies, 
The  unspotted  soul,  that's  mirrored  always  there. 


DESDEMONA.  53 

missed  and  asked  for,  and  he  could  not  revive  or  bring  forward 
certain  plays  without  my  help.  This  was  my  only  drop  of  com- 
fort ;  for,  despite  the  love  and  care  of  a  dear  friend  who  left 
her  home  to  tend  and  watch  over  me,  it  was  a  weary  time,  this 
banishment — this  separation  from  the  art  which  was  all  in  all 
to  me  ;  from  which  I  had  derived  almost  the  only  happiness  in 
my  hitherto  rather  lonely,  little- cared-f or  life.  I  could  not  but 
see,  too,  that  my  friends  did  not  expect  I  should  grow  better. 
I  do  not  think  I  very  much  cared.  By  the  very  young  I  be- 
lieve life  is  not  highly  prized.  But  oh,  the  inaction,  the  en- 
forced care  and  thought  for  myself,  the  wearing  cough  by  night, 
the  sameness  of  the  dreary  days  !  Had  my  life  not  been  just 
before  so  different,  so  full  of  work,  of  imaginative  excitement, 
doubtless  my  spirits  would  not  have  sunk  so  low.  Happily,  the 
dreary  winter  and  trying  spring  gave  way  at  last  to  summer : 
summer  and  youth  triumphed  over  my  illness,  and  before  an- 
other winter  I  was  well  again. 

^  I  have  wandered  far  from  my  text.  "  Old  memories,  they 
cling,  they  cling ! "  But  as  my  thoughts  travel  back  to  these 
well-remembered  days,  and  the 

"Manche  Hebe  Schatten  steigen  auf," 

of  which  Goethe  speaks,  my  pen  runs  on  with  a  freedom  which 
I  feel  sure  your  friendship  will  forgive.  You  see,  with  encour- 
agement, how  conceited  and  "  self-imbued  "  I  can  become. 

Now  let  me  go  back  to  Desdemona,  as  I  dreamed  of  her  in 
those  days,  and  as  I  think  of  her  still.  As  in  the  case  of 
Ophelia  and  Portia,  so  also  in  hers ;  her  mother  had  obviously 
been  long  dead  before  Shakespeare  takes  up  the  story.  Desde- 
mona only  once  alludes  to  her  mother,  and  that  is  in  her  hour 
of  deepest  bewilderment  and  sorrow,  when  she  simply  says, 
"My  mother  had  a  maid  called  Barbara,"  whose  lover  had 
"proved  mad,  and  did  forsake  her."  Like  Portia,  Desdemona 
was  a  noble  Venetian  lady,  but  there  was  a  whole  world  of 


There  every  thought  of  thy  young  heart  is  seen, 
Radiant  and  pure,  by  truth  and  genius  given, 

As,  on  the  surface  of  the  lake  serene 
Reflected,  gleam  the  perfect  lights  of  heaven."        W.  C.  M. 


54  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

difference  between  their  homes  and  their  bringing  up.  No 
proud  indulgent  father  watched  the  training  of  Desdemona's 
youth,  and  studied  the  progress  of  her  heart  and  mind.  Ab- 
sorbed in  state  affairs,  he  seems  to  have  been  at  no  pains  to 
read  his  daughter's  nature,  to  engage  her  affections  or  her  con- 
fidence. Thus,  a  creature,  loving,  generous,  imaginative,  was 
thrown  back  upon  herself,  and  left  to  dream  over  characters 
more  noble,  and  lives  more  checkered  with  adventure,  than  any 
she  could  see  or  hear  of  in  her  father's  luxurious  home.  Mak- 
ing so  small  a  part  of  her  father's  life,  and  missing  the  love,  or 
the  display  of  it,  which  would  have  been  so  precious  to  her, 
she  finds  her  happiness  in  dreams  of  worth  more  exalted  than 
any  she  has  known,  but  which  she  has  heard  and  read  of  in 
the  poets  and  romancers  of  her  own  and  other  times.  Supreme 
mistress  of  her  father's  house,  she  receives  his  guests,  dispenses 
his  hospitalities ;  and,  except  that  she  has  never  felt  the  assur- 
ance of  that  father's  love,  she  yet  "  hath  felt  no  age  nor  known 
no  sorrow,"  and  is  "  a  child  to  chiding." 

Her  father  finds  her  obedient  to  his  every  wish,  a  most  dili- 
gent mistress  of  his  house  affairs — "a  maiden  never  bold";  of 
"  spirit  still  and  quiet."  He  never  thinks  of  the  depths  that 
may  lie  under  this  unruffled  surface — not  only  hidden  from  his 
sight,  but  unknown  to  his  child  herself.  He  has  found  her 
"  opposite  to  marriage "  with  the  "  curled  darlings "  of  Venice, 
who  had  solicited  her.  As  these  have  never  moved  her  quiet, 
because  deep  spirit,  her  love  for  what  he  imagines  she  feared  to 
look  on  is,  to  his  thinking,  "against  all  rules  of  nature,"  and 
could  only  be  brought  about  "  by  spells  and  medicines  bought 
of  mountebanks."  The  enchantment,  the  witchcraft  with  which 
love  fills  the  heart,  Brabantio  has  never  felt.  With  him  all 
must  be  magic  which  is  not  customary. 

Shakespeare  carefully  shows,  in  Desdemona's  address  to  the 
senate,  how  matters  stood  between  her  father  and  herself.  "  Do 
you  perceive  in  all  this  noble  company,"  he  asks  her,  "  where 
most_joji_pwe  obedience  ? "  Obedjgnce,  observe,  not  affecjion. 
And  what  is  her  reply  1  Not  that  of  a  shrinking,  timid  girl,  but 
that  of  a  thoughtful  woman ;  one  whose  mind  and  heart  went 
with  her  love,  whose  courage  is  as  great  and  as  high  as  she  thinks 


DESDEMONA.  55 

<li  the  object  of  her  love  is  worthy — ready  to  meet  the  consequences, 
/  and  above  all,  to  transfer  to  her  own  shoulders  from  Othello's  the 
1  blame  of  her  abduction  : —  «  \ 

"  That  I  did  love  the  Moor  to  live  with  him, 


My  downright  violence  and  storm  of  fortunes  1    \V  Y^       r^  \\ 

May  trumpet  to  the  world  :   .    .    .  1 4?  -x     J     I 

And  to  his  honours  and  his  valiant  parts 
Did  I  my  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate." 

Of  her  father  she  says  he  is  "the  lord  of  duty."  To  him  she  is 
bound  for  "life  and  education";  these  teach  her  "how  to  re- 
spect" him.  Just  as  he  has  not  asked,  so  not  a  word  does  she 
say  about  love  and  affection  towards  him.  He  is  silenced.  She 
owns  freely  all  she  owes  him  for  "life  and  education."  Up  to 
the  time  of  her  marriage  he  is  first ;  she  owes  and  pays  him  all 
obedience,  all  respect : —  ,  ,  • 

"  But  here's  my  husband  ;     '-f"  O    ' 

And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  showed  \  ^0 

To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor  my  lord." 

From  all  we  see  of  Desdemona's  readiness  to  give  more  than  is 
expected  from  her  of  love  and  service,  even  to  those  who  had 
much  slighter  claims  upon  her,  I  cannot  think  she  would  have 
been  wanting  in  these  to  her  father,  had  he  not  chilled  her  girl- 
hood's natural  demonstrations  of  affection.  There  is  a  kind  of 
proud  frowardness  in  some  natures  which,  as  I  have  known,  even 
while  loving  dearly,  will  yet  hold  aloof  from,  keep  at  a  distance, 
the  objects  of  their  love.  They  claim  as  a  right  that  which  will 
not  grow  without  care  and  fostering,  without  some  responsive 
looks,  some  tender  words. 

It  is  hardly  conceivable  that  Brabantio  should  not  have  been 
proud  of  his  daughter,  of  whose  beauty  and  fascination  he  must 
have  heard  all  tongues  speak  in  praise.  "What  pains  has  not 
Shakespeare  taken  to  tell  us  over  and  over  again  what  this 
gracious  creature  was  !  As  she  moved  among  her  father's  guests 
in  his  palace  halls,  or  flashed  in  her  gondola  along  the  canals  of 


56  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Venice,  what  admiring  eyes  must  have  followed  her !  Of  her 
serene  grace  and  womanly  gentleness  Brabantio's  words  have  in- 
formed us.  Cassio,  the  gentleman  and  scholar  of  high  blood  and 
breeding,  speaks  of  her  as 

"  a  maid 
That  paragons  description  and  wild  fame." 

When  she  lands  in  Cyprus  it  is 

"  The  riches  of  the  ship  is  come  on  shore  ! " 

High  as  Othello  stands  in  his  regard,  yet  she  is  above  even  him 
in  excellence.  She  is  "  our  great  captain's  captain."  Though 
dead  to  belief  in  all  human  excellence,  even  lago  is  not  blind 
either  to  her  virtue  or  her  beauty.  Although  to  Eoderigo  he 
calls  her  "  a  super-subtle  Venetian,"  yet  to  Cassio  he  says,  "  She 
is  of  so  free,  so  kind,  so  apt,  so  blessed  a  disposition,  she  holds 
it  a  vice  in  her  goodness  not  to  do  more  than  she  is  requested." 
But  if  she  is  such  as  this  to  the  general  eye,  what  is  she  to 
Othello's  ?  To  him  she  is  "  the  cunning'st  pattern  of  excelling 
nature.  .  .  .  The  world  hath  not  a  sweeter  creature."  And 
then  her  sweet,  womanly  graces  !  "So  delicate  with  her  needle  : 
an  admirable  musician :  oh,  she  will  sing  the  savageness  out  of 
a  bear ;  of  so  high  and  plenteous  wit  and  invention !  .  .  . 
And  then  of  so  gentle  a  condition  ! "  She  is  pictured  to  us,  in 
short,  as  possessed  of  every  quality  which  could  lay  hold  of  a 
hero's  heart  and  bring  joy  into  his  home  : — 

"  If  Heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world 
Of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite, 
I'd  not  have  sold  her  for  it !  " 

What  imagination  would  not  kindle  at  the  images  thus  set  before 
it !  Who  would  be  content  to  see  in  this  exquisite  woman,  as  so 
many  do,  only  a  pretty  piece  of  yielding  amiability  ! 

As  with  Imogen,  so  with  Desdemona,  Shakespeare  has,  in  the 
passages  cited,  and  in  many  others  throughout  the  play,  taken 
infinite  pains  to  show  how  these  his  favourite  heroines  excelled 
in  every  accomplishment — how  the  grace,  the  purity,  the  dignity 
of  their  minds  gave  added  charm  to  the  fascination  of  their 
beauty  and  their  manners.  And  this  woman,  this  "  divine  Des- 


DESDEMONA.  57 

demona,"  whose  mind  has  been  fed,  as  in  those  stirring  times  of 
war  it  was  sure  to  be,  with  "  tales  of  high  emprise  and  chivalry," 
and  whose  heart  is  ready  for  the  inspiring  touch  which  was  to 
kindle  it,  is  placed  by  her  father  under  the  influence  which  was 
above  all  others  likely  to  captivate  her  fancy — that  of  the  great 
general,  of  Moorish  but  royal  blood,  whose  name  was  in  every 
mouth,  on  whose  valour  and  generalship  the  state  had  leaned, 
and  was  leaning  still,  as  its  chief  stay.  Long  before  she  saw 
Othello,  Desdemona  must  have  pictured  to  herself  this  remark- 
able man,  about  whose  almost  fabulous  history  the  world's  talk 
had  been  so  loud,  and  whose  valorous  deeds  were  in  every  mouth. 
How  dull  must  Brabantio  have  been  when  he  so  oft  invited  the 
great  hero  of  the  day  to  his  house !  If  he  found  pleasure  in 
"  questioning  "  the  story  of  Othello's  life,  how  was  it  he  did  not 
cast  a  thought  upon  the  still  greater  charm  that  story  might  have 
for  his  daughter's  ear?  Dull  and  blind  indeed  must  the  old  man 
have  been,  not  to  see  that  the  blunt  soldier  tells  it  "o'er  and 
o'er,"  because  of  the  sweet  listener  at  his  side ;  not  to  see  how 
quickly,  when  called  away  by  house  affairs,  she  steals  back,  sink- 
ing quietly  into  her  seat  so  as  not  to  interrupt  the  tale.  The 
tremor  in  Desdemona's  manner,  which  her  father  mistook  for  fear, 
had  quite  another  origin.  She  felt  frightened,  not  at  Othello, 
but  at  herself — at  the  novel,  bewildering,  absorbing  feeling  which, 
hour  by  hour,  was  overmastering  her. 

The  rapt  attention — the  eager,  tender  eyes,  often  suffused  with 
tears — when  Othello  spoke  of  "  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 
and  sold  to  slavery" — the  parted  lips  and  shortened  breath, — 
if  these  were  noted  by  Brabantio,  it  would  seem  he  held  them 
as  of  no  more  moment  than  if  they  had  been  called  forth  by  some 
skilled  improvisators.  The  idea  that  his  daughter's  being  could 
be  moved,  her  heart  touched,  by  this  stranger  to  her  race  and 
country — this 

"  Extravagant  and  wheeling  stranger 
Of  here  and  everywhere, " 

as  Eoderigo  calls  him,  whose  complexion  was  like  "the  shadowed 
livery  of  the  burnished  sun  " — had  never  crossed  his  mind.  He 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  her  being  attracted  by  her  torch- 


58  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

bearer  or  her  gondolier,  as  by  one  whom  he  classes  with  "  bond 
slaves  and  pagans." 

This  wide  difference  of  feeling  could  not  have  existed,  had 
there  been  any  living  sympathy  between  the  father  and  his  child. 
He  would  have  foreseen  the  danger  of  exposing  a  girl  dawning 
into  womanhood,  and  of  sensibilities  so  deep,  to  such  an  unusual 
fascination,  and  she  would  have  turned  to  him  when  she  found 
herself  in  danger  of  being  overmastered  by  a  feeling,  the  indul- 
gence in  which  might  wreck  his  peace  or  her  own.  But  the 
father,  who  is  only  the  "  lord  of  duty,"  has  established  no  claim 
upon  her  heart;  and  that  heart,  hitherto  untouched,  is  stolen 
from  her  during  these  long  interviews,  insensibly  but  for  ever. 

We  are  not  to  think  that  all  this  happens  suddenly.  The 
father  is  not  surprised  into  losing  his  child.  If  he  has  been  de- 
ceived, it  is  by  himself  and  not  by  her.  Othello  speaks  of  having 
"  some  nine  moons  wasted  "  away  from  the  tented  field.  Many 
of  these  may  have  been  passed  in  Venice.  Much  time,  therefore, 
may  have  flitted  happily  away  in  these  interrupted  recitals,  before 
Othello  found  "good  means  to  draw"  from  Desdemona 

"  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 
That  he  would  all  his  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively." 

When  the  story  has  been  told  from  first  to  last,  she  gives  him 
for  his  "  pains  a  world  of  sighs." 

"  'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful ; 
She  wished  she  had  not  heard  it.     Yet  she  wished 
That  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man," 

so  noble,  so  self-devoting,  so  grandly  enduring — so  altogether 
spotless  and  heroic.  Here  comes  out  the  warrior  spirit  which  I 
have  ascribed  to  her — the  power  of  kindling,  of  understanding 
and  rising  up  to,  heroic  deeds.  We  feel,  even  apart  from 
Othello's  words  and  her  own  subsequent  avowal,  that  "her 
heart's  subdued  even  to  the  very  quality  "  of  her  lord.  Thence- 
forth she  is  his  own,  in  war  or  peace,  in  life  and  death,  for  ever- 
more. The  accident  of  the  difference  in  Othello's  complexion, 


DESDEMONA.  59 

which  operates  against  him  in  other  eyes,  endears  him  to  hers. 
It  touches  her  generosity.  "  I  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind;" 
and  "to  his  honours  and  his  valiant  parts"  she  consecrates  her 
soul  and  fortunes  from  that  moment. 

Thus,  under  his  very  eyes,  was  Brabantio's  daughter  wooed 
and  won ;  for  he  does  not  venture  to  gainsay  this,  after  Othello 
has  delivered  his  "  round  unvarnished  tale "  to  the  Venetian 
Council.  But  his  very  blindness — indifference  it  could  not  be 
— must  have  shown  the  lovers  the  impossibility  of  gaining  his 
consent  to  their  union. 

Therefore  did  the  "  maiden  never  bold  "  take  courage  to  leave 
her  father's  home,  and  give  herself  in  marriage  to  the  Moor. 
She  had  also  the  true,  quiet  courage,  when  sent  for  to  the  senate- 
house,  to  appeal  directly  to  the  Duke,  begging  him  to  hear  her 
story,  and  to  let  her  find  a  "  charter  in  his  voice  to  assist  her 
simpleness."  When  her  "  unfolding  "  is  ended,  there  is  but  one 
feeling  in  the  council — to  "let  her  will  have  free  way."  The 
Duke,  in  bidding  "good-night  to  every  one,"  adds  to  Brabantio  : — 

"And,  noble  signior, 
If  virtue  no  delighted  beauty  lack, 
Your  son-in-law  is  far  more  fair  than  black." 

The  first  senator  says  :  "  Adieu,  brave  Moor ;  use  Desdeniona 
well."  Then  does  Brabantio  let  out  the  cold  malignity  of  his 
natural  disposition — the  unforgiving  cruelty  which  he  keeps  to 
the  last,  so  that  it  may  sting  and  wound  more  surely : 

"  Look  to  her,  Moor,  if  thou  hast  eyes  to  see  : 
She  has  deceived  her  father,  and  may  thee." 

Othello  responds,  "  My  life  upon  her  faith  ! " 

How  vain,  how  futile  are  these  words !  Desdemona  never 
forgot  them.  But  how  was  it  with  Othello  1  Although  at  the 
time  cast  aside,  defied,  yet  they  struck  home  as  they  were  in- 
tended ;  and  such  a  listener  as  lago,  intent,  as  we  know  before- 
hand, on  revenge,  and  caring  not  by  what  means  it  was  brought 
about,  would  eagerly  seize  the  weapon  Brabantio  puts  into  his 
hands,  which,  adroitly  wielded  by  this  subtle  fiend,  leads  on  to 
the  fearful  climax — "  the  tragic  loading  "  of  Desdemona's  bed  ! 


60  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

These  fatal  words  open  up  to  his  quick  eye  the  whole  devilish 
scheme  on  which  the  play  turns,  and  he  closes  the  scene  saying — 

"  I  have  't.     It  is  engender'd.     Hell  and  night 
Must  bring  this  monstrous  birth  to  the  world's  light ! " 

9; Well  might  Othello  say,  "My  life  upon  her  faith!"  How 
valiantly  has  she — his  few  hours'  wife — stood  by  him  before 
these  haughty  senators  and  her  much-dreaded  father !  how  sur- 
prised him  with  delight,  begging,  this  delicately  nurtured  lady, 
to  be  allowed  to  share  with  him  the  hardships  and  perils  of  the 
impending  campaign — to  live  with  him  in  the  "  tented  field  "  ! 
Had  she  been  one  who  loved  her  ease  and  pleasure,  such  an  one 
as  lago  describes  Venetian  women  in  general  to  have  been,  was 
she  likely  to  make  such  a  request  ]  Who  cannot  see  that  this 
woman  was  of  the  true,  heroic  mould,  fearless  as  she  was  gentle  1 
At  the  time,  her  request  appears  to  have  gone  to  Othello's  heart — 
to  have  moved  him  to  endless  gratitude,  as  well  it  might.  When 
they  meet  at  Cyprus,  the  first  words  on  his  lips  are,  "  0  my  fair 
warrior  !  "  The  phrase,  doubtless,  afterwards  became  a  favourite 
one  with  them ;  and  it  is  touching  to  find  Desdemona  using  it 
after  Othello's  to  her  incomprehensible  frenzy  concerning  the 
handkerchief,  when  she  rebukes  herself  for  her  momentary  harsh 
thought  of  him  : — 

"  Beshrew  me  much,  Emilia, 

I  was,  unhandsome  warrior  as  I  am, 

Arraigning  his  unkindness  with  my  soul ; 

But  now  I  find  I  had  suborn'd  the  witness, 

And  he's  indicted  falsely." 

My  life  upon  her  faith ! "  Yes,  whatever  these  words  were 
for  Othello,  they  were  ever  dear  to  her,  believing,  as  she  does 
almost  to  the  last,  that  her  noble  Moor's  love  and  trust  were  as 
absolute  as  her  own.  In  this  her  very  innocence,  in  her  loyalty 
to  her  husband,  and  to  his  friend  Michael  Cassio,  lago  finds  the 
easy  means  to  accomplish  his  fiendish  purpose. 

It  is  the  highest  tribute  to  Desdemona  that  she  alone  is 
unbeguiled  by  lago's  subtlety.  Othello,  Koderigo,  Cassio,  Emilia, 
he  plays  upon  them  all — uses  them,  gets  them  within  his  fatal 
grasp — makes  of  them  his  tools  or  his  dupes — leads  them  on 
blindly  to  their  own  undoing.  Not  so  Desdemona. 


DESDEMONA.  61 

"  Oh,  she  was  innocent ! 
And  to  be  innocent  is  nature's  wisdom  ! 
Oh,  surer  than  suspicion's  hundred  eyes 
Is  that  fine  sense,  which  to  the  pure  in  heart, 
By  mere  oppugnancy  to  their  own  goodness, 
Reveals  the  approach  of  evil !  "  l 

lago,  conscious  of  this  fine  intuition,  makes  no  attempt  to 
deceive  her.  His  victim  she  may  be,  but  he  feels  she  will  never 
be  his  dupe.  After  the  first  meeting  in  Cyprus,  he  appears 
never  to  have  come  into  contact  with  her  until  she  sends  for 
him,  to  see  if  he  can  throw  light  upon  the  unaccountable  change 
that  has  come  over  her  husband.  Had  he  dared  to  approach  her 
with  the  faintest  suggestion  that  Othello  was  untrue,  she  would 
have  treated  him  as  Nina  Sforza,  another  noble  Venetian  lady, 
treated  a  similar  traducer  in  Zouch  Troughton's  fine  modern 
tragedy  which  bears  her  name : — 

"  My  Doria  false  ! 
Oh,  I  could  strike  thee,  liar  ! "      { 

Except  to  illustrate  the  truth  that  no  man  knows  himself, 
I  marvel  why  Shakespeare  makes  Othello  speak  of  himself  as 
"not  easily  jealous."  It  seems  to  me  that  the  spark  scarcely 
touches  the  tinder  before  it  is  aflame.  A  few  words  dropped  by 
the  tempter  take  hold  of  him  even  when  his  happiness  is  at 
the  fullest — when  he  has  just  parted  from  Desdemona  in  a 
transport  of  content,  which  finds  vent  in  the  words — 

"  Excellent  wretch  !     Perdition  catch  my  soul, 
But  I  do  love  thee  !     And  when  I  love  thee  not, 
Chaos  is  come  again." 

Chaos  has  come  !  An  artfully  muttered  "  Indeed  !  "  a  question 
about  Cassio's  previous  acquaintance  with  his  wife,  and  his  sus- 
picion is  at  once  aroused.  Othello  insists  upon  knowing  lago's 
"thinkings,"  on  wringing  from  him  the  meanings  of  his  "stops," 
gives  admission  at  once  to  the  idea  that  he  may  be  wronged ; 
and  when  lago,  by  way  of  seeming  warning,  bids  him  beware  of 
"jealousy,"  you  see  from  his  agonised  exclamation,  "  0  misery  !  " 
that  the  word  has  sunk  into  the  very  depths  of  his  being.  All  the 

1  Coleridge's  Zapdya,  Act  iv.  sc.  1. 


62  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

love,  all  the  devoted  self-sacrifice  of  Desdemona,  all  sense  of  what 
is  due  to  her  and  to  himself,  are  forgotten.  He  suffers  lago  to 
remind  him  of  her  father's  parting  words,  and  so  to  pour  his  en- 
venomed slime  upon  this  fair  creature,  to  whom  he  owes  so  much, 
that  her  name  and  fame  can  never  again  in  life  show  fair  in  his 
eyes : — 

"She's  gone ;  I  am  abused,  and  my  relief 
Must  be  to  loathe  her." 

And  thus,  because  of  the  foul  words,  the  vile  suggestion  of  this 
base  Machiavellian  trickster,  the  life  of  these  two  noble  beings 
is  turned  from  paradise  into  hell,  and  there  is  no  more  peace  nor 
joy  for  either  of  them. 

Othello  is  right,  when  he  says  of  lago  that  he 

"  Knows  all  qualities,  with  a  learned  spirit, 
Of  human  dealings." 

But  that  he  should  think  him  "  honest,"  this  is  the  marveL  Nor 
less  marvel  is  it  that,  knowing  him  to  be  but  a  "  rough  soldier," 
and,  as  lago  says  of  himself,  by  nature  apt  "  to  spy  into  abuses," 
and  to  "  shape  things  that  are  not,"  Othello  can  allow  him  even 
in  words  and  distantly  to  approach  the  sanctuary  of  his  wife's 
virtue.  Men,  as  we  know,  may  possess  all  manly  gifts  and  be 
fairly  decorous  and  moral  in  their  conduct,  yet,  through  some 
defect  of  nature  or  of  training,  or  of  both,  may  be  quite  incapable 
of  conceiving  the  noblest  qualities  of  womanhood.  To  under- 
stand these  there  must  be  some  sympathy,  some  affinity.  There- 
fore lago  might  be  in  a  sense  "honest,"  yet  totally  unfit  to 
speak  or  be  listened  to  on  such  a  subject.  Had  Othello  been 
really  the  "noble  Moor,"  as  "true  of  mind"  as  Desdemona 
thought  him,  he  would,  at  the  lightest  aspersion  of  his  wife, 
have  recoiled  from  lago  as  from  a  serpent.  He  would  have 
crushed  the  insolen  traducer  and  his  vile  suggestions  beneath  his 
heel  in  bitterest  contempt. 

' "  Not  easily  jealous  ! "  Of  all  men,  Othello  had  cause  not  to 
be  jealous.  Capable  as  he  had  proved  himself  of  admiring  Des- 
demona's  trustful,  reverential  love,  of  appreciating  her  graceful, 
playful  fondness — new  as  it  was  to  him,  and  touching,  as  it  did, 
chords  which  had  never  vibrated  during  a  life  spent  hitherto 


DESDEMONA.  63 

among  men  in  the  rough  scenes  of  war,  his  senses  fascinated  by 
her  beauty,  as  his  mind  was  by  her  purity  and  sympathy — how 
could  he  fall  away  from  his  allegiance  so  soon?  Was  such  a 
woman  as  Desdemona  likely  to  become  untrue  because  he  had 
not  a  fair  skin  or  silky  manners  1  "  She  had  eyes,  and  chose 
me  ! "  Or  why  should  he  think  he  had  been  displaced  in  her 
affections  by  Cassio  ?  Cassio  was  obviously  an  older  friend  of 
Desdemona  than  himself — a  welcome  visitor  at  Brabantio's  house  ; 
for  in  their  wooing  he  "  went  between  them  very  oft."  He 
makes  no  secret  of  his  admiration  of  Desdemona ;  and  we  may 
be  sure  that,  had  she  shown  him  the  slightest  favour,  he  would 
have  been  among  her  suitors.  But  no.  All  his  advantages  of 
person,  of  mind  and  manners,  had  given  him  no  hold  upon  her 
fancy.  His  best  recommendation  to  her  had  been  that  he  was 
ever  eloquent  in  Othello's  praise : — 

"  What !  Michael  Cassio, 

That  came  a-wooing  with  you,  and  many  a  time, 
When  I  have  spoke  of  you  dispraisingly, 
Hath  ta'en  your  part ! " 

As  if  she  had  ever  spoken  of  him  dispraisingly  ! — except,  perhaps, 
for  the  pleasure  of  having  her  ears  filled  with  his  praises  by  one 
who  "  had  known  him  long."  Yet  not  a  thought  of  this  familiar 
story  crosses  Othello's  mind ;  he  leaps  at  once  to  the  conclusion 
that  both  the  tired  friend  and  the  wife  who  had  forsworn  for  his 
sake  "  country,  credit,  everything,"  were  false  to  him.  And  this 
he  does  upon  the  mere  suggestion  of  a  villain  whom  he  absurdly 
believes  to  be  "of  exceeding  honesty."  Truly  had  lago  gauged 
him  when  he  said — 

"  The  Moor  is  of  a  free  and  open  nature, 
That  thinks  men  honest  that  but  seem  to  be  so, 
And  will  as  tenderly  be  led  by  the  nose 
As  asses  are  !  " 

But  lago  could  neither  see  nor  feel  that  Othello's  nature,  free  and 
open  as  it  might  be,  lacked  that  true  nobility  which,  being  itself 
incapable  of  baseness,  is  resolutely  closed  to  innuendoes  against 
those  it  loves.  Alas  the  while  !  But  for  this  fatal  defect,  how 
could  Othello  have  fallen  so  easy  a  prey  to  his  malignant  tempter  ? 


64      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

How  could  he  have  come  so  readily  to  believe  that  he  had  been 
"  discarded  thence,"  where,  as  he  says,  he  had  "  garnered  up  his 
heart " — 

"  Where  either  I  must  live,  or  bear  no  life  ; 

The  fountain  from  the  which  my  current  runs, 

Or  else  dries  up  "  ! 

We  feel  with  him  when  he  exclaims,  "  Oh,  the  pity  of  it,  the 
pity  of  it ! "  but  we  feel,  too,  that  had  he  but  possessed  some 
of  Desdemona's  loyalty,  some  grains  of  common-sense,  all  lago's 
snares  might  have  been  set  for  him  in  vain. 

For,  after  all,  lago,  as  I  have  said,  seems  to  me  but  a  poor 
trickster  at  the  best.  He  acts  from  the  basest  motives,  and 
works  by  artifices  the  shallowest  as  well  as  the  most  vile — 
artifices  liable  to  be  upset  at  any  moment  by  the  merest 
casualty.  He  hates  Othello  mortally  for  having,  as  he  thinks, 
unfairly  kept  him  out  of  his  lieutenancy.  If  Othello  erred 
in  this,  his  injustice  is  paid  for  by  a  fearful  penalty.  lago's 
jealousy  of  Othello  with  his  own  wife  is  but  one  of  those  con- 
scious sacrifices  to  what  he  himself  calls  the  "  divinity  of  hell," 
to  which  he  resorts  as  juggles  with  his  conscience.  He  hates 
Cassio  for  the  same  cause,  and  for  supplanting  him  in  his 
office.  He  hates  his  wife,  as  such  creatures  hate  the  wives 
that  have  "outlived  their  liking."  He  is  brutish  in  mind  as, 
when  he  dare  be,  he  is  in  manners,  and  he  is  as  sordid  as  he 
is  vindictive — using  Eoderigo,  that  "poor  trash  of  Venice,"  as 
a  sponge  to  squeeze  ducats  from.  Above  all,  he  hates  Desde- 
mona,  because  she  is  impervious  to  his  arts.  Cunning  as  he 
is,  yet  he  is  in  hourly  terror  that  the  net  he  has  woven  to 
ensnare  others  may  enmesh  himself.  One  word  of  frank 
explanation  between  Othello  and  Desdemona,  a  whisper  from 
Emilia  that  the  handkerchief  was  given  by  herself  to  her 
husband,  a  hint  from  Eoderigo  to. Desdemona  of  the  lies  with 
which  lago  has  fooled  him,  and  all  his  fine-spun  web  would 
have  fallen  to  pieces  before,  as  it  does  fall  in  the  end.  He 
knows  this  well,  and  sees  no  way  of  escape  but  in  the  murder 
of  his  dupes.  Eoderigo  and  Cassio  must  be  "removed,"  and 
the  Moor  goaded  on  to  murder  his  wife.  To  murder  her — 
and  howl  Othello  would  have  made  her  death  swift  and 


DESDEMONA.  65 

easy  by  poison.  But  this  is  not  torture  enough  to  satisfy 
lago.  "Strangle  her  in  her  bed — even  the  bed  she  has  con- 
taminated ! "  When  we  think  of  all  that  has  gone  before — 
when,  with  this  suggestion  still  recent  on  his  lips,  we  see  him 
afterwards  by  the  side  of  Desdemona,  summoned  by  her  in 
her  trouble,  as  her  "good  friend,"  we  feel  inclined  to  echo  his 
own  words :  "  There  is  no  such  man  ;  it  is  impossible." 

lago  has  wit  enough  to  see  some  of  the  good  qualities  of 
his  victims,  and,  judging  of  other  men  by  himself — for  he 
knows  no  other  standard — he  acts  with  full  reliance  on  the 
vices  and  the  weaknesses  of  mankind.  But  he  has  not  wit 
enough  to  see  that  he  is  playing  a  game  which  he  must  lose 
in  the  end,  for  all  the  odds  are  against  the  chance  of  his 
victims  being  swept  away  so  completely  that  his  villany  can 
never  come  to  light.  I  see  no  grandeur  in  a  "demi-devil"  of 
this  type ;  and  I  think  the  judgment  misplaced  which  can 
find  it  in  his  expressed  determination  to  answer  no  questions, 
even  upon  the  rack.  He  had  already  said  too  much  in  his 
garrulous  boast  of  having  tricked  his  victims  by  dropping 
Desdemona's  handkerchief  in  Cassio's  chamber.  A  cleverer 
villain  would  have  held  his  peace.  "Woful  indeed  it  is,  that 
a  creature  so  despicable  should  have  had  the  power  to  hurt 
Othello's  mind  past  curing,  to  drag  it  down  into  the  very  mire 
— that  he  should  have  made  him  think  base  thoughts,  and 
stain  his  soul  so  deeply  that  no  years  of  penitential  grief  could 
ever  have  washed  it  clean  again.  History  has  not  on  record  such 
another  inhuman  villain.  In  my  young  dreams  I  never  could 
quite  decide  into  which  of  the  circles  of  the  Inferno  he  should  be 
cast ;  even  the  worst  seemed  too  good  for  him. 

Is  not  my  view  of  both  Othello  and  lago  borne  out  by  the 
brief,  sad  story,  that  rushes  on  so  swiftly  to  its  ghastly  climax  ?    / 
We  see  little  of  the  blissful  life  which  Othello  and  Desdemona  '; 
lived  after  their  happy  union  as  married  lovers  at  Cyprus.     After    \ 
all  his  terrors  for  her  safety,  that  he  should  find  Desdemona       \ 
happily  landed  there  before  him  is  a  relief  and  a  joy  past  all  ex-       / 
pressing.     With  a  foreboding  of  evil  he  fears  that 

"  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknown  fate." 
E 


66 


SHAKESPEARE  S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 


V 


Troubles  indeed  begin  early  to  press  upon  them.  Cassio,  their 
friend,  endeared  to  them  by  the  closest  ties,  so  unaccountably 
forgets  himself  that  his  general  has  at  once  to  strip  him  of  his 
lieutenancy.  This  must  be  a  great  sorrow  to  them  both.  Still, 
the  rent  is  not  irreparable;  and  we  learn  that  Othello  would 
have  been  glad  of  a  fair  excuse  to  reinstate  his  friend.  When 
Desdemona  first  speaks  for  Cassio,  Ave  see  that  she  knew 
Othello's  mind.  He  pretends — but  only  pretends — to  be  ab- 
sorbed in  other  matters,  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  her  plead 
as  a  petitioner.  He  puts  her  off  only  to  hear  her  urge  her  suit 
again : — 

"  Good  my  lord, 

If  I  have  any  grace  or  power  to  move  you, 
His  present  reconciliation  take  ; 
For,  if  he  be  not  one  that  truly  loves  you, 
That  errs  in  ignorance  and  not  in  cunning, 
I  have  no  judgment  in  an  honest  face. 

.     .    Good  love,  call  him  back. 

Old.  Not  now,  sweet  Desdemona  ;  some  other  time. 
Des.  But  shall't  be  shortly  ? 

Oth.  The  sooner,  sweet,  for  you. 

Des.  Shall't  be  to-night  at  supper  ? 
Oth.  No,  not  to-night. 

Des.  To-morrow  dinner,  then  ? 

Oth.  I  shall  not  dine  at  home. 

Des.  Why,  then,  to-morrow  night,  or  Tuesday  morn  ; 
Or  Tuesday  noon,  or  night ;  on  Wednesday  morn  : 
I  prithee,  name  the  time  ;  but  let  it  not 
Exceed  three  days  ;  in  faith  he's  penitent. 
.     .     .     I  wonder  in  my  soul 
What  you  would  ask  me,  that  I  should  deny, 
Or  stand  so  mammering  on.     What !  Michael  Cassio, 
That  came  a- wooing  with  you,"  &c. 

When  Othello  sees  that  Desdemona  is  hurt  at  his  silence,  he 
breaks  in  with — 

"  Prithee,  no  more  :  let  him  come  when  he  will ; 
I  will  deny  thee  nothing. " 

But  she  thinks  this  so  small  a  favour  to  be  granted  to  a  friend 
who  had  done  so  much  for  them,  that  she  will  hardly  accept  it  as 
such.  The  "great  captain's  captain"  will  not  have  it  called  a 
"  boon."  'Tis  only  so  slight  a  service  as  she  would  "  entreat  him 
wear  his  gloves,  or  feed  on  nourishing  dishes  "  : 


DESDEMONA.  67 

"  Nay,  when  I  have  a  suit 
Wherein  I  mean  to  touch  your  love  indeed, 
It  shall  be  full  of  poise  and  difficulty, 
And  fearful  to  be  granted." 

He  repeats  his  former  words  : — 

f      I  "I  will  deny  thee  nothing  ; 

V      I  Whereon,  I  do  beseech  thee,  grant  me  this, 
[  To  leave  me  but  a  little  to  myself." 

How  sweet  is  her  rejoinder  ! — 


He  replies  : — 

"  Farewell,  my  Desdemona  :  I'll  come  to  thee  straight  " — 

J*T  which  draws  from  her  the  winning  assurance  of  her  full  faith  in 
/\)  nim : — 


, 


"  Be  as  your  fancies  teach  you  ; 


Whate'er  you  be,  I  am  obedient." 


And  at  this  point  ends  the  happiness,  which  is  as  perfect  now  as 
it  weU  could  be.  V 

In  the  meantime,  and  while  the  adder's  tongue  is  busy  at  its 
work,  arrive  the  leading  personages  in  Cyprus  invited  by  Othello      / 
to  a  banquet.     Desdemona  receives  them,  and  plays  the  part  of    / 
gracious  hostess,   so  natural  to  her.     To  her  surprise  Othello,  / 
who  said  he  would   "come  to  her  straight,"  does  not  appear.  | 
She  fears  his  guests  will  think  him  discourteous  in  this  prolonged  I 
absence,  and  hastens  to  remind  him  of  their  visitors.     She  enters  / 
gaily,  ready  with  a  pretty  chiding  : 

"  How  now,  my  dear  Othello  ! 
Your  dinner,  and  the  generous  islanders 

By  you  invited,  do  attend  your  presence.  \ 

Oth.  I  am  to  blame. " 

The  coldness  and  reserve  of  his  speech  startle  her : — 

"  Why  do  you  speak  so  faintly  ?     Are  you  not  well  ? 

Oth.  I  have  a  pain  upon  my  forehead  here. 

Des.  Faith,  that's  with  watching  ;  'twill  away  again  : 
Let  me  but  bind  it  hard,  within  this  hour 
It  will  be  well. 

Oth.  Your  napkin  is  too  little  ; 

Let  it  alone." 


68      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

The  harsh  abruptness  shown  in  this  reply  to  her  offer  to  relieve  ] 
his  pain  must  have  come  indeed  as  a  shock  to  Desdemona,  con- 
trasting strangely  as  it  did  with  the  tone  of  their  parting  so  i 
short  a  time  before.     Yet  she  sweetly  adds,  without  noticing  his  / 
rudeness : —  / 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  are  not  well."  / 

No  wonder,  finding  things  so  changed,  and  with  no  apparent 
cause,  that  she  forgets  the  handkerchief,  dear  as  it  was  to  her, 
with  which  she  had  offered  to  bind  his  forehead.  She  is  "a 
child  to  chiding,"  and  no  doubt  feels  these  first  harsh  words 
very  keenly.  They  go  out  together,  and  we  may  suppose  that 
her  frank  innocent  demeanour  and  fond  words  reassure  him  for 
the  time.  I  remember  so  well  Mr  Macready's  manner  as  we  left 
the  scene.  He  took  my  face  in  both  his  hands,  looked  long  into 
my  eyes,  and  then  the  old  look  came  back  into  his,  and  it  spoke 
as  plainly  as  possible,  "  My  life  upon  her  faith  ! " 

What  happens  at  the  banquet  we  are  not  told.  It  cannot  be 
the  presence  of  Cassio  which  inflames  Othello,  for,  being  in  dis- 
grace, he  would  hardly  be  there.  It  may  be  that  the  free,  loyal 
homage  which  he  sees  paid  to  his  wife,  not  only  because  of  her 
position  as  his  wife,  but  still  more  on  account  of  her  beauty  and 
sweet  courtesy  to  his  guests,  makes  her  still  more  precious  in  his 
eyes,  so  that  the  bare  thought  of  not  standing  alone  in  her  affec- 
tions maddens  him.  But  certainly  he  returns  shortly  after  in 
a  paroxysm  of  rage  and  grief,  and  salutes  lago  with  "  A  vaunt ! 
begone !  thou  hast  set  me  on  the  rack."  Then  follows  that  ex- 
quisite speech  in  which  he  bids  farewell  to  everything  in  life 
most  dear — to  "  the  tranquil  mind  !  " — to  "  content !  " — to  all 
"pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war." 
"  Farewell !  Othello's  occupation's  gone  ! " 

To  direct  the  fury  of  Othello's  "  waked  wrath  "  into  the  desired 
channel,  lago  has  ready  a  whole  catalogue  of  reasons  to  prove 
Desdemona  and  Cassio's  disloyalty.  Othello  accepts  them  readily, 
as  though  they  were  "  proofs  of  Holy  Writ "  : — 

"  Now  do  I  see  'tis  true.     Look  here,  lago ; 
All  my  fond  love  thus  do  I  blow  to  heaven. 
'Tis  gone.     .     .     .     Swell,  bosom,  with  thy  fraught, 
For  'tis  of  aspics'  tongues  ! " 


DESDEMONA.  69 

These  "aspics'  tongues"  have  been  hissing  out  their  venom  to 
deadly  purpose.  These  are  the  drugs  which  lago  uses,  and  to 
which  he  again  appeals  : — 

"  Work  on— 
My  medicine,  work  !     Thus  credulous  fools  are  caught." 

Desdemona  has  made  so  sure  of  winning  Othello's  consent  to 
receive  Cassio  into  favour  again,  that  she  sends  for  him  to  tell 
him  the  good  news  :  "  Tell  him  I  have  moved  my  lord  on  his 
behalf,  and  hope  all  will  be  well."  But  before  they  meet  occurs 
the  scene  with  the  handkerchief,  and  Othello's  violence  at  the 
supposed  loss  of  it.  Still  Desdemona,  who  knows  nothing  of  its 
whereabouts,  but  believing  it  to  be  only  mislaid,  and  hoping  to 
have  it  to  show  him  when  it  has  been  properly  searched  for, 
thinks  his  vehemence  on  the  subject  a  little  overstrained — put 
upon  her,  indeed,  "as  a  trick  to  drive  her  from  her  suit." 
Therefore  she  still  repeats  it,  urging  Cassio's  claims  upon  him 
with  the  words — 

"  You'll  never  meet  a  more  sufficient  man. 

A  man  that,  all  his  time, 

Hath  founded  his  good  fortunes  on  your  love ; 

Shared  dangers  with  you." 

It  is  only  when  Othello  breaks  angrily  from  her  that  she  realises 
there  may  be  "  some  wonder  in  this  handkerchief :  I  am  most     1 
unhappy  in  the  loss  of  it." 

Emilia,  instead  of  being,  as  her  husband  fancies,  inclined  favour- 
ably towards  Othello,  appears  to  me  to  have  the  dislike,  common 
to  many  of  her  class,  of  anything  unusual,  and  looks  all  along 
upon  the  Moor  with  unfriendly,  suspicious  eyes.  So  she  says, 

"  'Tis  not  a  year  or  two  shows  us  a  man." 

She  no  doubt  had  found  it  to  be  so  :  even  lago  must  have 
appeared  to  her  in  different  colours  when  they  were  first  wedded. 
Her  pent-up  dislike  to  the  Moor  adds  fuel  to  her  wrath,  when 
she  finds  subsequently  that  he  has  been  the  easy  dupe  of  her 
villanous  husband. 

After  the  episode  of  the  handkerchief,  when  Cassio  appears,  ^ 


70  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 


, 


>C1± 

J 


who  had  been  sent  for  by  Desdemona  to  hear,  as  she  hoped, 
good  news,  Desdemona,  ever  unselfish,  is  as  sorry  for  him  as  for 
herself  :— 

"Alas,  thrice-gentle  Cassio  ! 

My  advocation  is  not  now  in  tune  ; 

My  lord  is  not  my  lord  ;  nor  should  I  know  him, 

Were  he  in  favour  as  in  humour  alter'd." 

She  remembers  that  she  has  pledged  herself  to  be  his  "  solicitor  " 

even  to  the  death, — 

"  You  must  awhile  be  patient : 
What  I  can  do  I  will ;  and  more  I  will 
Than  for  myself  I  dare  :  let  that  suffice  you." 

Cassio  will  surely  think  of  this  hereafter ! 

•>*The  next  time  we  see  Desdemona  she  comes  with  Lodovico, 
who  has  been  sent  to  Cyprus  from  Venice,  bearing  to  Othello 
the  Duke's  letters  and  commands.  Desdemona  salutes  Lodovico 
as  "  cousin."  He  may  be  so,  or  this  may  be  only  a  phrase  of 
courtesy  in  the  same  way  that  royalty  uses  it.  When  speaking 
of  him  afterwards  to  Emilia,  she  says,  "  This  Lodovico  is  a  proper 
man."  "A  very  handsome  man,"  says  Emilia.  Desdemona 
replies,  "  He  speaks  well."  See  the  difference  in  the  women — 
how  finely  marked  in  these  comments !  While  Othello  reads 
his  papers,  Lodovico  inquires  after  his  friend,  Lieutenant  Cassio. 
Upon  this  Desdemona,  who  never  loses  sight  of  her  promise, 
says :  "  Cousin,  there's  fallen  between  him  and  my  lord  an  un- 
kind breach ; "  and,  beginning  to  fear  that  her  own  influence 
will  not  be  sufficient,  she  adds,  "But  you  shall  make  all  well." 
"  Is  there  division,"  Lodovico  says,  with  evident  surprise,  "  'twixt 
my  lord  and  Cassio  ? " 

"  A  most  unhappy  one  :  I  would  do  much 
To  atone  them,  for  the  love  I  bear  to  Cassio." 

This  public  declaration  of  her  goodwill — which  appears,  what 
in  truth  it  is,  nothing  to  those  around  but  simply  the  natural 
feeling  for  a  friend  in  trouble — all  but  maddens  Othello ;  and 
when  Desdemona  expresses  her  gladness  that  they  are  com- 
manded home,  and  that  Cassio  is  to  be  governor  of  Cyprus  in 
his  place,  Othello  breaks  out,  " I  am  glad  to  see  you  mad"  and 
strikes  her. 


J 


DESDEMONA.  71 

'  My  lord,  this  would  not  be  believed  in  Venice, 
Though  I  should  swear  I  saw't :  'tis  very  much  : 
Make  her  amends  ;  she  weeps." 

Her  tears,  Othello  says,  are  but  those  of  a  crocodile.  To  his 
fiercer  injunction,  "  Out  of  my  sight ! "  her  only  answer  is,  "  I 
will  not  stay  to  offend  you."  Then  upon  Lodovico's  request  she 
is  called  back,  and  comes  upon  the  instant,  true  to  her  former 
words — "  Whate'er  you  be,  I  am  obedient."  Untouched  by  her 
gentleness,  Othello  continues  : — 

"  Proceed  you  in  your  tears. 
Concerning  this,  sir, — 0  well-painted  passion  ! — 
.     .      .      Get  you  away ; 
I'll  send  for  you  anon.      .      .     .     Hence,  avaunt !  " 

No   wonder  that   Lodovico,   when   Othello   quits   the   scene, 
exclaims  in  amazement : — 

' '  Is  this  the  noble  Moor  whom  our  full  senate 
Call  all-in-all  sufficient  ?     This  the  nature 
Whom  passion  could  not  shake  ?     .      .      . 
Are  his  wits  safe  ?     Is  he  not  light  of  brain  ? 

What !  strike  his  wife  !  " 

lago  prepares  Lodovico  for  what  he  knows  is  to  follow,  by 
replying  :  "  Would  I  knew  that  stroke  would  prove  the  worst ! " 
"I  am  sorry  that  I  am  deceived  in  him,"  is  Lodovico's " answer. 
He  will  no  doubt  remember  afterwards  that  he  has  been  deceived 
in  more  than  in  Othello. 

Next    come    the   Moor's   interrogations    of    Emilia,    and   her 
replies : — 

"  I  durst,  my  lord,  to  wager  she  is  honest, 
Lay  down  my  soul  at  stake  :      . 
For,  if  she  be  not  honest,  chaste,  and  true, 
There's  no  man  happy." 

But  she  may  as  well  speak  to  the  winds.  If  Othello  had 
spoken  here  of  having  seen  the  handkerchief  in  Cassio's  hand, 
I  believe,  despite  the  terror  of  her  husband,  Emilia  would  have 
explained  how  she  had  herself  found  and  given  it  to  lago ;  but 
he  does  not.  He  sends  her  to  fetch  Desdemona,  and  then  rudely 
dismisses  her. 


72  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

The  poor  dove  is  now  in  the  falcon's  grasp,  but  not  quite  yet 
to  be  torn  to  pieces.  One  wonders  why  Othello  sends  for  her, 
for  he  will  believe  nothing  she  says  or  swears : — 

"  Oth.  Swear  thou  art  honest. 

Des.  Heaven  doth  truly  know  it. 

Oth.  Heaven  truly  knows  that  thou  art  false  as  hell  ! 

Des.  To  whom,  my  lord  ?    With  whom  ?     How  am  I  false  ? 

Alas,  what  ignorant  sin  have  I  committed  ? 

Oth.       .     .     .      What  committed ! 
I  should  make  very  forges  of  my  cheeks, 
That  would  to  cinders  burn  up  modesty, 
Did  I  but  speak  thy  deeds.     What  committed  ! 

Des.  By  Heaven,  you  do  me  wrong  ! " 

When  in  the  coarsest  terms  he  asks  her  if  she  is  not  unfaithful, 
she  exclaims  :  "No,  as  I  am  a  Christian.  .  .  .  No,  as  I  shall 
be  saved ! " 

Emilia  finds  her  on  the  floor,  to  which  she  has  sunk  after 
making  oath,  on  her  knees,  of  her  being  to  Othello  "  a  true  and 
loyal  wife."  Think  how  stunned  and  bewildered  she  must  be  ! 
She  is  accused  of  a  crime  beyond  all  others  most  foreign  to  her 
nature.  She  can  imagine  no  motive  for  the  accusation — has  no 
clue  to  the  "With  whom?  How  am  I  false?"  It  is  like  a 
hideous  dream  ;  and,  with  a  pathos  unsurpassed,  to  my  thinking, 
in  poetry,  she  answers  Emilia's  question,  "  How  do  you,  my  good 
lady  ? "  with — 

"  'Faith,  half  asleep. 
Emil.  Good  madam,  what's  the  matter  with  my  lord  ? 

Des.  Who  is  thy  lord  ? 

Emil.  He  that  is  yours,  sweet  lady. 

Des.  I  have  none  :  do  not  talk  to  me,  Emilia  ;  I  cannot  weep.    .    .    . 

Prithee  to-night 

Lay  on  my  bed  my  wedding-sheets — remember ; 
And  call  thy  husband  hither." 

Then  follows  that  most  pathetic  scene,  in  which  she  so  touch- 
ingly  appeals  for  help  to  her  destroyer,  and  asks,  "Am  I  that 
name,  lago  1 "  "  What  name,  fair  lady  ? "  Not  being  able  to 
utter  the  foul  word  herself,  she  answers : — 


DESDEMONA.  73 

"  Such  as  she  says  my  lord  did  say  I  was. 

0  good  lago, 

What  shall  I  do  to  win  my  lord  again  ? 

Good  friend,  go  to  him  ;  for,  by  this  light  of  heaven, 

1  know  not  how  I  lost  him." 

She  fears  that  in  his  anger  he  may  shake  her  off  "  to  beggarly 
divorcement."     Yet  as  she  ever  did,  so  she  ever  will,  'Slove  him 


dearly." 


"  Un  kindness  may  do  much  ;  '  \s 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 
But  never  taint  my  love. " 


She  has  to  put  up  with  the  cold  comfort  which  lago  gives — pre- 
tending to  know  nothing  : — 

"  I  pray  you,  be  content ;  'tis  but  his  humour  : 
The  business  of  the  state  does  him  offence, 
And  he  does  chide  with  you." 

At  this  she  catches  with  trembling  eagerness  : — 

"  If  'twere  no  other — 

logo.  "Tis  but  so,  I  warrant. 

Go  in,  and  weep  not ;  all  things  shall  be  well." 

How  sad  it  is  that  the  exigencies  of  our  stage  require  the 
omission  of  the  exquisite  scene  which  follows  (Act  iv.  sc.  3) 
in  the  anteroom  to  Desdemona's  bedchamber — a  scene  so  im- 
portant for~"the  development~  of  her  character,  and  affording 
such  fine  opportunity  for  the  highest  powers  of  pathos  in  the 
actress  P___  Othello,  says  Emilia,  "looks  gentler "  ;  but  he  has 
commanded  her  to  be  dismissed.  "  Dismiss  me  !  "  "  So  he 

1  I  never  saw  this  scene  acted  but  once,  and  that  was  in  Dresden.  Cer- 
tainly the  Germans  prove  their  high  admiration  and  respect  for  our  great 
poet.  They  give  his  plays  in  their  integrity,  never  dreaming  of  cutting  out 
the  very  scenes  that  are  most  necessary  for  the  development  of  plot  and 
character.  Their  scenery  is  good,  appropriate,  harmonious — and  stands,  as 
it  always  should,  in  subservience  to  the  plot  and  human  interest  in  the 
play  :  it  is  so  unostentatiously  good  that  you  never  think  of  it.  So  of  the 
costumes  :  you  think  you  see  the  persons  represented.  As  all  is  in  keeping, 
so  you  never  criticise  what  the  characters  wear.  You  feel  at  once,  they 
looked  or  did  not  look  as  they  should,  and  give  this  subject  no  further  heed. 
All  these  matters  are  deeply  studied,  but  not  so  much  talked  about  as  they 


J 


74  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

says."  "  I  would  you  had  never  seen  him  !  "  "  So  would  not 
I,"  Desdemona  rejoins  : — 

"  My  love  doth  so  approve  him, 

That  even  his  stubbornness,  his  checks,  his  frowns — 
Prithee,  unpin  me, — have  grace  and  favour  in  them." 

She  had  before,  when  most  unhappy,  bidden  Emilia  lay  her  wed- 
ding-sheets that  night  upon  her  bed.  Emilia  now  tells  her  she 
has  done  so.  She  replies — 

' '  All's  one.     Good  faith,  how  foolish  are  our  minds  ! 
If  I  do  die  before  thee,  prithee,  shroud  me 
In  one  of  those  same  sheets  " — 

little  thinking  how  soon  that  shroud  would  be  required.  In 
what  follows,  what  might  not  be  done  by  that  silent  acting — 
that  eloquence  not  of  words  but  of  look  and  gesture — which 
is  the  great  test  of  the  actor's  powers  !  While  Emilia  is  "  un- 
pinning "  her  mistress,  I  picture  to  myself  Desdemona  seated, 
her  sad  thoughts  wandering  far  away,  gently  taking  the  jewels 
from  her  throat,  her  ears,  her  fingers  ;  while  Emilia  uncoils  the 
pearls  from  her  hair,  untwists  its  long  plaits,  and  gathers  them 
for  the  night  in  a  loose  coil  at  the  back  of  her  head.  Then,  as 
Emilia  kneels  at  her  feet  to  unfasten  the  embroidered  shoes, 
Desdemona  may  put  her  hand  admiringly  on  Emilia's  head  and 
smooth  her  fine  hair.  Meanwhile  her  thoughts  are  travelling 
back  to  her  childhood — perhaps  to  that  mother  whose  caresses 
she  so  early  lost  and  missed,  for  she  had  known  but  few  from 
her  cold  father :  in  imagination  she  may  again  feel  them.  Then 
she  remembers  Barbara,  her  mother's  maid,  who  loved  and  was 

are  here.  Being  but  accessories  at  the  best,  they  are  very  properly  only 
treated  as  such. 

I  feel  very  grateful  for  the  draped  curtain  which  in  Germany  drops  down 
from  the  sides  after  a  scene — a  usage  which  is  now  adopted  in  some  of 
our  leading  theatres.  While  it  is  closed,  such  furniture  as  has  been  neces- 
sary for  the  scene  is  quietly  withdrawn  (no  sofas  pushed  on  and  pulled  off 
by  very  visible  ropes) — and  the  next  scene  appears,  on  the  withdrawal  of 
the  curtain,  quite  complete.  In  this  way  one  of  the  great  difficulties  in 
presenting  Shakespeare's  plays,  arising  from  the  frequent  changes  of  the 
scene,  is  got  over.  In  Germany,  a  play  of  Shakespeare  takes  a  whole  long 
evening  ;  and  the  Germans  will  sit  four  or  five  hours,  listening  patiently  and 
delightedly  to  all  he  has  to  teach  them. 


DESDEMONA.  75 

forsaken,  and  who  died  singing  the  sad  old  ditty  that  "  expressed 
her  fortune  " — an  incident  likely  to  stamp  itself  deeply  in  Des- 
demona's  memory.  Little  had  she  thought  it  was  to  be  her 
death-song  too  ! — 

"  That  song  to-night 

Will  not  go  from  my  mind.     I  have  much  to  do, 
But  to  go  hang  my  head  all  at  one  side, 
And  sing  it  like  poor  Barbara.     .     .     . 

"  (Sings)  '  The  poor  soul  sat  sighing  by  a  sycamore-tree, 
Sing  all  a  green  willow  ; 

Her  salt  tears  fell  from  her,  and  soften'd  the  stones ' ; 
Lay  by  these  :— 

'  Sing  willow,  willow,  willow ; ' 
Prithee,  hie  thee  ;  he'll  come  anon  :     .     .     . 
'  Let  nobody  blame  him,  his  scorn  I  approve ' — 
Nay,  that's  not  next.     Hark  !  who  is't  that  knocks  ? 
Emil.  It  is  the  wind. 

Des.  '  I  call'd  my  love  false  love  ;  but  what  said  he  then  ? 
Sing  willo,w7  willow,  willow.' 

.     .     .     Good  night.     Mine  eyes  do  itch ; 
Doth  that  bode  weeping  ? 

Emil.  'Tis  neither  here  nor  there. 

Des.  I  have  heard  it  said  so.     .     , 
Dost  thou  in  conscience  think, — tell  me,  Emilia, — 
That  there  be  women  do  abuse  their  husbands 
In  such  gross  kind  ? 

Emil.  There  be  some  such,  no  question. 

Des.  Beshrew  me,  if  I  would  do  such  a  wrong 
For  the  whole  world. 

I  do  not  think  there  is  any  such  woman." 

After  listening  to  some  of  Emilia's  coarse  worldly  maxims,  she 
hreaks  away  from  the  subject  by  saying — 

"  Good  night,  good  night :  Heaven  me  such  uses  send 
Not  to  pick  bad  from  bad,  but  by  bad  mend  ! " 

Although  such  heavy  clouds  had  passed  over  her  happiness, 

lyet  Desdemona  still  loved  and  trusted,  and  was  not,  therefore, 

\]  altogether  sad.     To  the  last  she  shows  herself  to  be  of  a  hopeful, 

generous  disposition.     She  knows  how  to  forgive — hopes  that 


76  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

what  has  been  the  mystery  of  Othello's  unkindness  is  perhaps 
to  be  explained  in  the  privacy  of  their  chamber,  when  a  word 
of  regret,  of  remorse  from  him,  will  win  her  fullest  pardon. 
There  is  something  almost  sublime  in  this  unshaken  love  and 
trust.  She  falls  asleep  in  it — for  oh,  such  a  rude  awakening ! 
The  swan  had  sung  her  song,  and  so  sinks  into  her  deathbed, 
although  she  knew  it  not. 

I     It  is,   as  we  have  seen,   with  some  presentiment  of   sorrow 
/before  her  that  Desdemona  goes  to  bed.     The  shock  of  Othello's 

f      accusation  has  struck  to  her  soul,  and  shaken  her  whole  being. 

\      She  will  not  accuse  or  hear  him  accused  of  injustice  by  Emilia, 

but  her  idol  cannot  stand  in  her  imagination  where  he  did.      He 

f      has  human  infirmities,  and  these  far  greater  than  she  could  have 

\        looked  for.     She  can  think  of  no  indiscretion  of  her  own,  except 

\      perhaps  suing  for  their  friend  Cassio,  at  a  time  when  Othello  was 

J  not  in  a  mood  to  listen — when  state  affairs  disturbed  him.  Yet 
how  could  he,  for  so  slight  a  cause,  strike  her — disgrace  himself 
and  her  before  the  gentleman  who  came  with  despatches  from 
Venice,  and  afterwards  shock  her  ears  with  names  not  to  be 
uttered ! — and 

"  Throw  such  despite  and  heavy  terms  upon  her, 
As  true  hearts  cannot  bear  !  " 

Is  this  her  noble  Moor,  "  so  true  of  mind,  and  made  of  no  such 
baseness  as  jealous  creatures  are  "  1 

Sad,  disappointed  as  she  is  at  his  unkindness,  yet  her  con- 
science is  at  rest.  Besides,  the  fit  seemed  past :  he  had  "  looked 
gentler " ;  so,  trying  for  more  hopeful  thoughts,  and  praying  for 
the  help  she  needed — worn  out,  too/ as  she  was  by  unusual  and 
unexpected  trouble — she  falls  asleep. 

It  is  strange  it  never  occurs  to  Othello  that,  if  Desdemona 
had  really  been  the  "  cunning "  Venetian  he  thought  her,  know- 
ing her  vileness  discovered,  she  might  have  found  means  easily 
to  bribe  those  who  would  have  hidden  her  from  his  just  wrath. 
Emilia  was  not  so  scrupulous  a  woman  as  to  have  refused  her 
assistance.  Besides,  had  not  the  Moor  insulted  her,  also,  in  the 
grossest  language?  And  would  she  not  have  been,  at  a  word 
from  her  mistress,  glad  enough  to  help  her,  and  thwart  him1? 


DESDEMONA.  77 

But  he  sees  this  cunning,  past  all  expressing  "vile  one"  obey 
his  will  without  a  murmur,  go  quietly  to  bed,  and  finds  her, 
with  this  load  of  guilt,  as  he  believes,  upon  her  heart,  sleeping 
the  sweet  sleep  of  a  child.  Well  may  Emilia  exclaim  of  him, 
"  0  gull !  0  dolt ! "  He  sees  nothing  but  what  he  is  primed  to 
see;  in  all  things  else  "as  ignorant  as  dirt."  He  may  have 
"looked  gentler,"  but  the  poison  has  done  its  work  ;  and  nothing 
but  the  life's  blood  of  his  victim  can,  as  he  says,  "remove  or 
choke  the  strong  conception  which  I  do  groan  withal."  The 
very  serenity  of  her  guileless  soul  makes  against  her.  "  She  must 
die,  or  she'll  betray  more  men."  What  a  scene  is  this  !  The 
powers  of  good  and  evil  have  met  in  mortal  strife  ! 

My  friends  used  to  say,  as  Mr  Macready  did,  that  in  Desde- 
mona  I  was  "very  hard  to  kill."  How  could  it  be  otherwise? 
I  would  not  die  dishonoured  in  Othello's  esteem.  This  was 
bitterer  than  fifty  thousand  deaths.  Then  I  thought  of  all  his 
after-suffering,  when  he  should  come  to  know  how  he  had  mis- 
taken me !  The  agony  for  him  which  filled  my  heart,  as  well 
as  the  mortal  agony  of  death,  which  I  felt  in  imagination,  made 
my  cries  and  struggles  no  doubt  very  vehement  and  very  real. 
My  whole  soul  was  flung  into  the  entreaty,  but  for  "  half  an 
hour  !  "  "  but  while  I  say  one  prayer  !  " — which  prayer  would 
have  been  for  him.  Then,  when  she  hears,  for  the  first  time, 
that  Cassio  is  the  supposed  accomplice  in  her  guilt,  it  was  as 
though  I  spoke  for  myself  in  uttering  the  swift  rejoinder — 
"  Send  for  the  man  and  ask  him  !  " x 

Oh  that  Othello  had  been  so  true  a  friend  and  husband  as  to 
do  this  before  !  But  no :  the  poison  still  works,  and  all  she 
says  only  serves  to  augment  his  fury.  When  Desdemona  hears 
that  Cassio  has  already  lost  his  life,  and  that  "his  mouth  is 
stopped,"  she  naturally  weeps  for  the  loss  of  the  innocent  man, 

1  It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  me,  when,  talking  with  Mr  Carlyle  in  1873 
about  Mr  Macready's  revivals,  which  he  spoke  of  very  warmly,  he  referred 
in  glowing  terms  to  my  Desdemona.  Amid  much  else,  he  said  he  had  never 
felt  the  play  so  deeply  before.  One  phrase  especially  struck  me—"  It  quite 
hurt  me  to  see  the  fair,  delicate  creature  so  brutally  used. "  Would  that 
I  could  give  an  idea  of  his  tone  and  accent,  gentle  and  tremulous,  as  if  a 
suffering  living  creature  were  there  before  him  !  I  quote  from  my  Diary, 
November  24,  1873. 


78  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

both  for  his  own  sake  and  because  he  alone  could,  she  thinks, 
prove  her  guiltless.  All  things  conspire  against  her — her  very 
tears,  her  prayers,  her  asseverations  give  countenance  to  her 
guilt.  She  is  hurled  headlong  down  the  precipice,  but,  alas ! 
not  killed  at  once.  The  strong  young  life  will  not  leave  its 
tenement — the  mortal  agony  is  prolonged — even  the  dagger's 
thrust,  which  is  meant  in  mercy  that  she  may  not  "linger  in 
her  pain,"  is  not  enough.  The  soul  cannot  away  until  it  asserts 
the  purity  of  the  sweet  casket  in  which  it  has  been  set.  It 
lingers  on  in  its  pain  until  the  poor  lips  can  speak,  not,  as  before, 
to  deaf  ears  that  will  not  listen,  but  to  those  of  a  sympathising 
woman.  Then,  with  bitter  moans  and  broken  breath,  Desdemona 
stammers  out  with  her  last  gasp  of  life — "A  guiltless  death  I 
die ! " 

When  asked  by  Emilia  who  has  done  this  deed,  she  says, 
"Nobody;  I  myself."  As  in  the  senate  -  house,  before  the 
council,  she  took  all  the  blame  upon  herself,  so  here  again,  and 
with  her  dying  breath,  she  exonerates  the  Moor.  I  did  it  all — 
"I  myself."  Blame  no  one  else.  "Commend  me  to  my  kind 
lord :  0,  farewell !  " 

Commend  me  to  my  brave  warrior  !  Of  what  higher  heroism 
than  this — of  what  nobler  love  and  self-abnegation — has  history 
or  romance  any  record  ? 

Mr  Macready  was  very  fine  in  this  scene.  There  was  an  im- 
pressive grandeur,  an  elevation  even,  in  his  ravings  : — 

"  Whip  me,  ye  devils, 

From  the  possession  of  this  heavenly  sight  ! 
Blow  me  about  in  winds  !  roast  me  in  sulphur  ! 
Wash  me  in  steep-down  gulfs  of  liquid  fire  ! — 
O  Desdemona  !  Desdemona  ! — dead  !  dead  !  dead  !  " 

As  I  lay  there  and  listened,  he  seemed  to  me  to  be  like  a  soul  in 
hell,  whirling  in  the  second  circle  of  the  Inferno.  And  there 
was  a  piteousness,  a  pathos,  in  his  reiteration  of  the  loved  one's 
name  that  went  to  my  very  heart.  Then  one  felt  how  wisely 
Shakespeare  had  made  its  penultimate  syllable  long,  and  not 
short,  as  in  Italy  it  is,  bringing  into  it  a  prolonged  moaning 
sound,  which  at  this  point  of  the  play  seems  so  much  in  accord 
with  Desdemona's  doom.  Oh,  how  my  heart  ached,  too,  for 


DESDEMONA.  79 

Othello,  when  his  eyes  were  opened,  and  he  could  see  and  trace 
the  paltry  threads  by  which  his  soul  and  body  had  been  ensnared, 
and  when  I  heard  the  broken  accents  of  his  shame  at  having 
sunk  so  low  as  to  conspire  in  Cassio's  death ! 

"  Lod.  Did  you  and  he  consent  in  Cassio's  death  ? 
Oth.  Ay. 

Cas.  Dear  general,  I  never  gave  you  cause. 
Oth.  I  do  believe  it,  and  I  ask  you  pardon." 

And  now  the  end  has  come.  The  play  begins  in  night  with 
hurry  and  turmoil ;  in  night,  and  what  a  night,  it  closes  !  There 
are  glorious  days  of  perfect  happiness  between,  but  they  are 
few,  and  the  last  of  them  overshadowed  with  clouds  "  consulting 
for  foul  weather,"  and  giving  portentous  presage  of  a  terrible 
catastrophe.  But  not  with  storm  and  turmoil  does  the  last 
night  come.  The  deep  blue  sky  is  studded  with  "  chaste  stars," 
not  a  breath  is  stirring,  and  the  lapping  of  the  Levantine  sea 
against  the  castle  rock  is  alone  heard  through  the  stillness ;  while 
"the  sweetest  innocent  that  e'er  did  lift  up  eye"  is  cruelly  done 
to  death  by  him  that  loved  her  best. 

As  we  "  look  upon  the  tragic  loading  of  that  bed,"  we  are  not 
without  comfort.  Truly  it  is  best  so.  The  wrench  which  had 
been  given  to  the  bond  by  which  these  two  noble  lovers  were 
united  could  never  be  repaired  on  earth.  Life  could  never  again 
have  been  to  them  the  same  as  in  their  brief  days  of  happiness. 
The  delusion  which  made  Othello  mad  has  been  rent  from  his 
eyes.  He  must  rejoin  her  who  died  with  a  message  for  him  on 
her  lips.  No  fear  that  when  they  "meet  at  compt"  her  look 
will  "  hurl  his  soul  from  heaven."  Her  infinite  love  and  pity 
will  think  but  of  his  sufferings,  and  will  plead  for  the  forgiveness 
he  dares  not  ask  for  himself. 

Another  victim  lies  near  them,  and  one  who  has  become  almost 
hallowed  by  her  death. 

Whatever  may  have  been  Emilia's  life  before,  we  must  feel  for 
her  now.  She  has  truly  loved  and  honoured  Desdemona,  all  the 
more  that,  to  her  common  nature,  and  with  her  rough  experience 
of  the  world,  her  mistress  reveals  a  purity  and  elevation  of  spirit 
which  she  had  never  met  before — nay,  of  which  she  had  never 
so  much  as  dreamed.  We  cannot  forgive  the  part  she  plays  in 


80  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

giving  the  dropped  handkerchief  to  her  husband,  instead  of 
returning  it  to  her  lady,  knowing  how  she  values  it — how  she 
keeps  it  "  always  by  her  to  kiss  and  talk  to."  Although  she  has 
misgivings  as  to  the  use  her  husband  means  to  make  of  it,  yet 
she  gives  it  to  "please  his  fantasy."  She  hears  Desdemona 
deplore  its  loss  — "  Where  should  I  lose  that  handkerchief, 
Emilia  ? "  Yet  she  can  answer,  "  I  know  not,  madam."  She 
hears  the  Moor's  wild  burst  of  passion  when  Desdemona  owns  she 
"has  it  not  about  her";  she  knows  that  its  absence  has  made 
him  jealous ;  she  sees  her  mistress  plunged  in  grief  for  its  loss, 
and  yet  keeps  silence.  Nothing  can  excuse  that  silence,  not  even 
her  dread  of  her  husband,  brutal  as  she  knew  him  to  be — this 
"  honest,  honest  lago "  !  She  could  have  told  them  of  what 
metal  he  was  made. 

Still  she  expiates  her  wrong-doing  with  her  life.  With  that 
last  interview  of  only  an  hour  ago  in  her  thoughts,  the  old  ballad 
still  sounding  in  her  ears,  when  she  next  sees  her  sweet  mistress 
it  is  to  find  her  breathless — dying  from  a  violent  and  most  un- 
natural death.  Well  may  she  say,  "  Oh,  this  grief  will  kill  me  ! " 
But  she  has  yet  to  learn  the  share  which  she  herself  has  had  in 
this  dismal  tragedy — to  learn  that  the  handkerchief  she  stole  and 
gave  to  her  husband,  Desdemona  had  been  accused  of  giving  to 
Cassio.  At  last  she  speaks.  Though  late,  she  will  make  what 
reparation  she  can,  and  she  does  it  unflinchingly.  Her  husband's 
threats  and  his  commands  that  she  shall  go  home  do  not  stop  her. 
She  entreats  of  the  others  leave  to  speak.  "  "Tis  proper  I  obey 
him,  but  not  now.  Perchance,  lago,  I  will  ne'er  go  home."  No  ! 
there  is  no  more  home  for  any  of  them.  What  has  she  more  to 
live  for  ?  Better  die,  as  she  does,  by  lago's  sword,  than  drag  out 
a  life  of  remorse  for  disloyalty  to  her  mistress.  That  mistress  is 
the  one  sole  creature  of  whom  she  can  now  think,  and  with  her 
dying  breath  she  reiterates  to  Othello  the  asseverations  of  her 
innocence.  "  She  loved  thee,  cruel  Moor ;  ...  so  speaking  as 
I  think,  I  die,  I  die ; "  and  her  last  words  are  a  prayer  that  she 
may  be  laid  by  her  mistress's  side. 

We  have  learned  from  Gratiano  that  Brabantio  is  dead.  No 
doubt  when  he  returned  from  the  ducal  palace  to  his  desolate 
home,  Brabantio  would  become  alive  to  the  truth  that  his 


DESDEMONA.  81 

daughter  had  been  its  very  light  and  life.  Self-reproaches  would 
rise  to  fill  her  place  and  embitter  his  loneliness,  reminding  him 
of  all  he  might  have  been  to  her,  but  had  not  been.  The  maiden, 
so  tender,  so  unobtrusive,  had  a  magic  in  her  presence  not  con- 
sciously known  or  felt  until  lost,  which  filled  his  home  and  life 
with  blessings,  and  without  which  the  charm  of  both  was  gone, 
and  so  the  old  senator  died  quickly — "  pure  grief  shore  his  old 
thread  in  twain." 

Of  Cassio  what  shall  be  said?  The  two  creatures  he  most 
admired  and  loved  have  been  brought  to  ruin,  and  chiefly  through 
him !  By  his  own  folly  in  the  brawl  with  Eoderigo  he  will  be 
apt  to  think  he  laid  the  groundwork  for  lago's  plot.  He  will 
remember  that  it  was  lago  who  first  urged  him  to  appeal  to 
Desdemona  to  get  him  reinstated.  Nor  can  he  fail  to  learn  how 
his  importunity  and  her  kindness — "Your  solicitor  shall  rather 
die  than  give  your  cause  away ! " — helped  to  bring  about  the 
woful  catastrophe.  If  so,  what  unhappiness  is  before  him !  It 
will  take  long  years  to  deaden  the  thought  that,  but  for  his  fatal 
weakness,  no  intercession  would  have  been  necessary,  and  thus 
all  would  have  gone  well.  A  great  gap  has  been  made  in  his 
life.  He  will  never  be  the  same  man  again,  though  he  may  be  a 
better  and  a  wiser  one.  Neither  Cyprus  nor  Venice  will  hold  him 
long.  He  will  get  back,  I  think,  to  Florence,  and  to  the  books 
and  studies  of  his  youth.  Ever  present  with  him  will  be  the 
image  of  the  victims  of  the  "  misad ventured  piteous  overthrow  "  in 
which  he  had  unwittingly  played  so  prominent  a  part.  But  for 
him  there  will  be  one  "  enskyed  and  sainted  "  above  all  her  sex — 
one  who  will  keep  alive  for  him  his  faith  in  woman,  his  hopes  of 
the  hereafter,  when  the  mysteries  of  "  all  this  unintelligible  world  " 
shall  be  solved  ;  and  that  one  will  be — "the  divine  Desdemona." 

Adieu,  my  friend.  I  have  told  you,  as  you  wished  me,  my 
thoughts  about  the  three  important  female  characters  in  Shake- 
speare to  which  you  believed  the  least  justice  had  generally  been 
done.  Would  I  had  held  your  pen  to  write  with  !  Adieu  ! 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

HELENA  FAUCIT   MARTIN. 
To  Miss  GEBALDINB  E.  JEWSBUBT. 


82  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS. 

[Before  this  letter  was  despatched,  I  learned  that  the  dear 
friend  for  whom  it  was  intended  had  sunk  into  a  state  of  uncon- 
sciousness. As  it  was  written,  however,  so  I  leave  it,  praying 
forbearance  for  what  in  it  is  merely  personal — the  trifles  which 
would  have  given  it  a  special  value  in  her  eyes. 

H.  F.  M. 

31  ONSLOW  SQUAKE,  LONDON,  S.W., 
February  12,  1881.] 


IV. 
JULIET 


IV. 
JULIET. 

31  ONBLOW  SQUARE,  5th  January  1881. 

"  So  shows  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shows." 

TTOU  ask  me  to  write  to  you,  dear  friend,  of  Juliet,  and  of  all 
-*-  my  earliest  dreams  about  her.  Whose  bidding  should  I 
heed,  if  not  yours,  my  always  loving,  indulgent,  constant  friend  ? 
But  indeed  you  hardly  realise  how  difficult  is  the  task  you  have 
set  me.  Of  the  characters  which  I  wrote  about  to  our  dear  Miss 
Jewsbury,  I  could  speak  as  of  beings  outside,  as  it  were,  my  own 
personality;  but  Juliet  seems  inwoven  with  my  life.  Of  all 
characters,  hers  is  the  one  which  I  have  found  the  greatest  diffi- 
culty, but  also  the  greatest  delight,  in  acting.  My  early  girl- 
hood's first  step  upon  the  stage  was  made  as  Juliet.  To  the  last 
days  of  my  artist  life  I  never  acted  the  character  without  finding 
fresh  cause  to  marvel  at  the  genius  which  created  this  child- 
woman,  raised  by  love  to  heroism  of  the  highest  type. 

It  was  at  the  little  theatre  beside  the  Green  at  Eichmond1 
that  I  first  played  Juliet ;  and  Eichmond  is  therefore  indelibly 
associated  with  the  Juliet  of  my  early  youth.  I  will  tell  you 

1  As  these  sheets  are  passing  through  the  press  (March  1885),  I  read,  not 
without  a  pang,  that  this  little  theatre,  after  sinking  into  a  state  of  pitiable 
decay,  is  being  pulled  down. 


86  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

why.  My  holidays  were  passed  there,  for  there  my  family 
always  spent  the  summer  months.  The  small  house  on  the 
Green,  in  which  we  were  often  left  with  a  kind  old  servant  in 
charge,  looks  to  me  even  now  like  a  home.  Every  step  of  the 
Green,  the  river-banks,  the  fields  round  Sion  House,  the  Hill, 
the  Park,  the  Twickenham  Meadows,  were  all  loved  more  and 
more  as  each  summer  enlarged  my  sense  of  beauty.  One  of  my 
earliest  and  most  vivid  recollections — I  was  then  quite  a  child 
— was  a  meeting  with  "  the  great  Edmund  Kean,"  as  my  sister 
called  him.  He  was  her  pet  hero.  She  had  seen  him  act,  and, 
through  friends,  had  a  slight  acquaintance  with  him.  Wishing 
her  little  "  birdie,"  as  she  called  me,  to  share  all  her  pleasures, 
she  often  took  me  with  her  to  the  Green  for  the  chance  of  seeing 
him,  as  he  strolled  there  with  his  aunt,  old  Miss  Tidswell.  The 
great  man  had  been  very  ill,  so  that  our  expectations  had  been 
frequently  disappointed.  At  last,  about  noon  one  very  warm 
sunny  day,  my  sister's  eager  eyes  saw  the  two  figures  in  the  far 
distance.  It  would  have  been  bad  manners  to  appear  to  be 
watching,  so  in  a  roundabout  way  our  approach  was  made.  As 
we  drew  near,  I  would  gladly  have  run  away.  I  was  startled, 
frightened  at  what  I  saw, — a  small  pale  man  with  a  fur  cap, 
and  wrapped  in  a  fur  cloak.  He  looked  to  me  as  if  come  from 
the  grave.  A  stray  lock  of  very  dark  hair  crossed  his  forehead, 
under  which  shone  eyes  which  looked  dark,  and  yet  bright  as 
lamps.  So  large  were  they,  so  piercing,  so  absorbing,  I  could 
see  no  other  feature.  I  shrank  from  them  behind  my  sister,  but 
she  whispered  to  me  that  it  would  be  unkind  to  show  any  fear, 
so  we  approached,  and  were  kindly  greeted  by  the  pair. 

Oh  what  a  voice  was  that  which  spoke !  It  seemed  to  come 
from  so  far  away — a  long,  long  way  behind  him.  After  the 
first  salutation,  it  said,  "  Who  is  this  little  one  ? "  When  my 
sister  had  explained,  the  face  smiled — (I  was  reassured  by  the 
smile,  and  the  face  looked  less  terrible) — and  he  asked  me  where 
I  went  to  school,  and  which  of  my  books  I  liked  best.  Alas  !  I 
could  not  then  remember  that  I  liked  any,  but  my  ever  good 
angel-sister  said  she  knew  I  was  fond  of  poetry,  for  I  had  just 
won  a  prize  for  recitation.  Upon  this  the  face  looked  still  more 
kindly  at  me,  and  we  all  moved  together  to  a  seat  under  the 


JULIET.  87 

trees.  Then  the  far-away  hollow  voice — but  it  was  not  harsh 
— spoke  again,  as  he  put  his  hand  in  mine,  and  bade  me  tell 
him  whether  I  liked  my  school-walks  better  than  the  walks  at 
Richmond.  This  was  too  much,  and  it  broke  the  ice  of  my 
silence.  No,  indeed  !  Greenwich  Park  was  very  pretty  —  so 
was  Blackheath,  with  its  donkeys,  which  we  were,  on  occasions 
much  too  rare,  allowed  to  ride.  But  Eichmond !  Nothing 
could  be  so  beautiful !  I  was  asked  to  name  my  favourite  spots, 
and  whether  I  had  ever  been  in  a  punt — which  I  had, — and 
caught  fish — which  I  had  not.  My  tongue,  once  untied,  ran  on 
and  on,  and  had  after  a  time  to  be  stopped,  for  my  sister  and 
the  old  lady-aunt  thought  I  should  fatigue  the  invalid.  But  he 
would  not  part  just  yet.  He  asked  my  name,  and  when  it  was 
told,  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  the  old  ballad  ! — do  you  know  it  1 — which 
begins, — 

'  Oh,  my  Helen, 

There  is  no  tellin' 

Why  love  I  fell  in  ; 

The  grave,  my  dwellin', 

Would  I  were  well  in  ! ' 

I  know  now  why  with  '  my  Helen,  love  I  fell  in ' ;  it  is  because 
she  loves  poetry,  and  she  loves  Richmond.  Will  my  Helen 
come  and  repeat  her  poetry  to  me  some  day?"  This  alarming 
suggestion  at  once  silenced  my  prattle,  and  my  sister  had  to 
express  for  me  the  pleasure  and  honour  I  was  supposed  to  feel. 

Here  the  interview  ended.  The  kind  hand  was  withdrawn 
which  had  lain  in  mine  so  heavily,  and  yet  looked  so  thin  and 
small.  I  did  not  then  know  how  great  is  the  weight  of  weak- 
ness. It  was  put  upon  my  head,  and  I  was  bid  God-speed  !  I 
was  to  be  sent  for  some  day  soon.  But  the  day  never  came ; 
the  school-days  were  at  hand ;  those  wondrous  eyes  I  never  saw, 
and  that  distant  voice  I  never  heard  again. 

How  vividly  some  things  remain  with  us !  I  can  shut  my 
eyes  and  recall  the  whole  scene, — see  and  hear  all  that  passed, 
and  thrill  again  with  my  old  fright  and  pleasure  !  The  actual 
words  I  have  mentioned,  and  many  more  that  passed,  doubt- 
less would  not  have  remained  with  me,  if  I  had  not  heard  them 
repeated  often  and  often  by  my  sister.  She  was  as  proud  of 


88  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

this  little  episode  in  my  young  life  as  if  a  king  had  noticed  me  ; 
and  she  spoke  of  her  great  hero's  kind  words  to  me  so  constantly, 
— telling  them  to  all  our  friends, — that  they  became  riveted  in 
my  memory.  A  day  or  two  afterwards  my  sister  met  Miss 
Tidswell,  who  told  her  that  Mr  Kean  had  not  suffered  from  his 
walk,  and  had  often  spoken  of  the  little  sweet-voiced  maiden, 
who  could  be  dumb,  and  yet  full  of  talk  when  the  right  chord 
was  struck.  He  was  very  fond,  she  said,  of  children,  and  would 
like  the  little  sister  to  pay  him  an  early  visit.  But  this  was  not 
to  be.  He  must  have  recovered  from  the  illness  which  pre- 
vented him  from  sending  for  me,  for  I  heard  of  his  acting  in 
London  afterwards,  and  felt  all  a  child's  pride  in  having  once 
attracted  the  attention  of  a  distinguished  man.  And  who  so 
distinguished,  so  invested  with  charm  for  a  girl's  imagination,  as 
the  tragic  hero  of  the  day  1 

I  cannot  remember  if  the  house  into  which  I  saw  him  go  was 
the  small  house  attached  to  the  Richmond  theatre,  which  I  have 
heard  belonged  to  him  at  the  time  of  his  death,  and  in  which  he 
died.  With  that  little  house  are  linked  remembrances  of  mine 
very  deep  and  lasting.  In  the  parlour  I  dressed,  not  many  years 
afterwards,  for  the  part  of  Juliet,  to  make  my  first  appearance 
on  the  stage.  How  this  came  about  was  somewhat  singular. 
"We  were,  as  usual,  in  our  summer  quarters  at  Richmond.  At 
this  time  a  Mr  Willis  Jones  was  the  lessee  of  the  little  theatre  : 
he  was,  it  was  said,  a  gentleman  of  independent  fortune,  who 
had  a  great  desire  to  be  something  more  than  an  amateur  actor. 
The  performances  took  place  about  twice  or  thrice  a-week.  The 
stage-door  of  the  theatre  was  always  open,  and  on  the  off-days 
of  performance  we  sometimes  stole  in  and  stood  upon  the,  to 
me,  weirdly  mysterious  place,  the  stage,  looking  into  the  gloom 
of  the  vacant  pit  and  boxes.  How  full  of  mystery  it  all  seemed  ! 
so  dim,  so  impenetrable !  One  hot  afternoon  my  sister  and  my- 
self, finding  it  yet  too  sunny  to  walk  down  to  the  river — we  had 
to  pass  the  theatre  on  the  way — took  refuge  in  the  dark  cool 
place  to  rest  awhile.  On  the  stage  was  a  flight  of  steps,  and  a 
balcony,  left  standing  no  doubt  after  rehearsal,  or  prepared  for 
that  of  the  next  day.  After  sitting  on  the  steps  for  a  while,  my 
sister  exclaimed,  "Why,  this  might  do  for  Romeo  and  Juliet's 


JULIET.  89 

balcony  !  Go  up,  birdie,  and  I  will  be  your  Romeo."  Upon 
which,  amid  much  laughter,  and  with  no  little  stumbling  over 
the  words,  we  went  through  the  balcony  scene,  I  being  prompter  ; 
for  in  the  lonely  days  by  the  sea-shore,  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
with  only  the  great  dog  of  the  house  as  my  companion,  I  had, 
almost  unconsciously,  learned  by  heart  all  the  scenes  in  which 
my  favourite  heroines  figured. 

I  may  say  that,  in  those  days,  Juliet,  like  the  other  heroines 
of  my  fancy,  was  attractive  to  me  principally  through  what  she 
had  to  suffer,  in  which  the  horror  of  her  tomb,  "  the  being  stifled 
in  the  vault,"  always  my  first  terror,  played  a  prominent  part. 
Our  school -walks  from  Greenwich  took  us  at  times  to  Lee 
churchyard,  where  there  was  a  vault  that  to  my  imagination 
was  altogether  terrible.  A  flight  of  green,  slimy-looking  steps 
led  down  to  a  massive  door  with  open  iron-work  at  the  upper 
part,  and  we  girls  used  to  snatch  a  fearful  pleasure  by  peering 
through  it  into  the  gloom  within.  My  favourite  school-friend 
was  a  German  girl,  with  a  very  pretty  face,  but  in  figure  so  un- 
gainly that  she  was  the  despair  of  our  dancing-master.  She 
shared  my  dread  of  the  terrible,  and  also  the  attraction  I  felt 
towards  it.  Over  this  vault  we  often  talked,  and  we  both  agreed 
that  in  just  such  a  tomb  must  Juliet  have  been  placed.  We 
had  seen  the  toads  and  frogs  hopping  about  in  and  out  of  it,  and 
devoutly  did  we  hope  that  Juliet's  face  was  covered.  For,  oh 
the  horror  for  her  to  have  a  cold  flabby  toad  upon  it !  And 
then,  had  we  not  read  of  "worms  that  were  her  chamber- 
maids"?— an  awful  suggestion  to  the  literal  minds  of  young 
girls.  How  we  rejoiced  that,  when  she  really  awoke,  she  saw 
by  her  side  the  "  comfortable  friar "  !  To  most  young  minds, 
I  suppose,  the  terrible  and  the  tragic  are  always  the  most 
alluring.  Certainly  at  that  time  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet  weighed  heavier  in  the  balance  with  me  than 
the  earlier  and  happy  ones.  Of  the  passion  of  love  I  had  then 
naturally  no  knowledge.  It  did  not  interest  me.  But  Juliet's 
devotion  to  Eomeo,  and  her  resolve  to  die  rather  than  prove  un- 
true, this  I  could  understand,  because  all  the  heroes  and  heroines 
worthy  of  the  name  of  whom  I  had  read  were  always  true  and 
loyal. 


90  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

But  I  have  wandered  far  from  this,  to  me,  memorable  after- 
noon at  Richmond.  My  sister  and  I  went  away  to  the  river, 
leaving  the  shadowy  gloom  of  the  stage  empty  as  we  had  found 
it.  To  our  surprise  and  consternation  we  learned,  some  little 
time  after,  that  there  had  been  a  listener.  When  our  friends 
arrived  some  days  later,  the  lessee  told  them  that,  having  oc- 
casion to  go  from  the  dwelling-house  to  his  private  box,  he  had 
heard  voices,  listened,  and  remained  during  the  time  of  our 
merry  rehearsal  He  spoke  in  such  warm  terms  of  the  Juliet's 
voice,  its  adaptability  to  the  character,  her  figure, — I  was  tall 
for  my  age, — and  so  forth,  that  in  the  end  he  prevailed  upon 
my  friends  to  let  me  make  a  trial  on  his  stage.  To  this,  at  my 
then  very  tender  age,  they  were  loath  to  consent.  But  I  was 
to  be  announced  simply  as  a  young  lady, — her  first  appear- 
ance. At  the  worst,  a  failure  would  not  matter ;  and,  at  any 
rate,  the  experiment  would  show  whether  I  had  gifts  or  not  in 
that  direction.  Thus  did  a  little  frolic  prove  to  be  the  turning- 
point  of  my  life.  As  I  recall  those  days,  and  the  interval  that 
followed  before  my  debut  on  the  London  stage,  where  also  I 
was  announced  to  make  my  first  appearance  as  Juliet,  all  my 
young  life  seemed  wrapped  up  in  her.  You  can  see,  therefore, 
how  difficult  it  must  be  to  divest  myself  of  the  emotions  in- 
separable from  her  name  sufficiently  to  write  of  her  with  criti- 
cal calmness. 

Before  I  attempt  to  do  so,  let  me  complete  my  gossiping  ac- 
count of  my  first  appearance  at  Richmond.  It  was  a  summer 
evening,  and  the  room  was  given  me  to  dress  in,  which,  I  was 
told,  had  been  Mr  Kean's  parlour  and  dressing-room.  There 
was  a  glass  case  there  in  which  were  preserved  as  relics  several 
articles  of  his  toilet,  brushes  and  things  of  that  kind.  How 
these  brought  to  my  mind  that  interview — the  frail  figure  which 
seemed  buried  in  furs,  the  large  eyes  so  intense  in  their  lustre, 
the  dark  hair  straggling  over  the  forehead,  the  voice  coming 
from  so  far  away,  and  the  kind,  quaint  manner !  I  could  now 
see  how  he  had  humoured  the  shy  child  by  pretending  ignor- 
ance, in  order  to  draw  forth  her  opinions  and  explanations.  It 
was  very  sweet  to  look  back  upon,  and  I  could  almost  believe 
that  his  spirit  was  there  in  sympathy  with  mine ;  had  not  his 


JULIET.  91 

parting  words  to  me  been — a  God-speed  ?  Very  wisely,  no  one 
had  ever  mentioned  in  my  hearing  the  word  "stage  fright."  I 
had  thought  of  the  performance  only  as  another  rehearsal,  with 
the  difference  that  it  was  at  night  and  not  by  day,  and  with  the 
great  additional  pleasure  of  wearing  a  new  dress  of  white  satin, 
which  was  so  soft  and  exquisite  to  the  touch,  and — oh  the  dig- 
nity of  this  ! — with  a  small  train  to  it.  It  had  no  ornament,  not 
even  a  flower;  for  when  I  heard  that  I  must  not  wear  real 
flowers,  for  fear  of  their  dropping  on  the  stage  and  some  one 
slipping  upon  them,  I  would  not  have  any  others.  As  the  time 
for  the  play  to  begin  approached,  and  I  heard  the  instruments 
tuning,  and  a  voice  cry  out  that  "  the  overture  was  on,"  I  felt  a 
most  unaccountable  sensation  stealing  over  me.  This  feeling 
grew  and  grew  until  it  nearly  overcame  me.  I  saw  my  mother 
looking  very  anxiously  at  me,  and  I  could  not  hide  from  my- 
self that  I  felt  good  for  nothing.  I  begged  her  to  leave  me 
to  myself  for  a  few  minutes.  At  first  she  did  not  gather 
what  was  in  my  mind,  and  tried  to  rally  my  courage  :  but  again 
I  begged  to  be  left,  for  I  knew  well  that  when  alone  I  could 
more  freely  seek  the  help  which  all  so  suddenly  I  seemed  to 
need  more  than  I  ever  could  have  guessed.  My  wish  was 
granted.  They  did  not  return  to  me  until  I  was  wanted  for 
the  stage.  I  remember  being  asked  if  I  had  left  anything 
behind,  when  I  turned  to  give  a  last  look  at  the  relics  in  the 
glass  case.  It  was  a  sort  of  farewell — a  feeling  as  if  life  were 
ending. 

My  sister,  to  give  me  comfort,  was  to  be  the  Lady  Capulet. 
Poor  darling !  she  was  so  agitated  that  they  could  hardly  per- 
suade her  to  appear  on  the  scene ;  and  when  the  nurse  had 
called  out  for  th'e  "lamb,"  the  "ladybird"  (your  "ladybird," 
you  know,  ever  after),  the  Juliet  rushed  straight  into  her 
mother's  arms,  never  to  be  lured  from  them  again  during  the 
scene  by  all  the  cajolings  of  the  nurse.  How  the  lights  per- 
plexed me !  All  seemed  so  different !  I  could  see  faces  so 
close  to  me.  It  was  well  I  could  see  one  whose  agitation  was 
apparent  to  me  on  the  instant.  I  felt  I  must  try  to  please  him, 
this  dear  friend  of  all  my  young  life,  my  constant  helper  and 
instructor,  who,  though  he  was  no  blood  relative,  always  called 


92      SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHAEACTERS: 

me  "his  child."  He  it  was  who  taught  me  very  much  of  what  I 
learned,  after  my  delicate  health  took  me  from  school,  and  sent 
me  to  the  sea-shore,  and  to  him  and  him  only  could  I  confide, 
with  the  assurance  of  perfect  sympathy,  all  my  devotion  for  the 
heroines  of  Shakespeare.  He  taught  me  the  value  of  the  different 
metres  in  blank  verse  and  in  rhyme,  as  I  recited  to  him  many  of 
Milton's  poems,  the  "  Lycidas,"  large  portions  of  "  Paradise  Lost," 
and  Byron's  "  Darkness,"  which  I  knew  by  heart.  He  made  me 
understand  the  value  of  words,  nay,  of  every  letter  of  every  word, 
for  the  purposes  of  declamation.  Nothing  was  to  be  slighted. 
This  true  friend — a  man  of  varied  and  large  acquirements,  a 
humourist,  too,  and  a  wit — never  refused,  although  most  delicate 
in  health,  to  give  me  largely  of  his  time.  How  grateful  I  was, 
and  am  to  him  !  His  death,  which  happened  far  too  soon  for  my 
advantage — though  not  for  his,  it  released  him  from  a  life  of 
constant  pain — robbed  me  of  my  first  and  truest  guide  and 
friend.  It  was  his  face  I  saw.  Should  his  "  child,"  his  darling, 
give  him  pain — disappointment  ?  No  !  Gradually  he  and  Juliet 
filled  my  mind,  and  I  went  on  swimmingly,  until  the  fourth  act. 
Here,  with  all  the  ardour  and  all  the  ignorance  of  a  novice,  I 
took  no  heed  that  the  phial  for  the  sleeping  potion,  which  Friar 
Laurence  had  given  me,  was  of  glass,  but  kept  it  tightly  in  my 
hand,  as  though  it  were  a  real  deliverance  from  a  dreaded  fate 
which  it  was  to  effect  for  me,  through  the  long  impassioned  scene 
that  follows.  "When  the  time  came  to  drink  the  potion,  there 
was  none ;  for  the  phial  had  been  crushed  in  my  hand,  the  frag- 
ments of  glass  were  eating  their  way  into  the  tender  palm,  and  the 
blood  was  trickling  down  in  a  little  stream  over  my  much-admired 
dress.  This  had  been  for  some  time  apparent  to  the  audience, 
but  the  Juliet  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  felt  nothing,  until  the 
red  stream  arrested  her  attention.  Excited  as  I  already  was, 
this  was  too  much  for  me ;  and  having  always  had  a  sickening 
horror  of  the  bare  sight  or  even  talk  of  blood,  poor  Juliet  grew 
faint,  and  went  staggering  towards  the  bed,  on  which  she  really 
fainted.  I  remember  nothing  of  the  end  of  the  play,  beyond  see- 
ing many  kind  people  in  my  dressing-room,  and  wondering  what 
this  meant.  Our  good  family  doctor  from  London  was  among 
the  audience,  and  bound  up  the  wounded  hand.  This  never 


JULIET.  93 

occurred  again,  because  they  ever  afterwards  gave  me  a  wooden 
phial.  But  oh,  nay  dress ! — my  first  waking  thought.  I  was  in- 
consolable, until  told  that  the  injured  part  could  be  renewed. 

So  much  for  my  first  Juliet !  I  repeated  the  character  several 
times  in  the  same  little  theatre — each  time  trying  to  make  it  more 
like  what  I  thought  would  satisfy  my  dear  master.  I  sought  no 
other  praise. 

On  the  last  occasion  he  was  there.  When  I  saw  him  at  the 
end  of  the  play  I  was  sure  something  was  wrong.  He  was  very 
silent,  and  when  I  begged  to  have  his  opinion,  whatever  it  might 
be,  he  told  me  I  had  not  improved, — that  I  had  disappointed 
him.  I  was  not  in  the  character  throughout,  and  he  feared  I  had 
not  the  true  artistic  power  to  lose  myself  in  the  being  of  another. 
Oh  the  pain  this  caused  me  !  The  wound  is  even  now  only 
scarred  over.  I  would  not  let  him  see  my  grief,  but  I  knew  no 
sleep  that  night  for  weeping.  My  generous  sweet  sister  thought 
I  had  been  cruelly  treated,  and  tried  to  comfort  me  and  heal  my 
wounds,  but  they  were  far  too  deep  for  that. 

Xext  day  my  dear  friend  was  deeply  pained  to  see  that  I 
had  taken  his  censure  so  sorely  to  heart,  and  had  forgotten 
how,  here  and  there,  it  had  been  tempered  with  approbation. 
After  some  talk  with  my  mother,  it  was  decided  that  Juliet 
and  all  other  heroines  were  for  me  to  pass  once  more  into  "  the 
sphere  of  dream."  I  was  quietly  to  forget  them  and  return 
to  my  studies.  My  friend  confessed  that  he  had  expected  too 
much  from  my  tender  years — that  an  English  girl  of  the  age 
which  Shakespeare  assigns  to  Juliet  was  in  every  respect  a  dif- 
ferent creature.  Development  must  come  later ;  I  certainly  was 
never  a  precocious  child.  So  until  I  appeared  about  three  years 
later  on  the  London  stage,  my  life  was  very  studious  and  very 
quiet. 

How  good  and  tender  and  helpful  that  dear  friend  was  to 
me  ever  after,  and  how  repentant  for  having  caused  me  that 
bitter  night  of  sorrow,  taking  all  the  blame  upon  himself,  and 
declaring  that  he  had  no  right  to  look  for  what  he  did  in  one 
so  young !  Doubtless  he  was  wrong  in  expecting  too  much ; 
but  the  lesson  I  then  learned  was  never  forgotten.  He  saw 
and  helped  me  in  every  other  character  I  acted  until  his  too 


94  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

early  death,  which  was  the  first  great  sorrow  of  iny  life. 
Generous  heart,  I  hope  your  own  could  tell  you  how  loving 
and  how  grateful  mine  was ! 

The  last  night  he  saw  me  act  was  at  Drury  Lane,  and  he  had 
almost  to  be  carried  to  his  private  box.  He  died  about  ten 
days  after.  Never  can  I  forget  how  good  and  thoughtful  for  me 
Mr  Macready  proved  himself  at  this  time.  I  had  something 
very  important  and  difficult  to  study  at  a  short  notice — I 
forget  what.  It  was  drawing  towards  the  end  of  a  season 
in  which  my  work  had  been  most  exhausting.  I  was  very  ill 
and  tired,  so  that  my  memory,  usually  quick  enough,  seemed 
to  fail  me.  I  grew  nervous,  and  told  Mr  Macready  that  even 
by  sitting  up  at  night  I  feared  I  could  not  be  ready  at  the  time 
he  wished.  This  engrossing  study  accounted  for  my  not  seeing 
my  dear  friend  for  some  days  together — only  sending  to  his 
house  daily  to  inquire  after  him.  During  one  of  those  nights 
that  I  was  spending  in  study — the  night  before  its  results  were 
to  be  made  public — he  died.  This  was  kept  from  me,  but  word 
of  the  sad  event  was  sent  in  the  morning  to  Mr  Macready. 
As  my  acting  that  night  was  of  the  utmost  importance,  he 
sent  me  a  kind  note,  asking  me  to  go  to  him  directly  at  the 
theatre,  share  his  little  dinner,  and  go  quietly  over  with  him  the 
scenes  which  were  making  me  nervous,  telling  me  he  was  quite 
sure  he  could  put  me  at  my  ease.  I  accepted  his  invitation, 
and  his  gentle  kindness  I  shall  ever  remember  with  gratitude. 
As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  he  sent  for  my  dresser,  and  told  her 
to  make  me  lie  down  for  an  hour  or  two  before  I  thought  of 
dressing  for  the  stage.  I  had  a  lurking  feeling  through  the  day 
that  something  was  happening,  for  all  about  me  looked  at  me 
so  earnestly  and  kindly,  but  what  trouble  was  hanging  over  me 
I  could  not  even  guess,  because  the  last  news  given  to  me  of  my 
dear  friend  before  I  left  home  had  been  reassuring. 

When  the  performance  was  over,  Mr  Macready  met  me  as  I 
was  leaving  my  room,  and  put  a  letter  into  my  hand,  giving  me 
the  impression  that  it  was  upon  business, — I  was  tired,  he  said, 
and  the  morning  would  be  the  best  time  to  read  it.  Its  object 
really  was  to  tell  me  of  his  sympathy,  and  to  offer  what  comfort 
he  could,  for  he  knew  well  how  dear  was  the  friend  whom  I  had 


JULIET.  95 

lost.  However,  as  my  great  struggle  of  the  night  was  over,  I 
insisted,  in  spite  of  all  the  remonstrances  of  my  maid,  on  calling 
at  my  friend's  house,  which  we  had  to  pass  on  the  way  home, 
and  I  got  out  of  the  carriage  to  make  my  own  inquiries.  The 
surprised  and  frightened  look  of  the  servant  who  opened  the  door 
told  me  everything,  and  I  saw  at  once  why  all  had  combined  to 
keep  me  in  ignorance  throughout  the  day.  Then  I  understood 
how  thoughtful  Mr  Macready  had  been.  His  letter  was  most 
kind.  He  gave  me  some  days'  rest  to  face  my  trouble,  although, 
as  the  close  of  the  season  was  near,  he  must  have  been  put  to  ex- 
treme inconvenience  by  my  absence. 

Oh  the  sharpness  of  that  grief !  The  prelude,  too,  of  another 
trial ;  for  suddenly  Mr  Macready  gave  up  the  management  of 
Drury  Lane  and  went  to  America.  Another  friend  lost !  He 
had  been  four  years  at  the  head  of  a  theatre — two  at  Covent 
Garden  and  two  at  Drury  Lane — doing  his  very  best  to  raise  the 
tone  of  the  stage  to  a  level  worthy  of  its  great  poet ;  while  those 
whom  he  had  gathered  round  him  gladly  seconded  his  efforts,  and 
followed  his  guidance.1 

To  me  the  breaking  up  of  this  establishment  was  a  heavy  blow 
indeed.  Severe  as  my  labours  had  been,  the  delight  in  them  far 
more  than  outweighed  the  fatigue.  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  so  con- 
ducted, was  an  arena  in  which  every  gift  I  had  found  scope  for 
exercise.  My  studies  were  all  of  an  elevating  character :  my 
thoughts  were  given  to  the  great  types  of  womanhood,  drawn  by 
Shakespeare's  master-hand,  or  by  the  hands  of  modern  poets — 
Browning,  Marston,  Troughton,  Bulwer  Lytton,  and  others — 
anxious  to  maintain  the  reputation  of  the  national  drama.  My 
audiences,  kind  to  me  from  the  first,  grew  ever  more  and  more 
kind,  and  I  felt  among  them  as  among  friends.  Now  an  end  to 
all  this  had  come — "the  world  seemed  shattered  at  my  feet." 
Engagements  were  offered  to  me  in  many  theatres ;  in  one  case  I 

1  I  have  often  seen  it  stated  that  Mr  Macready  abandoned  the  manage- 
ment of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  because  he  lost  money  by  it.  This  was  not 
so.  The  theatre  had  so  prospered  under  his  management,  that  the  pro- 
prietors, selfishly  desiring  to  profit  by  a  prosperity  nob  of  their  own  creat- 
ing, demanded  an  increased  rent.  This  so  angered  Mr  Macready  that  he 
declined  to  renew  his  lease,  and  went  away  to  America. 


96  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

was  even  asked  to  assume  the  office  of  directress.  But  I  shrank 
from  the  responsibilities  of  such  a  position,  and  felt  that,  for  my 
own  interests  as  an  artist,  it  was  not  well  to  allow  myself  to  be 
hampered  by  them. 

Ill  and  sad  at  heart,  it  was  then  that  the  kindness  of  you,  my 
dear  friend,  and  others  like  you,  cheered  my  drooping  spirits, 
and  encouraged  me  to  believe  that  I  could  walk  alone — nay,  that 
a  chance  which  seemed  then  a  calamity  might  ultimately  prove 
an  advantage  in  my  art,  by  leaving  me  to  develop  what  was  in 
me,  relieved  from  the  overmastering  influence  of  Mr  Macready's 
style.  Young  in  my  art  as  I  was — although  the  whole  weight  of 
every  leading  female  character  had,  since  my  debut,  rested  on  my 
shoulders — all  my  friends  agreed  that  engagements  for  a  week  or 
two  at  a  time  in  the  leading  provincial  theatres  would  be  the  best 
practice  for  me.  I  could  thus,  too,  take  rest  in  the  intervals  be- 
tween my  various  engagements, — rest  so  necessary  for  me,  over- 
taxed as  my  strength  had  continually  been  since  the  beginning  of 
my  professional  career.  Both  then  and  afterwards,  I  could  never 
have  been  equal  to  the  strain  upon  heart  and  brain  and  body, 
but  for  the  summer  months,  in  which  I  always  took  holiday, 
passing  them  quietly  among  my  friends. 

It  was  with  a  sad  heart  enough  that  I  started  on  my  first 
engagement  out  of  London, — for  Mr  Macready  had  always  told 
me  that  it  was  in  London  I  must  make  my  home,  as  no  pro- 
vincial audience  would  care  for  or  understand  my  style.  I 
took  Edinburgh  first,  and  had  a  sufficiently  cold  reception  from 
a  house  far  from  full.  I  had  gone,  as  I  afterwards  always  made 
it  my  rule  to  go,  wherever  I  went,  without  any  heralds  in 
advance  to  proclaim  my  coming  or  to  sound  my  praises.  How- 
ever, the  lessee  and  manager,  Mr  Murray — a  man  of  great 
dramatic  ability  and  many  accomplishments,  who  acted  Colonel 
Damas  to  my  Pauline  in  The  Lady  of  Lyons,  this  first  night 
of  my  experience  there — told  me  not  to  be  disheartened.  He 
felt  sure,  he  said,  I  had  taken  hold  of  my  audience,  and  that 
this  was  the  only  indifferent  house  before  which  I  should  ever 
have  to  act  there.  The  event  proved  that  he  knew  his  public ; 
his  prophecy,  indeed,  was  more  than  realised,  for  neither  there 
nor  elsewhere  did  I  ever  again  play  to  an  indifferently  filled 


JULIET.  97 

house.  Of  want  of  enthusiasm  or  of  constancy  in  my  pro- 
vincial audiences  no  one  could  have  had  less  reason  to  complain, 
nor  had  I  ever  occasion  from  that  hour  to  be  reminded  of  what 
Mr  Macready  had  predicted.  Had  the  state  of  the  theatres  in 
London  been  such  as  to  admit  of  my  joining  them,  I  would 
willingly  have  done  so.  I  longed  for  my  London  audiences, 
who  had  been  so  kind,  so  true,  so  sympathetic  in  my  earliest 
efforts.  And  although  for  some  little  time  I  only  came  before 
them  at  intervals  and  for  short  engagements,  yet  they  always 
made  me  feel  that  I  was  not  forgotten,  and  that  they  were  as 
quick  as  ever  to  go  along  with  me  in  my  efforts  to  interpret 
the  heart  and  nature  of  woman,  as  drawn  by  our  master-poets. 

But  let  me  go  back  to  my  earliest  days.  Nearly  three  years, 
as  I  have  said,  elapsed,  after  my  first  girlish  experiments,  before 
I  again  trod  the  stage, — not  this  time  the  tiny  stage  of  Kichmond, 
but  the  vast  stage  of  Covent  Garden,  and  before  an  audience 
that  filled  the  theatre  from  floor  to  ceiling.  The  interval,  spent 
in  quiet  study,  had  widened  my  views  about  many  things, 
Juliet  included.  Still  I  remained  true  to  my  first  love;  and 
when  it  was  decided  that  I  should  submit  myself  to  the  dread 
ordeal  of  a  London  audience,  to  ascertain  whether  I  possessed 
the  qualities  to  justify  my  friends  in  allowing  me  to  adopt  the 
stage  as  a  profession,  I  selected  Juliet  for  my  first  appearance. 
I  rehearsed  the  part  several  times,  and  was  announced  to  appear 
in  it.  During  the  rehearsals,  Mr  Charles  Kemble,  who  was  then 
taking  his  leave  of  the  stage,  was  always  present,  seated  in  the 
front  of  the  dark  theatre.  On  his  judgment  and  that  of  one  or 
two  others,  I  believe  the  manager  was  to  decide  whether,  having 
no  experience  or  practice  in  the  actor's  art,  being  indeed  a  mere 
novice,  I  was  fit  to  make  an  appearance  before  a  London  audi- 
ence. I  was  not  told  at  the  time  through  what  an  ordeal  I  was 
passing.  Mr  Kemble  gave  judgment  in  my  favour,  and  was  to 
have  taken  the  part  of  Mercutio.  How  sympathetic,  and  court- 
eous, and  encouraging  he  was !  He,  to  use  his  own  words  to  me, 
was  making  his  final  bow  to  his  art,  as  I  my  first  curtsey. 

Unhappily  for  me,  the  rehearsals  showed  that  the  Eomeo  of 
the  theatre — the  only  one  available  at  the  time — was  of  too 
mature  an  age  to  act  with  so  young  a  Juliet  when  she  came 
G 


98  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS  : 

before  an  audience  on  her  debut.  A  month  or  two  later  I  did  act 
the  character  with  him.  He  was  an  excellent  actor  in  his  way, 
but  very  vehement, — so  much  so  that,  when  he  played  Romeo, 
my  sister  would  never  trust  me  in  the  tomb  alone.  He  shook  it 
so  violently  with  the  crowbar,  that  she  used  to  declare,  if  she 
had  not  been  there  to  play  the  part  of  a  caryatid,  and  help  to 
hold  it  up,  the  frail  fabric  would  have  dropped  to  pieces  on  my 
head.  Oh !  if  I  had  not  had  a  very  different  Romeo  in  my  im- 
agination, it  would  have  been  hard  indeed  to  make  one  out  of 
such  an  unromantic  spluttering  lover  !  When  Mr  Macready  un- 
dertook the  management  very  soon  after,  Mr  James  Anderson 
joined  the  company,  and  I  had  in  him  a  very  gallant  Romeo. 
Discretion  tempered  his  fire. 

Judge  of  my  dismay  when,  a  short  time  before  my  debut,  I 
was  told  that  I  must  forego  Juliet,  and  appear  as  Julia  in  The 
Hunchback.  I  was  almost  heart-broken.  But  it  was  too  late  to 
recede  ;  and  as  Julia  I  had  to  appear.  How  much  this  added  to 
the  terrible  tension  of  feeling  with  which  I  approached  the  trial, 
none  but  myself  can  ever  know.  You,  my  dear  friend,  were 
there,  as  you  have  told  me,  and  you  know,  as  a  spectator,  what 
a  fearful  ordeal  I  had  to  pass  through.  On  this  occasion  I  had 
no  loving  sister's  arms  to  rush  into ;  but  I  remember  gratefully 
how  kind  Miss  Taylor  was  to  me;  she  was  the  Helen  of  that 
evening,  as  she  had  been  the  original  Helen  of  the  play.  At  the 
rehearsals  she  had  given  me  valuable  advice  as  to  the  stage  direc- 
tions, &c.,  and  during  the  actual  performance  she  comforted  and 
supported  me  with  all  her  might,  and  with  all  the  fine  tact  of  a 
sympathetic  heart. 

How  well  I  remember  that  awful  moment  when  called  to  the 
side-scene  to  be  ready  for  my  entrance  with  Helen  !  Seeing  my 
agitation,  Miss  Taylor  set  herself  to  divert  my  attention  by  ad- 
miring my  dress.  She  liked,  she  said,  the  yellowish  whiteness 
of  it ;  she  could  not  endure  a  harsh  dead  white.  Where  had 
mamma,  who  was  standing  beside  us,  got  me  such  dainty  mittens  1 
Then  she  showed  me  her  own — said  how  fortunate  I  was  to  have 
such  long  wavy  hair  that  curled  of  its  own  accord,  and  did  not 
need  dressing, — wished  hers  was  the  same,  and  how  she  had  to 
curl  and  pinch  and  torture  it  and  herself,  in  order  to  get  the  same 


JULIET.  99 

effect, — anything  to  take  off  my  attention.  But  as  the  dreadful 
moment  drew  nearer,  this  talk,  all  on  one  side,  would  no  longer 
help.  With  sympathetic  tears  in  her  own  eyes,  she  begged  me 
not  to  let  those  big  tears  fall  so  continuously  and  spoil  my  pretty 
cheeks ;  and  when  the  terrible  moment  came  for  our  entrance, 
she  put  her  arm  round  my  waist,  and  propelled  me  forward, 
whispering  to  me  to  "  curtsey  to  the  applause — again  ! — again  !  "- 
when,  but  for  her  help,  I  could  hardly  stand. 

It  must  have  been  plain  to  the  audience  how  good  she  was  to 
me ;  and  they,  no  doubt,  favourite  as  she  was,  liked  her  all  the 
better  for  it.  I  cannot  but  think  what  a  different  play  The 
Hunchback  was  then,  when  Helen  was  interpreted  by  this  lady. 
Her  refinement  of  manner  took  away  nothing  from  the  archness 
and  piquancy  of  her  scenes  with  Modus,  but  rather  added  to 
them.  He,  too,  appeared  as  a  real  student,  not  unmannerly  and 
dull  from  want  of  breeding  and  sense,  but  only  awkward  from 
abstraction  and  absorption  in  his  book-lore.  It  was  sheer  ennui, 
and  not  forwardness,  that  made  Helen  in  the  dull  country-house 
amuse  herself  with  him.  I  shudder  to  think  to  what  I  have 
seen  these  scenes  reduced.  Latterly,  indeed,  I  declined  to  act  in 
this  play,  because  I  did  not  like  to  be  mixed  up,  even  indirectly, 
with  such  misinterpretations.1  It  is  woful  that  an  author's  words 
and  meaning  should  be  degraded  by  such  tones  and  looks  and 
manner,  and  that  audiences  should  be  found  ready  to  bear  with, 
if  not  indeed  to  enjoy,  these  perversions  of  his  purpose. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  act  some  of  the  kind  actors  came  about 

1  In  truth,  I  was  not  very  sorry  to  have  an  excuse  for  giving  up  the  per- 
formance of  a  play  which  I  never  cordially  liked.  Julia's  character  was  one 
that  really  took  no  hold  of  my  heart,  therefore  I  always  went  to  the  imper- 
sonation of  it  as  a  piece  of  taskwork.  Some  of  the  situations  are  unques- 
tionably powerful.  They  are,  however,  of  a  kind  in  which  success  will  al- 
ways be  due  as  much  to  the  individual  power  of  the  actress  as  to  the  author. 
By  what  she  herself  infuses  into  the  character  she  must  veil  its  inconsist- 
encies, and  so  animate  it  with  feeling  and  passion  as  to  make  the  audience 
forget  the  improbabilities  of  the  plot  on  which  it  turns,  and  the  somewhat 
unlovable  qualities  of  the  heroine.  If  the  warm  sympathy  and  applause  of 
audiences  could  have  made  me  like  the  part  of  Julia,  I  ought  to  have  been 
fond  of  it ;  but  they  were  dearly  bought  at  the  cost  of  the  severe  strain 
upon  my  imagination  and  my  emotions,  as  well  as  the  great  physical  fatigue 
which  went  to  gain  them. 


100  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

me,  saying  that  it  was  "  all  right."  I  had  only  to  take  courage 
and  speak  louder.  But,  alas!  I  felt  it  was  "all  wrong."  I 
could  not  control  my  fears  and  agitation.  They  gave  me  sal 
volatile  in  my  dressing-room,  which  I  gave  mostly  to  my  dress. 
My  mother  looked  sad  and  disappointed ;  the  dear  old  dresser 
very  pitiful.1  My  sister,  alas  !  was  not  then  with  me.  I  thought 
all  was  over,  and  did  not  see  my  way  at  all  to  getting  through 
the  play.  Then  came  a  knock  at  my  dressing-room  door,  which 
my  mother  answered,  and  I  heard  the  dear  accustomed  voice  of 
my  friend  and  master  say,  "  Have  you  given  the  poor  child  any- 
thing?" I  cried  out  for  him  to  come  to  me,  but  the  voice  an- 
swered, "Not  now,  my  child  ;  take  all  the  rest  you  can."  There 
was,  I  fancied,  such  a  trouble  in  the  tone,  that  it  added  to  my 
own.  It  was  evident  he  could  not  trust  himself  near  me.  He 
had  been  among  the  audience,  but  in  that  enormous  theatre  only 
a  sea  of  heads  was  seen.  No  one  could  be  distinguished ;  so  this 
time  he  had  not  helped  me.  I  felt  despairing.  Never  can  I 
forget  that  half-hour.  While  I  write,  it  comes  back  upon  me 
with  all  its  hopeless  anguish. 

When  we  met  at  the  side-scene  for  the  second  act,  kind  Miss 

1  This  excellent  woman,  who  was  attached  to  my  dressing-room  on  this 
my  first  night  as  my  attendant,  never  left  me  afterwards  while  I  was  per- 
manently in  London.  We  were  attached  to  each  other  from  that  time. 
She  never  left  my  side  except  when  I  was  on  the  stage,  but  attended  with 
a  shawl  or  cloak  all  my  exits  or  entrances.  She  used  to  be  called  my 
"  duenna,"  for  she  hurried  me  away  from  those  who  might  wish  to  speak  or 
detain  me,  with,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  young  lady  has  already  only  too 
little  time  to  change  her  dress,  or  to  rest  in,"  as  it  might  be.  My  mother 
had  full  confidence  in  this  good  woman's  care  of  me,  and  with  good  cause. 
She  had  known  her  before  she  became,  as  she  was  now,  a  widow.  The  nurs- 
ing of  her  husband  in  a  long  decline  had  exhausted  her  means,  and  caused 
her  to  seek  the  occupation  in  which  I  first  knew  her.  The  sweet,  refined, 
unselfish,  pure-minded  woman  was  a  great  assistance  and  comfort  to  me. 
Silence  was  the  order  my  mother  had  given  as  the  rule  for  my  dressing- 
room, — no  talk  to  take  my  thoughts  from  the  work  I  had  in  hand.  I  never 
knew  the  dear  creature  break  it,  except  after  the  scenes  where  the  nurse 
proves  untrue  to  Juliet.  Then  her  indignation  knew  no  bounds; — such 
treachery,  such  desertion  of  her  charge  in  the  hour  of  her  trouble — nothing 
could  be  so  wicked  in  her  eyes  !  Even  the  frequent  repetition  of  the  play 
hardly  calmed  her  anger.  This  dear  woman,  whose  rare  qualities  I  have 
never  seen  excelled,  even  in  stations  far  above  her  own,  reached  her  rest  in 
1883,  in  her  cottage  at  Old  Windsor. 


JULIET.  101 

Taylor  again  went  through  the  admirer's  part ;  she  liked  my  hat 
and  feather,  and  my  whole  dress, — thought  them  very  charming, 
very  becoming,  reminded  me  that  now  we  were  to  change  char- 
acters,—that  I  was  to  be  the  gay  fine  lady,  and  she  only  the 
listening  astonished  one.  A  very  watery  smile  was,  I  am  sure, 
all  that  answered  her.  When  we  entered  upon  the  scene,  and 
during  the  pause  at  the  long  kind  reception  which  again  awaited 
me,  my  eyes  lighted  on  a  familiar  face  raised  above  all  the 
others,  and  close  before  me  in  the  orchestra.  Long  white  hair 
fell  on  each  side  of  it,  and  I  saw  the  handkerchief  wiping  tears 
from  the  eyes.  Again  a  face  saved  me  !  I  knew^it  was  that  of 
my  dear  grandfather,  who,  because  of  his  deafness,  was,  during 
the  play,  allowed  to  occupy  the  leader's  seat.  In  an  instant  the 
thought  flashed  into  my  mind  of  the  sad  disappointment  that 
was  in  store  for  these  dear  grand-parents,  who  had  been  real 
parents  to  me  in  all  my  earliest  years, — the  one  present,  and 
the  other,  the  beloved  Quaker  grandmother,  who  had  never  in 
her  life  been  inside  a  theatre.  She  was  waiting  in  an  agony  of 
suspense,  as  I  knew,  at  home,  and  her  blessing  had  been  the 
last  thing  on  my  heart  as  I  left  it.  Oh,  I  could  not  endure  to 
pain  them  !  The  help  I  sorely  needed,  which  I  knew  was  even 
then  being  invoked  for  me,  came.  In  a  moment,  as  it  seemed, 
iny  agitation  calmed.  My  voice  gained  tone,  and  when  the  point 
arrived  where  I  had  to  say  "  I'll  shine,  be  sure  I  will,"  the  kind 
audience  interrupted  me  with  a  shout  of  applause.  From  this 
time  I  never  faltered,  always  keeping  the  dear  and  now  smiling 
face  before  me. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  act  I  was  told  the  manager  (not  Mr 
Macready ;  he  took  the  management  a  little  later)  had  requested 
to  see  my  friends  to  consult  them  about  a  three  years'  engage- 
ment, which,  as  I  was  much  under  age,  was  signed  by  them  for 
me  the  next  morning,  and  attached  me  for  that  period  to  the 
theatre,  as  the  leading  actress.  Thus  was  I  bound  to  the  art 
which  has  been  the  delight  of  my  after-life,  and  the  way  opened 
for  me  to  clothe — oh  happy  privilege  ! — with  form  and  motion 
the  great  creations  of  poetical  genius  over  which  my  girlish 
imagination  had  long  brooded. 

Of  Mr  Charles  Kemble's  good  opinion  of  me  I  have  already 


102  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

spoken.  When  it  was  decided  that  the  play  ahould  be  changed 
to  The  Hunchback,  he  offered  to  resume  his  original  part  of  Sir 
Thomas  Clifford  to  support  me.  Never  can  I  forget  his  rendering 
of  it.  What  a  high  and  noble  bearing !  What  tender  respect  in 
his  approaches  as  a  lover  !  What  dignified  forbearance  and  self- 
respect  in  his  reproof  afterwards,  and  in  his  deportment  as  the 
Secretary !  All  this  made  the  heroine's  part  more  difficult  to 
act ;  for  what  girl,  even  the  most  frivolous,  could  for  a  moment 
have  thought  of  the  title  or  the  fortune  of  such  a  man  in  com- 
parison with  himself  ? 

In  connection  with  that  first  night  in  Covent  Garden,  I  must 
tell  you  a  little  anecdote  of  my  German  schoolfellow.  On 
that  night  a  young  girl  was  sitting  near  some  of  our  friends. 
Throughout  the  performance  she  made  herself  very  conspicuous 
by  clapping  her  hands  and  breaking  out  into  admiring  but  very 
disturbing  exclamations.  At  last  some  one  near  ventured  on  a 
gentle  remonstrance,  and  a  remark  that  she  could  not  be  aware 
of  the  noise  she  was  making.  In  reply  she  said,  "Oh,  please, 
do  not  mind, — really  I  cannot  help  it.  She  is  my  schoolfellow, 
and  I  am  so  happy ! "  It  was  explained  to  her  between  the 
acts  that  she  was  speaking  to  friends  who  knew  me.  Upon 
this  she  became  very  confidential,  told  them  many  incidents  of 
our  school-days,  and  sent  me  more  loves  and  messages  than 
could  be  carried.  But  the  ever-recurring  refrain  was,  "  Why 
had  I  been  unfaithful  to  our  school-love,  Juliet,  whose  tomb 
in  Lee  churchyard  we  had  so  often  dressed  up  with  horrors, 
and  in  which  character  she  had  heard  of  my  appearing  at  Rich- 
mond?" It  was  very  hard  to  make  her  understand  that  there 
was  no  Romeo  to  be  had  youthful  enough  for  her  old  play- 
mate's Juliet. 

Something  of  this  was  told  me  at  the  end  of  the  second  act 
of  the  play  by  my  dear  friend  and  master,  who  came  to  my 
room  (this  time)  joyously,  and  being  now  assured  that  all  was 
well,  did  his  best  to  animate  my  courage.  He  made  me  laugh 
by  his  description  of  the  vehemence  of  my  young  school-friend, 
and  he  was  made  the  bearer  of  a  message  from  me  to  her.  She 
was  to  go  the  next  day  and  tell  our  dear  governess  and  her 
sister,  near  whom  she  lived,  all  about  the  night.  This  was 


JULIET.  103 

such  a  lucky  incident :  it  made  me  forget  in  part  the  dreaded 
audience,  and  filled  my  mind  with  fresh  incentives  to  succeed, 
in  order  to  give  pleasure  to  all  the  dear  friends  whose  thoughts 
I  knew  were  with  me. 

I  said,  in  the  beginning  of  this  letter,  that  Juliet  was  inwoven 
with  my  life.  Some  of  the  reasons  I  have  mentioned ;  but  there 
are  others  that  touch  me  very  deeply,  which  are  inseparably 
linked  with  the  character. 

My  beloved  only  sister  was  with  me  in  my  dressing-room 
while  I  was  acting  Juliet  during  the  last  hours  we  were  together 
in  life.  During  that  sad  evening  we  talked  of  the  sportive 
afternoon  rehearsal  at  Richmond  in  which  she  was  my  Romeo, 
and  all  that  had  come  out  of  it.  We  parted  the  next  morning  ; 
and  oh,  what  a  parting ! — she  to  start  that  day  with  her  hus- 
band for  America,  where  in  Boston,  eighteen  months  afterwards, 
alas !  she  died.  By  a  strange  coincidence,  the  first  time  I 
appeared  after  the  fatal  news  reached  me,  I  acted  a  portion  of 
Juliet.  The  occasion  was  one  of  those  unsatisfactory  monster 
performances  which  had  been  arranged  many  weeks  before,  in 
order  to  make  up  the  sum  required  for  the  statue  of  Mrs 
Siddons,  now  placed  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Mr  Macready  was 
requested  to  act  in  some  scenes  from  Henry  the  Fourth,  and  I  to 
give  the  fourth  act  in  Romeo  and  Juliet.  What  the  other  per- 
formances were,  I  do  not  remember.  The  blow  had  fallen  upon 
me  only  some  ten  days  before,  and  it  made  me  entirely  unfit  for 
exertion  of  any  kind.  But  the  committee  wrote  so  pressingly  to 
me,  urging  that  to  take  my  name  from  the  programme  would 
seriously  affect  the  receipts,  that  at  last  I  consented  to  make  the 
effort,  not  caring  much  what  became  of  me.  How  the  whole 
misery  of  that  time  comes  before  me  now  !  Mr  Macready,  who 
knew  my  sister,  and  therefore  knew  how  grievous  her  loss  was 
to  me,  sent,  and  came  to  my  dressing-room  door,  several  times 
during  the  evening,  asking  after,  and  pressing  to  see,  and  say  a 
few  words  to  me.  We  had  not  met  for  some  time.  He  was 
fulfilling  his  farewell  engagements  in  the  provinces,  and  our 
paths  were  different.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  bear  his  look  of 
sympathy  or  words  of  kindness,  and  had  to  deny  myself  to  him. 
Even  the  very  sound  of  his  voice  heard  at  the  door  was  all  but 


104      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS. 

too  much  for  me.  I  had  a  duty  before  me,  and  I  dared  not 
break  in  upon  the  calm  which  I  had  forced  upon  myself.  Over 
my  Juliet's  dress  I  threw  a  large  flowing  black  veil,  which  I 
hugged  to  my  heart  as  an  outward  proof  of  the  mourning  within 
it,  and  which,  in  some  measure,  comforted  me.  Besides,  it  also 
hid  from  me  the  kind  faces  which,  I  felt  sure,  would  meet  mine 
at  the  side-scenes. 

The  greetings  of  the  audience  did  not  move  me.  They  did 
not  know  my  grief,  so  I  could  bear  them.  I  got  on  very  well 
in  the  scene  with  the  Friar.  There  was  despair  in  it,  but 
nothing  that  in  any  way  touched  upon  my  own  trial.  My 
great  struggle  was  in  Juliet's  chamber  when  left  alone.  Then 
her  desolation,  her  loneliness,  became  mine,  and  the  rushing 
tears  would  have  way.  Happily  the  fearful  images  presented 
to  Juliet's  mind  of  what  is  before  her  in  the  tomb  soon  sent 
softer  feelings  away ;  but  how  glad  I  was  when  the  fancied  sight 
of  Tybalt's  ghost  allowed  the  grief  that  was  in  my  heart  to  find 
vent  in  a  wild  cry  of  anguish  as  well  as  horror ! 

From  Juliet's  bed  I  was  taken  to  my  own,  which  kept  me  for 
many  a  long  day.  That  is  a  night  which  I  hardly  dare  to  look 
back  upon.  Months  and  months  followed,  when  the  cry  was 
ever  in  my  heart  for  my  loved  one,  whose  loss  was  to  me  that 
of  half  my  life.  Can  you  wonder,  then,  what  thoughts  and 
memories  Juliet  stirs  within  me? 

It  shocks  me  to  think  how  egotistical  I  must  appear  in 
recounting  to  you  all  these  personal  details.  But  in  writing 
of  these  things,  I  look  back  upon  myself  as  upon  some  other 
person.  And  then  you,  dear  friend,  and  many  other  friends, 
have  so  strongly  urged  me  to  tell  you  of  my  past  in  relation  to 
the  work  I  did,  that  you  must  share  the  blame  with  me. 

What  I  have  to  say  of  Shakespeare's  Juliet  must  be  reserved 
for  another  letter. — Ever  your  loving  and  grateful  "  ladybird," 

HELENA  FAUCIT  MARTIN. 
To  Mrs  S.  C.  HALL. 


V. 
JULIET 

(CONCLUDED) 


V. 
JULIET 

(CONCLUDED). 


ONSLOW  SQUARE,  1881. 

"Trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange." 

T  ET  me  try  now,  my  dear  friend,  to  speak  to  you  of  the  real 
-"•^  Juliet  as  she  filled  my  imagination  when  the  time  came 
for  me  to  venture  on  impersonating  her  in  London.  In  my 
first  trials  at  Richmond  I  had  ardour  and  self-forgetfulness 
enough ;  but  I  was  too  young,  too  near  the  age  of  Shakespeare's 
Juliet,  considering  the  tardier  development  of  an  English  girl,  to 
understand  so  strong  and  deep  a  nature  ;  neither  had  my  imagin- 
ation the  power  to  grasp  the  whole  scope  and  purpose  of  the 
play ;  and  without  this  power  no  one  can  ever  be  qualified  to 
embody  one  of  Shakespeare's  heroines.  Hitherto  I  had  only 
known  the  outward  form  of  the  poet's  exquisite  creation,  and 
could  not  reach  the  deeper  meaning  that  lies  beneath  it ;  indeed 
I  never  should  have  reached  it,  had  I  not  subsequently  been 
allowed  to  see  the  real  Shakespeare  instead  'of  the  imperfect 
copy,  adapted  and  condensed  for  the  stage,  in  which  I  originally 
knew  the  play.  Now  a  new  light  broke  in  upon  me.  It  was 
no  longer  only  a  love-story,  the  most  beautiful  of  all  I  had  ever 
read,  but  a  tale  where,  as  in  the  Greek  dramas  of  which  I  had 


108     SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

seen  some  glimpses,  the  young  and  innocent  were  doomed  to 
punishment  in  retribution  for  the  guilt  of  kindred  whose  "  bloody 
feuds"  were  to  be  expiated  and  ended  by  the  death  of  their 
posterity. 

But  even  then  how  little  could  I  know  !  Although  the  torch 
had  been  put  into  my  hand,  I  could  only  see  what  my  small 
experience  showed  me.  The  wonderful  proportion,  the  harmony, 
the  loveliness  and  pathos,  grew  upon  me  only  with  my  mental 
growth,  and  could  not  be  grasped  in  unripe  years.  Besides,  I 
needed  above  all  things  the  practice  in  my  art,  which  to  the 
artist  is  the  greatest  help  towards  developing  the  poet's  meaning, 
and  which  throws  lights  upon  it  that  no  study,  however  close, 
can  give.  In  certain  moods  of  mind  the  poet's  intention  may  be 
read  in  this  way  as  plainly  as  in  an  open  book.  The  inspiration 
of  the  scene  makes  clear  what  before  had  not  been  even  dreamed 
of,  but  which,  once  shown,  is  never  to  be  forgotten  or  neglected. 
I  always  tried  to  keep  my  mind  open  to  such  revealings, — tried 
not  to  repeat  mechanically  any  part  of  any  character,  but  always 
to  go  to  it  as  though  I  had  never  acted  it  before.  This  was  easy 
enough  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  but  very  difficult  in  those  of  some 
other  dramatists. 

With  the  complete  play  in  my  hands,  I  could  not  fail  to  see 
that  the  key-note  was  struck  in  the  Prologue,  where  the  whole 
purpose  of  the  poet  is  told  within  the  compass  of  a  sonnet.  It 
speaks  of  the  bitter  feuds  of  "  two  households  "  for  whose  rivalry 
lives  were  being  sacrificed,  and  for  whose  "  ancient  grudge  "  the 
followers  of  both  were  continually  breaking  into  "new  mutiny." 
To  teach  a  lesson  to  the  reckless  leaders  of  those  brawls,  "  bred 
of  an  airy  word,"  it  was  necessary  that  each  should  suffer  in  his 
tenderest  point,  each  lose  his  dearest  hope,  his  only  child — 

"  Whose  misadventured  piteous  overthrows 
Do,  with  their  death,  bury  their  parents'  strife. " 

Nor  was  the  lesson  to  be  read  to  them  alone,  but  to  those  "  re 
bellious  subjects  "  also,  those  "  enemies  of  peace,"  who  helped  by 
their  violent  partisanship  to  disturb  the  quiet  and  security  of 
Verona's  streets.1 

1  I  considered  this  Prologue  of  so  much  importance  for  the  audience,  that 


JULIET.  109 

As  if  to  emphasise  the  purpose  shown  in  the  Prologue,  almost 
the  last  words  in  the  play  are  those  spoken  by  the  Prince  of 
Verona,  whose  kinsmen  Mercutio  and  Paris  had  both  fallen 
victims  to  a  purely  hereditary  animosity  ! — 

' '  Capulet !  Montague  ! 
See  what  a  scourge  is  laid  upon  your  hate, 
That  Heaven  finds  means  to  kill  your  joys  with  love  ! 
And  I,  for  winking  at  your  discords  too, 
Have  lost  a  brace  of  kinsmen  : — all  are  punished." 

"With  these  passages  before  me,  I  started  on  my  study  of  the 
play  from  a  fresh  point.  Romeo  and  Juliet  were  no  common 
lovers.  In  their  persons  they  must  be  pure,  beautiful,  generous, 
devoted,  and  in  every  way  meet,  like  the  spotless  Iphigenia,  to 
be  offered  up  a  worthy  sacrifice  to  the  gods  as  an  expiation  for 
the  past,  a  healing  and  propitiation  for  the  future ;  and  in  such 
wise  that  the  remembrance  of  their  death  should  make  impos- 
sible any  after-enmity — each  party  alike  sharing  in  the  woful 
penalty. 

"  Capulet.  0  brother  Montague,  give  me  thy  hand  : 
This  is  my  daughter's  jointure,  for  no  more 
Can  I  demand. 

Montagw.         But  I  can  give  thee  more  : 
For  I  will  raise  her  statue  in  pure  gold ; 
That,  while  Verona  by  that  name  is  known, 
There  shall  no  figure  at  such  rate  be  set, 
As  that  of  true  and  faithful  Juliet. 

Cap.  As  rich  shall  Romeo's  by  his  lady's  lie  ; 
Poor  sacrifices  of  our  enmity  ! " 

Very  terrible  has  been  the  awakening  of  these  two  passionate 
old  men  to  the  miserable  folly  of  their  feud  !  At  our  first  sight 
of  them,  they  rush  angrily  into  the  melee  of  their  retainers  which 
opens  the  play, — no  reason  asked  how  it  has  arisen — Capulet 
shouting,  "  Give  me  my  long  sword,  ho  ! "  and  Montague,  held 
back  by  his  wife,  hurling  defiance  in  the  words,  "  Thou  villain 
Capulet ! "  At  our  last  sight  of  them,  we  leave  them  standing 

during  my  last  engagement  at  Drury  Lane,  in  1869,  I  used  to  speak  it,  no 
one  else  being  inclined  to  undertake  the  task,  with  a  silk  domino  thrown 
over  my  dress,  and  in  front  of  a  fine  scene — painted  many  years  before  by 
Mr  David  Roberts — representing  the  Tomb  of  the  Scaligers  in  Verona. 


110  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

remorsefully  hand  in  hand  by  the  dead  bodies  of  their  only 
children,  each  reading  in  the  other's  face  the  rueful  lineaments 
of  his  own  cureless  grief. 

It  is  only  when  the  din  of  the  street  brawl  has  died  down 
under  the  stern  rebuke  and  threats  of  the  Prince  of  Verona  that 
we  hear  of  Eomeo.  "  Eight  glad  I  am,"  says  Lady  Montague, 
"  he  was  not  at  this  fray."  Then,  in  answer  to  her  inquiry  as  to 
where  he  is,  she  is  told  by  his  friend  and  cousin,  Benvolio,  that 
he  was  seen  an  hour  before  dawn  walking  in  one  of  his  favourite 
haunts  "underneath  the  grove  of  sycamore."  This  intelligence 
draws  from  his  father  the  remark,  that 

"  Many  a  morning  hath  he  there  been  seen, 
With  tears  augmenting  the  fresh  morning's  dew. " 

Shakespeare,  we  see,  has  taken  the  greatest  pains  to  show  the 
kind  of  love-sickness  into  which  Romeo  has  been  thrown  by  the 
charms  of  the  fair  but  icy  Rosaline,  who  chose  to  be  "  forsworn 
to  love  " — that  vague  yearning  of  the  fancy,  that  idle  listlessness 
which  finds  vent  in  "  sighing  like  furnace,"  and  writing  sonnets 
to  his  "mistress'  eyebrow,"  and  is  as  unlike  the  love  which  is 
soon  to  absorb  his  whole  soul  "  as  moonlight  is  to  sunlight,  or  as 
water  is  to  wine."  Much  of  it  is  but  "  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  time."  Not  only  Romeo's  habits,  his  very  language  under- 
goes a  change  from  the  moment  he  sees  Juliet.  It  is  no  longer 
the  fancy  but  the  heart  that  speaks. 

Shakespeare  prepares  us  early  for  the  coming  tragedy  in  the 
foreboding  reluctance  with  which  Romeo  allows  himself  to  be 
persuaded  by  his  friends  to  go  to  the  "old  accustomed  feast" 
that  night  at  Capulet's  house.  Destiny  has  begun  her  work. 
Some  power  constrains  him  against  his  will.  He  has  no  thought 
of  enjoyment  before  him,  for  he  says — 

"  Give  me  a  torch  :  I  am  not  for  this  ambling  ; 
Being  but  heavy,  I  will  bear  the  light. 

Mercutio.  Nay,  gentle  Romeo,  we  must  have  you  dance. 

Romeo.  Not  I,  believe  me  :  you  have  dancing  shoes 
With  nimble  soles  ;  I  have  a  sole  of  lead, 
So  stakes  me  to  the  ground,  I  cannot  move. 

I'll  be  a  candle-holder,  and  look  on." 


JULIET.  Ill 

Even  although  he  has  heard  that  the  fair  Rosaline  is  to  be  among 
the  guests,  he  is  unable  to  throw  off  a  heavy  misgiving  of  calamity 
"hanging  in  the  stars,"  which  is  to  date  from  "this  night's 
revels,"  and  to  close  in  "some  vile  forfeit  of  untimely  death." 
"But,"  he  adds, 

"  He,  that  hath  the  steerage  of  my  course, 
Direct  my  sail  !  " 

— words  which  always  remind  me  of  those  to  the  same  effect 
spoken  by  the  Lady  in  Comus,  when  forebodings  and  anxieties 
perplex  her — 

' '  Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my  trial 
To  my  proportioned  strength  ! " 

In  every  way  happier  than  Juliet,  Romeo  is  fortunate  in  his 
parents.  They  are  from  the  first  loving,  considerate,  and  sympa- 
thetic ;  and,  had  they  known  his  wishes,  they  would  have  spared 
no  pains  to  gratify  them.  Not  so  with  Juliet.  Although  an  only 
child,  there  has  been  obviously  not  much  tenderness  lavished  on 
her.  "Earth,"  says  Lord  Capulet, 

"  hath  swallow'd  all  my  hopes  but  she  ; 
She  is  the  hopeful  lady  of  my  earth." 

This  would  lead  one  to  believe  that  she  was  the  cherished  joy 
of  his  life.  And  when  Paris  presses  his  suit,  he  says — 

"  Get  her  heart, 
My  will  to  her  consent  is  but  a  part." 

Yet  this  profession  does  not  stand  the  proof ;  for  when,  later,  his 
child  entreats  with  all  the  earnestness  of  despair  but  to  be  heard, 
he  is  deaf  as  an  adder  to  her  appeal,  his  own  will  admitting  of 
no  question.  Apart  from  this  unreasonable  despotism  in  his 
family,  old  Capulet  is  in  every  sense  a  gentleman.  Observe,  for 
instance,  the  manner  in  which  he  reprimands  Tybalt  when  he 
would  insult  Romeo  at  the  ball — 

"  Young  Romeo  is't  ?  Verona  brags  of  him, 
To  be  a  virtuous  and  well-govern'd  youth  ; 
I  would  not  for  the  wealth  of  all  this  town 
Here  in  my  house  do  him  disparagement : 
Therefore  be  patient,  take  no  note  of  him  : 
It  is  my  will.  .  .  . 


112  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Tybalt.  I'll  not  endure  him. 

Cap.  He  shall  be  endured. 

What,  goodman  boy  !— I  say,  he  shall ;— Go  to  ;— 
You'll  not  endure  him  !      . 
You'll  make  a  mutiny  among  my  guests  !  " 

Choleric  and  unreasonable  as  he  is,  yet  I  like  him  better  than 
his  wife,  who  appears  to  me  to  be  a  piece  of  cold,  formal  pro- 
priety ;  of  the  type  that  would  "  with  a  hoard  of  shallow  maxims 
preach  down  a  daughter's  heart."  One  can  see  that  there  is  no 
sympathy  between  Lady  Capulet  and  her  daughter,  although 
Juliet,  her  "  loving  child,"  as  she  calls  her  when  she  has  lost  her, 
would  not  question  that  she  owed  her  mother  all  obedience,  and 
would,  when  she  first  comes  before  us,  never  hesitate  in  showing 
it.  With  what  bluntness  this  hard  mother  brings  the  sacred 
subject  of  marriage  before  the  mind  of  her  undeveloped,  yet,  as 
she  ought  to  know,  imaginative  daughter  ! — 

"  Tell  me,  daughter  Juliet, 
How  stands  your  disposition  to  be  married  ? " 

Juliet's  simple  quiet  reply  should  have  taught  her  how  far  from 
her  thoughts  was  such  a  subject — "  It  is  an  honour  that  I  dream 
not  of." 

She  stands  a  silent,  almost  indifferent  listener  to  all  her  mother 
has  to  say  concerning  the  virtues,  beauties,  and  accomplishments 
of  Paris,  her  panegyric  echoed  in  the  garrulous  piling  up  of 
admiring  epithets  by  the  Nurse — 

"  Why,  he's  a  man  of  wax. 
Nay,  he's  a  flower ;  in  faith,  a  very  flower. " 

Impatient  at  getting  no  response  from  Juliet  after  this  outburst, 
Lady  Capulet  says — 

"  Speak  briefly,  can  you  like  of  Paris'  love  ? " 

Juliet,  startled  and  unprepared,  takes  up  the  word  given  to  her, 
and  says — 

"I'll  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move  :  " 

but  adds  in  all  ignorant  obedience — 

"  But  no  more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye 
Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it  fly." 


JULIET.  113 

Poor  Juliet !  With  a  father  who  loves  her  in  a  wilful,  pas- 
sionate way,  with  the  understanding  that  when  he  has  set  his 
mind  upon  a  thing  her  will  shall  always  bend  to  his;  with  a 
mother  who,  if  she  loves  her  daughter,  entirely  fails  to  under- 
stand her  nature,  or  to  feel  for  her  in  a  matter  where  even  hard 
mothers  are  tender ;  and  having  for  her  only  other  friend,  her 
foster-mother, — a  coarse-minded,  weakly  indulgent,  silly  woman, 
— over  whom,  since  her  infancy,  she  has  ruled  supreme,  coaxing 
and  tyrannising  by  turns, — not  one  of  them  having,  as  we  are 
brought  to  see,  an  idea  of  marriage  beyond  the  good  worldly 
match  thought  necessary  for  the  rich  heiress  of  the  Capulets  ! 
Amid  such  surroundings  has  bloomed  into  early  girlhood  this 
creature,  with  a  rich  imagination  full  of  romance,  and  with  a 
boundless  capacity  for  self-devotion.  Her  dreams  are  of  a  future, 
with  a  love  in  store  for  her  responsive  to  her  own  capacity  of 
loving,  and  they  are  inspired  by  an  ideal  hero  possessing  the  best 
attributes  of  manhood, — a  love  in  which  her  whole"  being  should 
be  merged,  and  by  which  her  every  faculty  and  feeling  should  be 
quickened  into  noblest  life. 

These  dreams  were  even  now  to  be  realised  in  the  person  of 
him  who  was  unwillingly  making  his  slow  way  among  the  maskers 
to  her  father's  festival,  carrying  his  "  heavy  burden  "  of  love  along 
with  him.  He  has  not  found  it  the  "  tender  thing "  which 
Mercutio  calls  it.  No — 

"  It  is  too  rough, 
Too  rude,  too  boisterous  ;  and  it  pricks  like  thorn." 

Following  his  friends  into  the  ball  -  room  he  looks  carelessly 
around,  and  lo  !  what  do  his  eyes  light  upon  ?  A  vision  of  a 
beauty  never  imagined  before  ! 

No  haughty  coldness  here,  no  measured  stately  movement. 
He  watches  entranced  this  lovely  vision  swaying  to  the  rhythmic 
movement  of  the  music,  with  unstudied  grace,  so  noble,  yet  so 
childlike;  looking  for  nothing,  unconscious  of  admiring  eyes 
upon  her,  herself  delighting  only  in  the  simple  enjoyment  of  the 
dance,  with  a  bright  and  happy  smile  of  amused  delight  at  the 
novelty  of  the  scene  beaming  in  her  lovely  and  innocent  face. 

What  is  this  creature,  this  "snowy  dove  trooping  with 
crows  "  ? 


114      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  What  lady's  that,  which  doth  enrich  the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight  ?  " 

he  asks  some  strange  servant ;  who  replies — 

"I  know  not,  sir. 

Rom.  0,  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright ! 
Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night 
Like  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear : 
Beauty  too  rich  for  uee,  for  earth  too  dear  ! 

Did  my  heart  love  till  now  ?  forswear  it,  sight ! 
For  I  ne'er  saw  true  beauty  till  this  night." 

All  the  wonder  of  this  gracious  creature's  charm  flashes  swift  as 
lightning  upon  him,  and  reveals  to  his  awakened  senses  a  some- 
thing before  which  all  former  dreams  and  yearnings  vanish,  and 
become  as  though  they  had  never  been.  He  feels  instinctively 
that  there  is  within  this  peerless  form  a  soul  as  peerless,  towards 
which  his  own  rushes  as  towards  its  other  self.  The  languid 
fantastic  youth  of  dreams  and  whims  becomes  at  once  the  man  of 
purpose.  He  puts  on  his  armour  and  begins  the  battle  of  life. 
No  hesitation  now,  such  as  we  had  seen  in  him  before, — no  more, 
"  my  mind  misgives  me  ! " 

Meanwhile,  we  may  be  sure  that  "  yonder  knight,"  who  is  no 
other  than  the  County  Paris,  has  been  doing  his  best  during  the 
dance  to  excite  Juliet's  admiration.  She  has  come  straight  from 
the  recapitulation  of  his  perfections,  and  knows  well  from  her 
mother's  words  that  "  like "  him  or  not,  this  comely  gentleman, 
"the  valiant  Paris,"  is  destined  by  her  parents  to  be  her  hus- 
band. She  has  therefore  "  looked  to  like,"  as  she  was  told  to  do, 
but  evidently  with  no  success  on  her  part,  whatever  increase  of 
ardour  the  meeting  may  have  brought  to  Paris.  Her  heart  and 
fancy  are  alike  untouched,  when,  at  the  close  of  the  dance,  a 
stranger,  in  the  dress  of  a  pilgrim,  "with  his  cockle,  hat,  and 
staff,"  approaches  to  watch,  as  he  says, 

"  her  place  of  stand, 
And,  touching  hers,  make  happy  my  rude  hand." 

During  the  dispute  between  Capulet  and  Tybalt,  Eomeo  has 
made  his  way  to  Juliet.  It  is  only  the  close  of  their  conversation 


JULIET.  115 

that  we  hear,  when  he  asks,  as  the  pilgrim,  that  his  "  unworthy 
hand  "  may  be  permitted  to  touch  "  this  holy  shrine,"  earnestly 
pleading  that  he  may  be  allowed  to  atone  for  the  roughness  of 
his  touch  by  the  softer  pressure  of  his  lips  upon  her  flower-soft 
hand.  The  touch  is  gentle,  the  words  are  few ;  but  that  touch 
of  "  palm  to  palm,"  those  few  words,  have  an  eloquence  more 
persuasive  than  volumes  of  passionate  phrases.  The  beseeching 
eyes,  the  tremulous  voice  full  of  adoration  and  humility — have 
these  not  spoken  ?  The  heart's  deepest  meanings  rarely  find 
utterance  in  words. 

The  "  dear  saint "  replies  to  the  holy  pilgrim's  devotion  in  a 
playful  manner,  telling  him  that  his  lips,  as  a  pilgrim,  he  "  must 
use  in  prayer."  Far  too  soon  breaks  in  the  Nurse,  who  no  doubt 
likes  not  this  talk  with  a  stranger,  and  tells  Juliet  that  her 
mother  craves  a  word  with  her.  Romeo  takes  this  opportunity 
to  ask,  "  What  is  her  mother  ? "  Upon  which  the  Nurse  replies 
that  she  is  the  "  lady  of  the  house,  and  a  good  lady,"  and  that 
she  herself  had  nursed  her  daughter,  whom  he  had  "talk'd 
withal,"  adding,  in  the  true  gossiping  manner  of  her  class : — 

"  I  tell  you, — he,  that  can  lay  hold  of  her, 
Shall  have  the  chinks. 

Rom.  Is  she  a  Capulet  ? 

0  dear  account !  my  life  is  my  foe's  debt." 

Benvolio  hurries  his  friend  away  before,  as  he  thinks,  the  fact 
of  their  presence  has  been  discovered — and  also  wisely,  while  yet 
"  the  sport  is  at  the  best."  Lord  Capulet  most  courteously  urges 
them  to  remain  to  supper,  although  he  has  been  told  who  they 
are ;  and  finding  they  decline,  he  bids  them  good  night,  thanking 
them  graciously  for  their  company  : — 

"  Why,  then,  I  thank  you  all ; 
I  thank  you,  honest  gentlemen  ;  good  night." 

Juliet  naturally  wishes  to  know  Romeo's  name,  as  he  had  desired 
to  know  hers.  As  the  Montagues  leave  the  room,  each  by  turns 
saluting  her,  she  asks  and  learns  from  the  Nurse  the  names  of 
Romeo's  friends.  He  lingers  last;  and  to  her  eager  "What's 
he,  that  follows,  there,"  she  adds,  to  recall  him  more  particularly 
to  the  Nurse's  attention,  what  must  have  appeared  very  singular 


116  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

to  herself,  "that  would  not  dance?"  But  the  Nurse  has  to 
inquire,  and  finds — 

"  His  name  is  Borneo,  and  a  Montague  ; 
The  only  son  of  your  great  enemy. 

Juliet.  My  only  love  sprung  from  my  only  hate  ! 
Too  early  seen  unknown,  and  known  too  late  ! 
Prodigious  birth  of  love  it  is  to  me, 
That  I  must  love  a  loathed  enemy." 

The  tragic  note  is  struck.  There  is  no  questioning  of  her  feeling 
— no  doubt,  no  hesitation.  Like  lightning  love  has  shot  into 
her  heart  and  left  its  barb, — whether  for  joy  or  woe,  time  alone 
will  prove.  This  is,  possibly,  their  last  as  well  as  their  first 
meeting.  Such  is  Juliet's  thought  as  the  act  closes.  For  what 
ensues  Shakespeare  prepares  the  audience  in  the  words  of  the 
prologue  to  the  second  act. 

1 '  Being  held  a  foe,  he  may  not  have  access 
To  breathe  such  vows  as  lovers  used  to  swear ; 

But  passion  lends  them  power,  time  means,  to  meet, 
Tempering  extremities  with  extreme  sweet. " 

Romeo,  taken  reluctantly  from  the  feast  by  his  friends,  who 
will  not  sup  with  their  enemy,  steals  away  from  them  im- 
mediately. Although  the  "  snowy  dove  "  is  his  fair  enemy,  his 
"  unrest "  causes  him  to  hover  near  the  place  where  he  has  found 
his  true  life.  The  foreboding  of  trouble  may  hang  over  him, 
but  this  is  forgotten  in  the  presence  of  Juliet.  The  whole  man 
is  changed.  "With  love's  light  wings"  he  overleaps  the  wall 
of  Capulet's  garden.  No  talk  now  of  "sinking  under  love's 
heavy  burden."  Indeed,  no  talk  at  all.  No  more  confidences 
to  his  friends.  This  real  passion  makes  him  gravely  happy — is 
too  sacred  to  be  named  and  talked  over. 

.  Neither  of  the  lovers  can  have  any  insight  into  the  feeling  of 
the  other,  when  the  same  impulse,  or  destiny,  which  leads  Romeo 
to  find  his  way  beneath  his  lady's  chamber-window,  despite  all 
obstruction — "the  orchard  walls  are  high,  and  hard  to  climb" — 
urges  Juliet  to  seek  the  freshness  of  the  night  air  in  the  balcony 
or  loggia  leading  from  her  room,  to  think  over  and  indulge  these 
new  sensations  of  mingled  happiness  and  pain,  which  had  so 


JULIET.  117 

wildly  and  entirely  taken  possession  of  her.  The  tumult  of  her 
feelings  must  find  vent.  What  a  new  life  has  opened  to  her ! 
The  past  seems  swept  away ;  her  spirit  has  risen  with  a  bound 
as  at  some  undreamt-of  call.  It  has  not  been  left  to  her  will  to 
determine  how  "deep  she  will  endart  her  eye."  The  invincible 
and  unknown  Eros  has  come  upon  her  unlocked  for,  unannounced, 
in  all  his  terror  and  in  all  his  beauty.  But  he  to  whom  she  is 
prepared  to  "give  up  all  herself"  is  separated  from  her  by  a 
bitter  and  impassable  family  feud  of  which  she  has  been  hearing 
all  her  life.  Her  throbbing  pulse,  the  flush  of  the  heated  ball- 
room, make  the  cool  moonlight  air  most  welcome.  She  could 
not  breathe  within.  Here  she  is  alone,  safe  even  from  the  silly 
prattle  of  the  Nurse,  whom  she  has  left  dozing  in  her  chair.  She 
will  tell  her  secret  to  the  soft  night  breeze, — whisper  to  it  over 
and  over  the  name  which  is  so  dear  and  yet  so  fatal, — adjure 
young  Montague  in  fancy  to  renounce  it, 

"  And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 
Take  all  myself." 

Oh,  how  sweeter  far  than  sweetest  note  of  any  nightingale 
must  have  been  that  soft,  tremulous,  half-inarticulate  voice  as  it 
floated  in  the  still  air  towards  Borneo's  ear !  What  ecstasy  to 
learn,  and  thus  to  learn,  that  she  Avho  "has  wounded  him  so 
deeply,  is  by  him  wounded  "  !  At  first  too  amazed,  too  doubtful 
of  his  joy,  he  is  fearful  to  interrupt  her  spoken  reverie,  but  upon 
the  offer  of  herself  his  self-restraint  can  hold  out  no  longer,  and 
he  breaks  in  vehemently  with — - 

"  I  take  thee  at  thy  word : 
Call  me  but  love,  and  I'll  be  new  baptised  ; 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo." 

Too  terrified  at  first  at  finding  she  has  had  a  listener,  Juliet 
recognises  neither  voice  nor  words,  and  exclaims  angrily — 

"  What  man  art  thou,  that,  thus  bescreen'd  in  night, 
So  stumblest  on  my  counsel    " 

In  his  reply  he  shrinks  from  repeating  the  name  which  is  hateful 
to  himself,  "because  it  is  an  enemy  to' thee."  With  a  thrill  of 
rapture  Juliet  whispers  to  herself — 


118  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  My  ears  have  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred  words 
Of  that  tongue's  utterance,  yet  I  know  the  sound." 

Yet  she  must  be  assured  from  his  own  lips  how  he  came  hither 
and  wherefore.  Thus,  when  she  tells  him  of  the  peril  of  the 
place, — no  less  than  death,  "if  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee 
here," — he  answers — 

"  Alack  !  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye, 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords  ;  look  thou  but  sweet, 
And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity." 

Rapturously  welcome  to  her  heart  as  this  rejoinder  is,  it  cannot 
still  her  anxiety  for  his  safety. 

' '  I  would  not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee  here. 

Rom.  And  but  thou  love  me,  let  them  find  me  here  : 
My  life  were  better  ended  by  their  hate, 
Than  death  prorogued,  wanting  of  thy  love." 

Then  she  is  full  of  amazement  as  to  how  he  came  there.  Who 
could  have  guided  him  1 

"  By  whose  direction  found'st  thou  out  this  place  ? 
Rom.  By  love." 

All — love.     Love  is  on  his  lips  as  in  his  heart. 

"  I  am  no  pilot ;  yet,  wert  thou  as  far 
As  that  vast  shore  wash'd  with  the  farthest  sea, 
I  would  adventure  for  such  merchandise." 

Juliet,  when  partly  pacified  as  to  his  safety — "I  have  night's 
cloak  to  hide  me  from  their  sight " — has  time  to  think  of  how 
she  has  committed  herself,  in  how  unmaidenly  a  guise  she  must 
appear  before  him. 

Women  are  deeply  in  debt  to  Shakespeare  for  all  the  lovely 
noble  things  he  has  put  into  his  women's  hearts  and  mouths, 
but  surely  for  nothing  more  than  for  the  words  in  which  Juliet's 
reply  is  couched.  Only  one  who  knew  of  what  a  true  woman  is 
capable,  in  frankness,  in  courage,  and  self-surrender  when  her 
heart  is  possessed  by  a  noble  love,  could  have  touched  with  such 
delicacy,  such  infinite  charm  of  mingled  reserve  and  artless 
frankness,  the  avowal  of  so  fervent  yet  so  modest  a  love,  the 


JULIET.  119 

secret  of  which  had  been  so  strangely  stolen  from  her.  As  the 
whole  scene  is  the  noblest  paean  to  Love  ever  written,  so  is  what 
Juliet  now  says  supreme  in  subtlety  of  feeling  and  expression, 
where  all  is  beautiful.  Watch  all  the  fluctuations  of  emotion 
which  pervade  it  and  you  will  understand  what  a  task  is  laid 
upon  the  actress  to  interpret  them,  not  in  voice  and  tone  only, 
important  as  these  are,  but  also  in  manner  and  in  action.  The 
generous  frankness  of  the  giving,  the  timid  drawing  back,  fearful 
of  having  given  too  much  unsought ;  the  perplexity  of  the 
whole,  all  summed  up  in  that  sweet  entreaty  for  pardon  with 
which  it  closes.  But  I  must  quote  the  whole  passage : — 

"  Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face, 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to-night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form  ;  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke ;  but  farewell  compliment ! 
Dost  thou  love  me  1     I  know  thou  wilt  say  '  Ay,' 
And  I  will  take  thy  word  :  yet,  if  thou  swear'st, 
Thou  may'st  prove  false  ;  at  lovers'  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     0  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  : 
Or  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I'll  frown  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo  ;  but  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond  ; 
And  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my  'haviour  light : 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  overheard'st,  ere  I  was  ware, 
My  true  love's  passion  :  therefore,  pardon  me, 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered." 

I  considered  this  speech  one  of  the  most  difficult  in  the  play, 
and  loved  and  dreaded  it  equally,  always  fearing  to  do  too  much 
or  too  little  in  it.  Indeed,  the  whole  scene  is  a  very  anxious 
and  a  very  fatiguing  one. 

How  much  must  Romeo  have  felt  the  contrast  between  the 
gentle,  ardent,  yet  deprecating  tones  he  listens  to  so  rapturously, 
and  the  unsympathetic  voice  in  which  the  haughty  Eosaline  had 
told  him  she  thought  it  virtue  to  give  nought  in  return  for  love  ! 


120        SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

What  was  her  cold  beauty  to  that  which  he  was  now  watching 
in  the  waning  moonlight !  And  here,  too,  there  was  so  much 
besides  the  beautiful  outside ;  the  frank  innocence,  the  boundless 
generosity  which  told  of  the  noble  sweetness  of  the  inner  nature  ! 
He  is  spell-bound  into  silence,  and  cannot  break  the  music  of 
those  words  that  flood  his  heart  with  happiness,  until  Juliet,  by 
asking  him  not  to  think  lightly  of  a  love  so  frankly  expressed, 
binds  him  to  her  by  a  tie  never  to  be  sundered.  That  passionate 
childlike  loving  queens  her  in  his  sight,  and  makes  him  her  slave 
for  ever.  To  his  eyes,  "being  o'er  his  head,"  she  appears  as 
"a  winged  messenger  of  heaven."  He  would  make  the  pure 
chaste  moon,  as  being  most  like  to  her,  the  goddess  to  bear 
witness  to  his  vows  — "  Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I 

swear "      But    Juliet    interrupts,    and   will    not    let    him 

swear  by 

"the  inconstant  moon, 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb, 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable." 

He  asks—"  What  shall  I  swear  by  ? "     She  answers— 

"  Do  not  swear  at  all ; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self, 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I'll  believe  thee." 

Oh  the  rich  resonance  of  those  words  !  What  scope  they  give 
the  actress,  by  her  delivery  of  them,  to  mark  the  enthusiasm  and 
the  devotion  of  Juliet's  nature  which  is  so  soon  to  develop  into 
the  heroic  constancy  which  carries  her,  alone  and  unsupported, 
through  a  trial  more  fearful  than  death  itself ! 
.  Suddenly  she  thinks  that  such  joy  as  this  cannot  be  lasting, 
— that  this  contract  between  them  is 

"too  rash,  too  unadvised,  too  sudden  ; 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be, 
Ere  one  can  say  '  It  lightens.'  " 

But  such  a  reflection  is  only  momentary,  for  she  directly  adds — 

"  Sweet,  good  night ! 

This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet ;  " 


JULIET.  121 

and  to  prove  that  no  disturbing  thoughts  have  real  place  within 
her,  says,  as  she  turns  to  leave  him — 

"  As  sweet  repose  and  rest 
Come  to  thy  heart,  as  that  within  my  breast ! " 

Naturally  anxious  to  delay  the  parting,  Romeo  detains  Juliet  by 
the  entreaty — 

"  0,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied  ? 

JuL,  What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to-night  ? 

Rom.  The  exchange  of  thy  love's  faithful  vow  for  mine." 

How  charming  is  what  follows ! — 

"  I  gave  thee  mine  before  thou  didst  request  it : 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. " 

Romeo  tremblingly  asks — 

"  Would'st  thou  withdraw  it  ?  for  what  purpose,  love  ? 

JuL  But  to  be  frank,  and  give  it  thee  again.    .     .     . 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
My  love  as  deep  ;  the  more  I  give  to  thee, 
The  more  I  have,  for  both  are  infinite." 

At  this  moment  the  Nurse,  awakening,  misses  Juliet  and  calls  to 
her;  on  which,  fearing  the  house  may  be  disturbed  and  her  love 
in  danger,  she  bids  Romeo  a  hasty  adieu,  with  an  eager  admoni- 
tion to  "  be  true."  Then,  as  it  may  be  only  the  Nurse  that  has 
awoke,  she  adds, — "  Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again."  When 
left  alone,  Romeo  cannot  believe  his  happiness  : — 

' '  I  am  af  eard, 

Being  in  night,  all  this  is  but  a  dream, 
Too  flattering-sweet  to  be  substantial." 

So  marked  a  change  takes  place  in  Juliet's  manner  and  words 
on  her  return,  that  we  are  led  to  suppose  the  Nurse  may  have 
questioned  her  on  what  she  thought  of  Paris  and  of  her  approach- 
ing marriage  with  him.  From  such  talk  she  breaks  hastily  away, 
and  knowing  how  little  likelihood  there  was  of  another  meeting 
with  her  lover  without  more  peril  to  his  life — dreading  also  that 
her  parents  may  force  her  into  an  immediate  marriage  with  Paris, 


122  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

and  having  now  no  time  to  explain  anything,  she  is  obliged  to 
say  to  Borneo  abruptly,  in  "three  words "- 

"  If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honourable, 
Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow, 
By  one  that  I'll  procure  to  come  to  thee, 
Where  and  what  time  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite  ; 
And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lay, 
And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  throughout  the  world." 

Here  the  Nurse  again  calls — 

"  Madam  ! 

Jul.  I  come,  anon. — But  if  thou  mean'st  not  well, 
I  do  beseech  thee " 

Another  interruption  comes  from  the   Nurse,  to  which  Juliet, 
almost  past  patience,  cries — 

"  By  and  by,  I  come  : — 
To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief." 

Romeo  has  only  time  to  say,  "So  thrive  my  soul,"  when 
Juliet  leaves  him  with  "  A  thousand  times  good  night ! "  The 
Nurse  must  have  been  quieted  by  what  Juliet  has  imparted  to 
her ;  for  when,  after  Romeo's  reluctant  steps  have  taken  him  to 
some  little  distance,  and  Juliet  comes  back  again  to  the  balcony, 
there  is  no  further  interruption  from  her.  Thinking  Romeo  gone, 
Juliet  wishes 

"  Oh,  for  a  falconer's  voice, 
To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  back  again  ! " 

The  "  silver-sweet "  voice  reaches  his  attending  ear  "  like  softest 
music,"  and  brings  him  instantly  back. 

Why  has  she  stolen  forth  again?  Partly  to  learn  the  hour 
when  she  is  to  send  to  him — partly  for  the  fond  pleasure  of 
listening  to  some  few  more  words  of  that  "  tongue's  utterance." 
Presently  she  says,  "  I  have  forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back." 
Had  she  forgotten  anything?  I  think  not.  Only  bewildered 
with  her  happiness — that  "sweet  repose  and  rest"  which  she 
found  within  her  heart — she  thought  she  had,  and  owns  that 
she  shall 

"  forget,  to  have  thee  still  stand  there, 
Remembering  how  I  love  thy  company." 


JULIET.  123 

Romeo  will  gladly  stay — "  Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this  "  ; 
but  the  "  night's  cloak  "  can  no  longer  conceal  him.  "  Tis  almost 
morning."  They  must  separate.  Juliet  leaves  him  with — 

"  Good  night,  good  night !     Parting  is  such  sweet  sorrow, 
That  I  shall  say — good  night,  till  it  be  morrow. 

Rom.  Sleep  dwell  upon  thine  eyes,  peace  in  thy  breast ! — 
Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest ! " 

Eomeo  wants  no  sleep.  His  satisfied  heart  needs  no  refresh- 
ment. While  yet 

"  The  grey-eyed  morn  smiles  on  the  frowning  night, 
Chequering  the  eastern  clouds  with  streaks  of  light," 

he  seeks  the  cell  of  Friar  Laurence,  who  would  appear  to  be  the 
Confessor  of  both  families.  Upon  his  "  Good-morrow,  father  ! " 
the  Friar  asks,  "What  early  tongue  so  sweet  saluteth  me?" 
Romeo  amazes  the  holy  man  by  his  confession  that  he  has  forgot 
the  name  of  Rosaline,  and  explains  how  his 

"  heart's  dear  love  is  set 
On  the  fair  daughter  of  rich  Capulet. 

When,  and  where,  and  how 
We  met,  we  woo'd,  and  made  exchange  of  vow, 
I'll  tell  thee  as  we  pass  ;  but  this  I  pray, 
That  thou  consent  to  marry  us  to-day. 

Friar.  Holy  Saint  Francis  !  what  a  change  is  here  ! " 

Romeo  is  made  to  listen  to  a  homily  for  this  fickleness ;  but  the 
Friar  ends  with  consenting  to  his  request,  under  the  impression 
that  the  marriage  may  possibly  bring  to  a  conclusion  the  long 
feud  between  their  families. 

"  For  this  alliance  may  so  happy  prove, 
To  turn  your  households'  rancour  to  pure  love." 

Juliet,  meanwhile,  has  had  to  take  the  Nurse  fully  into 
her  confidence.  The  notion  of  a  marriage,  and  a  secret  one, 
in  which  she  herself  has  to  play  an  important  part,  delights 
the  heart  of  this  conceited,  silly  woman.  She  gladly  under- 
takes to  be  Juliet's  messenger,  and  finds  Romeo  at  the  ap- 
pointed hour  with  his  friends  Mercutio  and  Benvolio.  Before 


124  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

her  entrance,  we  see  how  entirely  Eomeo  has  cast  aside  the 
languor  of  the  love -sick  youth  of  the  day  before.  When 
rallied  by  the  brilliant  Mercutio  on  his  giving  them  "the 
slip"  the  previous  night,  he  turns  the  tables  on  him — gives 
him  jest  for  jest,  so  that  this  glib-tongued  gentleman,  "who 
loves  to  hear  himself  talk,"  has  to  call  in  Benvolio  to  help 
him  —  "Come  between  us,  good  Benvolio;  my  wits  faint." 
Upon  still  getting  the  worst  from  Eomeo,  he  says,  "Why,  is 
not  this  better  now  than  groaning  for  love?  Now  art  thou 
sociable  ;  now  art  thou  Romeo ;  now  art  thou  what  thou  art, 
by  art  as  well  as  by  nature."  Mercutio,  after  wasting  some  of 
his  wit  on  the  Nurse,  quits  the  scene  with  Benvolio.  The 
Nurse,  exceedingly  angered  and  indignant  at  Mercutio,  can 
hardly  be  brought  to  give  to  Eomeo,  who  does  all  he  can 
to  soothe  her,  the  message  from  her  mistress — "what  she  bade 
me  say,  I  will  keep  to  myself ; "  but  Eomeo's  fair  words  and 
a  handsome  douceur,  which  she  takes  after  a  little  coquet- 
ting, bring  her  round,  and  an  appointment  is  made  for  her 
lady  to  come  that  afternoon  to  Friar  Laurence's  cell,  there  to 
be  "shrived  and  married."  Eomeo  also  directs  her  to  meet 
his  man  behind  the  abbey  wall,  and  to  get  from  him  "cords 
made  like  a  tackled  stair,"  by  which  he  may  after  dark  ascend 
to  the  chamber  of  his  bride.  Before  she  consents  to  this,  she 
is  shrewd  enough  to  require  satisfaction  on  a  very  material 
point : — 

"  Is  your  man  secret  ?     Did  you  ne'er  hear  say, 
Two  may  keep  counsel,  putting  one  away  ?" 

We  may  believe  that  the  Nurse,  loving  much  her  own  ease, 
has  not,  on  this  hot  day,  made  her  best  haste  back  to  Juliet. 
We  hear  she  has  been  "  three  long  hours  "  away — a  period  for 
which  her  short  interview  with  Eomeo  could  hardly  account. 
We  do  not  wonder,  therefore,  at  Juliet's  impatience.  When  at 
last  the  Nurse  comes,  Juliet  can  get  but  little  from  her.  The 
Nurse  feels  that  she  is  mistress  of  the  situation,  and  will  make 
the  most  of  it.  She  is  "  a- weary  " ;  her  "  bones  ache  " ;  she  must 
have  "  leave  awhile  " ;  she  will  not  speak  to  the  point — "  Do  you 
not  see  that  I  am  out  of  breath  ? " 


JULIET.  125 

"  Jiil.  How  art  thou  out  of  breath,  when  thou  hast  breath 
To  say  to  me  that  thou  art  out  of  breath  ? 

Is  thy  news  good  or  bad  ?  answer  to  that ; 
Say  either,  and  I'll  stay  the  circumstance." 

The  Nurse  remembering,  no  doubt,  Romeo's  handsome  gift,  now 
bursts  into  an  eulogium  upon  him.  He  is  in  all  points  "  past 
compare."  Then  the  fear  of  having  lost  her  dinner  startles  her 
— "  What !  have  you  dined  at  home  1 "  "  No,  no." 

Although  at  another  time  Juliet  could  never  weary  of  hearing 
the  praises  of  her  lover,  yet  now  a  much  more  urgent  matter  is 
in  hand. 

"  But  all  this  did  I  know  before  ; 
What  says  he  of  our  marriage  ?  what  of  that  ? " 

The  selfish  nature  of  the  Niirse  is  here  shown  by  the  way 
she  keeps  Juliet  in  suspense,  and  therefore  we'  cannot  much 
wonder  at  the  light  in  which  she  appears  afterwards.  It  is 
for  ever  herself,  herself — "  Lord,  how  my  head  aches ! "  then 
her  back,  —  reproaching  Juliet  for  the  time  she  has  herself 
wasted  "with  jaunting  up  and  down." 

When  Juliet  has  pitied  and  petted  her  enough,  she  thinks 
she  has  brought  her  to  the  point ;  but  just  as  she  is  touching  it, 
the  Nurse  breaks  off  again  with,  "  Where  is  your  mother  1 "  At 
this,  Juliet's  patience  gives  way,  and  she  replies  angrily — 

"  Why,  she  is  within  ; 
Where  should  she  be  ?     How  oddly  thou  repliest ! " 

thereby  only  giving  the  Nurse  fresh  weapons  to  torment  her. 
Juliet  sees  that  she  must  still  be  humoured  ;  and  here  occurs 
one  of  those  passages  which,  with  unerring  instinct,  Shakespeare 
leaves  the  performer  to  fill  up  by  action — words  being  quite 
inadequate  to  carry  on  the  scene.  The  caressing,  winning  kisses 
and  loving  ways  of  Juliet  gradually  subdue  her  tormentor.  By 
this  time,  too,  perhaps  the  thought  of  dinner  becomes  uppermost 
in  the  Nurse's  mind ;  and  in  reply  to  Juliet's  question,  "  Come, 
what  says  Eomeo  ] "  she  replies,  coming  straight  to  the  point  at 
last— 

"  Have  you  got  leave  to  go  to  shrift  to-day  ? 
JuL.  I  have. 


126      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Nurse.  Then  hie  you  hence  to  Friar  Laurence'  cell ; — 
There  stays  a  husband  to  make  you  a  wife. 

Hie  you  to  church  ; 

Go  ;  I'll  to  dinner ;  hie  you  to  the  cell." 

"  Hie  to  high  fortune  !  —  honest  Nurse,  farewell !  "  exclaims 
Juliet,  as  with  happy  throbbing  heart  she  hastens  away  to 
celebrate  the  rite  which  frees  her  from  Paris,  gives  her  to  her 
lover,  and  after  which  she  will  be  ready  "to  follow  him 
throughout  the  world." 

No  need  to  dwell  on  the  short  scene  which  follows,  when  the 
lovers  meet  at  Friar  Laurence's  cell,  where  the  poet  shows  what 
countless  wealth  of  love  each  is  ready  to  bestow  upon  the  other. 
No  forebodings  now  from  either.  The  "bud  of  love"  seems 
swiftly  to  have  grown  into  a  "beauteous  flower"  unhindered. 
The  swifter  blighting  to  follow  is  hidden  for  that  blessed  moment 
from  them.  The  Friar,  fearing  these  supposed  enemies  should 
be  seen  together  at  his  cell,  hurries  them  away  into  his  chapel 
to  perform  the  marriage  rite;  and  "holy  church  incorporates 
two  in  one."  After  the  Friar's  benediction  they  part;  but 
only  until  the  moon  shall  be  "touching  with  silver  all  the 
fruit-tree  tops,"  and  the  nightingale  shall  again  be  "trilling  her 
thick-warbled  note"  from  the  pomegranate-tree  in  a  low  sweet 
epithalamium.  Why  should  their  bliss  be  dashed  by  fear? 
They  have  both  entire  faith  in  the  Friar,  in  his  power  to  help 
them,  and  in  good  time  to  reconcile  their  friends  to  the  marriage. 
He  must  look  forward  to  this  himself,  or  he  would  not  otherwise 
have  consented  to  it.  Their  parting,  therefore,  is  as  full  of  joy 
as  their  meeting  had  been,  though  of  a  more  subdued  and  holier 
kind 

Alas  for  their  next  meeting !  All  seems  fair ;  but  Destiny 
now  begins  her  woful  work  in  earnest,  and  chooses  her  first 
victim  in  the  person  of  the  gallant,  gay,  high-spirited  Mercutio, 
who  is  strolling  along  in  the  hot  noonday,  despite  the  remon- 
strances of  his  friend  Benvolio. 

"  The  day  is  hot,  the  Capulets  abroad, 
And,  if  we  meet,  we  shall  not  'scape  a  brawl ; 
For  now,  these  hot  days,  is  the  mad  blood  stirring." 


JULIET.  127 

Presently  comes  Tybalt  seeking  Eomeo,  in  order  to  insult  and 
challenge  him  for  having  intruded  the  previous  night  into  his 
uncle's  house.  Mercutio  tries  to  provoke  him  to  an  encounter, 
but  Tybalt  will  have  none  of  him.  At  that  moment  Mercutio 
is  not  the  man  he  seeks.  For  such  a  hot-blooded  young  gentle- 
man he  shows  wondrous  forbearance  under  Mercutio's  taunts, 
and  ends  with,  "  Well,  peace  be  with  you,  sir !  here  conies  my 
man,"  as  he  catches  sight  of  Eomeo,  who  is  coming  straight 
from  the  Friar's  cell  after  the  celebration  of  his  marriage.  In 
this  mood  the  world  to  him  is  full  of  love  and  amity,  even  the 
insulting  address  of  Tybalt  cannot  move  him.  Besides,  is  Tybalt 
not  the  kinsman  of  his  love?  To  a  coarse  greeting  he  replies 
with  dignity  and  kindness — 

"  Tybalt,  the  reason  that  I  have  to  love  thee 
Doth  much  excuse  the  appertaining  rage 
To  such  a  greeting :  villain  am  I  none  ; 
Therefore,  farewell;  I  see  thou  know'st  me  not." 

Borneo's  gentleness,  even  under  renewed  provocation,  takes  away 
the  sting  of  Tybalt's  wrath.  He  cannot  as  a  gentleman  add 
still  further  insult,  but  must  perforce,  for  the  time,  be  satisfied. 
Mercutio,  however,  who  knows  none  of  Romeo's  reasons  for 
desiring  to  be  at  peace  with  the  Capulets,  calls  this  a  "dis- 
honourable, vile  submission,"  and  feels  that  he  must,  on  his  own 
part,  wipe  out  the  discredit  with  his  sword.  He  turns  furiously 
on  Tybalt,  and  in  a  second  their  swords  are  tilting  at  each  other's 
breasts.  Calling  on  his  friend  Benvolio  to  help  him,  and  re- 
minding the  combatants  that  "  the  prince  expressly  hath  for- 
bidden bandying  in  Verona  streets,"  Romeo  interposes  and  beats 
up  their  weapons.  This  gives  Tybalt  an  opportunity  to  inflict  a 
wound  on  Mercutio  under  Romeo's  arm, — after  which  he  leaves 
the  scene  with  his  followers.  Mercutio  knows  at  once  that  he 
has  received  his  death-stroke — 

"  I  am  hurt ; — 

A  plague  o'  both  your  houses  ! — I  am  sped : — 
Is  he  gone,  and  hath  nothing  ?  " 

With  all  his  pain  he  never  loses  his  wit  and  spirit.     Romeo 


128  SHAKESPEARE'S   FEMALE   CHARACTERS: 

"  Courage,  man  ;  the  hurt  cannot  be  much. 

Mer.  No,  'tis  not  so  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as  a  church-door  ;  but  'tis 
enough,  'twill  serve.  Ask  for  me  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  find  me  a  grave 
man.  I  am  peppered,  I  warrant,  for  this  world. 

Help  me  into  some  house,  Benvolio, 

Or  I  shall  faint.     A  plague  o'  both  your  houses  ! 

They  have  made  worms'  meat  of  me. " 

\ 
All  the  dismal  consequences  of  this  disaster,  of  which  he  is  the 

innocent  cause,  at  once  flash  upon  Romeo. 

"This  gentleman,  the  prince's  near  ally, 
My  very  friend,  hath  got  his  mortal  hurt 
In  my  behalf  ;  my  reputation  stain'd 
By  Tybalt's  slander— Tybalt,  that  an  hour 
Hath  been  my  kinsman  !     0  sweet  Juliet, 
Thy  beauty  hath  made  me  effeminate, 
And  in  my  temper  soften'd  valour's  steel ! " 

Unluckily,  while  Romeo's  grief  is  at  its  height,  on  hearing 
from  Benvolio  that  Mercutio  is  dead,  Tybalt  comes  back  upon 
the  scene.  At  the  sight  of  the  slayer  of  his  friend,  even  Juliet 
is  forgotten ;  and  rushing  with  fury  upon  Tybalt,  who  has  again 
insulted  him  with  taunting  words,  Romeo  kills  him,  and  is 
hurried  from  the  scene  by  Benvolio  as  the  citizens  rush  in,  pres- 
ently to  be  followed  by  the  Prince  of  Verona  with  the  heads  of 
both  the  rival  houses. 

The  Prince,  who  has  so  lately  issued  his  decree  that,  if  either 
of  the  conflicting  factions  should  again  disturb  the  quiet  of  the 
streets,  "their  life  shall  pay  the  forfeit,"  upon  hearing  from 
Benvolio  the  provocation  under  which  Romeo  fought,  is  moved 
to  pronounce  a  milder  sentence — 

"  Let  Romeo  hence  in  haste, 
Else,  when  he's  found,  that  hour  is  his  last. 

Mercy  but  murders,  pardoning  those  that  kill." 

While  all  these  disasters  are  taking  place,  Juliet,  entirely 
unconscious  of  the  difference  in  her  fate,  is  revelling  in  joyful 
anticipation  of  the  approach  of  night,  which  shall  bring  back 
Romeo : — 


JULIET.  129 

"  Come,  night ! — Come,  Romeo  !  come,  thou  day  in  night ! 
For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  night 
Whiter  than  new  snow  on  a  raven's  back. 
Come,  gentle  night ;  come,  loving,  black-brow'd  night, 
Give  me  my  Romeo  :  and,  when  he  shall  die, 
Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars, 
And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine, 
That  all  the  world  will  be  in  love  with  night, 
And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  sun. 

So  tedious  is  this  day, 
As  is  the  night  before  some  festival 
To  an  impatient  child,  that  hath  new  robes, 
And  may  not  wear  them.     0,  here  comes  my  nurse, 
And  she  brings  news ;  and  every  tongue,  that  speaks 
But  Romeo's  name,  speaks  heavenly  eloquence. — 
Now,  nurse,  what  news  ? " 

"  Ah  me  !  what  news  1 "  The  cruel,  tiresome  Nurse  will  only 
wring  her  hands  and  say — 

"  Ah  well-a-day  !  he's  dead,  he's  dead,  he's  dead  ! 
We  are  undone,  lady,  we  are  undone  ! 
Alack  the  day  ! — he's  gone,  he's  kill'd,  he's  dead  !  " 

Juliet,  naturally  believing  that  Romeo  has  fallen  by  her  kins- 
man's hand, — thinking  too  of  the  "little  stars"  which,  she  has 
just  said,  will  at  his  death  "make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine," 
cries  out — 

"  Can  heaven  be  so  envious  ? 

Nurse.  Romeo  can, 

Though  heaven  cannot.     0  Romeo,  Romeo  ! — 
Who  ever  would  have  thought  it  ? — Romeo  ? " 

Maddened  by  these  exclamations,  which  contain  no  explanation, 
Juliet  cries — 

"  What  devil  art  thou,  that  dost  torment  me  thus  ? l 
This  torture  should  be  roar'd  in  dismal  hell. 
Hath  Romeo  slain  himself  ? " 

Not  even  the  anguish  Juliet  shows  at  the  bare  thought  moves 
this  heartless  creature,  who  goes  maundering  on — 

1  See  Appendix,  p.  397. 

I 


130  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  I  saw  the  wound,  I  saw  it  with  mine  eyes, — 
God  save  the  mark  ! — here  on  his  manly  breast 
A  piteous  corse,  a  bloody  piteous  corse  ; 
Pale,  pale  as  ashes." 

Then  Juliet  asks  no  more  questions — 

"  0  break,  my  heart !— poor  bankrupt,  break  at  once  ! 

.     .     .     .     End  motion  here : 
And  thou,  and  Romeo,  press  one  heavy  bier  !  " 

When  the  Nurse  continues — 

"  0  Tybalt,  Tybalt,  the  best  friend  I  had  ! 

That  ever  I  should  live  to  see  thee  dead  ! " 
— Juliet,  seeing  only  more  perplexity,  more  grief,  exclaims — 

"  Is  Romeo  slaughtered  ?  and  is  Tybalt  dead  ? 
My  dear-loved  cousin,  and  my  dearer  lord  ? " 

At  last  comes  the  dismal  truth — 

"  Tybalt  is  gone,  and  Romeo  banished  ; 
Romeo  that  kill'd  him,  he  is  banished." 

In  horror  Juliet  asks — 

"  Did  Romeo's  hand  shed  Tybalt's  blood  ? 
Nurse.  It  did,  it  did  ;  alas  the  day,  it  did  ! " 

This  bare  fact,  without  the  circumstances  attending  it,  naturally 
shocks  Juliet ;  she  exclaims — 

"  0  serpent  heart,  hid  with  a  flowering  face  ! 
....     0,  that  deceit  should  dwell 
In  such  a  gorgeous  palace  ! " 

Then  follows  the  Nurse's  vulgar  diatribe  against  the  male  sex — 

"  There's  no  trust, 

No  faith,  no  honesty  in  men  ;  all  perjured, 
All  forsworn,  all  naught,  all  dissemblers. 

Shame  come  to  Romeo  ! " 

This  word  applied   to   Eomeo   arouses   a   fiery   indignation   in 
Juliet,  who  turns  upon  her  instantly  with — 


JULIET.  131 

"  Blister'd  be  thy  tongue 
For  such  a  wish  !  he  was  not  born  to  shame  ; 
Upon  his  brow  shame  is  ashamed  to  sit ; 
For  'tis  a  throne  where  honour  may  be  crown'd 
Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth." 

Amazed  at  such  a  rebuke  from  one  whom  she  has  till  now  been 
treating  merely  as  a  child,  the  Nurse  can  but  feebly  ask — 

"  Will  you  speak  well  of  him  that  kill'd  your  cousin  ? 
Jul.  Shall  I  speak  ill  of  him  that  is  my  husband  ? " 

In  Juliet's  answer  we  see  that  her  intellect  was  as  clear,  her 
sense  of  duty  in  the  position  she  had  chosen  as  vivid,  as  her 
feelings  were  quick  and  strong. 

"Ah,  poor  my  lord,  what  tongue  shall  smooth  thy  name, 
When  I,  thy  three  hours'  wife,  have  mangled  it  ? " 

Whoever  is  to  blame,  it  cannot  be  her  lord.  She  drives  away 
her  tears  at  the  remembrance  that  her 

"  husband  lives,  that  Tybalt  would  have  slain  ; 
And  Tybalt's  dead,  that  would  have  slain  my  husband  : 
All  this  is  comfort ;  wherefore  weep  I  then  ? " 

Memory  now  brings  back  the  dreadful  word,  which  she  would 
fain  forget,  "that  murdered  her." 

" '  Tybalt  is  dead,  and  Romeo  banished  ; ' 
That  'banished,'  that  one  word  'banished,' 
Hath  slain  ten  thousand  Tybalts." 

The  very  Nurse  is  touched  by  a  depth  of  grief  such  as  she  had 
never  seen,  could  hardly  understand,  and  she  tries  to  find  some 
means  of  consolation. 

"  Hie  to  your  chamber  :  I'll  find  Romeo 
To  comfort  you  : — I  wot  well  where  he  is. 
Hark  ye,  your  Romeo  will  be  here  at  night : 
I'll  to  him  ;  he  is  hid  at  Laurence'  cell. 

Jul.  0,  find  him  !  give  this  ring  to  my  true  knight, 
And  bid  him  come  to  take  his  last  farewell. " 

No  word  of  blame,  although  he  has  killed  her  kinsman  and 
destroyed  their  joint  happiness !  She  even  sends  a  ring,  as  if 


132  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

desirous  to  bind  herself  more  closely  to  him,  and  betroth  herself 
anew  in  their  affliction. 

Juliet's  despair  has  its  counterpart  in  that  of  Eomeo,  as  we 
next  see  him  at  the  Friar's  cell ;  nay,  if  not  deeper,  it  is  wilder 
in  its  expression,  when  he  learns  from  the  Friar's  lips  the  Prince's 
sentence — 

"Not  body's  death,  but  body's  banishment. 

Rom Be  mei-ciful,  say  '  death ' ; 

For  exile  hath  more  terror  in  his  look, 

Much  more  than  death  :  do  not  say  '  banishment.'  " 

Vainly  does  the  Friar  try  to  press  upon  him  his 

"  Rude  unthankfulness. 

Thy  fault  our  law  calls  death  ;  but  the  kind  prince, 
Taking  thy  part,  hath  rush'd  aside  the  law 
And  turn'd  that  black  word  death  to  banishment : 
This  is  dear  mercy,  aiid  thou  seest  it  not. 

Rom.  'Tis  torture,  and  not  mercy  :  heaven  is  here, 
Where  Juliet  lives. " 

The  Friar  can  neither  dispute  with  him  on  his  estate,  nor  bring 
"  adversity's  sweet  milk,  philosophy,"  to  help  him. 

"  Rom.  Yet  '  banished '  ? — Hang  up  philosophy  ! 
Useless  philosophy  can  make  a  Juliet, 
Displant  a  town,  reverse  a  prince's  doom, 
It  helps  not,  it  prevails  not ;  talk  no  more." 

Not  even  the  arrival  of  the  Nurse,  as  Juliet's  messenger,  can 
arouse  him  from  the  frenzy  of  grief  in  which  he  has  flung  him- 
self upon  the  ground,  "  taking  the  measure  of  an  unmade  grave." 
When  he  becomes  conscious  of  her  presence,  and  learns  the  state 
of  his  mistress,  since  he  has  "  stained  the  childhood  of  their  joy 
with  blood  removed  but  little  from  her  own,"  his  first  impulse  is 
to  draw  his  sword  and  destroy  himself.  But  now  the  Friar's 
language  rises  to  a  higher  strain : — 

"  Art  thou  a  man  ?  thy  form  cries  out,  thou  art : 
Thy  tears  are  womanish  ;  thy  wild  acts  denote 
The  unreasonable  fury  of  a  beast. 

I  thought  thy  disposition  better  temper'd. 
Hast  thou  slain  Tybalt  ?  wilt  thou  slay  thyself  ? 


JULIET.  133 

And  slay  thy  lady  too  that  lives  in  thee, 
By  doing  damned  hate  upon  thyself  ? 

What,  rouse  thee,  man  !  thy  Juliet  is  alive. 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  wast  but  lately  dead  : 
There  art  thou  happy  :  Tybalt  would  kill  thee, 
But  thou  slew'st  Tybalt ;  there  art  thou  happy  too  : 
The  law,  that  threaten'd  death,  becomes  thy  friend, 
And  turns  it  into  exile  ;  there  art  thou  happy  : 
A  pack  of  blessings  lights  upon  thy  back." 

Juliet's  clear  intellect  quickly  absolves  Eomeo  from  blame  for 
having  slain  Tybalt,  "that  would  have  slain  her  husband";  but 
the  Friar  has  to  reason  this  out  for  Eomeo,  who  is  too  generous 
to  find  excuses  for  himself.  The  Friar,  moreover,  proves  no 
mere  preacher  of  what  the  ]S"urse  calls  "good  counsel."  He  is 
also  a  man  of  action.  He  bids  Romeo  keep  the  meeting  with 
his  bride. 

"  Go,  get  thee  to  thy  love,  as  was  decreed, 
Ascend  her  chamber,  hence  and  comfort  her  : 
But  look  thou  stay  not  till  the  watch  be  set, 
For  then  thou  canst  not  pass  to  Mantua," 

where  he  is  to  live  until  the  Friar  can  find  a  time,  which  he 
does  not  doubt  of  finding  soon,  to  make  the  marriage  known, 
reconcile  the  lover's  parents,  turn  by  this  "their  households' 
rancour  to  pure  love,"  and  so  secure  the  Prince's  pardon  and 
Romeo's  recall. 

"  Go  before,  nurse  :  commend  me  to  thy  lady  ; 
And  bid  her  hasten  all  the  house  to  bed, 
Which  heavy  sorrow  makes  them  apt  unto  : 
Romeo  is  coming." 

The  Friar,  who  knows  human  nature  in  all  its  varieties, 
proves  a  most  wise  and  comforting  counsellor  to  Romeo.  But 
his  sagacity  has  no  power  to  foresee  what  is  now  going  on  in 
the  house  of  the  Capulets  to  upset  all  his  plans  for  the  present 
and  future  happiness  of  the  lovers.  Remembering  that  it  is 
already  very  late  and  the  night  setting  in,  he  suggests  to  Romeo 
that,  if  he  cannot  get  away  from  his  interview  with  Juliet  before 
the  watch  is  set,  he  should  depart  in  disguise  by  the  break  of 
day.  He  promises  that  he  will  find  out  Romeo's  man,  and  sig- 


134     SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTEES: 

nify  through  him  "from  time  to  time  every  good  hap  to  you 
that  chances  here."  Eomeo,  repentant  and  deeply  grateful, 
leaves  him,  saying — 

"  But  that  a  joy  past  joy  calls  out  on  me, 
It  were  a  grief  so  soon  to  part  with  thee  : 
Farewell ! " 

Shakespeare  shows  his  wondrous  skill  in  dramatic  construc- 
tion by  the  brief  scene  which  he  interposes  here  between  Lord 
and  Lady  Capulet  and  Paris.  They  have  been  discussing  the 
projected  marriage  of  their  daughter,  which  Paris  is  there  to 
press,  and  have  been  sitting  late  in  counsel.  The  result  is,  that 
Lord  Capulet  has  determined  it  shall  take  place : — 

"  Sir  Paris,  I  will  make  a  desperate  tender 
Of  my  child's  love  :  I  think  she  will  be  ruled 
In  all  respects  by  me  ;  nay  more,  I  doubt  it  not." 

To  his  wife,  who  has  said  she  will  know  Juliet's  mind  early  to- 
morrow, as  "to-night  she's  mew'd  up  to  her  heaviness,"  he 
says — 

"  Wife,  go  you  to  her  ere  you  go  to  bed  ; 
Acquaint  her  here  of  my  son  Paris'  love. 

0'  Thursday,  tell  her, 
She  shall  be  married  to  this  noble  earl ; " — 

quite  ignoring  what  he  has  said  early  in  the  play — 

"  But  woo  her,  gentle  Paris,  get  her  heart, 
My  will  to  her  consent  is  but  a  part ; 
An  she  agree,  within  her  scope  of  choice 
Lies  my  consent  and  fair  according  voice." 

Poor  Juliet !  She  is  to  be  no  exception  to  the  truth,  that 
troubles  never  come  singly.  That  which  is  now  in  store  goes 
far  deeper  than  even  the  anguish  of  parting  from  her  lover- 
husband.  This  is  a  woful  night  indeed  ! — this  so -longed -for, 
much-entreated,  gentle,  "loving,  black-brow'd  night"! 

What  a  prelude  is  this  scene  of  cold,  worldly  disposing  of 
hearts  and  lives  to  that  now  enacting  between  the  lovers,  which 
Shakespeare  makes  to  take  place  on  the  very  balcony  or  loggia 
which  was  consecrated  by  the  first  avowal  of  their  love !  In 


JULIET.  135 

that  meeting  what  extremes  of  rapture  and  of  anguish !  The 
hour  of  parting  has  arrived.  Juliet  has  of  late  been  too  much 
absorbed  in  their  love  and  their  woe  to  give  a  thought  to  the 
suit  of  Paris  ;  but  in  this  sad  hour  the  remembrance  of  it  must 
doubtless  have  come  upon  her,  and  seemed  to  separate  her  still 
further  from  her  husband.  She  will  not  add  to  the  burthen  of 
his  grief  by  confiding  to  him  this  new  trial,  and  all  the  perse- 
cution it  may  bring  upon  her.  All  is  bad  enough  without  this 
dread  apprehension ;  yet  it  adds  a  special  terror  to  his  going.  It 
cannot  be  that  day  is  so  near  at  hand.  The  same  nightingale, 
whose  song  had  sounded  so  sweetly  in  their  ears  the  previous 
night,  has  been  singing  in  the  same  pomegranate-tree.  Yet  how 
different  the  sound  !  And  now  another  strain  strikes  harshly  on 
their  ears.  The  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn,  is  carolling  its  glad 
note  as  it  "  mounts  up  on  high."  How  cruel  is  its  joy  !  Their 
days  will  all  seem  nights  until  they  meet  again.  Seeing  that 

"Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  clay 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops," 

Romeo  sadly  says — "  I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die." 
Juliet  jwill  not  believe  in  the  so  rapid  approach  of  day.  They 
seem  hardly  to  have  met. 

"Yon  light  is  not  daylight ;     .     .     . 
It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales, 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 
And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua  : 
Therefore  stay  yet,  thou  need'st  not  to  be  gone." 

Romeo,  willing  to  risk  all  in  order  to  remain  even  for  a  short 
time  near  her,  exclaims — 

"  I'll  say,  yon  grey  is  not  the  morning's  eye  ; 

Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do  beat 
The  vaulty  heaven  so  high  above  our  heads. 

Come,  death,  and  welcome  !     Juliet  wills  it  so. 
How  is't,  my  soul  ?  let's  talk,  it  is  not  day." 

At  the  word  " death"  Juliet  at  once  realises  the  risk  he  is  run- 
ning, and  hurries  him  away — "  0,  now  be  gone  ;  more  light  and 
light  it  grows."  The  Nurse  comes  to  caution  them  that  the  "  day 


136  SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHAKACTEKS: 

is  broke,"  and  to  tell  Juliet  that  her  lady  mother  is  coming  to 
her  chamber. 

Oh  the  cry  of  the  poor  forlorn  heart  when  Eomeo  has  descended 
the  ladder  of  ropes  and  she  sees  him  there,  where  the  day  before 
he  had  looked  up  in  the  rapture  of  hope  under  the  same  grey 
morning  light!  "Art  thou  gone  so,  love,  lord1? — ay,  husband, 
friend ! "  Ever,  when  I  acted  this  scene,  these  words  came  from 
me  like  the  cry  of  my  own  heart,  and  all  that  followed  seemed  the 
very  voice  of  my  own  "ill-divining  soul." 

"  Jul.  0,  think'st  thou  we  shall  ever  meet  again  ? 

Rom.  I  doubt  it  not ;  and  all  these  woes  shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

Jul.   0  God  !  I  have  an  ill-divining  soul : 
Methinks  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  below, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb." 

And  it  is  only  thus  that  her  eyes  ever  again  behold  him ! 

To  add  to  her  almost  intolerable  misery,  now  comes  in  her 
mother,  who  shows  some  surprise  at  finding  her  daughter  up  at 
so  late  an  hour,  and  drowned  in  tears.  "Why,  how  now, 
Juliet?"  "Madam,  I  am  not  well."  No  sympathy  comes  from 
the  cold  mother,  who  only  says,  somewhat  sarcastically — 

"  Evermore  weeping  for  your  cousin's  death  ? 
What,  wilt  thou  wash  him  from  his  grave  with  tears  ? 

Well,  well,  thou  hast  a  careful  father,  child- 
One  who,  to  put  thee  from  thy  heaviness, 
Hath  sorted  out  a  sudden  day  of  joy. 
That  thou  expect'st  not,  nor  I  look'd  not  for. 
.     .     .     .     Early  next  Thursday  morn, 
The  gallant,  young,  and  noble  gentleman, 
The  County  Paris,  at  St  Peter's  church, 
Shall  happily  make  thee  there  a  joyful  bride." 

Juliet,  affrighted,  amazed  at  this  sudden  woe  and  peril,  replies 
angrily — 

"  Now,  by  St  Peter's  church,  and  Peter  too, 
He  shall  not  make  me  there  a  joyful  bride. 
I  wonder  at  this  haste ;  that  I  must  wed 
Ere  he,  that  should  be  husband,  comes  to  woo. 
I  pray  you,  tell  my  lord  and  father,  madam, 
I  will  not  marry  yet. " 


JULIET.  137 

Capulet,  a  little  doubtful  how  his  young  daughter  may  take  the 
news  of  these  hasty  nuptials,  but  not  questioning  her  assent  in 
the  end,  now  enters  her  chamber  with  the  Nurse.  To  his  amaze- 
ment, his  wife  tells  him  that  Juliet  will  not  hear  of  the  marriage 
— "  she  will  none  "  of  it,  adding,  "  I  would  the  fool  were  married 
to  her  grave  !  "  Does  she  think  of  this  hereafter  1  Capulet's  in- 
dignation knows  no  bounds. 

"  Is  she  not  proud  ?  doth  she  not  count  her  blest, 
Unworthy  as  she  is,  that  we  have  wrought 
So  worthy  a  gentleman  to  be  her  bridegroom  ? " 

Juliet  on  her  knees  entreats  her  father  to  hear  her  "  with  patience 
but  to  speak  a  word."  But  he  grows  hotter  and  hotter  at  find- 
ing determined  opposition  where  he  had  looked  for  little.  The 
Nurse  is  rebuked  for  taking  Juliet's  part  and  saying,  "  You  are 
to  blame,  my  lord,  to  rate  her  so."  "  And  why,  my  lady  wisdom  ? 
Hold  your  tongue  ! "  And  he  leaves  Juliet  with  this  threat — 

"  Look  to't,  think  on't,  I  do  not  use  to  jest. 
Thursday  is  near  ;  lay  hand  on  heart,  advise  : 
An  you  be  mine,  I'll  give  you  to  my  friend  ; 
An  you  be  not,  hang,  beg,  starve,  die  in  the  streets, 
For,  by  my  soul,  I'll  ne'er  acknowledge  thee, 
Nor  what  is  mine  shall  never  do  thee  good  : 
Trust  to't,  bethink  you  ;  I'll  not  be  forsworn." 

Juliet  in  her  anguish  cries  out — 

"  Is  there  no  pity  sitting  in  the  clouds, 
That  sees  into  the  bottom  of  my  grief  ?  " 

Then  turns  to  her  mother  with  the  piteous  appeal — 

' '  0,  sweet  my  mother,  cast  me  not  away  ! 
Delay  this  marriage  for  a  month,  a  week  ; 
Or,  if  you  do  not,  make  the  bridal  bed 
In  that  dim  monument  where  Tybalt  lies  !  " 

Prophetic  words,  which  might  well  have  startled  the  formal 
mother's  ears ;  but  she  replies  in  feeble  imitation  of  her  hus- 
band, and  in  language  which  sounds  more  shocking  than  his, 
because  not  spoken  in  hot  passion — 

"  Talk  not  to  me,  for  I'll  not  speak  a  word  ; 
Do  as  thou  wilt,  for  I  have  done  with  thee." 


138  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

And  now  the  Nurse  alone  remains.  She  at  least  is  sure.  She  is 
her  own,  and  never  could  desert  the  foster-child,  whom  she  nursed, 
that  took  the  place  of  her  own  Susan,  "  who  is  with  God."  Juliet 
turns  to  her  as  her  last  but  certain  comforter  : — 

"  0  nurse,  how  shall  this  be  prevented  ? 

Alack,  alack,  that  heaven  should  practise  stratagems 
Upon  so  soft  a  subject  as  myself  ! 
What  say'st  thou  ?  hast  thou  not  a  word  of  joy  ? 
Some  comfort,  nurse  ! " 

Alas  for  Juliet !  Comfort  from  a  creature  so  shallow-hearted,  so 
selfish,  so  untrue  !  We  see  that  the  Nurse  has  been  pondering 
over  the  situation.  The  parents  are  not  to  be  moved.  To  con- 
fess to  them  the  part  she  has  played  in  the  secret  marriage  is  not 
to  be  thought  of.  She  would  lose  the  home  which  she  looks  upon 
as  her  own  for  life,  and  be  sent  from  it  in  disgrace.  This  young 
girl  cannot  help  her ;  why  should  she,  therefore,  risk  comfort  and 
respectability  on  her  account  1  She  knows  nothing  of  the  sym- 
pathy of  soul  with  soul — of  the  heaven-given  impulse,  which  has 
drawn  the  lovers  together  ;  the  love  "  that  looks  on  tempests  and 
is  never  shaken  " ;  the  feeling  that  in  Juliet  consecrates  her  per- 
son, as  it  has  bound  her  soul,  to  Eomeo.  No  !  The  conclusion 
she  comes  to  and  the  counsel  she  gives  is,  that  Eomeo 

"  Is  banished  :  and  all  the  world  to  nothing, 
That  he  dares  ne'er  come  back  to  challenge  you  ; 
Or,  if  he  do,  it  needs  must  be  by  stealth. 
Then,  since  the  case  so  stands  as  now  it  doth, 
I  think  it  best  you  married  with  the  >couuty." 

Then,  to  reassure  and  encourage  Juliet,  as  she  stands  in  dumb 
astonishment — 

"  0,  he's  a  lovely  gentleman  ! 
.     .     .     An  eagle,  madam, 
Hath  not  so  green,  so  quick,  so  fair  an  eye, 
As  Paris  hath.     Beshrew  my  very  heart, 
I  think  you  are  happy  in  this  second  match, 
For  it  excels  your  first." 

All  my  blood  seemed  to  be  forced  back  upon  my  heart  as  I 
listened  to  these  words.  I  grew  as  stone  when  she  went  on 


JULIET.  139 

to  descant  upon  the  praises  of  Paris  in  contrast  with  Romeo. 
What  can  be  said  in  answer  to  such  words,  such  comfort,  such 
counsel  ?  I  have  often  been  startled  at  the  sad  solemnity  of  my 
own  «tones,  as  I  put  the  question,  "Speakest  thou  from  thy 
heart  ? "  and  in  the  very  significant  "  Amen  ! "  which  follows  her 
reply — "From  my  soul  too;  or  else  beshrew  them  both." 

Juliet's  hope,  her  trust  in  the  one  on  whose  devotion  she  felt 
assured  she  might  rely,  is  at  an  end,  and  now  she  sees,  as  she 
had  never  seen  before,  the  Nurse's  character  altogether  in  its  true 
light.  Stolid  as  the  Nurse  is,  and  incapable  of  any  finer  feeling, 
yet  we  see,  by  her  startled  "  What  ?  what  ] "  that  she  notes  the 
difference  in  Juliet's  tone  and  manner.  For  the  first  time 
Juliet  assumes  her  position  as  mistress  towards  her,  and  after 
the  half  -  ironical  "Well,  thou  hast  comforted  me  marvellous 
much,"  orders  her  to  go  in  and  tell  her  mother  that  she  has  gone, 
having  displeased  her  father,  to  Friar  Laurence's  cell,  "  to  make 
confession,  and  to  be  absolved." 

Alas,  again,  for  Juliet !  The  familiar  ground  which  she  has 
trodden,  to  which  she  has  trusted  all  her  life,  taken  from  under 
her,  and  she  left  standing  alone — cast  off  by  all  within  her  home  ! 
Worse  than  cast  away  by  the  Nurse,  who  knows  all  her  trouble, 
and  would  have  her  meet  it  in  this  despicable  manner !  She 
makes  no  remonstrance  :  no  further  appeal  could  be  made  to 
such  a  creature.  Her  tears  are  dried,  and  she  stands  erect  in  her 
desolation.  Alone  she  must  face  the  future — a  future  steeped  in 
gloom.  The  child's  trust  in  others  falls  from  her :  "  her  soul 
springs  up  astonished — springs  full-statured  in  an  hour."  She 
is  henceforth  the  determined  woman.  She  will  not  condescend 
to  bandy  more  words  with  the  Nurse — who,  being  incapable  of 
understanding  her  nature,  does  not  deserve  her  consideration — 
yet  when  alone  her  pent-up  indignation  and  scorn  find  a  way  to 
her  lips : — 

"  0  most  wicked  fiend  ! 
Is  it  more  sin  to  wish  me  thus  forsworn, 
Or  to  dispraise  my  lord  with  that  same  tongue 
Which  she  hath  praised  him  with  above  compare 
So  many  thousand  times  ?     Go,  counsellor  ; 
Thou  and  my  bosom  henceforth  shall  be  twain." 

Whatever  happens,  their  lives  are  henceforth   separate.     Rather 


140  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

than  follow  such  counsel  she  will  destroy  herself !  In  this 
supreme  moment  she  has  formed  her  resolution.  "I'll  to  the 
Friar,  to  know  his  remedy."  Then  remembering  and  possessing 
herself  of  the  dagger,  which  had  been  the  toy  of  her  happy  hours, 
she  adds — 

"  If  all  else  fail,  myself  have  power  to  die." 

It  is  for  the  actress,  in  this  marvellous  and  most  difficult 
scene,  to  show,  by  her  look  and  manner,  how  everything  that 
is  girlish  and  immature, — everything  that,  under  happy  cir- 
cumstances, would  have  marked  the  gentle  clinging  nature  of 
youth, — falls  off  from  Juliet, — how  she  is  transfigured  into 
the  heroic  woman  just  as  Romeo,  when  possessed  by  a  genuine 
passion,  rises  from  the  dreaming  youth  to  the  full  stature  of  a 
noble  manhood. 

This  difference  is  plainly  marked  in  her  dignified  treatment 
of  Paris,  whom  she  finds  before  her  at  the  Friar's  cell.  The 
Nurse's  praises,  still  sounding  in  her  ears,  make  him  particularly 
unwelcome  to  her.  He  evidently  thinks  her  father's  sanction 
to  their  marriage  is  all-sufficient,  and  with  self-complacent 
impertinence  treats  her  as  though  she  were  already  his  pro- 
perty. Juliet's  curt  and  somewhat  sarcastic  answers  to  his 
questions  should  have  shown  him  how  distasteful  he  was  to 
her;  but  he  believes  in  himself  as  an  acceptable  suitor  to  any 
lady.  Even  her  evident  impatience  to  get  rid  of  him  tells  him 
nothing.  He  chooses  to  believe  that  her  confession  to  the  Friar 
is  partly  made  on  his  account. 

"  Par.  Do  not  deny  to  him  that  you  love  me. 
JuL.  I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  love  him. 
Par.  So  will  you,  I  am  sure,  that  you  love  me. " 

After  a  little  more  of  this  fencing,  Juliet,  seeing  that  he  will  not 
leave  them,  turns  to  the  Friar — "  Are  you  at  leisure,  holy  father, 
now  1 "  Such  a  hint  cannot  but  be  taken,  and  Paris  leaves  her 
with  the  promise — 

"  Juliet,  on  Thursday  early  will  I  rouse  you  t 
Till  then,  adieu  !  " 

No  sooner  is   the   door   shut   upon  him,  than  she  finds   that 


JULIET.  141 

through  Paris  the  Friar  is  already  acquainted  with  her  grief; 
"  it  strains  me,"  he  says,  "  past  the  compass  of  my  wits."  The 
Friar  can  hardly  be  prepared  to  find  how  rapidly  the  extremity 
which  has  so  suddenly  come  upon  Juliet  has  developed  her 
character.  The  determined  resolute  composure  which  she  shows 
could  alone  have  encouraged  him  to  suggest  to  her  the  desper- 
ate remedy  which  is  the  only  "  kind  of  hope "  he  has  to  offer 
her. 

"  Jut.  God  join'd  my  heart  and  Romeo's,  thou  our  hands  ; 
And  ere  this  hand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seal'd, 
Shall  be  the  label  to  another  deed, 
Or  my  true  heart  with  treacherous  revolt 
Turn  to  another,  this  shall  slay  them  both. 

Be  not  so  long  to  speak ;  I  long  to  die, 

If  what  thou  speak'st  speak  not  of  remedy." 

The  Friar  must  see  how  ready  she  is  to  sacrifice  the  life  conse- 
crated to  her  lover ;  and  he  at  once  explains  that  the  only  escape 
he  had  been  able  to  devise  was  a  desperate  and  terrible  one. 
But  if  she  be  prepared,  as  she  says,  to  face  death  itself,  she  may 
not  hesitate  to  undertake  "  a  thing  like  death  to  chide  away  this 
shame." 

In  her  answer  Juliet  proclaims  with  passionate  vehemence  her 
readiness  to  face  such  terrors  as  he  might  think  would  affright 
her  most,  if  only  she  may  live  "  an  unstained  wife  to  her  sweet 
love."  There  is  such  proof  of  earnest  purpose  in  this,  that  the 
Friar  no  longer  hesitates  to  lay  his  device  before  her.  She  is 
in  no  way  appalled  by  the  thought  of  being  laid  for  dead  for 
a  certain  time  in  her  ancestral  tomb.  Is  she  not  assured  that 
by  the  time  she  will  awake,  her  Romeo,  summoned  by  the  Friar, 
will  be  by  her  side,  and  bear  her  thence  "that  very  night  to 
Mantua  "  1 

"  If  no  unconstant  toy,  nor  womanish  fear, 
Abate  thy  valour  in  the  acting  it." 

"  Give  me,  give  me  !  0  tell  me  not  of  fear,"  she  exclaims,  as 
she  seizes  the  phial ;  "  Love  give  me  strength  !  "  What  strength 
love  gives  her  we  are  soon  to  see — love  true  and  unwavering  as 
that  she  plighted  in  the  words — 


142     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS 

' '  But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange." 

Lord  Capulet,  unused  to  be  thwarted,  must  be  in  a  fever  of 
impatience  to  know  what  effect  the  Friar's  admonitions  have  had 
upon  his  wayward  daughter,  in  whom  he  now  traces  some  of  his 
own  imperious  will.  His  surprise  and  delight,  therefore,  know 
no  bounds  when  she  returns  apparently  contrite  and  ready  to 
obey  his  wish — nay,  as  willing  as  himself  to  expedite  matters. 

"  Send  for  the  county  ;  go  tell  him  of  this  : 
I'll  have  this  knot  knit  up  to-morrow  morning. 

Now,  afore  God,  this  reverend  holy  friar, 
All  our  whole  city  is  much  bound  up  in  him." 

Juliet  says — 

"Nurse,  will  you  go  with  me  into  my  closet, 
To  help  me  sort  such  needful  ornaments 
As  you  think  fit  to  furnish  me  to-morrow  ? " 

Lady  Capulet,  wishing  to  keep  to  the  original  day,  breaks  in 
with — "  ISTo,  not  till  Thursday ;  there  is  time  enough."  Lord 
Capulet,  most  anxious  to  take  Juliet  while  in  the  vein,  exclaims, 
"Go,  Nurse,  go  with  her;  we'll  to  church  to-morrow."  Still 
Lady  Capulet  remonstrates — 

"  We  shall  be  short  in  our  provision  ; 
"Tis  now  near  night. 

Cap.  Tush  !  I  will  stir  about, 

And  all  things  shall  be  well,  I  warrant,  wife  ; 
Go  thou  to  Juliet,  help  to  deck  her  up  ; 
111  not  to  bed  to-night. 

My  heart  is  wondrous  light, 
Since  this  same  wayward  girl  is  so  reclaim'd." 

Juliet  is  now  in  her  chamber,  and  has  let  the  Nurse  choose 
any  dress  she  pleases  for  the  intended  ceremony  on  the  morrow. 
"Ay,  those  attires  are  best."  The  same,  doubtless,  that  she  was 
really  robed  in  for  her  grave.  She  must  be  at  peace  now,  even 
with  the  treacherous  woman  who  had  so  failed  her  in  her  utmost 
need,  for  this  is  their  last  meeting.  She  asks  the  Nurse  to  leave 
her — 


JULIET.  143 

"  For  I  have  need  of  many  orisons 
To  move  the  heavens  to  smile  upon  my  state, 
Which,  well  thou  know'st,  is  cross  and  full  of  sin." 

Lady  Capulet  comes  in  to  inquire  if  her  help  is  needed.     Juliet 
replies  that  all  is  ready,  and  asks  to  be  left  alone,  adding — 

"  And  let  the  nurse  this  night  sit  up  with  you  ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  have  your  hands  full  all 
In  this  so  sudden  business." 

Lady  Capulet,  who  sees  nothing  in  her  daughter's  change  of 
manner  but  what  she  considers  natural  in  the  situation — 
wrought  in  her,  doubtless,  by  the  good  Friar's  spiritual  advice 
and  counsel — bids  her  "  good  night "  in  the  usual  way,  only 
adding,  as  she  knew  Juliet  had  been  waking  and  weeping  all  the 
previous  night,  "  Get  thee  to  bed,  and  rest ;  for  thou  hast  need." 
With  what  awe,  with  what  dread  fascination,  I  used  to 
approach  what  follows !  I  always  felt  a  kind  of  icy  coldness 
and  stillness  come  over  me  after  leaving  the  Friar's  cell  which 
lasted  until  this  moment.  The  "  Farewell ! "  to  Lady  Capulet, 
— "God  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again," — relaxed  this  state 
of  tension.  When  I  knelt  to  my  father,  I  had  mutely,  in  kiss- 
ing his  hand,  taken  leave  of  him ;  but  now  my  mother — the 
mother  whose  sympathy  would  have  been  so  precious — was 
leaving  me  to  my  lonely  despair.  This  breaking  up  of  all  the 
natural  ties  of  youth  and  home,  the  heart-sick  feeling  of  desola- 
tion, overpowered  me,  and  sobs  came  against  my  will.  The  very 
room  looked  strange,  larger,  darker,  with  but  the  faint  light  of 
the  lamp,  which  threw  the  recesses  of  the  windows  and  the  heavy 
furniture  into  deeper  shade.  I  used  to  lift  the  lamp  from  the 
table  and  peer  into  the  shadows,  to  try  to  take  away  their  terror. 
Already  I  could  fancy  I  had  descended  into  the  vault. 

"  I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins, 
That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life." 

There  was  no  enduring  it :  "  I'll  call  them  back  again  to  comfort 
me; — Nurse!"  No!  I  have  forgot.  "What  should  she  do 
here  1 "  No  one  must  know, — "  my  dismal  scene  I  needs  must 
act  alone."  Hitherto  all  has  been  as  the  Friar  ordered :  his  in- 
structions have  been  faithfully  carried  out.  Now  Juliet  stands, 


144     SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

for  the  first  time,  alone,  to  think  over  and  to  face  what  is  to 
follow.  She  does  not  waver,  but  she  has  to  put  before  herself 
the  dread  realities  which  must  be  encountered  in  the  way  of  the 
escape  devised  for  her.  The  hush  of  the  unaccustomed  solitude 
is  strange,  for  the  Nurse  has  been  near  her  always  until  this 
night.  Things  undreamt  of  take  possession  of  her  brain.  A 
swift,  sudden  death,  such  as  she  had  pictured  to  the  Friar,  would 
have  no  terror ;  but  slow  horrors  seem  now  to  gather  round  her. 

"  What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all  ? 
Shall  I  be  married  then  to-morrow  morning  ? " 

No  !  There  is  a  remedy  against  that.  The  dagger  is  kept  near 
her  heart,  and  will  find  its  place  in  it  if  necessary.  Then  again, 
it  may  be  a  poison  subtly  administered  by  the  Friar,  lest  he 
should  be  dishonoured,  "because  he  married  me  before  to 
Eomeo."  This  thought  is  put  aside  at  once  as  unworthy — 
"  for  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man."  But  now  imagina- 
tion conjures  up  a  much  more  terrible  vision,  and  such  as  might 
appal  the  bravest  heart : — 

"  How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  wake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 
Come  to  redeem  me  ? " 

This  is  indeed  "  a  fearful  point ! "  She  has  seen  the  outside  of 
the  family  vault ;  the  space  remaining  cannot  be  large,  it  being 
already  full  of  her  kindred,  who  have  been  buried  there  for 
"  many  hundred  years."  Remembering  the  custom  of  burying 
the  corpse  uncovered  on  the  bier,  to  fall  bit  by  bit  into  decay, 
the  air,  such  air  as  may  find  its  way  in,  laden  with  the  odours 
of  decaying  mortality,  may  stifle  her, — nay,  the  foul  mouth  of 
the  vault  is  not  large  enough  to  let  in  the  "  healthsome  air,"  and 
she  will  "there  die  strangled  ere  my  Romeo  comes."  Or  if  not 
— if  she  should  live — how  is  she  to  endure 

"  The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night, 
Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place, — 

Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth, 
Lies  festering  in  his  shroud  "  ? 1 


1  I  could  never  utter  these  words  without  an  exclamation  of  shuddering 
disgust  escaping  with  them. 


JULIET.  145 

Horror  accumulates  upon  horror.  Wandering  spirits  resort  to 
such  spots.  What  with  loathsome  smells,  the  shrieks  of  man- 
drakes torn  out  of  the  earth,  she  will  go  mad 

"  Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears. 

And  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone, 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains  !  " 

For  the  moment  the  great  fear  gets  the  better  of  the  great  love, 
and  all  seems  madness.  Then  in  her  frenzy  of  excitement  she 
seems  to  see  Tybalt's  figure  start  into  life — 

"  Look  !  methiuks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Romeo !     .     .     . 

Stay,  Tybalt,  stay  !  " 

At  the  mention  of  Romeo's  name,  I  used  to  feel  all  my  resolu- 
tion return.  Eomeo  !  She  goes  to  meet  him,  and  what  terror 
shall  hold  her  back  1  She  will  pass  through  the  horror  of  hell 
itself  to  reach  what  lies  beyond ;  and  she  swallows  the  potion 
with  his  name  upon  her  lips — "  Eomeo,  I  come  !  this  do  I  drink 
to  thee  ! " 

What  a  scene  is  this  —  so  simple,  so  grand,  so  terrible ! 
What  it  is  to  act  I  need  not  tell  you.  What  power  it 
demands,  and  yet  what  restraint !  To  be  tame  would  be  to 
make  the  words  ridiculous.  The  voice  must  be  as  capable  of 
variety  of  expression  as  are  the  words, — the  action  simple, 
earnest,  impressive.  Eepetition,  certainly,  had  no  effect  in  mak- 
ing the  scene  less  vivid  to  my  imagination.  The  last  time 
I  played  Juliet,  which  was  in  Manchester  in  1871,  I  fainted 
on  the  bed  at  the  end  of  it,  so  much  was  I  overcome  with 
the  reality  of  the  "thick- coming  fancies," — just  as  the  first 
time  I  played  the  part  I  had  fainted  at  the  sight  of  my  own 
blood,  which,  for  the  moment,  seemed  to  make  the  scene  all  too 
real.  I  am  not  given  to  fainting,  indeed  I  have  very  rarely 
known  the  sensation.  But  the  fascination  which  the  terrible 
had  for  me  from  the  first,  it  maintained  to  the  last ;  and  as  the 
images  which  the  poet  suggests  rose  in  cumulative  horror  before 
my  mind,  the  stronger  imagination  of  riper  years  gave  them,  no 
doubt,  a  still  greater  power  over  my  nervous  system,  and  for  the 
K 


146     SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

time  overcame  me.  I  know  no  scene  in  Shakespeare  more  diffi- 
cult. Three  such  scenes  for  the  actress  in  one  play — the  balcony 
scene,  the  scene  when  Juliet  hears  of  Borneo's  banishment,  and 
this  !  Alas  !  who  could  hope  to  do  them  full  justice  1 

While  the  daughter  of  the  house  is  contending  with  the 
horrors  that  crowd  on  her  imagination  at  the  thought  of  the 
"nest  of  death,  contagion,  and  unnatural  sleep,"  in  which  she 
is  presently  to  be  laid,  Shakespeare,  with  a  true  painter's  eye  for 
contrast,  lets  us  see  a  little  of  the  busy  life  which  is  in  the 
meantime  going  on  in  the  background  through  the  night  in 
the  bustle  of  preparation  for  these  hasty  nuptials.  Day  is 
breaking,  yet  Capulet  has  not  been  in  bed : — 

"  Come,  stir,  stir,  stir  !  the  second  cock  hath  crow'd, 
The  curfew-bell  hath  rung,  'tis  three  o'clock." 

While  Lady  Capulet  and  the  Nurse  are  equally  active  in  getting 
"  spices  and  quinces  "  for  the  operations  of  the  kitchen,  servants 
are  seen  moving  to  and  fro  with  spits,  logs,  and  baskets — 

"  Cap.  Now,  fellow,  what's  there  ? 

First  Servant.  Things  for  the  cook,  sir  ;  but  I  know  not  what. 
Cap.  Make  haste,  make  haste  !     Sirrah,  fetch  drier  logs. 

The  county  will  be  here  with  music  straight, 
For  BO  he  said  he  would.     I  hear  him  near." 

The  Nurse  is  despatched  in  haste  to  Juliet  to  waken  her,  and 
"trim  her  up."  All  this  stir  and  bustle  of  festal  preparation, 
the  prelude  to  the  hushed  solemnity  of  death !  What  a  picture 
meets  the  eyes  of  the  stricken  parents,  the  faithless  Nurse,  the 
assured  and  triumphant  bridegroom !  Friar  Laurence,  knowing 
what  he  does  of  them  and  their  poor  victims,  may  well  cut  short 
their  selfish  lamentations  by  the  words — 

"  The  heavens  do  lour  upon  you  for  some  ill, — 
Move  them  no  more  by  crossing  their  high  will. " 

The  close  of  the  fourth  act  leaves  us  in  uncertainty,  but  still 
with  a  kind  of  hope  that  all  these  woes  may  serve  "  for  sweet 
discourses  in  the  time  to  come."  There  seems  to  be  no  necessity 
for  a  tragic  ending.  Eomeo  is  safe  in  Mantua,  awaiting,  with  all 


JULIET.  147 

the  patience  he  can  command,  the  news  which  the  Friar  is  to 
send  him  through  his  man  from  time  to  time  of  "every  good 
hap  that  chances  here."  Friar  John  has  been  sent  to  him 
with  all  speed  witli  a  letter  apprising  him  of  what  has  just 
happened — a  letter  which  will  bring  him  back  on  the  instant 
to  Verona.  Juliet  is  safe  from  her  parents'  importunity  in 
the  "  pleasant  sleep "  which  is  to  end  in  such  a  happy  wak- 
ing. All  seems  to  go  well. 

But  Destiny  now  steps  in  again.  The  fates  are  spinning, 
spinning  out  the  doom  of  the  lovers,  and  will  not  be  thwarted. 

The  fifth  act  of  this  play  has  always  impressed  me  as  being 
wonderfully  beautiful, — simple,  human,  and  grand  as  the  finest 
of  the  Greek  plays ;  much  finer,  indeed — for  the  ancients  knew 
nothing  of  the  passion  of  love  in  its  purity,  its  earnestness, 
its  devotedness,  its  self-sacrifice.  It  needed  Christianity  to 
teach  us  this,  and  a  Shakespeare  in  the  drama  to  illustrate 
it.  The  Greek  dramatists,  as  a  rule,  preserved  the  unities  of 
time,  place,  and  action.  Shakespeare  put  them  aside  for  higher 
purposes.  His  genius  could  not  be  so  trammelled.  Human 
lives  and  human  minds  he  took  to  work  upon,  and  made  all 
outside  matter  subservient  to  his  great  end.  Time,  place,  action, 
were  his  instruments,  and  he  made  them  submit  to  him.  He 
looked  to  the  "beyond  beyond,"  where  no  time  is,  and  would 
not  subject  himself  to  mere  days  and  hours,  which  at  the  best 
come  and  go  unheeded,  some  flying,  others  dragging  their  weary 
length  along. 

In  the  opening  of  the  act  we  meet  Romeo  in  Mantua.  Grief 
has  matured,  ennobled  him.  He  is  full  of  buoyant  hopes  because 
of  a  happy  dream.  In  the  first  act,  before  he  goes  to  the  revels, 
he  says,  "  'Tis  no  wit  to  go.  I  dream'd  a  dream  to-night."  This 
dream  was  of  a  kind  evidently  to  set  him  against  going  to  the 
house  of  his  enemy.  But,  following  on  this  dream  of  warning, 
comes  the  greatest  joy  of  his  life.  The  present  dream  supposes, 
curiously,  that  he,  instead  of  his  lady,  was  lying  dead,  and  that 
her  kisses  breathed  such  new  life  into  him  that  he  "  revived,  and 
was  an  emperor."  Now,  in  the  climax  of  this  joyful  anticipation, 
comes  Balthazar  with  news  from.  Verona.  Has  he  brought  letters 
from  the  Friar?  No,  Then, 


148  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  How  doth  my  lady  ?  Is  my  father  well  ? 
How  fares  my  Juliet  ?  That  I  ask  again, 
For  nothing  can  be  ill,  if  she  be  well. 

Sal.  Then  she  is  well,  and  nothing  can  be  ill. 
Her  body  sleeps  in  Capel's  monument, 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives. 
I  saw  her  laid  low  in  her  kindred's  vault." 

Romeo's  grief  is  of  that  overwhelming  kind  which  finds  no  vent 
in  words.  He  simply  says,  "  Is  it  even  so  1  then  I  defy  you, 
stars  !  "  On  the  instant  he  sees  his  course.  He  gives  a  few  brief 
directions  to  his  servant  to  hire  post-horses,  and  dismisses  him 
with  renewed  injunctions — "  and  hire  those  horses ;  I'll  be  with 
thee  straight."  What  a  change  the  shock  has  wrought  upon  him 
in  a  moment  is  seen  in  Balthazar's  words ! — 

"  I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  have  patience ; 
Your  looks  are  pale  and  wild." 

Eomeo  asks  no  questions,  seeks  for  no  details.  In  the  anguish 
of  a  sudden  blow  it  is  not  the  greatest  sufferer  who  wants  to 
know  particulars.  The  "why?"  the  "when?"  the  "where?" 
come  from  others  less  deeply  stricken.  The  thought  may  pass 
through  Eomeo's  mind  of  the  pale  face  he  had  last  looked  upon 
in  the  anguish  of  parting.  "Dry  sorrow"  has  indeed  "drunk 
her  blood  "  and  snapped  her  life's  strings. 

"  Well,  Juliet,  I  will  lie  with  thee  to-night. 
Let's  see  for  means.     0  mischief,  thou  art  swift 
To  enter  in  the  thoughts  of  desperate  men  ! " 

Swift — too  swift;  for  already  Destiny  had  thrown  the  means 
across  his  path. 

"  I  do  remember  an  apothecary 
And  hereabouts  he  dwells.     .     .     . 
Noting  his  penury,  to  myself  I  said — 
And  if  a  man  did  need  a  poison  now, 

Here  lives  a  caitiff  wretch  would  sell  it  him. 
0,  this  same  thought  did  but  forerun  my  need  ! 

Come,  cordial,  and  not  poison  ;  go  with  me 
To  Juliet's  grave,  for  there  must  I  use  thee. 


JULIET.  149 

With  what  a  subtle  touch  Shakespeare  reveals  to  us  the  state 
of  Romeo's  mind  during  his  hurried  night-ride  to  Verona !  for, 
as  an  exiled  man,  he  must  still  use  "  night's  cloak  "  to  hide  him 
from  men's  eyes.  His  man,  thinking  the  details  of  what  had 
happened  in  Verona  deeply  interesting,  would  fain  tell  him  all, 
— spare  his  master  nothing  of  the  elaborate  ceremony  which  he 
had  witnessed  of  Juliet's  entombment,  or  of  the  gossip  which  he 
has  heard  around  of  the  unusual  sadness  of  the  event — of  her 
youth,  her  beauty,  and  of  the  day  on  which  she  died  having  been 
appointed  for  her  marriage  with  the  rich  County  Paris.  But 
Romeo  heeds  nothing.  One  all-absorbing  thought  possesses  him 
— to  hasten  on  and  lie  by  Juliet's  side  in  death. 

The  next  scene  shows  us  how  the  Fates  have  been  at  work, 
using  the  plague  which  was  then  raging  in  part  of  Verona  as  an 
instrument  of  their  will.  Friar  John,  while  seeking  the  "associate" 
who  was  to  accompany  him  to  Verona,  is  found  in  a  house  sus- 
pected of  infection,  and  is  shut  up  there,  so  that  he  can  neither 
send  on  to  Mantua  the  letter  intrusted  to  him,  nor  get  it  returned 
to  Friar  Laurence.  He  brings  it  back  after  this  delay,  when 
the  time  for  it  to  be  of  use  has  gone  by.  "  Unhappy  fortune  !  " 
says  Friar  Laurence ;  but  as  he  evidently  thought  Romeo  could 
not  have  heard  what  had  happened  through  any  other  channel, 
he  proposes  to  write  again  to  him,  and  in  the  meantime  to  bring 
Juliet  away  on  her  awaking,  and  keep  her  at  his  cell. 

On  Romeo's  arrival  at  the  churchyard,  he  finds  Paris  there 
before  him,  strewing  the  tomb  with  flowers.  Paris  has  loved 
Juliet  to  the  best  of  his  nature,  and  mourns  her  in  a  gentle 
sentimental  way : — 

"  Sweet  flower,  with  flowers  thy  bridal  bed  I  strew  : 
The  obsequies  that  I  for  thee  will  keep, 
Nightly  shall  be,  to  strew  thy  grave  and  weep. " 

He  retires  when  his  page  warns  him  of  the  approach  of  Romeo ; 
but  on  witnessing  what  he  supposes  to  be  desecration  of  the  tomb 
of  the  Capulets,  he  breaks  in  with — 

"  Stop  thy  unhallow'd  toil,  vile  Montague  ! 
Condemned  villain,  I  do  apprehend  thee  ! " 


150     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Romeo  proves  his  gentle,  noble  nature  by  showing  the  same 
forbearance  to  Paris  with  which  he  had  met  the  insolence  of 
Tybalt  :— 

"  Good  gentle  youth,  tempt  not  a  desperate  man ; 

Fly  hence  and  leave  me 

I  beseech  thee,  youth, 
Put  not  another  sin  upon  my  head, 
By  urging  me  to  fury  ! — 0,  begone  ! 
By  heaven,  I  love  thee  better  than  myself  : 
For  I  come  hither  arm'd  against  myself." 

Paris  will  not  be  persuaded,  and  Eomeo  is  not  to  be  balked. 
They  fight,  and  it  is  only  when  Paris  has  fallen  that  he  is 
recognised  by  Eomeo  as  "Mercutio's  kinsman,  noble  County 
Paris."  Then  something  crosses  his  mind  as  to  what  his  man 
had  talked  of  on  the  road — 

"  When  my  betossed  soul 
Did  not  attend  him  as  we  rode.     I  think, 
He  told  me,  Paris  should  have  married  Juliet : 
Said  he  not  so  ?  or  did  I  dream  it  so  ? 
Or  am  I  mad,  hearing  him  talk  of  Juliet, 
To  think  it  was  so  ? " 

To  the  man  who  would  have  been  his  foe  alive,  he  can  say  in 
death — 

"  0,  give  me  thy  hand, 

One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book  ! 

I'll  bury  thee  in  a  triumphant  grave. 

For  here  lies  Juliet,  and  her  beauty  makes 
This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light." 

We  may  conceive  the  anguish  of  the  cry  that  now  breaks  from 

him: — 

"  0  my  love  !  my  wife  ! 

Death,  that  hath  suck'd  the  honey  of  thy  breath, 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty. " 

"The  roses  on  her  lips  and  cheeks,"  which  under  the  first  in- 
fluence of  the  potion  had  faded  "  to  paly  ashes,"  have  begun 
to  return,  as  its  effects  are  dying  away.  How  much  is  the 
pathos  of  the  scene  deepened  by  the  circumstance  that  Romeo 
sees  nothing  in  this  to  make  him  hesitate !  He  thinks  only 


JULIET.  151 

that  "  beauty's  ensign "  is  still  "  crimson  in  her  lips  and  in  her 
cheeks,"  and  that  for  a  while  "  death's  pale  flag  is  not  advanced 
there."  He  now  sees  what  she  had  truly  pictured  to  herself, 
the  body  of  Tybalt  "uncovered  on  the  bier"  close  beside  her. 
Ever  generous  and  forgiving  himself,  he  turns  to  ask  the  for- 
giveness of  his  foe  : — 

"  Tybalt,  liest  thou  there  in  thy  bloody  sheet  ? 
0,  what  more  favour  can  I  do  to  thee, 
Than  with  that  hand  which  cut  thy  youth  in  twain 
To  sunder  his  that  was  thine  enemy  ? 
Forgive  me,  cousin  ! — Ah,  dear  Juliet, 
Why  art  thou  yet  so  fair  ?    .     .     . 

Here,  here  will  I  remain 

With  worms  that  are  thy  chamber-maids  ;  0,  here 
Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest, 
And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 
From  this  world-wearied  flesh. 

Come,  bitter  conduct,  come,  unsavoury  guide  ! 
Here's  to  my  love  !  " 

Even  so  before  had  it  been  with  Juliet — "  Romeo,  I  drink  to 
thee." 

While  this  is  going  on  at  the  tomb  of  the  Capulets,  and  on 
the  very  instant  of  Romeo's  exclamation,  "  0  true  apothecary, 
thy  drugs  are  quick  !  Thus  with  a  kiss  I  die," — Friar  Laurence 
enters  at  the  far  end  of  the  churchyard,  with  a  crowbar  and  all 
the  materials  for  opening  the  monument.  As  he  makes  his  way 
towards  it  he  says,  groping  his  way  along, — 

"  Saint  Francis  be  my  speed  ?  how  oft  to-night 
Have  my  old  feet  stumbled  at  graves. " 

Romeo's  man,  who  has  been  enjoined,  at  peril  of  his  life,  to  keep 
aloof,  tells  the  Friar  of  Romeo's  advent  at  the  tomb.  The  Friar's 
worst  fears  are  aroused  by  this, — 

"  Fear  comes  upon  me  : 
0,  much  I  fear  some  ill  unlucky  thing." 

He  calls  on  Romeo's  name ;  finds  the  sepulchre  open,  and  at 
the  entrance  of  it,  "masterless  and  gory  swords."  Entering 
he 


152  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  Romeo  !  0,  pale  !— Who  else  ?  what,  Paris  too  ? 
And  steep'd  in  blood  ? " 

Before  he  has  recovered  the  shock  of  this  discovery  Juliet 
awakes  "as  from  a  pleasant  sleep."  Her  first  sight  is  of  the 
Friar.  This  is  as  she  was  promised.  Her  brain  is  clear,  her 
memory  active. 

"  0  comfortable  friar,  where  is  my  lord  ? 
I  do  remember  well  where  I  should  be. 
And  there  I  am. — Where  is  my  Romeo  ? " 

Noises  in  the  distance  tell  the  Friar  that  the  watch  is  ap- 
proaching. 

' '  Lady,  come  from  that  nest 
Of  death,  contagion,  and  unnatural  sleep  : 
A  greater  power  than  we  can  contradict 
Hath  thwarted  our  intents.     Come,  come  away." 

Is  it  likely  she  will  consent  when  he  adds — 

"  Thy  husband  in  thy  bosom  there  lies  dead. 
.     .     .     Come,  I'll  dispose  of  thee 
Among  a  sisterhood  of  holy  nuns  : 
Stay  not  to  question,  for  the  watch  is  coming." 

What  a  moment  for  Juliet !  She  has  braved  all  the  horrors 
which  her  imagination  so  vividly  pictured  for  the  sake  of  him 
who  now  lies  dead  before  her.  She  has  wakened  for  this ! 
She  has  no  questions,  no  words.  Her  heart  is  bankrupt  utterly. 
If  she  can  think  at  all,  it  is  that  Borneo  has  found  her  dead, 
and,  to  follow  her  quickly,  has  taken  poison.  She  finds  the 
phial  closed  tightly  in  his  hand.  She  utters  no  reproaches, 
except  the  loving  one — 

"  0  churl !  drink  all ;  and  leave  no  friendly  drop, 
To  help  me  after  ! " 

The  poor  old  Friar,  in  his  grief  and  utter  bewilderment  at 
this  "  lamentable  chance,"  finding  all  his  efforts  fruitless  to  tear 
Juliet  from  her  husband's  body,  as  the  noise  of  the  approaching 
crowd  comes  nearer,  at  last  leaves  her.  Juliet,  glad  of  the 
release,  says,  "Go,  get  thee  hence,  for  I  will  riot  away."  The 
noise  comes  nearer  still.  To  be  found  alive  would  be  to  be 
separated  from  her  lover.  The  dagger  which  was  to  have  been 


JULIET.  153 

her  friendly  help  to  let  out  life,  should  the  potion  not  have 
worked,  is  not  at  hand — has  not  been  buried  with  her.  Where 
can  she  look  for  help?  Will  her  desperate  hand  have  indeed 
to  seek  some  kinsman's  bone  with  which  to  dash  out  her  brains  ? 
JSTo !  The  "  inconstant  moon "  is  a  friendly  helper  now ;  it 
breaks  through  the  darkness,  and  by  its  light  she  sees  the 
shimmering  of  Romeo's  dagger.  Here  is  relief !  to  die  by  the 
instrument  which  had  touched  his  hand,  had  been  part  of  his 
daily  wearing  and  belongings — nothing  could  be  more  welcome. 
She  snatches  it  from  his  belt,  exclaiming,  as  she  stabs  herself, 
"  0  happy  dagger !  this  is  thy  sheath ;  there  rust,  and  let 
me  die." 

Thus  is  the  "fearful  passage  of  their  death -mark'd  love" 
complete.  Had  Shakespeare  only  wished  to  show  true  love  con- 
stant and  triumphant  throughout  persistent  evil  fortune,  he  might 
have  ended  here.  But,  as  I  said  in  the  outset,  his  purpose,  I 
believe,  was  far  wider  and  deeper,  and  is  plainly  shown  in  the 
elaborate  close  which  he  has  written  to  the  scene. 

The  play  opens  in  the  thronged  streets  of  Verona — perhaps 
in  its  picturesque  and  stirring  market-place, — where,  upon  a 
casual  meeting,  the  hot  blood  of  the  retainers  of  the  Montagues 
and  Capulets,  made  hotter  by  the  blazing  noonday  sun,  breaks 
out  into  a  bloody  brawl,  into  the  midst  of  which,  when  at  its 
height,  the  heads  of  both  the  houses  rush  with  a  passion  little 
suited  to  their  years,  and  are  reduced  to  order  only  by  the  inter- 
vention of  their  Prince.  It  closes  in  the  chill  midnight,  in  a 
churchyard.  The  actors  in  the  first  scene  are  all  present  except 
the  kind  Lady  Montague,  who  has  died  of  grief  that  very  night 
for  her  son's  exile  ;  and  there,  locked  in  each  other's  arms  in 
death,  lie  these  two  fair  young  creatures  done  to  death  by  reason 
"  of  their  parents'  rage." 

Too  late — too  late  for  their  happiness  on  earth — do  these 
parents  learn  the  lesson  of  amity  and  brotherly  love  over  the 
dumbly  eloquent  bodies  of  their  immolated  children.  But  they 
do,  with  stricken  hearts,  learn  it,  and  try  vainly  to  make  ex- 
piation. All  future  generations  may  also  learn  it  there,  for 
never  could  the  lesson  be  more  emphatically  taught,  as  of  a 
surety — 


154  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS. 

"  Never  was  a  story  of  more  woe, 
Than  this  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo." 

There  is  in  this  play  no  scope  for  surmise,  no  possible  mis- 
understanding of  the  chief  characters  or  of  the  poet's  purpose, 
such  as  there  are  in  Hamlet  and  Macbeth.  The  chill  mists  and 
vapours  of  the  North  seem  to  shroud  these  plays  in  an  atmo- 
sphere of  mystery,  uncertainty,  and  gloom.  But  here  all  is  dis- 
tinct and  luminous  as  the  vivid  sunshine,  or  the  clear,  tender 
moonlight  of  the  South.  You  have  but  to  throw  your  mind 
back  into  the  history  of  the  time,  and  to  let  your  heart  warm 
and  your  imagination  kindle  with  the  hot  blood  and  quick- 
flashing  fancies  of  the  Italian  temperament,  and  the  whole  tale 
of  love  and  woe  stands  fully  revealed  before  you.  Still,  to 
judge  Juliet  rightly,  we  must  have  clear  ideas  of  Romeo,  of  her 
parents,  and  of  all  the  circumstances  that  determined  her  con- 
duct. "What  I  have  written,  therefore,  has  been  written  with 
this  object.  Would  I  might  think  that  in  my  art  I  was  in 
some  measure  able  to  express  what  my  imagination  had  con- 
ceived of  Juliet  in  her  brief  hours  of  exquisite  happiness  and 
exquisite  suffering! 

HELENA  FAUCIT   MARTIN. 
To  Mrs  S.  C.  HALL. 

[The  second  of  these  letters  was  not  completed  when  tidings 
of  the  death,  after  a  very  brief  illness,  of  the  dear  friend  for 
whom  it  was  intended,  reached  me.  She  was  present  to  my 
mind  when  I  wrote  it,  and  I  dedicate  it  to  her  memory.  The 
world  knew  her  great  talents  and  her  worth  ;  but  only  her  friends 
could  estimate  her  goodness,  her  charity  in  thought  as  well  as  in 
deed.  Her  kindness,  like  her  sympathy,  knew  no  limit.  It  was 
as  constant  and  loyal,  as  it  was  encouraging  and  judicious.  In 
loving  grateful  memory  she  lives,  I  doubt  not,  in  many  hearts,  as 
she  does  in  mine.] 


VI. 

IMOGEN,  PRINCESS  OF  BRITAIN 


VI. 
IMOGEN,   PKINCESS    OF   BRITAIN. 


' '  Alas,  poor  princess, 
Thou  divine  Imogen  !  " 

'  So  every  spirit,  as  it  is  most  pure, 
And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heavenly  light, 
So  it  the  fairer  body  doth  procure 
To  habit  in : 

For  of  the  soule  the  bodie  forme  doth  take, 
For  soule  is  forme,  and  doth  the  bodie  make." 

—SPENSER. 


October  1882. 
MY  DEAR  ANNA  SWANWICK,— 

"VTOU  wonder,  I  daresay,  at  my  long  delay  in  yielding  to  your 
urgent  request  that  I  should  write  of  Imogen, — your  chief 
favourite,  as  you  tell  me,  among  all  Shakespeare's  women.  You 
would  not  wonder,  could  I  make  you  feel  how,  by  long  brooding 
over  her  character,  and  by  living  through  all  her  emotions  and 
trials  on  the  stage  till  she  seemed  to  become  "my  very  life  of 
life,"  I  find  it  next  to  impossible  to  put  her  so  far  away  from  me 
that  I  can  look  at  her  as  a  being  to  be  scanned,  and  measured, 
and  written  about.  All  words — such,  at  least,  as  are  at  my  com- 
mand— seem  inadequate  to  express  what  I  felt  about  her  from 
my  earliest  years,  not  to  speak  of  all  that  the  experiences  of  my 
woman's  heart  and  of  human  life  have  taught  me  since  of  the 


158     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

matchless  truth  and  beauty  with  which  Shakespeare  has  invested 
her.  In  drawing  her  he  has  made  his  masterpiece ;  and  of  all 
heroines  of  poetry  or  romance,  who  can  be  named  beside  her? 

It  has  been  my  happy  lot  to  impersonate  not  a  few  ideal 
women — among  them  two  of  your  own  Greek  favourites,  Anti- 
gone and  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  : l  but  Imogen  has  always  occupied 
the  largest  place  in  my  heart ;  and  while  she  taxed  largely  my 
powers  of  impersonation,  she  has  always  repaid  me  for  the  effort 
tenfold  by  the  delight  I  felt  at  being  the  means  of  placing  a 
being  in  every  way  so  noble  before  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  my 
audiences,  and  of  making  them  feel,  perhaps,  and  think  of  her, 
and  of  him  to  whose  genius  we  owe  her,  with  something  of  my 
own  reverence  and  love.  Ah,  how  much  finer  a  medium  than 
all  the  pen  can  do  for  bringing  home  to  the  heart  what  was  in 
Shakespeare's  mind  when  he  drew  his  men  and  women,  is  the 
"  well-trod  stage,"  with  that  living  commentary  which  actor  and 
actress  capable  in  their  art  can  give  !  How  much  has  he  left  to 
be  filled  up  by  accent,  by  play  of  feature,  by  bearing,  by  action, 
by  subtle  shades  of  expression,  inspired  by  the  heart  and  striking 
home  to  the  heart, — by  all  those  movements  and  inflections  of 
tone  which  come  intuitively  to  the  sympathetic  artist,  apparently 
trifling  in  themselves,  but  which  play  so  large  a  part  in  produc- 
ing the  impression  left  upon  us  by  a  living  interpretation  of  the 
master-poet !  To  one  accustomed  like  myself  to  such  helps  as 
these  for  bringing  out  the  results  of  my  studies  of  Shakespeare's 
women,  it  seems  hopeless  to  endeavour  to  convey  the  same  im- 
pressions by  mere  words.  The  more  a  character  has  wound 
itself  round  the  heart,  the  more  is  this  felt.  Can  you  wonder, 
then,  that  I  approach  my  "  woman  of  women  "  with  fear  and 
trembling  ? 

Do  you  remember  what  that  bright,  charming,  frank  old  lady, 

1  What  delight  I  had  in  acting  these  plays  in  Dublin,  and  to  what  intelli- 
gent and  sympathetic  audiences  !  The  Antigone  gave  me  the  greater  pleas- 
ure, both  for  itself,  and  because  of  Mendelssohn's  music.  The  chorus  was 
admirable,  and  all  the  scenic  adjuncts  correct  and  complete.  Although  the 
whole  performance  occupied  little  more  than  an  hour,  great  audiences  filled 
the  theatre  night  after  night.  It  is  strange  how  much  more  deeply  these 
Greek  plays  moved  the  Irish  heart  than  either  the  Scotch  or  the  English. 
(See  Appendix,  p.  397.) 


IMOGEN.  159 

— no,  I  will  not  call  her  "  old,"  for  there  is  nothing  old  about 
her;  I  know  many  far  older  in  spirit  who  count  not  half  or  a 

quarter  her  years, — Mrs  D S said  to  me  lately  when 

you  were  standing  by  1  She  had  been  scolding  me  in  her  playful 
way  for  not  having  given  her  more  of  my  "  letters  "  to  read,  and, 
after  calling  me  idle,  forgetful,  &c.,  asked  me  who  was  to  be  the 
subject  of  my  next.  I  replied,  I  thought  Imogen,  but  that  I 
knew  I  should  find  it  most  difficult  to  express  what  I  felt  about 
her.  "  Ah,  my  dear  ! "  she  exclaimed,  throwing  up  her  hands  in 
her  usual  characteristic  manner  when  she  feels  strongly,  "you 
will  never  write  of  Imogen  as  you  acted  her  ! "  I  told  her  that 
her  words  filled  me  with  despair.  "  Never  mind,"  was  her  re- 
joinder ;  "  go  on  and  try.  My  memory  will  fill  up  the  gaps."  I 
have  one  of  the  kind  letters  by  me,  which  you  wrote  after  seeing 
me  act  Imogen  at  Drury  Lane  in  1866.  So  your  memory  too 
will  have  to  come  to  my  aid,  by  filling  up  the  gaps.  It  is  very 
pleasant  to  think  that  our  friend's  feeling  may  possibly  be  shared 
by  many  of  that  unknown  public  who  were  always  so  ready  to 
put  themselves  in  sympathy  with  me  ;  but  that  thought  does  not 
make  the  fulfilment  of  my  promise  to  you  the  less  formidable. 

Imogen  had  been  one  of  the  great  favourites  of  my  girlhood. 
At  school  we  used  to  read  the  scenes  at  the  cave  with  Belarius, 
Arviragus,  and  Guiderius ;  and  never  can  I  forget  our  getting 
them  up  to  act  as  a  surprise  for  our  governess  on  her  birthday. 
We  always  prepared  some  "  surprise "  on  this  occasion,  or  what 
she  kindly  took  as  one.  The  brothers  were  arrayed  in  all  the  fur 
trimmings,  boas,  cuffs,  muffs,  &c.,  we  could  muster, — one  of  the 
muffs  doing  duty  as  the  cap  for  Belarius.  Then  the  practisings 
for  something  suggestive  of  the  ^Eolian  harp  that  has  to  play  a 
Miserere  for  Imogen's  supposed  death  !  Our  only  available  means 
of  simulating  Belarius's  "ingenious  instrument"  was  a  guitar; 
but  the  girl  who  played  it  had  to  be  apart  from  the  scene,  and, 
as  she  never  would  take  the  right  cue,  she  was  always  breaking 
in  at  the  wrong  place.  I  was  the  Imogen ;  and,  curiously  enough, 
it  was  as  Imogen  my  dear  governess  first  saw  me  on  the  stage.  I 
wondered  whether  she  remembered  the  incidents  of  our  school- 
girl performance  as  I  did.  She  might  very  well  forget,  but  not 
I ;  for  what  escapes  our  memory  of  things  done  or  thought  in 


160  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

childhood?  Such  small  matters  then  appear  eventful,  and  loom 
so  very  large  to  young  eyes  and  imaginations ! 

I  cannot  quite  remember  who  acted  with  me  first  in  Cymbeline, 
but  I  can  never  forget  Mr  Macready's  finding  fault  with  my 
page's  dress,  which  I  had  ordered  to  be  made  with  a  tunic  that 
descended  to  the  ankles.  On  going  to  the  theatre  at  the  last  re- 
hearsal, he  told  me,  with  many  apologies  and  much  concern,  that 
he  had  seen  my  page's  dress,  and  had  given  directions  to  have  it 
altered.  He  had  taken  the  liberty  of  doing  this,  he  said,  without 
consulting  me,  because,  although  he  could  understand  the  reasons 
which  had  weighed  with  me  in  ordering  the  dress  to  be  made  as 
I  had  done,  he  was  sure  I  would  forgive  him  when  he  explained 
to  me  that  such  a  dress  would  not  tell  the  story,  and  that  one- 
half  the  audience — all,  in  fact,  who  did  not  know  the  play — 
would  not  discover  that  it  was  a  disguise,  but  would  suppose 
Imogen  to  be  still  in  woman's  attire.  Remonstrance  was  too  late, 
and,  with  many  tears,  I  had  to  yield,  and  to  add  my  own  terror 
to  that  of  Imogen  when  first  entering  the  cave.  I  managed,  how- 
ever, to  devise  a  kind  of  compromise,  by  swathing  myself  in  the 
"franklin  housewife's  riding-cloak,"  which  I  kept  about  me  as  I 
went  into  the  cave ;  and  this  I  caused  to  be  wrapped  round  me 
afterwards  when  the  brothers  carry  in  Imogen — the  poor  "  dead 
bird,  which  they  have  made  so  much  on." 

I  remember  well  the  Pisanio  was  my  good  friend  Mr  Elton, 
the  best  Pisanio  of  my  time.  No  one  whom  I  have  since  acted 
with  has  so  truly  thrown  into  the  part  the  deep  devotion,  the 
respectful  manly  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  feeling,  which  it  re- 
quires. He  drew  out  all  the  nicer  points  of  the  character  with 
the  same  fine  and  firm  hand  which  we  used  to  admire  upon  the 
French  stage  in  M.  Regnier,  that  most  finished  of  artists,  in  char- 
acters of  this  kind.  As  I  write,  by  some  strange  association  of 
ideas — I  suppose  we  must  have  been  rehearsing  Cymbeline  at  the 
time — a  little  circumstance  illustrative  of  the  character  of  this 
good  Mr  Elton  comes  into  my  mind.  Pardon  me  if  I  leave  Imo- 
gen for  the  moment,  to  speak  of  other  matters.  This  helpful 
friend  did  not  always  cheer  and  praise,  but  very  kindly  told  me 
of  my  mistakes.  We  were  to  appear  in  The  Lady  of  Lyons, 
which  was  then  in  its  first  run,  and  had  been  commanded  by  the 


IMOGEN.  161 

Queen  for  a  State  performance.  I  had  never  acted  before  Her 
Majesty  and  Prince  Albert ;  and  to  me,  young  as  I  was,  this  Avas 
a  great  event.  Immediately  I  thought  there  ought  to  be  some- 
thing special  about  my  dress  for  the  occasion.  Now,  either  from 
a  doubt  as  to  the  play's  success,  or  for  some  good  financial  reason, 
no  expense  had  been  incurred  in  bringing  it  out.  Mr  Macready 
asked  me  if  I  had  any  dresses  which  could  be  adapted  for  Pauline 
Deschapelles.  He  could  not,  he  said,  afford  to  give  me  new 
dresses,  and  he  would  be  glad  if  I  could  manage  without  them. 
Of  course  I  said  I  would  willingly  do  my  best.  Upon  consulting 
with  the  excellent  Mr  Dominic  Colnaghi,  the  printseller  in  Pall 
Mall,  who  always  gave  me  access  to  all  his  books  of  costume,  I 
found,  as  I  had  already  heard,  that  the  dress  of  the  young  girl  of 
the  period  was  simple  in  material  and  form — fine  muslin,  with 
lace  fichus,  ruffles,  broad  sashes,  and  the  hair  worn  in  long  loose 
curls  down  the  back,  my  own  coming  in  naturally  for  this  fashion. 
As  it  was  in  my  case,  so  I  suppose  it  was  with  the  others — the 
costumes,  however,  being  all  true  to  the  period.  The  scenery 
was  of  course  good  and  sufficient,  for  in  this  department  Mr  Mac- 
ready  never  failed.  And  thus,  with  trifling  cost,  this  play,  which 
was  to  prove  so  wonderfully  successful,  came  forth  to  the  world 
unassisted  by  any  extraneous  adjuncts,  depending  solely  upon  its 
own  merits  and  the  actors'  interpretation  of  it.  It  must  have 
been  written  with  rare  knowledge  of  what  the  stage  requires,  for 
not  one  word  was  cut  out,  nor  one  scene  rearranged  or  altered 
after  the  first  representation.  The  author  was  no  doubt  lucky  in 
his  interpreters.  Mr  Macready,  though  in  appearance  far  too  old 
for  Claude  Melnotte,  yet  had  a  slight,  elastic  figure,  and  so  much 
buoyancy  of  manner  that  the  impression  of  age  quickly  wore  off. 
The  secret  of  his  success  was,  that  he  lifted  the  character,  and 
gave  it  the  dignity  and  strength  which  it  required  to  make 
Claude  respected  under  circumstances  so  equivocal.  This  was 
especially  conspicuous  in  a  critical  point  early  in  the  play  (Act 
ii.),  where  Claude  passes  himself  off  as  a  prince.  Mr  Macready 's 
manner  became  his  dress.  The  slight  confusion,  when  addressed 
by  Colonel  Damas  in  Italian,  was  so  instantly  turned  to  his  own 
advantage  by  the  playful  way  in  which  he  laid  the  blame  on  the 
general's  bad  Italian,  his  whole  bearing  was  so  dignified  and 
L 


162  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

courteous,  that  it  did  not  seem  strange  he  should  charm  the 
girlish  fancy  of  one  who  was  accustomed  to  be  courted,  hut 
whose  heart  was  hitherto  untouched.  He  made  the  hero,  indeed, 
one  of  nature's  exceptional  gentlemen,  and  in  this  way  prepos- 
sessed his  audience,  despite  the  unworthy  device  to  which  Claude 
lends  himself  in  the  first  frenzy  of  wounded  vanity.  Truth  to 
say,  unless  dealt  with  poetically  and  romantically,  both  Claude 
and  Pauline  drop  down  into  very  commonplace  people — indeed  I 
have  been  surprised  to  see  how  commonplace.  Again,  Mrs  Clif- 
ford as  Madame  Deschapelles,  by  a  stately  aristocratic  bearing, 
carried  off  the  heartless  foolishness  of  her  sayings.  The  Damas 
of  Mr  Bartley  was  a  fine  vigorous  impersonation  of  the  blunt,  im- 
petuous, genial  soldier.  Mr  Elton  acted,  as  he  always  did,  most 
carefully  and  well,  and  gave  importance  and  style  to  the  disagree- 
able character  of  M.  Beauseant. 

But  to  return  to  the  evening  of  the  Eoyal  command,  and  what 
I  was  going  to  say.  I  had  nothing  especially  new  and  fresh  to 
wear ;  so  in  honour  of  the  occasion  I  had  ordered  from  Foster's 
some  lovely  pink  roses  with  silver  leaves,  to  trim  the  dress  I 
worn  in  the  second  act.  I  had  hitherto  used  only  real  roses — 
friends,  known  and  unknown,  always  supplying  me  with  them. 
One  dear  friend  never  failed  to  furnish  Pauline  with  the  bouquet 
for  her  hand.  Oh,  how  very  often,  as  she  might  tell  you,  has 
she  seen  me  in  that  play  ! 1  I  thought  my  new  flowers,  when 
arranged  about  my  dress,  looked  lovely — quite  fairy-like.  When 
accosted  with  the  usual  "  Good  evenings "  while  waiting  at  the 
side  scenes  for  the  opening  of  the  second  act,  I  saw  Mr  Elton 
looking  at  me  with  a  sort  of  amused  wonder.  I  said  at  once, 
"  Do  you  not  think  my  fresh  flowers  pretty  1 "  "  Oh,"  he  said, 
"  are  they  fresh  1  They  must  have  come  a  long  way.  Where  do 
they  grow  ?  I  never  saw  any  of  the  kind  before.  They  must 
have  come  out  of  Aladdin's  garden.  Silver  leaves !  How  re- 
markable !  They  may  be  more  rare,  but  I  much  prefer  the  home- 

1  In  my  mind  was  always  the  idea  that  Pauline  loved  flowers  passionately. 
It  was  in  the  garden,  among  his  flowers,  that  Claude  first  saw  and  loved  her. 
I  never  was  without  them  in  the  play  ;  even  in  the  sad  last  act  I  had  violets 
on  my  plain  muslin  dress.  You  remember  how  Madame  Deschapelles  re- 
proaches Pauline  for  not  being  en  grande  tenue  on  that  "  joyful  occasion." 


IMOGEN.  163 

grown  ones  you  have  in  your  hand."  Eidicule  of  my  fine  decora- 
tion !  Alas  !  alas  !  I  felt  at  once  that  it  was  deserved.  It  was 
too  late  to  repair  my  error.  I  must  act  the  scene  with  them — 
before  the  Queen,  too  ! — and  all  my  pleasure  was  gone.  I  hid 
them  as  well  as  I  could  with  my  fan  and  handkerchief,  and  hoped 
no  one  would  notice  them.  Need  I  say  how  they  were  torn  off 
when  I  reached  my  dressing-room,  never  to  see  the  light  again] 
I  never  felt  more  ashamed  and  vexed  with  myself.1 

It  was  well  I  had  a  handkerchief  on  this  occasion  to  help  to 
screen  my  poor  silver  leaves ;  but  as  a  general  rule  I  kept  it  in 
my  pocket — and  for  this  reason  :  In  the  scene  in  the  third  act 
— where  Pauline  learns  the  infamous  stratagem  of  which  she  is 
the  victim — on  the  night  the  play  was  first  acted  I  tore  my 
handkerchief  right  across  without  knowing  that  I  had  done  so ; 
and  in  the  passion  and  emotion  of  the  scene  it  became  a  streamer, 
and  waved  about  as  I  moved  and  walked.  Surely  any  one  might 
have  seen  that  this  was  an  accident,  the  involuntary  act  of  the 
maddened  girl ;  but  in  a  criticism  on  the  play — I  suppose  the  day 
after,  but  as  I  was  never  allowed  to  have  my  mind  disturbed  by 
theatrical  criticisms,  I  cannot  feel  sure — I  was  acciised  of  having 
arranged  this  as  a  trick  in  order  to  produce  an  effect.  So  inno- 
cent was  I  of  a  device  which  would  have  been  utterly  at  variance 
with  the  spirit  in  which  I  looked  at  my  art,  that  when  my  dear 
home  master  and  friend  asked  me  if  I  had  torn  a  handkerchief  in 
the  scene,  I  laughed  and  said,  "  Yes  ;  at  the  end  of  the  play  my 
dresser  had  shown  me  one  in  ribbons."  "  I  would  not,"  was  his 
remark,  "  have  you  carry  one  again  in  the  scene,  if  you  can  do 
without  it "  ;  and  I  did  not  usually  do  so.  It  was  some  time  af  ter- 

1  Like  many  pleasures  long  looked  forward  to,  the  whole  of  this  evening 
was  a  disappointment.  The  side  scenes  were  crowded  with  visitors,  Mr 
Macready  having  invited  many  friends.  They  were  terribly  in  the  way  of 
the  exits  and  entrances.  Worse  than  all,  those  who  knew  you  insisted  on 
saluting  you  ;  those  who  did  not,  made  you  run  the  gauntlet  of  a  host  of 
curious  eyes, — and  this  in  a  place  where,  most  properly,  no  stranger  had 
hitherto  been  allowed  to  intrude.  Then,  too,  though  of  course  I  never 
looked  at  the  Queen  and  the  Prince,  still  their  presence  was  felt  by  me  more 
than  I  could  have  anticipated.  It  overawed  me  somehow — stood  between 
me  and  Pauline  ;  and  instead  of  doing  my  best,  I  could  not  in  my  usual  way 
lose  myself  entirely  in  my  character,  so  that,  on  the  whole,  I  never  acted 
worse  or  more  artificially — too  like  my  poor  flowers  ! 


164     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

wards  before  I  learned  his  reason,  and  I  then  continued  to  keep 
my  handkerchief  mostly  in  my  pocket,  lest  the  same  accident 
should  happen  again ;  for,  as  I  always  allowed  the  full  feeling  of 
the  scene  to  take  possession  of  me,  I  could  not  answer  but  that  it 
might.  There  would  have  been  nothing  wrong  in  acting  upon 
what  strong  natural  emotion  had  suggested  in  the  heat  of  actual 
performance ;  but  all  true  artists  will,  I  believe,  avoid  the  use  of 
any  action,  however  striking,  which  may  become  by  repetition  a 
mere  mechanical  artifice. 

It  was  different  with  another  suggestion  which  was  made  to 
me  as  to  the  way  I  acted  in  the  same  scene.  As  I  recalled  to 
Claude,  in  bitter  scorn,  his  glowing  description  of  his  palace 
by  the  Lake  of  Como,  I  broke  into  a  paroxysm  of  hysterical 
laughter,  which  came  upon  me,  I  suppose,  as  the  natural  relief 
from  the  intensity  of  the  mingled  feelings  of  anger,  scorn, 
wounded  pride,  and  outraged  love,  by  which  I  found  myself 
carried  away.  The  effect  upon  the  audience  was  electrical  be- 
cause the  impulse  was  genuine.  But  well  do  I  remember  Mr 
Macready's  remonstrance  with  me  for  yielding  to  it.  It  was  too 
daring,  he  said ;  to  have  failed  in  it  on  a  first  representation 
might  have  ruined  the  scene  (which  was  true).  No  one,  more- 
over, should  ever,  he  said,  hazard  an  unrehearsed  effect.  I  could 
only  answer  that  I  could  not  help  it ;  that  this  seemed  the  only 
way  for  my  feelings  to  find  vent ;  and  if  the  impulse  seized  me 
again,  again,  I  feared,  I  must  act  the  scene  in  the  same  way. 
And  often  as  I  have  played  Pauline,  never  did  the  situation  fail 
to  bring  back  the  same  burst  of  hysterical  emotion ;  nor,  so  far  as 
I  know,  did  any  one  ever  regard  my  yielding  to  it  as  out  of  place, 
or  otherwise  than  true  to  nature.  Some  time  afterwards  I  was 
comforted  by  reading  a  reply  of  the  great  French  actor  Baron, 
when  he  was  blamed  for  raising  his  hands  above  his  head  in  some 
impassioned  scene,  on  the  ground  that  such  a  gesture  was  contrary 
to  the  rules  of  art.  "  Tell  me  not  of  art,"  he  said.  "  If  nature 
makes  you  raise  your  hands,  be  it  ever  so  high,  be  sure  nature  is 
right,  and  the  business  of  art  is  to  obey  her."  When  playing 
with  Mr  Macready  the  following  year  at  the  Haymarket,  I  noticed 
a  chair  placed  every  evening  at  the  wing  as  I  went  on  the  stage 
for  this  act.  On  inquiry,  I  found  it  was  for  Mrs  Glover,  the 


IMOGEN.  165 

great  actress  of  comedy,  who  afterwards  told  me  that  she  came 
every  night  to  see  me  in  this  scene,  she  was  so  much  struck  by 
the  originality  of  my  treatment  of  it.  She  said  it  was  bold 
beyond  anything  she  had  ever  known ;  and  yet  it  was  always 
so  fresh  and  new,  that  each  time  it  moved  her  as  if  she  had 
not  seen  it  before.  Nature  spoke  through  me  to  her — no  praise 
to  me. 

The  success  of  The  Lady  of  Lyons  had  during  the  rehearsals 
been  considered  very  doubtful.  Its  defects  in  a  literary  point 
of  view  seemed  obvious  to  those  who  were  capable  of  judging, 
and  its  merits  as  a  piece  of  skilful  dramatic  construction  could 
not  then  be  fully  seen.  The  master  and  dear  friend  of  whom 
I  spoke  in  my  letter  on  Juliet,  thought  the  character  of  Pauline, 
when  I  was  studying  it,  very  difficult  and  somewhat  disagreeable. 
I  remember  well  his  saying  to  me,  "  You  have  hitherto,  in  your 
Shakespearian  studies,  had  to  lift  yourself  up  to  the  level  of 
your  heroines ;  now  you  must,  by  tone  and  manner  and  dignity 
of  expression,  lift  this  one  up  to  yourself."  During  the  rehear- 
sals no  one  knew  who  was  the  author.  The  play  had  not  a 
name  given  to  it  until  very  near  the  time  it  was  brought  out. 
There  was  great  speculation  during  the  rehearsals  as  to  who  was 
the  author,  and  what  it  was  to  be  called.  Love  and  Duty,  Love 
and  Pride,  were  suggested,  but  discarded  as  too  like  the  titles  of 
a  novel.  The  Gardener's  Son,  said  one.  No,  that  suggested 
nothing.  The  Merchant  of  Lyons,  said  another.  No,  surely 
not ;  was  there  not  a  Merchant  of  Venice  ?  Upon  which  Mr 
Bartley,  who  was  the  stage  manager,  and  also  the  first  and  the 
best  Colonel  Damas,  turned  to  me,  and  taking  off  his  hat,  and 
bowing  in  the  soldier-like  manner  of  the  colonel  in  the  play, 
said,  "  I  think  '  my  young  cousin '  should  give  the  play  a  name. 
Shall  it  not  be  called  The  Lady  of  Lyons?"  Whether  this 
name  had  been  decided  on  before,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  shortly 
after  the  play  was  announced  by  that  title.1 

During  the  first  run  of  this  play — it  was  in  winter — I  suffered 

terribly  from  a  constant  cough.     It  would  sometimes  seize  me 

in  the  most  trying  passages.     On  one  of  these  occasions  I  found 

Lord  Lytton  waiting  for  me  as  I  left  the  scene,  showing  the 

1  See  Appendix,  p.  399. 


166  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

greatest  concern,  and  begging  me  to  take  care  of  my  health. 
Shortly  after,  he  sent  some  lozenges  to  my  dressing-room,  with 
renewed  injunctions  to  give  up  acting  for  a  time.  As  this  in- 
volved the  withdrawal  of  the  play  at  the  height  of  its  success,  I 
felt  how  generous  was  this  proposal.  Indeed  I  always  found 
Lord  Lytton  most  kind  and  considerate,  with  a  very  tender  heart 
for  suffering.  Not  long  afterwards,  my  physicians  sent  me  away 
from  my  loved  work  for  many  weary  months :  hut  rest  had  be- 
come quite  necessary ;  had  they  not  insisted  upon  it,  no  more 
work  or  play  would  there  have  been  for  me  in  this  world. 

But,  oh  how  I  have  wandered  from  Imogen !  It  is  I  sup- 
pose, like  Portia, — 

"  To  peize  the  time, 
To  eke  it  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length," — 

to  stay  myself  from  grappling  with  a  task  which  I  yearn,  yet 
dread,  to  approach. 

It  is  impossible,  I  find,  to  write  of  Imogen,  without  treating 
in  some  degree  of  all  the  principal  characters  of  the  play.  She 
acts  upon  and  influences  them  all.  We  must  make  ourselves 
familiar  with  them,  in  order  fully  to  know  her.  This  opens  up 
a  wide  field  ;  for  the  action  of  the  play  covers  an  unusual  space, 
and  is  carried  on  by  many  important  agents.  It  sets  the  unities, 
especially  the  unity  of  place,  entirely  at  defiance.  We  are  now 
in  Britain,  then  in  Eome — anon  once  more  in  Britain,  then  back 
in  Eome.  The  scene  changes,  and  we  are  again  at  Cymbeline's 
Court ;  then  in  a  mountainous  jegion  of  South  Wales  ;  and  so 
backwards  and  forwards  to  the  end  of  the  play.  Cymbeline 
would  be  the  despair  of  those  getters-up  of  plays  nowadays, 
whose  scenery  is  so  elaborate  that  they  can  give  but  one  scene 
to  each  act.  But,  oh  how  refreshing  it  is  to  have  your  thoughts 
centred  upon  such  human  beings  as  Shakespeare  drew,  each 
phase  of  their  characters  unfolding  before  you,  with  all  their 
joys,  their  woes,  their  affections,  sufferings,  passions,  instead  of 
the  immovable  upholstery  and  painted  simulations  of  reality  in 
which  the  modern  fashion  takes  delight !  The  eye  perhaps  is 
pleased,  but  what  becomes  of  the  heart  and  the  imagination? 
Some  people  tell  you  that  Shakespeare  would,  if  he  could,  have 
availed  himself  of  all  the  material  resources  of  the  costumier, 


IMOGEN.  167 

scene-painter,  and  stage-manager,  which  are  now  so  freely  used. 
I  venture  to  think  not.  He  knew  too  well  that  if  the  eye  be 
distracted  by  excess  either  of  numbers  or  of  movement,  or  by  a 
multiplicity  of  beautiful  or  picturesque  objects,  the  actor  must 
work  at  a  disadvantage.  He  can  neither  gain  nor  keep  that 
grasp  of  the  minds  and  sympathies  of  the  audience  which  is 
essential  for  bringing  home  to  them  the  purpose  of  the  poet. 

I  have  seen  the  plot  of  Cymbeline  severely  censured.  The 
play  certainly  wants  the  concentration  which  is  supposed  to  be 
necessary  for  representation  on  the  stage.  It  is  not  marked  by 
the  exquisite  constructive  skill  which  is  apparent  in  Macbeth, 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  and  some  of  Shake- 
speare's other  plays.  Still  the  plot  itself  is  clear  enough,  and 
sufficiently  full  of  sustained  interest  to  engage  the  attention  of 
the  audience  and  keep  it  in  suspense  to  the  close.  The  play,  in 
fact,  is  of  only  too  luxuriant  growth,  so  that  a  little  judicious 
lopping  improves  its  form  without  prejudice  to  it  as  an  acting 
drama.  Its  occasional  diffuseness  is  plainly  caused  by  an  ex- 
treme anxiety  to  leave  nothing  obscure  either  in  the  action 
or  the  characters.  But  the  genius  of  the  great  dramatist  is 
apparent  in  the  skill  with  which  the  story  of  Imogen's  trials  is 
interwoven  with  traditionary  tales  of  the  ancient  Britons  and 
their  relations  to  Kome,  which  give  to  the  play  the  vivid  in- 
terest of  a  grand  historical  background.  The  incident  on  which 
it  hinges — the  wager  between  lachimo  and  Posthumus — appears 
to  have  been  taken  from  Boccaccio's  story,  simply  because  it  was 
familiar  to  the  theatre-going  public,  and  because  Shakespeare  saw 
in  it  a  great  opportunity  for  introducing  characters  and  incidents 
well  fitted  to  develop,  in  a  manner  "  unattempted  yet  in  prose  or 
rhyme,"  the  character  of  a  noble,  cultivated,  loving  woman  and 
wife  at  her  best.  The  play  might  indeed  be  fitly  called  Imogen, 
Princess  of  Britain,  for  it  is  upon  her,  her  trials  and  her  triumph, 
that  it  chiefly  turns. 

Observe  how  carefully  Shakespeare  fixes  our  attention  upon 
her  at  the  very  outset  of  the  play,  by  the  conversation  of  the  two 
courtiers.  "  You  do  not  meet  a  man  but  frowns,"  says  one ;  for 
the  king  is  angry,  and  from  him  all  the  Court  takes  its  tone. 
To  the  question,  "But  what's  the  matter?"  he  replies — 


168     SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  His  daughter,  and  the  heir  of  his  kingdom,  whom 
He  purposed  to  his  wife's  sole  son  (a  widow 
That  late  he  married),  hath  referr'd  herself 
Unto  a  poor  but  worthy  gentleman.     She's  wedded ; 
Her  husband  banish'd  ;  she  imprison'd  :  all 
Is  outward  sorrow  ;  though  I  think  the  king 
Be  touched  at  very  heart. 

2nd  Gent.  None  but  the  king  ? 

1st  Gent.  He  that  hath  lost  her,  too  :  so  is  the  queen, 
That  most  desired  the  match  :  but  not  a  courtier, 
Although  they  wear  their  faces  to  the  bent 
Of  the  king's  looks,  but  hath  a  heart  that  is  not 
Glad  at  the  thing  they  scowl  at. 

2nd  Gent.  And  why  so  ? 

1st  Gent.  He  that  hath  miss'd  the  princess  is  a  thing 
Too  bad  for  bad  report ;  and  he  that  hath  her — 
I  mean,  that  married  her, — alack,  good  man  ! 
And  therefore  banish'd — is  a  creature  such 
As,  to  seek  through  the  regions  of  the  earth 
For  one  his  like,  there  would  be  something  failing 
In  him  that  should  compare.     I  do  not  think 
So  fair  an  outward,  and  such  stuff  within, 
Endows  a  man  but  he." 

The  speaker  has  much  more  to  say  in  praise  of  Posthumus 
Leonatus;  but  the  climax  of  his  panegyric  is,  that  the  best 
proof  of  the  worth  of  Posthumus  lies  in  the  fact  that  such  a 
woman  as  Imogen  has  chosen  him  for  her  husband : — 


For  whom  he  now  is  banish'd, — her  own  price 
Proclaims  how  she  esteern'd  him  and  his  virtue  ; 
By  her  election  may  be  truly  read 
What  kind  of  man  he  is." 

Thus,  then,  we  see  that  Imogen  is  fitly  mated.  There  has 
been  that  "marriage  of  true  minds"  on  which  Shakespeare 
lays  so  much  stress  in  one  of  his  finest  sonnets  (the  116th). 
Both  are  noble  creatures,  rich  in  the  endowments  of  body  as 
well  as  mind,  and  drawn  towards  each  other  as 

"  Like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference, 
Distinct  in  individualities, 
But  like  each  other  even  as  those  who  love." 

What   Shakespeare   intends   us   to   see   in   Imogen   is   made 


IMOGEN.  169 

plain  by  the  impression  she  is  described  as  producing  on  all 
who  come  into  contact  with  her, — strangers,  as  well  as  those 
who  have  seen  her  grow  up  at  her  father's  Court.  She  is  of 
royal  nature  as  well  as  of  royal  blood, — too  noble  to  know 
that  she  is  noble.  A  grand  and  patient  faithfulness  is  at 
the  root  of  her  character.  Yet  she  can  be  angry,  vehement, 
passionate,  upon  occasion.  With  a  being  of  so  fine  and  sen- 
sitive an  organisation,  how  could  it  be  otherwise?  Her  soul's 
strength  and  nobleness,  speaking  through  her  form  and  move- 
ments, impress  all  alike  with  an  irresistible  charm.  Her  fine 
taste,  her  delicate  ways,  her  accomplishments,  her  sweet  sing- 
ing, are  brought  before  us  by  countless  subtle  touches.  To 
her  belongs  especially  the  quality  of  grace, — that  quality  which, 
in  Goethe's  words,  "macht  unwiderstehlich," 1  and  which,  as 
Racine  says,  is  even  "superior  to  beauty,  or  rather  is  beauty 
sweetly  animated."  lachimo,  fastidious  and  cloyed  in  sensu- 
ality as  he  is,  no  sooner  sees  her  than  he  is  struck  with 
admiring  awe  : — 

"All  of  her  that  is  out  of  door  most  rich  ! 
If  she  be  furnish'd  with  a  mind  so  rare, 
She  is  alone  the  Arabian  bird." 

And  even  Cloten,  whose  dull  brain  cannot  resist  the  impression 
of  her  queenly  grace  and  beauty,  grows  eloquent  when  he  speaks 
of  her  : — 

"  She's  fair  and  royal, 
And  hath  all  courtly  parts  more  exquisite 
Than  lady,  ladies,  woman  ;  from  every  one 
The  best  she  hath,  and  she,  of  all  compounded, 
Outsells  them  all." 

Like  many  of  Shakespeare's  heroines,  Imogen  has  early  lost 
her  mother;  but  she  has  been  most  lovingly  and  royally  nur- 
tured by  her  father,  to  whom,  no  doubt,  she  was  doubly  endeared 
after  the  loss  of  his  two  sons.  What  she  was  to  him,  we  see 

1  "Die  Schonheit  bleibt  sich  selber  selig, 
Die  Anmuth  macht  unwiderstehlich. " 

Self -blest  is  beauty,  look  who  list; 
Grace  has  a  charm  none  may  resist. 

— Faust,  Part  II. 


170     SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

when  his  hour  of  trouble  comes,  and  he  is  left  without  her. 
"  Imogen,  the  great  part  of  my  comfort,  gone !  "  (Act  iv.  sc.  3.) 
Her  fine  intellect  and  strong  affection  would  then  have  been  the 
stay  to  him  it  had  often  been  in  the  days  before  he  allowed  his 
love  for  her  to  be  overclouded  by  the  fascinations  of  his  beautiful 
and  crafty  second  queen.  Yet  not  even  she  could  keep  him  from 
being  "touched  at  very  heart,"  despite  his  anger  at  his  child  for 
wedding  Posthumus. 

With  what  skill  the  characters  of  that  queen  and  of  Cym- 
beline  are  put  before  us  !  He  is  full  of  good  impulses,  but  weak, 
wayward,  passionate,  and,  as  such  natures  commonly  are  when 
thwarted,  cruel,  and  carried  away,  like  Lear,  by  "impatient 
womanish  violence."  Having  no  insight  into  character,  he  has 
been  led  by  designing  flatterers,  who  played  upon  his  weakness, 
to  suspect  "the  perfect  honour"  of  his  tried  friend  and  officer 
Belarius,  and  to  banish  him  from  the  Court.  The  loss  of  his 
two  sons,  stolen  from  him  by  Belarius  in  revenge  for  this  wrong, 
has  embittered  his  life.  It  probably  cost  him  also  that  of  their 
mother,  whose  death  left  the  Princess  Imogen,  her  youngest- 
born,  as  his  only  solace.  Out  of  the  nobler  impulse  of  his 
nature  came  the  care  and  training  which  he  gave  to  Posthumus, 
the  orphaned  son  of  his  great  general,  Sicilius  Leonatus.  And 
yet — after  treating  him  as  if  he  were  one  of  the  sons  whom  he 
had  lost,  breeding  him  along  with  Imogen  as  her  "  playfellow," 
and  knowing,  as  he  could  not  fail  to  know,  the  deep  affection 
that  must  spring  from  such  an  intimacy — on  discovering  the 
marriage,  he  sends  him  from  the  Court  with  violence  and  in 
disgrace,  careless  of  the  misery  which,  by  so  doing,  he  inflicts 
on  his  own  child.  Left  to  himself,  things  might  have  taken  a 
very  different  course.  But  he  is  blinded  for  the  time  by  the 
spell  which  his  newly  wedded,  beautiful,  soft- voiced,  dissembling 
queen  has  cast  upon  him.  At  her  instigation  he  resents  the 
marriage  with  a  bitterness  the  more  intense  because  it  is  in  some 
measure  artificial,  and  gives  vent  to  his  anger  against  Posthumus 
in  an  undignified  manner,  and  in  unkingly  phrases : — 

"  Thou  basest  thing,  avoid  !     Hence  from  my  sight ! 

.    Away ! 
Thou'rt  poison  to  my  blood  ! " 


IMOGEN.  171 

In  the  same  passionate  way  he  heaps  maledictions  on  his 
daughter.  "  O  thou  vile  one  !  " 

"  Nay,  let  her  languish 
A  drop  of  blood  a  day,  and,  being  aged, 
Die  of  this  folly  !  " 

Choleric  and  irrational  as  old  Capulet  himself,  Cymbeline  is 
equally  regardless  of  everybody's  feelings  but  his  own.  Just 
the  man,  therefore,  to  become  the  plastic  tool  of  a  cold,  beauti- 
ful, unscrupulous,  ambitious  woman  like  his  queen.  She,  again, 
has  but  one  soft  place  in  her  heart,  and  that  is  filled  by  her 
handsome  peacock -witted  son  Cloten — a  lout  so  vapid  and 
brainless  that  he  cannot  "  take  two  from  twenty  and  leave 
eighteen."  For  him  this  fawning,  dissembling,  crafty  woman — 
this  secret  poisoner,  in  intention,  if  not  in  deed — is  prepared  to 
dare  everything.  If  she  cannot  secure  Imogen  for  her  son,  and 
so  prepare  his  way  to  the  throne,  she  is  quite  ready  to  "catch 
the  nearest  way "  by  compassing  Imogen's  death.  Cymbeline, 
infatuated  by  an  old  man's  love  for  a  handsome  woman,  is  a 
child  in  her  hands.  Imogen's  keen  intelligence  sees  through  her 
pretended  sympathy,  dismissing  it  with  the  words — 

"  Oh  dissembling  courtesy  !     How  fine  this  tyrant 
Can  tickle  where  she  wounds  !  " — 

knowing  well  that  she  will  have  less  cause  to  dread  "  the  hourly 
shot  of  angry  eyes"  than  the  silent  machinations  of  this  "  most 
delicate  fiend." 

The  whole  tragedy  of  her  position  is  summed  up  by  Imogen 
herself  early  in  the  play,  in  the  words  (Act  i.  sc.  6)  — 

"A  father  cruel  and  a  step-dame  false  : 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady, 
That  hath  her  husband  banish'd  :— oh,  that  husband  ! 
My  supreme  crown  of  grief  !  and  those  repeated 
Vexations  of  it !  " 

Note,  too,  how  it  looks  to  the  shrewd  Second  Lord  in  attendance 
upon  Cloten  (Act  ii.  sc.  1)  : — 

"Alas,  poor  princess, 
Thou  divine  Imogen,  what  thou  endur'st ! 


172  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Betwixt  a  father  by  thy  step-dame  govern'd  ; 

A  mother  hourly  coining  plots,  a  wooer 

More  hateful  than  the  foul  expulsion  is 

Of  thy  dear  husband,  than  that  horrid  act 

Of  the  divorce  he'd  make  !     The  heavens  hold  firm 

The  walls  of  thy  dear  honour,  keep  unshaked 

That  temple,  thy  fair  mind  ! " 

And  all  this,  while  she  was  still  "  comforted  to  live,"  because  in 
her  husband  she  had  the  one  priceless  "jewel  in  the  world  that 
she  might  see  again."  Eudely  stripped  of  that  comfort,  as  she 
soon  is,  what  state  so  desolate,  what  trial  more  cruel  than  hers ! 
But  I  must  not  anticipate. 

When  we  see  Imogen  first,  it  is  at  the  moment  of  her  parting 
with  Posthumus.  Their  marriage-hours  must  have  been  of  the 
shortest.  Even  had  they  tried  to  conceal  their  union,  which 
most  probably  they  had  not,  the  watchful  queen,  with  her  spies 
everywhere,  would  speedily  have  discovered  it.  It  is  she  in- 
deed who  has  unwittingly  brought  about  that  union;  for  her 
encouragement  of  the  suit  of  her  son — "that  harsh,  shallow 
nothing" — has  made  a  marriage  with  Posthumus  the  only 
effectual  barrier  to  it,  and  enabled  him  to  prevail  on  Imogen 
to  "  set  up  her  disobedience  'gainst  the  king  her  father."  One 
wrong  leads  to  another.  The  marriage,  when  made  known,  is 
followed  by  the  instant  and  contemptuous  banishment  of  Pos- 
thumus ;  and  it  is  in  the  sharp  anguish  of  his  separation  from 
Imogen  that  we  first  see  them — anguish  made  more  poignant  by 
the  pretended  sympathy  of  the  queen,  to  whom  they  owe  their 
misery.  Posthumus  entreats  his  wife — 

' '  0  lady,  weep  no  more,  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man  !  I  will  remain 
The  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  troth." 

They  exchange  those  parting  gifts,  one  of  which  is  to  work  so 
fatally  against  their  happiness;  she  giving  him  what,  we  may 
be  assured,  was  her  most  treasured  possession,  the  diamond  that 
had  been  her  mother's — with  the  words, — oh,  how  full  of  ten- 
derness ! — 

"  Take  it,  heart ; 

But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 

When  Imogen  is  dead  ! " — 


IMOGEN.  173 

while  he  clasps  a  bracelet  on  her  arm,  saying — 

"  For  my  sake,  wear  this  ; 
It  is  a  manacle  of  love  :  I'll  place  it 
Upon  this  fairest  prisoner. 

Imo.  0  the  gods  ! 

When  shall  we  see  again  ? " 

All  further  speech  between  them  is  stopped  by  the  entrance  of 
Cymbeline,  who  thrusts  Posthumus  from  the  Court  with  words 
so  coarsely  insulting  that,  as  he  goes,  Imogen  exclaims — 

"  There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death 
More  sharp  than  this  is." 

And  now  when  her  father  turns  his  reproaches  upon  her,  we  see 
in  her  replies  the  loving,  dutiful  daughter,  the  still  more  loving 
and  devoted  wife  : — 

"  I  beseech  you,  sir, 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation  ;  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath ;  a  touch  more  rare 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Gym.  Thou  mightst  have  had  the  sole  son  of  my  queen  ! 

Imo.  0  blest,  that  I  might  not !      .      .     . 

Cym.  Thou  took'st  a  beggar  ;  wouldst  have  made  my  throne 
A  seat  for  baseness  ! 

Imo.  No ;  I  rather  added 

A  lustre  to  it. 

Cym.  0  thou  vile  one  ! 

Imo.  Sir, 

It  is  your  fault  that  I  have  loved  Posthumus  : 
You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow  ;  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman,  overbuys  me 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

Cym.  What,  art  thou  mad  ? 

Imo.  Almost,  sir  :  heaven  restore  me  !     Would  I  were 
A  neat-herd's  daughter,  and  my  Leonatus 
Our  neighbour  shepherd's  son  ! " 

A  cry,  we  may  well  believe,  that  has  often  risen  in  palaces  from 
hearts  weary  of  the  irksome  restraints,  or  awed  by  the  great  re- 
sponsibilities, of  princely  life. 

Her  father  leaves  her,  with  the  order  to  his  queen,  "Away 
with  her,  and  pen  her  up ! "  and  Pisanio  returns  with  the  tidings 


174  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

that  Cloten  had  drawn  his  sword  upon  his  master  Posthumus. 
Imogen's  contempt  for  Cloten  breaks  out  despite  his  mother's 
presence : — 

"  Your  son's  my  father's  friend ;  he  takes  his  part. 
To  draw  upon  an  exile  !     0  brave  sir  ! 
I  would  they  were  in  Afric  both  together  ; 
Myself  by  with  a  needle,  that  I  might  prick 
The  goer-back." 

Posthumus,  assured  that  in  Pisanio  Imogen  would  have  at  least 
one  loyal  friend  who  might  be  counted  on  to  stand  firmly  by  her, 
has  sent  him  back,  refusing  to  allow  him  to  be  absent  from  her 
even  for  so  brief  a  time  as  was  necessary  to  reach  the  haven.  But 
now  Imogen  desires  him  to  return  to  "see  her  lord  aboard." 
Why  she  did  so,  we  learn  in  their  dialogue  when  he  returns  : — 

"  Imo.  What  was  the  last 

That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

Pis.  It  was, '  His  queen  !  his  queen  ! ' 

Imo.  Then  waved  his  handkerchief  ? 

Pis.  And  kiss'd  it,  madam. 

Imo.  Senseless  linen  !     Happier  therein  than  I ! 
And  that  was  all? 

Pis.  No,  madam  ;  for  so  long 

As  he  could  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove  or  hat  or  handkerchief 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of  his  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sail'd  on, 
How  swift  his  ship. 

Imo.  Thou  shouldst  have  made  him 

As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

Pis.  Madam,  so  I  did. 

Imo.  I  would  have  broke  mine  eye-strings,  crack'd  them,  but 
To  look  upon  him ;  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle  ; 
Nay,  follow'd  him,  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air  ;  and  then 
Have  turn'd  mine  eye  and  wept.     But,  good  Pisanio, 
When  shall  we  hear  from  him  ? 

Pis.  Be  assured  madam, 

With  his  next  vantage. 

Imo.  I  did  not  cake  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 
Most  pretty  things  to  say  :  ere  I  could  tell  him 


IMOGEN.  175 

How  I  would  think  on  him,  at  certain  hours, 

Such  thoughts  and  such ;  or  I  could  make  him  swear 

The  shes  of  Italy  should  not  betray 

Mine  interest  and  his  honour  ;  or  have  charged  him 

At  the  sixth  hour  of  morn,  at  noon,  at  midnight, 

To  encounter  me  with  orisons,  for  then 

I  am  in  heaven  for  him  ;  or  ere  I  could 

Give  him  that  parting  kiss  which  I  had  set 

Betwixt  two  charming  words,  comes  in  my  father, 

And,  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north, 

Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. " 

Imogen  can  pour  out  her  heart  in  these  exquisite  bursts  of 
tenderness  before  Pisanio  without  reserve,  because  she  is  assured 
of  his  sympathy,  and  of  his  devotion  to  her  lord  as  well  as  to 
herself.  I  have  always  fancied  that  Pisanio  had  formerly  been 
a  follower  of  Posthumus's  father,  Sicilius  Leonatus,  and  had  been 
assigned,  therefore,  by  Cymbeline  to  his  son  as  his  special  servant 
when  he  first  took  the  orphaned  boy  under  his  care,  and  made 
him  the  playfellow  of  Imogen.  He  had  seen  Posthumus  grow  up 
with  all  the  winning  graces  of  a  fine  person,  and  a  simple,  truth- 
ful, manly  nature,  so  void  of  guile  himself  as  to  be  unsuspicious 
of  it  in  others ;  while  Imogen  had  developed  into  the  beautiful, 
accomplished,  high-souled  woman,  for  whom  mere  "princely 
suitors " — and,  we  are  told,  she  had  many — had  no  attraction, 
companioned  as  she  had  been  from  childhood  to  womanhood  by 
one  whose  high  and  winning  qualities  she  knew  so  well.  Pisanio 
had  seen  them  grow  dearer  and  dearer  to  each  other,  and  never 
doubted  that  Cymbeline  looked  with  favour  on  their  growing 
affection  until  the  evil  hour  when  he  re-married,  and  was  per- 
suaded by  his  queen  to  favour  Cloten's  suit.  The  character  of 
that  coarse,  arrogant,  cowardly  braggadocio  must  have  made  his 
pretensions  to  the  hand  of  Imogen  odious  to  the  whole  Court  that 
loved  and  honoured  her,  but  especially  to  Pisanio ;  and  we  may 
be  sure  he  was  taken  into  counsel,  when  a  marriage  was  resolved 
upon  as  the  only  way  to  make  the  union  with  Cloten  impossible. 
Thus  he  has  drawn  upon  himself  the  suspicion  and  hatred  of  the 
queen  and  her  handsome,  well-proportioned,  brainless  son.  I  say 
well-proportioned ;  for  how  otherwise  could  Imogen  have  after- 
wards mistaken  his  headless  body,  as  she  does  (Act  iv.  sc.  2),  for 
that  of  Posthumus  ? 


176     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

These  opening  scenes,  in  which  Imogen  appears,  are  a  proof, 
among  many  others,  how  much  Shakespeare  expected  from  the 
personators  of  his  heroines.  In  them  the  actress  must  contrive 
to  produce  the  impression  of  a  character  of  which  all  that  is 
afterwards  seen  of  Imogen  is  the  natural  development.  In  look, 
in  bearing,  in  tone  and  accent,  we  must  see  the  princess,  strong 
in  the  possession  of  fine  and  cultivated  intelligence,  and  equal, 
through  all  her  womanly  tenderness  and  by  very  reason  of  that 
tenderness,  to  any  strain  which  may  be  put  upon  her  fortitude 
and  endurance, — one  who,  while  she  draws  on  all  insensibly  to 
love  her  by  her  mere  presence,  at  the  same  time  inspires  them 
with  a  reverent  devotion.  Ah !  how  little  can  those  who,  in 
mere  ignorance,  speak  slightingly  of  the  actor's  art,  know  of  the 
mental  and  moral  training  which  is  needed  to  take  home  into  the 
being,  and  then  to  express  in  action,  however  faintly,  what  must 
have  been  in  the  poet's  mind,  as  his  vision  of  Imogen  found  ex- 
pression in  the  language  he  has  put  into  her  mouth ! 

And  now  we  must  leave  Imogen,  and  follow  Posthumus  to 
Eome,  where  he  is  expected  at  a  banquet  at  his  friend  Philario's 
house.  Before  he  enters  (Act  i.  sc.  5)  we  see  that,  except  by 
his  host,  his  presence  is  not  desired.  His  reputation  as  no  or- 
dinary man  has  run  before  him  ;  and  the  French  and  Koman 
guests  already  carp  at  and  depreciate  him.  When  he  enters, 
his  self-possession  and  dignified  courtesy  show  in  marked  con- 
trast to  the  disposition  seen  in  the  others  to  irritate  and  offend 
him.  lachimo  has  an  old  grudge  against  him.  He  had  seen 
him  before  in  Britain,  and  the  antagonism  between  his  own 
corrupt  and  selfish  nature  and  the  noble  qualities  of  Posthumus 
had  bred  mutual  dislike.  The  Italian's  flippancy  and  loose  vein 
of  expression  are  rebuked  by  the  calm  reticence  of  the  Briton. 
This  reserve  is  made  greater  by  the  deep  sorrow  that  is  tugging 
at  his  heart.  By  what  now  seems  to  him  his  selfishness  in 
pressing  Imogen  to  a  private  marriage,  he  has  brought  not  only 
disgrace  and  contumely  upon  himself,  but  suffering  and  sorrow 
upon  her  whom  his  love  would  yearn  to  shelter  from  any  touch 
of  pain.  Eemorse,  love,  and  pride  are  thus  at  war  within  him. 
Angry  with  himself,  he  is  impatient  of  annoyance  or  opposition. 


IMOGEN.  177 

In  this  mood,  on  reaching  his  friend's  house,  he  encounters  in 
lachimo  a  man  who  would  have  been  distasteful  to  him  under 
any  circumstances.  Nothing  could  be  more  unlucky.  In  his 
present  state  of  mind  he  is  fit  company  for  no  stranger,  least 
of  all  for  this  mocking  supercilious  Italian,  with  his  ostentatious 
disbelief  in  woman's  worth, — his  arrogant,  sarcastic  nature,  in- 
dolent yet  cunning,  and  only  moved  to  action  by  the  desire  to 
gratify  his  vanity  or  his  senses.  lachimo's  very  manner,  with  its 
assured  complacency,  irritates  and  frets  the  heart-stricken  Briton. 
Had  he  not  been  at  war  with  himself,  I  believe  he  would  not 
have  allowed  a  conversation  to  be  carried  on  in  his  presence,  in 
which  his  mistress's  name  should  even  be  mentioned.  But, 
smarting  as  he  is  under  Cymbeline's  insulting  language,  with  the 
echo  of  it  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  he  is  unable  to  retain  his  usual 
reticence  and  self-command.  He  is  moved  in  time  to  give  taunt 
for  taunt,  boast  for  boast ;  and  when  this  insolent  unmannerly 
stranger  dares  to  bring  the  constancy  and  honour  of  his  mistress 
into  question,  he  is  provoked  into  accepting  the  challenge  which 
lachimo  proposes  as  a  test  of  her  virtue,  without  thinking  for  the 
moment  of  the  insult  to  his  wife  implied  by  the  mere  introduction 
of  such  a  man  into  her  presence. 

We  now  go  back  to  Imogen.  "Weeks  have  obviously  gone 
by ;  but  we  hear  that  "  she  weeps  still."  The  persecution  of  a 
"  father  cruel,  and  a  step-dame  false,"  and  the  importunities  of 
"a  foolish  suitor,"  serve  but  to  make  her  cling  closer  to  the 
thought  of  her  dear  lord  and  husband. 

"  Oh,  that  husband  ! 
My  supreme  crown  of  grief  ! 
Had  I  been  thief-stolen, 

As  my  two  brothers,  happy  !  but  most  miserable 
Is  the  desire  that's  glorious." 

She  is  in  this  mood  when  Pisanio  introduces  "a  noble  gentle- 
man of  Borne,"  who  brings  letters  from  her  lord.  The  mere 
mention  of  them  sends  all  the  colour  from  her  face.  lachimo 
noticing  this,  reassures  her : — 

"  Change  you,  madam  ? 
The  worthy  Leonatus  is  in  safety, 
And  greets  your  highness  dearly." 
M 


178  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Now  returns  the  delicate  rose  to  her  cheek,  the  warmth  to  her 
heart,  and  she  can  say  with  all  her  accustomed  grace,  "  Thanks, 
good  sir.  You  are  kindly  welcome."  This  is  her  first  letter  from 
her  wedded  lord ;  and  while  she  is  drinking  in  its  words  of  love, 
lachimo  is  watching  her  with  all  his  eyes.  The  happiness  in 
hers,  lately  so  full  of  tears,  adds  to  her  fascination,  and  her  whole 
demeanour  expresses,  silently  but  eloquently,  the  purity  and 
beauty  of  her  soul.  lachimo,  unbeliever  as  he  is  in  woman's 
worth,  is  too  shrewd  not  to  see  that  the  charm  of  her  face  and 
person — "  all  of  her  that  is  out  of  door  most  rich  ! " — would  not 
be  so  exquisite  but  for  the  dignity  and  elevation  of  her  mind. 
His  wager,  he  feels  instinctively,  is  as  good  as  lost ;  but  the  stake 
is  too  serious  not  to  be  played  for,  at  all  risks. 

"Boldness,  audacity,"  must  arm  him  "from  head  to  foot," 
aided  by  all  the  craft  and  subtlety  of  a  spirit  long  versed  in  guile. 
No  matter  at  what  sacrifice  of  truth,  or  at  what  cost  of  misery  to 
his  victims,  the  wager  must  be  won.  He  already  feels  it  will  not 
be  gained  by  triumph  over  Imogen's  virtue ;  but  means  must  be 
found  to  wreak  his  hate  upon  the  haughty,  self-reliant  Briton,  and 
to  bring  down  his  pride,  by  convincing  him  of  her  disloyalty. 

He  begins  his  advances  in  the  way  common  to  common  minds, 
by  daring  to  praise  and  seeming  to  be  lost  in  admiration  of  Imo- 
gen's beauty.  But  here  he  is  entirely  thwarted,  for  she  fails  to 
see  his  meaning,  and  asks,  in  all  simplicity,  "  What,  dear  sir,  thus 
wraps  you  ?  Are  you  well  ? "  Having  the  sense  at  once  to  see 
that  he  is  upon  a  wrong  tack,  he  starts  upon  another,  in  hopes  of 
better  success.  In  reply  to  her  anxious  inquiry  after  the  health 
of  her  lord,  he  assures  her  that  he  is  not  only  well,  but 

"  Exceeding  pleasant ;  none  a  stranger  there 
So  merry  and  so  gamesome :  he  is  call'd 
The  Briton  reveller." 

A  report  so  little  in  consonance  with  all  she  has  known  of  Pos- 
thumus  at  once  arrests  Imogen's  attention.  lachimo,  thinking  he 
has  gained  a  point  and  that  he  may  pique  her  pride,  proceeds  to 
illustrate  the  small  respect  in  which  her  husband  holds  her  sex,  by 
telling  her  of  a  "  Frenchman,  his  companion,"  over  whose  sighs 
for  "  a  Gallian  girl  at  home  "  Posthumus  makes  merry  : — 


IMOGEN.  179 

"The  jolly  Briton 

(Your  lord,  I  mean)  laughs  from's  free  lungs,  cries  '  Oh  ! 
Can  my  sides  hold,  to  think  that  man,  who  knows 
By  history,  report,  or  his  own  proof, 
What  woman  is, — yea,  what  she  cannot  choose 
But  must  be, — will  his  free  hours  languish  for 
Assured  bondage  ? ' " 

Imogen,  amazed,  can  only  say,  "  Will  my  lord  say  so  ? "  But 
this  levity  on  the  part  of  her  lord  must  be  pushed  home  to 
herself.  Accordingly,  lachimo  goes  on  to  express  wonder  and 

pity :— 

"  Imo.  What  do  you  pity,  sir  ? 

lack.  Two  creatures,  heartily. 

Imo.  Am  I  one,  sir  ? 

You  look  on  me  :  what  wreck  discern  you  in  me 
Deserves  your  pity  ?  " 

He  still  speaks  so  enigmatically,  that  she  conjures  him  to  say 
plainly  what  he  means : — 

"  You  do  seem  to  know 

Something  of  me,  or  what  concerns  me.     Pray  you 
(Since  doubting  things  go  ill  often  hurts  more 
Than  to  be  sure  they  do),     .     .     .     discover  to  me 
What  both  you  spur  and  stop." 

Upon  this,  he  speaks  so  plainly  and  with  such  indignation  of  her 
lord's  disloyalty,  that  for  a  moment  a  cloud  rests  upon  her  mind. 
With  a  sad  dignity  she  says — 

"  Imo.  My  lord,  I  fear, 

Has  forgot  Britain. 

loch.  And  himself.     Not  I, 

Inclined  to  this  intelligence,  pronounce 
The  beggary  of  his  change  ;  but  'tis  your  graces 
That  from  my  mutest  conscience  to  my  tongue 
Charms  this  report  out." 

He  is  now  striking  into  a  vein  which  reveals  a  something  in  the 
speaker  from  which,  as  a  pure  woman,  she  instinctively  recoils, 
and  she  exclaims,  "  Let  me  hear  no  more  !  "  lachimo,  mistaking 
for  wounded  pride  the  shock  to  her  love,  and  to  all  the  cherished 
convictions  of  the  worth  of  Posthumus  on  which  it  rests,  urges 
her  to  be  revenged  upon  him.  How  beautiful  is  her  reply  !  For 


180  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS 

a  wrong  like  this  there  is  no  remedy,  no  revenge.  It  is  too  mon- 
strous even  for  belief  : — 

" Revenged  ! 

How  should  I  be  revenged  ?     If  this  be  true — 
As  I  have  such  a  heart,  that  both  mine  ears 
Must  not  in  haste  abuse — if  it  be  true, 
How  shall  I  be  revenged  ? " 

Imogen,  who  has  throughout  felt  an  instinctive  dislike  to  the 
free-spoken  Eoman, — this  bringer  of  ill  tidings, — when  he  now 
dares  to  tender  love  and  devotion  to  herself,  on  the  instant  reads 
him  through  and  through.  She  calls  at  once  for  Pisanio  to  eject 
him  from  her  presence,  but  the  wily  Italian  has  taken  care  not  to 
have  her  loyal  retainer  within  hearing.  Quite  early  in  the  scene 
he  has  sent  him  out  of  the  way  by  the  words — 

"  Beseech  you,  sir,  desire 
My  man's  abode  where  I  did  leave  him  :  he 
Is  strange  and  peevish." 

Pisanio  does  not,  therefore,  answer  to  his  mistress's  call,  and 
lachimo  continues  his  advances.  Her  instinct,  then,  was  right. 
The  cloud  vanishes  which  for  a  moment  has  rested  upon  her 
mind ;  and  instead  of  the  doubting  perplexed  woman,  wounded 
in  her  most  sacred  belief,  we  see  the  indignant  princess  sweeping 
from  her  presence  in  measureless  scorn  the  man  whose  every  word 
she  feels  to  be  an  insult : — 

"  Away  !  I  do  condemn  mine  ears  that  have 
So  long  attended  thee.     If  thou  wert  honourable, 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st ;  as  base  as  strange. 
Thou  wrong'st  a  gentleman,  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report  as  thou  from  honour ;  and 
Solicit'st  here  a  lady,  that  disdains 
Thee  and  the  devil  alike.— What  ho  !  Pisanio  !  " 

At  this  point  the  address  of  the  wily,  subtle  Italian  comes  to  his 
rescue.  The  vulnerable  point  in  Imogen,  he  sees,  is  her  devotion 
to  her  lord,  and  lachimo  immediately  breaks  out  into  his  praises, 
and  excuses  all  which  he  has  before  said  by  the  plea  that  his  ob- 
ject was  to  prove  if  Imogen  was  indeed  worthy  of  "  the  worthiest 
sir  that  ever  country  called  his  "  : — 


IMOGEN.  1 8 1 

"  Give  me  your  pardon. 
I  have  spoke  this,  to  know  if  your  affiance 
Were  deeply  rooted  ;  and  shall  make  your  lord 
That  which  he  is  new  o'er.     And  he  is  one, 
The  truest  manner' d  ;  such  a  holy  witch, 
That  he  enchants  societies  unto  him  : 
Half  all  men's  hearts  are  his." 

Forgetting  her  own  wrong  in  the  delight  of  hearing  this  tribute 
paid  to  the  worth  of  that  dear  lord  whose  name  has  of  late  heen 
only  coupled  in  her  hearing  with  insulting  and  contumelious 
epithets,  Imogen  murmurs  half  aloud,  "You  make  amends." 
lachimo,  seeing  his  advantage,  pursues  it : — 

"  He  sits  'mongst  men  like  a  descended  god  : 
He  hath  a  kind  of  honour  sets  him  off, 
More  than  a  mortal  seeming.     .     .     . 

The  love  I  bear  him 

Made  me  to  fan  you  thus  ;  but  the  gods  made  you, 
Unlike  all  others,  chaffless.     Pray,  your  pardon  !  " 

This  praise  of  Posthumus,  now  so  rare  at  Cymbeline's  Court,  to- 
gether with  lachimo's  vehement  protestations  of  regard  for  him, 
completely  deceives  Imogen,  and  she  replies,  "All's  well,  sir. 
Take  my  power  in  the  Court  for  yours."  His  "  humble  thanks  " 
are  tendered,  and  his  audience  ended.  As  he  retires,  however, 
he  turns  back,  and  in  the  most  seemingly  simple  manner  asks  for 
the  aid  she  has  proffered,  to  help  him  in  the  safe  keeping  of  the 
costly  plate  and  jewels  which  he  had  purchased  in  France,  as  a 
present  to  the  Emperor  from  "  some  dozen  Romans  of  us  and  your 
lord,  the  best  feather  of  our  wing."  It  is  enough  for  her  that 
Posthumus  has  an  interest  in  their  "  safe  stowage  "  : — 

"  Since 

My  lord  hath  interest  in  them,  I  will  keep  them 
In  my  bed-chamber." 

How  lachimo's  heart  must  have  bounded  at  these  words  !  Things 
fashion  themselves  for  him  to  a  wish,  and  make  easy  the  way, 
which  before  had  seemed  beset  with  insurmountable  difficulties. 
The  generous  forgiveness  of  the  princess,  and  her  pleasure  in 
showing  courtesy  to  him  who  had  professed  so  much  regard  for 


182  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

her  lord,  thus  become  the  ministers  to  his  vile  purpose  and  her 
own  wretchedness. 

We  next  see  Imogen  in  her  bed,  reading.  How  rich  were  the 
appointments  of  her  chamber,  we  gather  afterwards  from  lachimo's 
description  (Act  ii.  sc.  4).  It  was  hung 

"  With  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver  ;  the  story, 
Proud  Cleopatra  when  she  met  her  Roman.     .     .     . 

A  piece  of  work 

So  bravely  done,  so  rich,  that  it  did  strive 
In  workmanship  and  value.     .     .     . 

The  chimney-piece 

Chaste  Dian  bathing  :  never  saw  I  figures 
So  likely  to  report  themselves.     .     .     . 

The  roof  o'  the  chamber 
With  golden  cherubims  is  fretted." 

And  from  such  luxury,  such  surroundings,  which  have  been  with 
her  all  her  life,  the  treachery  of  this  ignoble,  crafty,  selfish  villain, 
lying  on  the  watch  there  in  his  trunk,  was  shortly  to  cast  her 
forth  into  an  unknown  world,  in  misery,  in  pain  and  weariness  of 
body,  with  only  the  ground  for  her  bed  ! 

Imogen  has  been  reading  for  three  hours — a  weary  time  for 
the  hidden  "  Italian  fiend "  !  On  hearing  it  is  midnight,  she 
dismisses  her  woman  Helen,  telling  her  to  "  fold  down  the  leaf 
where  she  had  left."  This,  we  hear  from  lachimo  afterwards, 
was  the  tale  of  Tereus,  "where  Philomel  gave  up," — that  is,  we 
may  suppose,  at  the  point  where  Philomela  and  her  sister  Procne 
were  (in  answer  to  their  prayer  to  escape  Tereus,  their  infuriated 
pursuer)  transformed,  the  one  into  a  nightingale,  the  other  into  a 
swallow.  She  adds — 

"  Take  not  away  the  taper,  leave  it  burning  ; 
And  if  thou  canst  awake  by  four  o'  the  clock, 
I  prithee,  call  me.     Sleep  hath  seized  me  wholly." 

She  kisses  fondly  the  bracelet  on  her  arm,  the  parting  gift  of 
Leonatus,  and  with  a  brief  prayer  to  the  gods  for  protection 
"from  fairies  and  the  tempters  of  the  night,"  drops  into  that 
deep  sleep  which  enables  lachimo  to  accomplish  his  purpose  un- 
heard, unseen.  Libertine  and  sceptic  as  he  is,  he  is  awed  by  the 
exquisite  beauty  and  chastity  of  the  sleeper  : — 


IMOGEN.  183 

"  Cytherea, 

How  bravely  thou  becom'st  thy  bed  !     Fresh  lily  ! 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets  !     That  I  might  touch  ! 
But  kiss  ;  one  kiss  !     Rubies  unparagon'd, 
How  dearly  they  do't !     Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus.     The  flame  o'  the  taper 
Bows  towards  her,  and  would  under-peep  her  lids, 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows,  white  and  azure,  laced 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct." 

What  a  picture  is  here  !  Drawn  by  a  master-hand  ;  for  lachimo 
has  all  the  subtle  perception  of  the  refined  sensualist.  "  That  I 
might  touch  ! "  But  even  he,  struck  into  reverence,  dares  not. 
"  A  thousand  liveried  angels  wait  on  her,"  so  that  his  approach 
is  barred.  With  all  despatch  he  notes  the  features  and  furniture 
of  the  room.  "Sleep,  the  ape  of  death,  lies  dull  upon  her," 
and  this  emboldens  him  to  steal  the  bracelet  from  her  arm. 
While  he  is  triumphing  in  the  thought  how  this  may  be  used 
to  work  "  the  madding  of  her  lord,"  his  eye  is  caught  by  a  mark 
he  has  espied  upon  her  bosom,  which  "rivets,  screws  itself  to  his 
memory,"  as  a  conclusive  voucher  with  Posthumus  that  he  has 
"  ta'en  the  treasure  of  her  honour  "  : — 

"  On  her  left  breast 

A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip. ' ' 

What  need  of  further  token  !  Those  of  which  he  is  now  pos- 
sessed, he  is  satisfied,  will  be  ample  to  carry  conviction  to  a  man 
of  pure  heart  like  Posthumus,  who  could  not  conceive  of  base- 
ness so  vile  as  that  by  which  lachimo  has  come  to  know  of  that 
sweet  secret  mark.  Now,  therefore,  he  may  return  to  the  chest, 
and  shut  the  lid,  invoking,  as  he  does  so,  "the  dragons  of  the 
night,"  to  fly  swiftly,  that  "dawning  may  bare  the  raven's  eye." 
His  men  doubtless  have  their  orders  to  carry  away  the  supposed 
treasure-chest  by  daybreak.  Well  may  he  dread  the  time  till 
then  :— 

"I  lodge  in  fear; 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here." 

And  this  same  hell  he  is  to  carry  about  with  him,  as  we  shall  see, 


184  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

for  ever  after;  a  hell  of  remorse  which  robs  him  of  his  valour 
and  his  peace. 

In  the  morning  we  find  musicians,  hired  by  Cloten,  singing 
under  Imogen's  chamber -window  that  brightest,  daintiest  of 
aubades,  "  Hark !  hark !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings ! "  as  if 
Shakespeare  could  not  choose  but  pour  out  his  own  heart  in 
homage  to  the  "  divine  Imogen  "  he  had  created.  Forced  to  ap- 
pear in  answer  to  Cloten's  importunities,  she  tells  him  frankly, 
"  You  lay  out  too  much  pains  for  purchasing  but  trouble."  The 
silly  underbred  fellow  will  not  take  her  denial,  and  by  his  rude- 
ness forces  her  for  a  moment  to  meet  him  with  his  own  weapons. 
But  it  is  only  for  a  moment ;  and  then  she  offers  him  this  pretty 
and  most  characteristic  apology,  even  while  she  makes  clearer 
than  ever  the  hoplessness  of  his  suit : — 

"  I  am  much  sorry,  sir, 
You  put  me  to  forget  a  lady's  manners, 
By  being  so  verbal  :  and  learn  now,  for  all, 
That  I,  which  know  my  heart,  do  here  pronounce, 
By  the  very  truth  of  it,  I  care  not  for  you  ; 
And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity, 
(To  accuse  myself)  I  hate  you  ;  which  I  had  rather 
You  felt,  than  mak't  my  boast." 

Exasperated  by  this  avowal,  Cloten  replies  by  attacking  "that 
base  wretch  "  Posthumus  : — 

"  One  bred  of  alms,  and  foster'd  with  cold  dishes, 
With  scraps  o'  the  Court ; " — 

and  asserts  that  her  contract  with  him  is  no  contract  at  all,  and 
that  she,  being  curbed  in  her  actions  by  "  the  consequence  o'  the 
crown,"  must  not  soil 

"  The  precious  note  of  it  with  a  base  slave, 
A  hilding  for  a  livery,  a  squire's  cloth, 
A  pantler,  not  so  eminent. " 

On  this  Imogen's  patience  leaves  her,  and  she  turns  upon  him 
with  the  same  eloquence  of  scorn  with  which  we  have  before 
seen  her  silence  lachimo,  but  with  even  greater  contempt : — 

"  Profane  fellow ! 
Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter,  and  no  more 


IMOGEN.  185 

But  what  thou  art  besides,  thou  wert  too  base 
To  be  his  groom. 

Clo.  The  south-fog  rot  him  ! 

Imo.   He  never  can  meet  more  mischance,  than  come 
To  be  but  named  of  thee  !     His  meanest  garment, 
That  ever  hath  but  clipp'd  his  body,  is  dearer 
In  my  respect  than  all  the  hairs  above  thee, 
Were  they  all  made  such  men." 

Even  as  she  speaks,  she  misses  from  her  arm  the  bracelet  which 
had  never  quitted  it  since  Posthumus  placed  it  there,  and  hastily 
summons  Pisanio,  whom  she  bids  tell  her  women  to  search  for 
it.  Vexation  upon  vexation  : — 

"  I  am  spirited  with  a  fool, 
Frighted,  and  anger'd  worse." 

As  is  so  common  when  we  first  miss  anything,  she  thinks  she 

saw  it  lately  : — 

"  I  do  think 

I  saw't  this  morning  :  confident  I  am 
Last  night  'twas  on  mine  arm  ;  I  kissed  it, " — 

adding,  with  a  sweet  womanish  touch — 

' '  I  hope  it  be  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he." 

"Aught,"  you  see,  not  "  any  one."  Alas!  it  lias  gone  to  him, 
and  on  a  deadlier  errand.  "  Frighted  "  as  Imogen  now  is,  she  is 
in  no  humour  to  be  longer  "  spirited  by  a  fool."  Cloten's  threat 
of  appealing  to  her  father  is  treated  with  contempt,  and  she 
leaves  him  "  to  the  worst  of  discontent,"  and  to  fierce  threats  of 
vengeance,  in  the  midst  of  which  her  preference  for  her  husband's 
"  meanest  garment "  is  always  uppermost  in  his  foolish  brain. 

In  the  next  scene  we  are  again  in  Philario's  house  in  Eome,  to 
which  lachimo  has  returned  with  all  possible  speed.  I  need  not 
dwell  upon  the  skill  with  which  lachimo  develops  his  proofs 
against  the  virtue  of  Imogen,  bringing  them  forward  one  by  one, 
as  if  they  were  drawn  from  him  reluctantly,  and  mingled  with 
such  suggestions  as,  in  the  mouth  of  a  known  voluptuary  like 
himself,  could  not  fail  to  lend  confirmation  to  his  story.  Pos- 
thumus is  no  easy  dupe.  His  faith  in  Imogen  is  too  deeply 


186  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

rooted.  He  fights  against  conviction  to  the  last,  and  only  yields 
when  lachimo  crowns  his  story  by  speaking  of  the  mole  under 
Imogen's  breast,  "right  proud  of  that  most  delicate  lodging." 
Nor  is  he  alone  in  his  conviction ;  for  his  friend  Philario,  who 
knows  lachimo  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  he  would  be  in  no 
way  scrupulous  about  truth  in  a  matter  of  this  kind,  is  himself 
compelled  to  come  to  the  same  conclusion,  and  to  avow  it  by 
saying  to  lachimo,  "  You  have  won."  It  is  impossible,  indeed, 
not  to  admire  the  exquisite  art  with  which  this  super-subtle 
Italian  arrays  what  he  afterwards  (Act  v.  sc.  5)  calls  "simular 
proof  enough  to  make  the  noble  Leonatus  mad,"  and,  in  doing  so, 
fulfils  the  dramatist's  purpose  of  keeping  alive  our  respect  for 
the  wretched  husband,  whose  whole  life  is  laid  waste  by  the 
ruin  of  his  belief  in  one  who  had  been  the  incarnation  for  him 
of  all  that  was  beautiful,  and  pure,  and  holy  upon  earth.  Were 
it  otherwise,  we  could  not  forgive  the  cruel  device  by  which  he, 
who  had  been  her  "  true  knight,"  all  "  of  her  honour  confident," 
sought  to  avenge  his  imagined  wrong,  by  commanding  Pisanio  to 
lure  her  from  the  Court,  on  the  pretext  of  bringing  her  to  her 
husband,  and  then  to  take  away  her  life. 

"What  a  contrast  to  the  scene  in  which  Posthumus  gives  vent 
to  his  anguish  and  despair  (Act  ii.  sc.  5)  is  that  in  which  we 
next  see  Imogen  (Act  iii.  sc.  2) !  It  is  the  one  occasion  in  the 
whole  play  in  which  she  can  smile  and  is  happy.  That  her 
natural  temperament  is  cheerful,  we  see  by  the  readiness  with 
which  she  seizes  this  first  opportunity  to  rejoice — a  letter  from 
her  lord,  and  when  least  expected : — 

"  Pis.  Madam,  here  is  a  letter  from  my  lord. 
Imo.  Who  ?  thy  lord  ?  that  is  my  lord,  Leonatus  ! " 

How  Pisanio  must  have  shuddered  inwardly  as  he  gave  it  to  her, 
knowing  for  what  it  was  devised,  and  seeing  the  ecstasy  with 
which  it  is  welcomed  !  How  pretty  is  the  way  in  which  she,  as 
it  were,  talks  to  the  letter  before  she  opens  it : — 

"  Oh,  learn'd  indeed  were  that  astronomer 
That  knew  the  stars  as  I  his  characters  ; 
He'd  lay  the  future  open." 


IMOGEN.  187 

Then  the  little  prayer,  like  some  devout  Greek,  to  the  "good 
gods  "  to 

"  Let  what  is  here  contain'd  relish  of  love, 
Of  my  lord's  health,  of  his  content — yet  not, 
That  we  two  are  asunder, — let  that  grieve  him." 

In  her  overflowing  happiness,  as  she  breaks  the  wax  of  the  seals, 
she  blesses  the  very  bees  "that  make  these  locks  of  counsel." 
And  then  her  transport  when  she  finds  from  the  letter  that 
Posthumus  is  again  in  Britain,  and  that  he  invites  her  to  meet 
him  !  "  Take  notice  that  I  am  in  Cambria,  at  Milford-Haven. 
What  your  own  love  will  out  of  this  advise  you,  follow." 
Strange  that,  being  convinced  as  he  is  of  her  disloyalty,  Pos- 
thumus should  be  so  assured  that  she  would  fly  at  once  to  meet 
him  !  She  had,  he  believed,  given  his  bracelet  to  another,  "  and 
said  she  prized  it  once."  Why,  then,  should  she  encounter  the 
fatigue  and  the  peril  of  escape  from  the  Court  to  come  to  him  ? 
I  can  only  suppose  that,  being  utterly  distracted  for  the  time,  he 
had  lost  the  power  of  reasoning ;  and,  mixing  up  the  memory  of 
her  former  love  with  the  story  of  her  late  disloyalty,  he  had 
trusted  to  the  old  love  to  work  upon  her  heart.  As  to  what  it 
does  advise,  there  is  no  question.  Her  first  words  are  "  0  for  a 
horse  with  wings  ! "  Then  she  plies  Pisanio  rapidly  with  ques- 
tions as  to  how  far  it  is  to  Milford-Haven.  She,  who  has  never 
been  outside  the  precincts  of  the  Court  except  on  rare  occasions, 
and  then  with  all  its  stately  retinue,  cannot  plod  along  like 
ordinary  mortals,  who  would  take  a  week  to  do  it,  but  she  must 
"glide  thither  in  a  day."  Finding  that  Pisanio  does  not  second 
her  so  eagerly  as  she  expects,  she,  as  it  were,  reminds  him  of  his 
affection  for  his  master  : — 

"Then,  true  Pisanio, 

Who  long'st,  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord  ;  who  long'st, — 
Oh,  let  me  bate, — but  not  like  me — yet  long'st, 
But  in  a  fainter  kind  : — oh,  not  like  me  ; 
For  mine's  beyond  beyond." 

How  charming  is  all  this !  How  touching,  too,  when  we  know 
what  has  passed,  and  what  is  to  come  !  There  is  a  warmth  and 
tenderness  in  the  whole  of  this  scene  that  are  all  but  unequalled. 


188  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

The  joy  in  Imogen's  heart  overflows  upon  her  tongue.  She  can- 
not cease  her  questions.  Everything,  every  place  is  "  blessed  " 
which  brings  her  nearer  to  her  lord. 

"  How  far  is  it 

To  this  same  blessed  Milford  ?    And,  by  the  way, 
Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy  as 
To  inherit  such  a  haven  ?  " — 

a  haven  which  to  her  seems  Elysium,  for  Posthumus  is  there. 
Like  a  happy  child,  she  goes  running  all  round  the  subject ;  and 
then  comes  the  thought,  "  How  may  we  steal  from  hence  ? " — 
how  excuse  their  absence  when  they  return,  which  she  apparently 
thinks  will  be  soon  ? 

"  But  first,  how  get  hence  ? 
Why  should  excuse  be  born  or  e'er  begot  ? 
We'll  talk  of  that  hereafter." 

Her  heart  and  thoughts  are  so  full,  that  she  does  not  notice 
Pisanio's  hesitation  when  she  bids  him  forthwith  provide  a  rid- 
ing-suit for  her,  "  no  costlier  than  would  fit  a  franklin's  house- 
wife." And  when  he  still  prays  her  to  consider,  all  further 
question  is  stopped  by  her  kindly  but  decisive  answer — 

' '  I  see  before  me,  man  :  nor  here,  nor  here, 
Nor  what  ensues,  but  have  a  fog  in  them, 
That  I  cannot  look  through." 

Oh,  how  I  enjoyed  acting  this  scene  !  All  had  been  so  sad 
before.  What  a  burst  of  happiness,  what  play  of  loving  fancy, 
had  scope  here  !  It  was  like  a  bit  of  Rosalind  in  the  forest. 
The  sense  of  liberty,  of  breathing  in  the  free  air,  and  for  a  while 
escaping  from  the  trammels  of  the  Court  and  her  persecutors 
there,  gave  light  to  the  eyes  and  buoyancy  to  the  step.  Imogen 
is  already  in  imagination  at  that  height  of  happiness,  at  that  "  be- 
yond beyond,"  which  brings  her  into  the  presence  of  her  banished 
lord.  She  can  only  "  see  before  her  "  ;  she  can  look  neither  right 
nor  left,  nor  to  aught  that  may  come  after.  These  things  have 
"  a  fog  in  them  she  cannot  look  through."  "  Away  !  "  she  says, 
"  I  prithee  "  ;  and  stops  Pisanio's  further  remonstrance  with 


IMOGEN.  189 

"  Do  as  I  bid  thee  !  there's  no  more  to  say  ; 
Accessible  is  none  but  Milford  way." 

"We  can  imagine  with  what  delighted  haste  Imogen  dons  the 
riding-suit  of  the  franklin's  housewife  !  Pisanio  is  barely  allowed 
time  to  procure  horses.  Her  women  hurry  on  the  preparations — 
for,  as  we  have  heard,  they  are  "  all  sworn  and  honourable  " ;  and 
thus  rejoicingly  she  starts  on  her  sad,  ill-omened  journey.  Pisanio 
has  little  to  say  during  the  last  scene ;  but  what  may  not  the 
actor  express  by  tone,  and  look,  and  manner?  We  know  his 
grief  for  her,  his  bitter  disappointment  in  her  husband  : — 

"  0  master  !  what  a  strange  infection 
Is  fall'n  into  thy  ear  !     What  false  Italian 
(As  poisonous-tongued  as  handed)  hath  prevailed 
On  thy  too  ready  hearing  ?     Disloyal  ?     No  ; 
She's  punish'd  for  her  truth.    ...     0  my  master, 
Thy  mind  to  her  is  now  as  low  as  were 
Thy  fortunes  ! " 

These  thoughts  are  in  his  mind,  and  give  the  tone  to  his  whole 
bearing.  Had  Imogen  been  less  wrapped  up  in  her  own  happi- 
ness, she  must  have  noticed  and  questioned  him  about  his  strange 
unwillingness  to  obey  his  master's  orders — wondered,  too,  at  his 
showing  no  gladness  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him  whom  she 
believed  that  he,  "next  to  herself,"  most  longed  to  see  again. 
But  her  eyes  are  full  of  that  "  fog  "  which  obscures  everything 
from  view  but  the  one  bright  spot — that  blessed  Milford  where 
her  heart  is. 

And  now  we  have  to  think  of  Imogen  as  having  escaped  from 
her  courtly  prison-house.  By  her  side  rides  "  the  true  Pisanio," 
her  one  friend,  and  he  is  conveying  her  to  her  husband.  What 
happy  anticipations  fill  her  heart !  Now  she  will  be  able  to  tell 
him  all  the  "  most  pretty  things "  she  had  to  say  at  their  sad 
parting,  when  they  were  cut  short  by  the  entrance  of  her  father, 
who, 

"  Like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north, 
Shook  all  their  buds  from  blowing." 

Absorbed  in  her  own  sweet  dreams,  she  does  not  notice  the  con- 
tinued silence  of  her  companion,  until,  having  reached  some  deep 
mountain  solitude,  he  tells  her  the  place  of  meeting  is  near  at 


190     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

hand,  and  they  dismount.  It  is  at  this  moment  that  they  come 
before  us.  Imogen,  very  weary  with  the  unusual  fatigue,  looks 
anxiously  round  for  the  approach  of  Posthumus.  For  the  first 
time  she  observes  the  strangeness  of  Pisanio's  manner.  "What 
is  in  thy  mind,"  she  exclaims  in  alarm, 

"  That  makes  thee  stare  thus  ?     Wherefore  breaks  that  sigh 
From  the  inward  of  thee  ?     One,  but  painted  thus, 
Would  be  interpreted  a  thing  perplex'd 
Beyond  self -explication.     .     .     .     What's  the  matter  ? " 

Pisanio,  who  can  find  no  words  to  explain  his  mission,  the  pur- 
port of  which  can  neither  be  slurred  over  nor  lightened  by  any 
ray  of  comfort,  simply  offers  her  Posthumus's  letter  to  himself. 
"  Why,"  she  exclaims,  "  tender'st  thou  that  paper  to  me  ? "  She 
sees  the  superscription  is  in  her  husband's  hand.  How  the  stories 
of  Italian  poisoning  must  have  penetrated  the  English  mind  in 
Shakespeare's  time !  At  once  the  thought  of  danger  from  this 
cause  occurs  to  her : — 

"  That  drug-damn'd  Italy  hath  out-crafted  him, 
And  he's  at  some  hard  point.     Speak,  man  ;  thy  tongue 
May  take  off  some  extremity,  which  to  read 
Would  be  even  mortal  to  me." 

At  last  he  does  speak,  but  so  mysteriously  that  she  has  to  turn  to 
the  letter  itself  without  any  abatement  of  her  terror. 

My  pen  stops  here.  I  know  not  how  to  write.  Such  a  charge 
as  that  letter  contains,  to  meet  the  eyes  of  such  a  creature !  She 
has  begun  to  read,  full  of  apprehension  for  her  husband's  safety, 
and  from  his  hand  she  now  receives  her  deathblow.  As  the  last 
word  drops  from  her  lips,  her  head  bows  in  silence  over  the 
writing,  and  her  body  sinks  as  if  some  mighty  rock  had  crushed 
her  with  its  weight.  These  few  words  have  sufficed  to  blight, 
to  blacken,  and  to  wither  her  whole  life.  The  wonder  is  that 
she  ever  rises.  I  used  to  feel  tied  to  the  earth.  "  What  need," 
says  Pisanio,  "  to  draw  my  sword  1  The  paper  hath  cut  her  throat 
already.  .  .  .  What  cheer,  madam  ? "  What  indeed !  In  a 
dull  kind  of  way,  she,  after  a  while,  repeats  the  words  in  the 
letter :  "  False  to  his  bed  !  What  is  it  to  be  false  ? "  Then,  re- 


IMOGEN.  191 

membering  how  so  many  weary  nights  have  been  passed  by  her 
in  that  bed,  she  asks — 

"  To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  on  him  ? 
To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?     If  sleep  charge  nature, 
To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him, 
And  cry  myself  awake  ?     That's  false  to  his  bed, 
Is  it?" 

Her  honour  wedded  to  his  honour,  both  must  be  wrecked  to- 
gether !  That  he  should  entertain  one  instant's  suspicion  of  her 
takes  the  life  out  of  her  heart.  No  sin  could  be  more  utterly 
abhorrent  to  her  nature  than  that  of  which  she  is  accused ;  and 
this  no  one  should  know  so  well  as  her  accuser,  the  companion  of 
her  life,  the  husband  from  whom  no  secret,  not  one  of  her  most 
sacred  feelings,  has  been  withheld.  It  is  because  she  feels  this, 
that  she  can  find  no  other  solution  to  the  mystery  than  that  the 
" shes  of  Italy "  have  "betrayed  mine  interest  and  his  honour." 
Then  flashes  upon  her  like  a  flood  of  light  lachimo's  account 
of  how  the  "jolly  Briton"  passed  his  time, — of  his  opinion  of 
woman,  of  "  what  she  cannot  choose  but  must  be,"  and  of  his  con- 
tempt for  any  man  who  will  his  "  free  hours  languish  for  assured 
bondage," — and,  worse  still,  how  he  could  "slaver  with  lips  as 
common  as  the  stairs  that  mount  the  Capitol ;  join  gripes  with 
hands  made  hard  with  hourly  falsehood ;  be  "  partnered  with 
tomboys,"  &c.  All  this  comes  back  sharply  on  the  memory  of 
this  poor  bewildered  creature,  who  holds  no  other  clue  to  the 
motive,  can  imagine  no  other  reason  why  the  hand  she  loved 
should  desire  to  murder  her.  In  her  agony  she  remembers  that 
lachimo,  when  accusing  Posthumus  of  inconstancy,  "looked  like 
a  villain " ;  but,  now  that  his  words  have  seemingly  come  true, 
she  exclaims,  "  Now,  methinks  thy  favour's  good  enough."  No 
suspicion  crosses  her  mind  that  this  same  villain  is  in  any  way 
connected  with  her  present  suffering.  The  sleep  which  "  seized 
her  wholly,"  and  made  her  the  victim  of  his  treachery,  was  too 
deep  for  that ;  neither  could  the  loss  of  her  bracelet  be  at  all  con- 
nected in  her  mind  with  him.  Oh,  the  exquisite  cruelty  of  it  all ! 
— under  false  pretences  to  get  her  from  the  Court,  plant  her  in  a 
lonely  desert,  and  there  to  take  her  life  !  The  charge  against 


192     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

herself  of  being  false  appears  to  her  but  as  a  weak  excuse  for  his 
own  frailty.  He  is  weary  of  her — desires  to  be  free. 

"  Poor  I  am  stale — a  garment  out  of  fashion ; 
And,  for  I  am  richer  than  to  hang  by  the  walls, 
I  must  be  ripp'd  : — to  pieces  with  me  ! l     Oh, 
Men's  vows  are  women's  traitors  !  " 

"When  she  parted  from  Posthumus,  we  heard  her  say  she  was 
"  not  comforted  to  live,  but  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world 
that  I  may  see  again."  And  now,  what  has  that  jewel  proved? 
What,  then,  is  life  to  her  now  1  What  left  her  but  to  show  in 
death  her  devotion  to  her  lord?  Were  ever  words  so  full  of 
anguish,  of  tender,  passionate  yearning,  as  hers? — 

"  Come,  fellow,  be  thou  honest ; 

Do  thou  thy  master's  bidding :  when  thou  see'st  him, 
A  little  witness  my  obedience.     Look  ! 
I  draw  the  sword  myself  :  take  it,  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart : 
Fear  not ;  'tis  empty  of  all  things  but  grief  : 
Thy  master  is  not  there,  who  was,  indeed, 
The  riches  of  it.     Do  his  bidding  ;  strike  !  " 

She  sees  nothing  before  her  but  to  die ;  and  when  Pisanio  re- 
fuses to  "  damn  his  hand "  with  the  bloody  task,  she  is  only  re- 
strained from  killing  herself  with  his  sword  by  the  thought  of 
the  "  divine  prohibition  "  against  self-slaughter.  This  "  cravens 
her  weak  hand "  ;  but,  renewing  her  entreaty  to  Pisanio,  she 
tears  open  her  dress,  that  so  a  readier  access  may  be  given'  to  her 
bosom.  Then  comes  that  touch  so  characteristic  of  the  sovereign 
dramatist : — 

"  Come,  here's  my  heart ! 

Something's  afore't !     Soft,  soft ;  we'll  no  defence  ! 

What  is  here  ? 

The  scriptures  of  the  loyal  Leonatus, 

All  turn'd  to  heresy  ?     Away,  away, 

Corrupters  of  my  faith  !     You  shall  no  more 

Be  stomachers  to  my  heart ! " 


1  How  womanly  are  Imogen's  similes  !  She  would  have  watched  Posthu- 
mus, as  he  sailed  away,  "  till  the  diminution  of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp 
as  my  needle  "  ; — and  here,  "  I  must  be  ripp'd  ;  to  pieces  with  me  ! "  How 
Shakespeare  thought  woman's  thoughts,  with  no  woman  then  to  embody 
them ! 


IMOGEN.  193 

But  even  in  the  climax  of  her  desolation  and  despair  the  thought 
occurs  to  her  of  that  inevitable  day  of  remorse,  when  Posthumus 
will  feel  that  her  contempt,  for  his  sake,  of  the  "  suits  of  princely 
fellows"  was  not  an  "act  of  common  passage,  but  a  strain  of 
rareness";  and  uppermost  in  her  heart  is  her  grief 

"  To  think,  when  thou  shalt  be  disedged  by  her 
That  now  thou  tir'st  on,  how  thy  memory 
Will  then  be  pang'd  by  me.     Prithee,  dispatch  ! 
The  lamb  entreats  the  butcher.     Where's  thy  knife  ? 
Thou  art  too  slow  to  do  thy  master's  bidding, 
When  I  desire  it  too. 

Pis.  O  gracious  lady, 

Since  I  received  command  to  do  this  business, 
I  have  not  slept  one  wink. 

Imo.  Do't,  and  to  bed  then  ! 

Pis.  I'll  wake  mine  eyeballs  blind  first. 

Imo.  Wherefore,  then, 

Did'st  undertake  it  ?     ... 

Why  hast  thou  gone  so  far, 

To  be  unbent,  when  thou  hast  ta'en  thy  stand, 
The  elected  deer  before  thee  ? 

Pis.  But  to  win  time 

To  lose  so  bad  employment." 

Praying  her  patience,  Pisanio  then  tries  to  make  her  think,  as  he 
himself  has  believed  from  the  first,  that  it  cannot  be  "  but  that 
his  master  is  abused." 

"  Some  villain,  ay,  and  singular  in  his  art, 
Hath  done  you  both  this  cursed  injury." 

Imogen,  who  can  divine  no  motive  but  the  one,  will  not  entertain 
this  idea.  But  Pisanio  persists  in  his  belief ;  and  tells  her  he  will 
send  notice  to  Posthumus  of  her  death,  along  with  some  bloody 
sign  of  it,  obviously  with  the  conviction  that  this  will  lead  to 
some  explanation  of  the  delusion  under  which  his  master  is  la- 
bouring. Will  she  meanwhile  go  back  to  the  Court?  Swift  is 
her  answer.  "  No  Court,  no  father  ! "  What !  face  again  "  the 
father  cruel,  and  the  step-dame  false,"  and  the  persistent  wooing 
of  the  "profane  fellow"  her  son?  Pisanio  has  anticipated  this 
answer ;  and  finding  his  mistress  ready  even  to  seek  a  refuge 
abroad  if  necessary — "  Hath  Britain  all  the  sun  that  shines  ? " — 
N 


194     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

he  suggests  that  a  way  may  be  found  by  which  she  may  haply 
come  near 

"  The  residence  of  Posthumus  ;  so  nigh,  at  least, 
That  though  his  actions  were  not  visible,  yet 
Report  should  render  him  hourly  to  your  ear, 
As  truly  as  he  moves." 

The  right  chord  has  been  touched  by  the  hand  of  this  most  sym- 
pathetic and  loyal  of  retainers.  Posthumus  may  be  seen,  some 
clue  at  least  be  found  to  what  is  now  all  mystery  and  anguish. 
"  Oh  for  such  means  !  "  Imogen  exclaims, — 

"  Though  peril  to  my  modesty,  not  death  on't, 
I  would  adventure  !  " 

As  a  woman,  Pisanio  knows  it  would  be  impossible  for  her 
to  make  her  way  alone  to  the  camp  of  the  Eoman  general,  Caius 
Lucius,  where  tidings  of  Posthumus  were  most  likely  to  reach 
her.  Accordingly,  he  tells  her  she  must  don  a  page's  dress, 
"forget  to  be  a  woman,"  be  "ready  in  gibes,  quick-answered, 
saucy,  and  quarrelous  as  the  weasel."  How  little  of  all  this 
is  Imogen  in  her  male  attire  we  shall  presently  see.  But  the 
object  before  her  makes  all  hesitation  vanish : — 

"  I  see  into  thy  end,  and  am  almost 
A  man  already," 

she  exclaims,  and  hails  with  readiness  Pisanio's  announcement, 
that  he  has  by  anticipation  provided  for  her  "  doublet,  hat,  hose, 
all  that  answer  to  them,"  with  which  she  may  present  herself 
before  the  noble  Lucius.  Pisanio  adds — 

"  Desire  his  service,  tell  him 

Wherein  you're  happy,  (which  you'll  make  him  know, 
If  that  his  head  have  ear  in  music)." 

She  is  sure  to  be  well  received  by  him,  "  for  he  is  honourable, 
and,  doubling  that,  most  holy."  He  must  himself  return  to 
the  Court,  to  avoid  being  suspected  of  having  assisted  in  her 
escape,  and  at  parting  gives  her  a  box  of  medicine,  in  the  belief 
that,  in  case  of  illness,  it  "  will  drive  away  distemper."  It  had 
been  given  to  him  by  the  queen,  and  he  believes  it  to  be  what 


IMOGEN.  195 

she  professed  it  was  ;  for,  treacherous  as  he  knows  her,  he  has  no 
suspicion  that  she  would  turn  poisoner.  It  is  only  the  physician 
Cornelius  who  suspects  the  queen's  purpose,  and  therefore  gives 
her  drugs  which  h^  leads  her  to  believe  will  kill,  but  which, 
though  suspending  animation  for  a  time,  will,  like  Juliet's  potion, 
allow  the  patient  to  "  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep."  So  for 
the  moment  they  separate,  that  she  may  don  her  man's  apparel. 
But  they  obviously  meet  again,  when  Pisanio  conducts  her  to 
some  mountain-top,  from  \vhich  he  points  out  Milford  to  her, 
which  then  seemed  "  within  a  ken "  (Act  iii.  sc.  6),  but  which 
she  was  to  find,  as  inexperienced  mountain-travellers  always  do 
find,  was  much  farther  off  than  it  looked.  Naturally  he  would 
not  leave  his  "gracious  mistress"  until  he  had  seen  that  her 
equipment  was  complete,  and  could  start  her  fairly  on  her  way. 
What  a  picture  Imogen  presents  as  we  see  her  next  (Act  iii. 
sc.  6) — alone,  among  the  wild  hills,  in  a  strange  dress,  in  a 
strange  world— wandering  along  unknown  paths,  still  far  away 
from  Milford-Haven  !  Oh,  that  name,  Milford-Haven  !  I  never 
hear  it  spoken,  see  it  written,  without  thinking  of  Imogen. 
Weary  and  footsore,  she  wanders  on,  with  a  dull  ache  at 
her  heart  —  far  worse  to  bear  than  hunger,  —  yearning,  yet 
dreading,  to  get  to  Milford,  that  "blessed  Milford,"  as  once 
she  thought  it.  When  I  read  of  the  great  harbour  and  docks 
which  are  now  there,  I  cannot  help  wishing  that  one  little 
sheltering  corner  could  be  found  to  christen  as  "Imogen's 
Haven."  Never  did  heroine  or  woman  better  deserve  to  have 
her  name  thus  consecrated  and  remembered.  For  two  nights 
she  has  made  the  ground  her  bed.  What  food  she  had  with 
her  has  long  been  exhausted  ;  and  there  is,  oh,  so  little  spur 
of  hope  or  promise  in  her  heart  to  urge  her  onwards !  She 
complains  but  little.  The  tender  nursling  of  the  Court  learns, 
by  the  roughest  lessons,  what  goes  on  in  that  outer  world  of 
which  she  has  seen  nothing.  "  I  see,"  she  says,  "  a  man's  life 
is  a  tedious  one."  Still,  with  the  patient  nobility  of  her  nature, 
her  "resolution  helps  her."  She  has  set  herself  a  task,  and  she 
will  carry  it  through.  In  her  heart,  despite  what  she  has  said  to 
Pisanio,  there  is  still  a  corner  in  which  he  "  that  was  the  riches 
of  it "  continues  to  hold  a  place — for  her  love  is  of  the  kind 


196  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

that  alters  not  "  where  it  alteration  finds  "  ;  and  she  had  learned 
thoroughly  love's  first  and  greatest  lesson — fidelity. 

It  was  this  scene,  and  those  at  the  cave  immediately  following, 
which,  as  I  have  said,  laid  the  strongest  hold  on  my  young 
imagination.  It  seems  so  strange,  and  yet  so  fitting,  that,  in 
her  greatest  grief  and  loneliness,  Imogen  should  be  led  by  an 
unseen  hand  to  her  natural  protectors,  and  that  they,  by  an 
irrepressible  instinct,  should,  at  the  first  sight,  be  moved  to 
love,  admire,  and  cherish  her.  Before  she  reaches  the  cave, 
which  is  to  prove  a  brief  but  happy  haven  of  refuge  for  her, 
we  have  learned  who  its  inhabitants  are.  We  have  been  told 
how  the  old  courtier  and  soldier  Belarius,  in  revenge  for  having 
been  wronged,  insulted,  and  banished  by  Cymbeline,  had,  with 
the  help  of  their  nurse  Euriphile,  stolen  his  two  young  sons,  and 
brought  them  up  in  a  mountain-fastness  as  his  own ;  how  he  had 
taught  them  all  the  arts  he  knew  himself,  and  into  what  princely 
youths  they  had  grown,  with  but  one  desire  ungratified, — to  see 
the  world,  which  they  knew  only  by  report,  and  take  some  part 
in  its  stirring  life.  How  delightful  a  relief  after  the  overwhelm- 
ing pathos  of  the  previous  scene  is  the  accident  which  brings 
these  noble  spirits  into  contact  with  a  being  like  Imogen,  in 
whom  all  that  makes  a  woman  most  winning  to  unspoiled  manly 
nature  is  unconsciously  felt  through  the  boyish  disguise !  And 
she — how  well  prepared  is  she  to  take  comfort  in  the  gentle, 
loving  thoughtfulness  shown  to  her  by  these  "  kind  creatures "  ! 

Think  of  her,  the  daintily  nurtured  woman,  as  she  conies  to 
their  cave,  spent  with  fatigue,  and  made  desperate  by  hunger ! 
On  her  way  she  has  met  two  beggars,  whom  she  may  have 
helped  with  money,  but  who  could  not  help  her  with  food. 
They  have  told  her  she  "could  not  miss  her  way";  yet  she 
has  missed  it.  How  touching  the  vein  of  thought  this  incident 
opens  in  her  mind  ! — 

"  Will  poor  folks  lie, 

That  have  afflictions  on  them  ?     .     .     .     Yes  ;  no  wonder, 
When  rich  ones  scarce  tell  true." 

Then,  more  in  pity  than  reproach,  she  adds,  "My  dear  lord, 
thou  art  one  o'  the  false  ones  ! "  We  see  that  he  is  her  "  dear 
lord  "  still  But  the  thought  of  him  brings  back  her  heart-sick- 


IMOGEN.  197 

ness,  and  takes  away  her  hunger, — although  just  before,  she  was 
at  the  "point  to  sink  for  food."  Then  she  perceives  the  entrance 
to  the  cave  of  Belarius,  and  the  path  to  it. 

"  'Tie  some  savage  hold  : 
'Twere  best  not  call ;  I  dare  not  call." 

In  my  first  rehearsals  of  this  scene,  I  instinctively  adopted  a 
way  of  my  own  of  entering  the  cave  which  I  was  told  was 
unusual.  My  dear  friend  and  master  approved  of  my  concep- 
tion. Mr  Elton,  my  Pisanio,  liked  it  much ;  and  Mr  Macready, 
after  expressing  many  apprehensions,  thought  I  might  try  it. 
You  have  seen,  and  therefore  I  need  not  dwell  on  it  more  than 
to  remind  you  that  Imogen's  natural  terror  was  certain  to  make 
her  exaggerate  tenfold  the  possible  dangers  which  that  cave 
might  cover,  from  wild  animals,  or,  still  worse,  from  savage 
men.  Remember  her  Court  training,  her  entire  unfitness  for, 
and  ignorance  of,  anything  unlike  the  life  she  had  been  reared 
in, — for,  as  she  says  herself — 

"  Plenty  and  peace  breed  cowards  ;  hardness  ever 
Of  hardiness  is  mother." 

But  for  sheer  famine, — which,  "  ere  it  clean  o'erthrow  nature, 
makes  it  valiant," — she  would  rather  have  gone  away,  given  up 
the  thought  of  help,  and  laid  her  down  to  die,  "  as  to  a  bed,  that 
longing  she'd  been  sick  for."  The  "Ho!  who's  here?"  was 
given,  as  you  may  remember,  with  a  voice  as  faint  and  full  of 
terror  as  could  be, — followed  by  an  instant  shrinking  behind  the 
nearest  bush,  tree,  or  rock.  Then  another  and  a  little  bolder  ven- 
ture :  "If  anything  that's  civil,  speak  ! "  Another  recoil.  An- 
other pause  :  "If  savage,  take  or  lend  !  Ho  !  "  Gaining  a  little 
courage,  because  of  the  entire  silence :  "  No  answer  ?  then  I'll 
enter ! " — peering  right  and  left,  still  expecting  something  to 
pounce  out  upon  her,  and  keeping  ready,  in  the  last  resort,  to  fly. 
Then  the  sword,  which  had  been  an  encumbrance  before,  and 
something  to  be  afraid  of,  comes  into  her  mind.  If  the  dreaded 
enemy  be  as  cowardly  as  herself,  it  will  keep  him  at  bay : — 

"  Best  draw  my  sword  ;  and  if  mine  enemy 
But  fear  the  sword  like  me  he'll  scarcely  look  on't." 


198     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

And  so,  with  great  dread,  but  still  greater  hunger,  and  holding  the 
good  sword  straight  before  her,  she  creeps  slowly  into  the  cave. 

What  a  vision  is  that  which  Imogen  presents,  as  she  sits  in 
the  semi-darkness  of  their  rude  home,  to  Belarius  and  his  two 
foster-sons  as  they  return  from  the  chase  !  Looking  in,  he  warns 
them  back  : — 

"  Stay  ;  come  not  in  ! 

But  that  it  eats  our  victuals,  I  should  think 
Here  were  a  fairy. 

Gui.  What's  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Bd.  By  Jupiter,  an  angel !  or,  if  not, 
An  earthly  paragon  !  Behold  divineness 
No  elder  than  a  boy  ! " 

Startled  by  their  voices,  Imogen  comes  forward,  still  trembling 
with  fear,  to  explain  why  she  had  entered  unbidden  into  their 
cave  : — 

"  Good  masters,  harm  me  not : 
Before  I  entered  here,  I  call'd  ;  and  thought 
To  have  begg'd  or  bought  what  I  have  took.     Good  troth, 
I  have  stolen  nought ;  nor  would  not,  though  I  had  found 
Gold  strew'd  i'  the  floor." 

How  that  sweet  pleading  figure,  that  voice  so  wistful,  so  irresist- 
ible in  its  tender  beseeching  pathos,  finds  an  instant  passage  to 
their  hearts !  When  she  offers  money  for  what  she  has  eaten, 
the  suggestion  is  received  with  a  burst  of  surprise  by  the  young 
mountaineers,  which  she  mistakes  for  anger ! — 

"  I  see  you're  angry  : 

Know,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  I  should 
Have  died  had  I  not  made  it." 

The  young  fellows,  abashed  that  their  words  have  caused  fresh 
alarm  when  they  meant  but  kindness,  let  Belarius  inquire  her 
name,  and  whither  she  is  going.  She  gives  herself  an  apt  one — 
Fidele — and  explains  that  she  is  on  her  way  to  Milford  to  join 
a  kinsman  who  has  there  embarked  for  Italy.  Belarius  tries  to 
reassure  her  by  words  of  cordial  kindness,  and  bids  the  boys, 
who  are  hanging  shyly  back,  to  give  her  welcome.  They  do  so, 
each  in  a  way  that  marks  the  difference  of  their  characters. 
Guiderius,  the  elder,  and  more  likely  to  be  sensitive  to  the 


IMOGEN.  199 

womanly  element  that  gives  this  seeming  boy  so  much  of  her 
charm,  says,  "  Were  you  a  woman,  youth,  I  should  woo  hard  but 
be  your  groom."  Arviragus  accosts  her  with  words  that  must 
have  been  more  welcome  to  her : — 

"  I'll  make't  my  comfort, 
He  is  a  man  ;  I'll  love  him  as  my  brother  : 
And  such  a  welcome  as  I'd  give  to  him, 
After  long  absence,  such  is  yours.     Most  welcome  ! 
Be  sprightly,  for  you  fall  'mongst  friends  ! " 

"  'Mongst  friends  !  "  murmurs  Imogen  to  herself,  adding,  as  if  to 
give  voice  to  the  prophetic  instinct  which  draws  her  towards 
them  : — 

"  If  brothers  ? — would  it  had  been  so,  that  they 

Had  been  my  father's  sons  !  then  had  my  prize 

Been  less  ;  and  so  more  equal  ballasting 

To  thee,  Posthumus." 

Posthumus,  ever  Posthumus,  uppermost  in  her  mind !  As  a 
fresh  spasm  of  pain  passes  over  her  face  at  the  thought  of  him, 
Belarius  says  to  the  boys,  "  He  rings  at  some  distress "  ;  and 
they,  true  knightly  spirits  as  they  are,  are  all  eagerness  to  avert 
it:— 

"  Gui.  Would  I  could  free't  ! 
Arv.  Or  I,  whate'er  it  be, 

What  pain  it  cost,  what  danger  !  " 

While  the  common  blood  of  near  relationship  is  warming  the 
hearts  of  these  noble  boys,  Imogen  recognises  the  true  ring  of 
fine  breeding  in  them.  Of  Belarius  she  takes  little  note.  Her 
thoughts  centre  upon  them.  No  prince  or  paladin,  she  thinks, 
with  that  fine  penetrating  appreciation  of  character  which  Shake- 
speare marks  as  one  of  her  qualities,  could  "outpeer  these 
twain  "  : — • 

"  Pardon  me,  gods  ! 

I'd  change  my  sex  to  be  companion  with  them, 

Since  Leonatus  false." 

She  still  keeps  aloof  with  natural  timidity,  but  at  length  yields 
to  their  repeated  prayers  that  she  will  "draw  near,"  and  share 
their  supper  with  them  in  the  "rude  place  they  live  in." 


200  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

We  can  imagine  the  scene  in  the  cave  that  evening.  When 
they  have  supped,  they  would  "  mannerly  demand  "  the  story  of 
the  boy,  which,  we  hear  afterwards,  was  told  in  a  very  guarded 
way  : — 

"  Gui.  He  said  he  was  gentle,  but  unfortunate  ; 
Dishonestly  afflicted,  but  yet  honest. 

Arv.  Thus  did  he  answer  me  ;  yet  said,  hereafter 
I  might  know  more." 

What  that  "  more  "  was,  how  little  could  they  guess  ?  By  this 
time  they  would  have  found  their  softest  skins  to  make  a  couch 
for  one  so  delicate,  which  she,  with  all  a  woman's  instinct,  would 
wrap  well  around  her  limbs.  Then,  forgetting  fatigue,  she  would 
sing  or  recite  to  them  some  tale,  of  which  we  know  she  had 
many  well  stored  in  her  memory.  How  the  charm  her  presence 
had  wrought  would  deepen  upon  them  as  the  night  wore  away, 
and  how  the  dreams  that  filled  their  sleep  would  carry  on  the 
sweet  dream  of  the  waking  hours  which  they  had  passed  by  her 
side! 

How  long  Imogen  remains  their  guest  we  are  not  told — some 
days  it  must  have  been,  else  all  the  things  they  speak  of  could 
not  have  happened.  For  the  first  time,  their  cave  is  felt  to  be  a 
home.  On  their  return  from  their  day's  sport,  a  fresh  smell  of 
newly  strewn  rushes,  we  may  imagine,  pervades  it.  Where  the 
light  best  finds  its  way  into  the  cavern  are  seen  such  dainty 
wild-flowers  as  she  has  found  in  her  solitary  rambles.  Fresh 
water  from  the  brook  is  there.  The  vegetables  are  washed,  and 
cut  into  quaint  "characters"  to  garnish  the  dishes;  a  savoury 
odour  of  herbs  comes  from  the  "sauced"  broth,  and  a  smile, 
sweet  in  their  eyes  beyond  all  other  sweetness,  salutes  them  as 
they  hurry  in,  each  vying  with  the  other  who  first  shall  catch 
it.  When  the  meal  is  ready,  they  wait  upon  Fidele,  trying  with 
the  daintiest  morsels  to  tempt  her  small  appetite  j  and,  when  it  is 
over,  and  she  is  couched  upon  their  warmest  skins,  they  lie  down 
at  her  feet,  while  she  sings,  "angel-like,"  to  them,  or  tells  them 
tales  of  "high  emprise  and  chivalry,"  such  as  become  a  king's 
daughter.  Even  the  old  Belarius  feels  the  subtle  charm,  and 
wonders,  yet  not  grudgingly,  to  see  how  this  stranger  takes  a 
place  in  the  hearts  of  his  two  boys  even  before  himself : — 


IMOGEN.  201 

"  I'm  not  their  father  ;  yet  who  this  should  be 
Doth  miracle  itself,  loved  before  me." 

Meanwhile  great  events  have  taken  place  at  Cymbeline's  Court. 
He  has  refused  to  acknowledge  the  claim  for  tribute  presented 
from  the  Koman  Emperor  by  his  envoy  Caius  Lucius,  who,  after 
announcing  that  it  will  be  claimed  at  the  point  of  the  sword, 
craves  and  receives  a  safe-conduct  for  himself  overland  to  Mil- 
ford-Haven.  Cymbeline  has  prepared  for  the  eventuality  of  war, 
and  his  preparations  are  so  far  advanced  that  he  looks  forward 
with  confidence  to  the  issue.  The  kingly  qualities  of  the  man 
are  well  shown,  and  contrast  with  his  weakness  in  his  domestic 
relations.  And  now  he  misses  his  daughter,  whom  he  has  not 
had  time  to  think  of  for  some  days  : — 

"  My  gentle  queen, 

Where  is  our  daughter  ?     She  hath  not  appear'd 
Before  the  Roman,  nor  to  us  hath  tender'd 
The  duty  of  the  day." 

An  attendant  is  despatched  to  summon  her  to  the  presence; 
while  the  queen,  continuing  to  play  the  part  of  a  seeming  tender 
mother  to  her,  who,  as  we  know,  "was  as  a  scorpion  to  her 
sight " — to  her  whose  life  she  had  intended  to  have  "  ta'en  off 
by  poison," — explains,  that  since  the  exile  of  Posthumus,  Imogen 
has  kept  in  close  retirement,  the  cure  whereof 

"  'Tis  Time  must  do.     Beseech  your  majesty, 
Forbear  sharp  speeches  to  her.     She's  a  lady 
So  tender  of  rebukes,  that  words  are  strokes, 
And  strokes  death  to  her." 

When  the  attendant  returns  after  finding  the  princess's  cham- 
bers locked  and  tenantless,  the  king  is  seriously  alarmed.  His 
conscience  smites  him  when  he  thinks  to  what  his  unkindness 
may  have  led  : — 

"  Her  doors  lock'd? 

Not  seen  of  late  ?     Grant,  heavens,  that  which  I  fear 
Prove  false  ! " 

And  he  rushes  away,  followed  by  Cloten,  to  find  his  worst  fears 
confirmed.  Pisanio  gone,  and  Imogen !  In  this  the  queen  sees 
a  step  gained  in  her  plot  to  raise  her  son  to  the  throne.  Pisanio's 


202  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS  : 

absence,  she  hopes,  may  be  caused  by  his  having  swallowed  the 
drug — a  poison,  as  she  believes — which  she  had  given  him.  As 
for  Imogen,  she  is  gone 

"To  death  or  to  dishonour  ;  and  my  end 
Can  make  good  use  of  either  :  she  being  down, 
I  have  the  placing  of  the  British  crown." 

The  king,  Cloten  tells  her  on  his  return,  is  so  wild  with  rage, 
that  "  none  dare  come  about  him."  The  fitter,  then,  to  fall  an 
easy  prey  to  her  cajoling !  Accordingly  she  hurries  away  to  re- 
inforce her  sway  over  him,  "  by  watching,  weeping,  tendance," 
and  affectation  of  sympathy,  and  so  to  move  him  by  her  craft 
"to  work  her  son  into  the  adoption  of  the  crown." 

Meantime  this  son  is  working  for  himself  a  very  different 
ending  to  his  ignoble  life.  Seeing  Pisanio,  who  has  just  re- 
turned, he  accosts  him  with  his  usual  braggart  air : — 

"  Where  is  thy  lady  ? 

Close  villain  ! 

I'll  have  this  secret  from  thy  heart,  or  rip 
Thy  heart  to  find  it ! " 

Pisanio,  not  knowing  how  else  to  account  for  Imogen's  absence, 
and  to  mislead  Cloten,  gives  him  the  letter  from  Posthumus, 
appointing  the  meeting  at  Milford-Haven, — one  of  those  "  scrip- 
tures of  the  loyal  Leonatus,"  which  he  had  picked  up  when  she 
tore  them  from  her  breast. 

"  Or  this,"  he  says  to  himself,  "  or  perish  ! " 

"  She's  far  enough  ;  and  what  he  learns  by  this 
May  prove  his  travel,  not  her  danger.     .     .     . 
I'll  write  to  my  lord  she's  dead.     O  Imogen, 
Safe  mayst  thou  wander,  safe  return  again  !  " 

Cloten,  who  meantime  has  been  reading  and  re-reading  the 
letter — for  we  have  been  told  how  dull  his  wits  are — sees  in  it  an 
opening  for  the  revenge  on  Posthumus  and  Imogen  on  which  he 
has  set  his  heart.  He  will  get  from  Pisanio  a  suit  of  his  master's 
clothes  ;  and  Pisanio,  who  has  no  reason  to  withhold  them  from 
the  silly  fellow,  agrees  to  let  him  have  the  same  suit  that  Pos- 
thumus wore  when  he  took  leave  of  Imogen.  Thus,  in  the  very 
garment  which  she  had  lately  told  him  she  held  "  in  more  respect 


IMOGEN.  203 

than  his  noble  and  natural  person,"  will  he  pursue  the  princess  to 
Milford-Haven,  kill  Posthumus  before  her  eyes,  and  "  knock  her 
back  to  the  Court — foot  her  home  again.  She  hath  despised  me 
rejoicingly,  and  I'll  be  merry  in  my  revenge." 

When  we  next  see  Cloten,  he  has  reached  the  spot  to  which 
Pisanio,  believing  Imogen  to  be  by  this  time  in  the  service  of  the 
liomaii  general,  felt  he  might  safely  direct  him  as  the  meeting- 
place  of  the  lovers.  It  is  near  the  cave  of  Belarius.  Cloten  is 
more  than  ever  enamoured  of  his  personal  appearance  in  the  gar- 
ments of  Posthumus.  "  The  lines  of  my  body,"  he  says,  "  are  as 
well  drawn  as  his  ;  no  less  young,  more  strong  " — sentences  skil- 
fully introduced  by  the  poet  to  account  for  his  body  being  pres- 
ently mistaken  by  Imogen,  when  she  sees  it  lying  headless,  for 
that  of  Posthumus.  DraAving  his  sword,  he  goes  off  in  search  of 
those  who,  he  fancies,  vapouring  fool  as  he  is,  will  be  his  easy 
victims.  Straightway  from  the  cave  comes  forth  the  group  that 
inhabit  it.  Imogen,  with  all  their  care,  is  still  sick — and  who 
can  wonder,  with  mind  and  body  so  sore  1  Belarius  would  have 
her  remain  in  the  cave  until  they  return  from  hunting.  "  Brother," 
says  Arviragus,  "  stay  here ;  are  we  not  brothers  1 "  At  their  first 
meeting  he  had  said  he  would  love  her  as  a  brother,  and  every 
hour  since  had  deepened  the  feeling  on  his  part.  Imogen  can  but 
answer  ambiguously — 

"So  man  and  man  should  be  ; 
But  clay  and  clay  differs  in  dignity, 
Whose  dust  is  both  alike.     I  am  very  sick." 

Upon  this  Guiderius,  who,  though  of  a  more  robust,  is  yet  evi- 
dently of  a  more  sensitive  nature,  and  who  from  the  first  had 
wished  Fidele  were  a  woman,  offers  to  remain  behind  to  tend 
him.  But  now  Imogen  makes  light  of  her  ailment,  being  in 
truth  only  too  glad  to  be  left  alone  with  her  heart-sickness,  to 
which  she  can  then  give  way.  Gentle  and  kind  as  her  com- 
panions are,  she  is  upon  the  stretch  when  they  are  by,  dreading 
to  be  further  questioned  as  to  her  story,  and,  by  reason  of  her 
natural  disposition  to  lose  herself  in  others,  desiring  also  in  their 
absence  to  do  her  utmost  to  contribute  to  their  comfort  and  enjoy- 
ment. She  cannot  deny  that  she  is  ill — 


204  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  But  your  being  by  me 
Cannot  amend  me  :  society  is  no  comfort 
To  one  not  sociable." 

Then  she  adds  playfully,  to  set  them  at  ease  in  leaving  her — 

"  I  am  not  very  sick, 

Since  I  can  reason  of  it.     Pray  you,  trust  me  here  ; 
I'll  rob  none  but  myself. " 

Again  do  both  the  boys  proffer  in  warmest  terms  the  assur- 
ance of  their  love,  avowing  it  to  be  deeper  than  that  for  their 
supposed  father — the  only  love  they  have  ever  known ;  but  as 
she  still  deprecates  their  absenting  themselves  from  the  chase, 
they  yield  to  her  wish.  Their  tenderness  and  perfect  courtesy 
have  gone  to  her  very  heart ;  and  as  she  moves  lingeringly  back 
towards  the  cave,  she  says — 

"  These  are  kind  creatures.     Gods,  what  lies  I  have  heard  ! 
Our  courtiers  say  all's  savage  but  at  Court. 
Experience,  oh,  thou  disprovest  report ! 

I  am  sick  still — heart-sick.     Pisanio, 
I'll  now  taste  of  thy  drug." 

Her  companions  watch  her  as  she  retires.  There  is  something 
so  touching,  so  especially  and  mysteriously  sad  about  her  look 
and  movements  to-day,  that  they  will  not  go  without  a  fresh 
assurance  to  her  that  they  will  soon  be  back — 

"  Arv.  We'll  not  be  long  away. 

Bel.  Pray,  be  not  sick, 

For  you  must  be  our  housewife." 

"Well  or  ill,  I  am  bound  to  you!"  are  Imogen's  words,  as  she 
disappears  into  the  cave,  with  a  wistful  smile  that  insensibly 
awakens  fresh  perplexity  in  their  hearts,  as  we  see  by  what 
follows : — 

"  Bel.  This  youth,  howe'er  distress'd,  appears  he  hath  had 
Good  ancestors. 

A  rv.  How  angel-like  he  sings  ! 

Gui.  But  his  neat  cookery  !     He  cut  our  roots  in  characters, 
And  sauced  our  broths,  as  Juno  had  been  sick 
And  he  her  dieter. 


IMOGEN.  205 

A  rr.                        Nobly  he  yokes 
A  smiling  with  a  sigh 

Oui.  I  do  note 

That  grief  and  patience,  rooted  in  him  both, 
Mingle  their  spurs  together." 

What  a  picture  do  these  sentences  bring  before  us  of  a  true 
lady  and  princess, — not  sitting  apart,  brooding  over  her  own 
great  grief,  that  her  dear  lord  should  be  "  one  o'  the  false  ones," 
but  bestirring  herself  to  make  their  cavern-home  as  attractive 
and  pleasant  to  them  as  only  the  touch  and  feeling  of  a  refined 
Avoman  could  ! 

They  are  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Cloten,  who,  not 
seeing  them  at  first,  exclaims,  "I  cannot  find  these  runagates!" 
Belarius,  who  has  seen  Cloten  at  the  Court  many  years  before, 
recognises  him  as  the  queen's  son,  and,  thinking  that  the  phrase 
applies  to  himself  and  his  companions,  suspects  that  some  am- 
bush has  been  set  for  them.  He  and  Arviragus  are  hurried  off 
by  Guiderius,  to  "  search  what  companies  are  near,"  while  he  re- 
mains to  confront  this  stranger.  Cloten,  catching  sight  of  them 
as  they  retire,  tries  to  stop  them  by  recourse  to  his  usual  strain 
of  bullying  arrogance  : — 

"  What  are  you, 

That  fly  me  thus  ?     Some  villain  mountaineers  ? 

I  have  heard  of  such.     What  slave  art  thou  ?" 

Of  all  tones,  this  is  the  least  likely  to  move  the  manly  spirit  of 
Guiderius.  To  Cloten's  demand  that  he  should  yield  to  him,  he 
replies  scornfully — 

"  To  who  ?     To  thee  ?     What  art  thou  ?     Have  not  I 
An  arm  as  big  as  thine  ?  a  heart  as  big  ? 
Thy  words,  I  grant,  are  bigger  ;  for  I  wear  not 
My  dagger  in  my  mouth.     Say  what  thou  art, 
Why  I  should  yield  to  thee  ! 

Clo.  Thou  villain  base, 

Know'st  me  not  by  my  clothes  ? " 

This  only  provokes  in  Guiderius  utter  contempt  for  his  assail- 
ant. "Thou  art  some  fool;  I  am  loath  to  beat  thee."  As 
little  is  he  awed  by  Cloten's  further  announcement  of  his  name, 
and  of  the  fact  that  he  is  son  to  the  queen.  .  Fool  to  the  last, 


206  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Cloten  now  attacks  Guiderius,  with  perfect  confidence  that  he 
must  make  short  work,  first  of  him,  and  then  of  his  companions ; 
and  they  go  out  fighting,  with  the  result,  as  we  presently  hear, 
that  Guiderius  disarms  him,  cuts  off  his  head  with  his  own 
sword  and  casts  it  into  the  river,  that  it  may  thence  "to  the 
sea,  and  tell  the  fishes  he's  the  queen's  son,  Cloten."  To  die  by 
the  hands  of  this  right  royal  youth  seems  too  good  a  death  for 
such  a  creature.  Yet,  remembering  his  persecution  of  Imogen, 
and  his  brutality  of  intention  towards  her,  it  is  most  fit  that  her 
own  brother  should  be  her  avenger,  and  so  commence  the  work 
of  retribution ;  the  next  stage  of  which  is  the  death  of  Cloten's 
mother, — who  dies  in  mad  despair  when  she  hears  her  son  is 
dead, — having  first  made  confession  of  her  deadly  designs,  and 
thereby  solved  many  mysteries  which  would  otherwise  have 
been  difficult  to  clear  up  (Act  v.  sc.  5). 

When  Belarius  hears  of  Cloten's  death,  he  is  naturally  appre- 
hensive that  the  search  which  will  be  made  for  him  may  lead  to 
the  discovery  of  their  mountain  retreat.  "  We'll  hunt  no  more 
to-day,"  he  says,  "  nor  seek  for  danger  where  there's  no  profit ; " 
and  he  sends  Arviragus  to  the  cave,  telling  him,  "You  and 
Fidele  play  the  cooks."  "Poor  sick  Fidele!"  Arviragus  ex- 
claims. 

"  I'll  willingly  to  him  :  to  gain  his  colour, 

I'd  let  a  parish  of  such  Cloten's  blood, 

And  praise  myself  for  charity." 

What  a  change  Imogen  has  wrought  upon  the  young  pupils  of 
Belarius  !  What  charming  features  in  their  character  have  been 
developed  by  her  influence !  This  change  we  infer  from  what 
he  says  of  them,  while  he  stays  without,  waiting  for  the  return 
of  Guiderius : — 

"0  thou  goddess, 

Thou  divine  Nature,  how  thyself  thou  blazon'st 
In  these  two  princely  boys  !     They  are  as  gentle 
As  zephyrs  blowing  below  the  violet, 
Not  wagging  his  sweet  head  ;  and  yet  as  rough, 
Their  royal  blood  enchafed,  as  the  rudest  wind, 
That  by  the  top  doth  take  the  mountain  pine, 
And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale." 

Guiderius  returns  to  tell  that  he  has  sent  Cloten's  "clotpoll 


IMOGEN.  207 

down  the  stream,  in  embassy  to  his  mother."  Suddenly  they 
hear  the  "  ingenious  instrument "  which  Belarius  had  made,  and 
which  "  solemn  thing "  had  not  been  set  in  motion  since  the 
death  of  Euriphile,  the  supposed  mother  of  the  boys.  Why 
should  this  be  ?  What  does  Arviragus  mean  ?  The  answer  is 
given  by  his  issuing  from  the  cave,  "  bearing  Imogen  as  dead  in 
his  arms."  I  know  not  with  what  emotions  this  passage  is 
received  in  the  theatre,  for  I  have  never  seen  the  play  acted  ; 
but,  often  as  I  have  read  it,  I  can  never  read  it  afresh  without  a 
rush  of  tears  to  my  eyes  : — 

' '  Arv.  The  bird  is  dead, 

That  we  have  made  so  much  on.     I  had  rather 

Have  skipp'd  from  sixteen  years  of  age  to  sixty 

To  have  turn'd  my  leaping- time  into  a  crutch, 

Than  have  seen  this. 

Gui.  0  sweetest,  fairest  lily 

My  brother  wears  thee  not  the  one-half  so  well 

As  when  thou  grew'st  thyself. 

Bel Thou  blessed  thing  ! 

Jove  knows  what  man  thou  mightst  have  made  ;  but  I, 

Thou  diedst,  a  most  rare  boy,  of  melancholy. 

How  found  you  him  ? 

Arv.  Stark,  as  you  see  : 

Thus  smiling,  as  some  fly  had  tickled  slumber, 

Not  as  death's  dart,  being  laugh'd  at ;  his  right  cheek 

Reposing  on  a  cushion. 

Gui.  Where  ? 

Arv.  0'  the  floor  ; 

His  arms  thus  leagued.     I  thought  he  slept,  and  put 

My  clouted  brogues  from  off  my  feet,  whose  rudeness 

Answer'd  my  steps  too  loud. 

Gui.  Why,  he  but  sleeps  : 

If  he  be  gone,  he'll  make  his  grave  a  bed  ; 

With  female  fairies  will  his  tomb  be  haunted, 

And  worms  will  not  come  to  thee. 

Arv.  With  fairest  flowers, 

While  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 

I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave.     Thou  shalt  not  lack 

The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose,  nor 

The  azured  harebell,  like  thy  veins  ;  no,  nor 

The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 

Out-sweeten'd  not  thy  breath ;     .     .     .     . 

Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are  none, 
To  winter-ground  thy  corse. 


208  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Oui.  Prithee,  have  done  ; 

And  do  not  play  in  wench-like  words  with  that 
Which  is  so  serious.     Let  us  bury  him, 
And  not  protract  with  admiration  what 
Is  now  new  debt. — To  the  grave  ! 

Arv.  Say,  where  shall's  lay  him  ? 

Oui.  By  good  Euriphile,  our  mother. 

Arv.  Be't  so  : 

And  let  us,  Polydore,     .     .     .     sing  him  to  the  ground, 
As  once  our  mother." 

Then  says  the  deep-hearted  Guiderius,  "I  cannot  sing;  I'll 
weep,  and  word  it  with  thee."  Belarius,  who  has  stood  silently 
by,  now  says  : — 

"  Great  griefs,  I  see,  medicine  the  less  ;  for  Cloten 
Is  quite  forgot.     He  was  a  queen's  son,  boys  ; 
And  though  he  came  our  enemy,  remember 
He  was  paid  for  that.     .     .     .     Our  foe  was  princely  ; 
And  though  you  took  his  life,  as  being  our  foe, 
Yet  bury  him  as  a  prince. 

GUI.  Pray  you,  fetch  him  hither. 

Thersites'  body  is  as  good  as  Ajax', 
When  neither  are  alive. 

Arv.  If  you'll  go  fetch  him, 

We'll  say  our  song  the  while.     Brother,  begin." 

And  then  they  repeat  that  sweetest  dirge  that  ever  was  devised 
by  aching  heart  for  those  who,  having  done  their  worldly  task, 
have  gone  to  a  better  than  mortal  home — 

"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun,"  &c. 

When  Belarius  returns  with  the  body  of  Cloten,  they  lay  it 
by  Imogen's  side.  Belarius  will  not  leave  the  poor  "dead  bird," 
even  for  a  little,  without  a  further  tribute  : — 

"  Here's  a  few  flowers  ;  but,  about  midnight,  more  : 
The  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the  night 
Are  strewings  fitt'st  for  graves. — Upon  their  faces. 
You  were  as  flowers,  now  wither'd  :  even  so 
These  herblets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strew. 
Come  on,  away  ;  apart,  upon  our  knees. " 

So  do  they  retire  to  pray  and  meditate,  purposing  to  return  at  a 
later  hour  to  lay  the  bodies  in  the  grave.  Well  do  I  remember 


IMOGEN.  209 

my  delight,  in  my  early  readings  of  the  play,  that  only  flowers 
were  put  upon  Imogen's  face,  and  that  she  awakened  so  soon 
after !  Perhaps  their  cool  fresh  fragrance  helped  her  to  recover 
from  the  swoon.  Had  she  lain  till  midnight,  no  doubt  the 
burial  rites  would  have  been  completed,  and  the  earth — oh, 
horrible! — would  thus  have  covered  up  and  smothered  her. 
When  "about  midnight"  they  return  with  the  night-flowers, 
to  complete  the  last  sad  rite  of  burial,  what  must  have  been 
their  surprise  to  find  that  their  office  had  been  anticipated — 
no  trace,  at  least,  to  be  seen  of  the  bodies  which  they  had  so 
lately  left! 

Scarcely  have  they  gone  apart  to  pray,  before  Imogen  awakes, 
and  finds  by  her  side  what  she  thinks  the  dead  body  of  her 
husband.  Though  the  semblance  of  life  has  been  suspended  by 
Pisanio's  drug,  her  sleep  has  not  been  dreamless.  She  awakens 
asking  her  way  to  Milford- Haven  from  some  one,  who  she 
fancies  tells  her  it  is  still  six  miles  distant.  The  dream  is  still 
with  her : — 

"  I  thank  you. — By  yond  bush  ? — Pray,  how  far  thither  ? 
'Ods  pittikins  !  can  it  be  six  miles  yet? — 
I  have  gone  all  night. — 'Faith,  I'll  lie  down  and  sleep." 

Then,  becoming  conscious  of  something  by  her  side  : — 
"  But  soft !  no  bedfellow  ! — 0  gods  and  goddesses  ! " 

She  is  now  fully  awake,  feels  the  flowers  about  her,  and  sees  the 
blood-stained  body  by  her  side  : — 

"These  flowers  are  like  the  pleasures  of  the  world  ; 
This  bloody  man,  the  care  on't.     I  hope  I  dream  ; 
For  so  I  thought  I  was  a  cave-keeper, 
And  cook  to  honest  creatures  ;  but  'tis  not  so." 

Surprise  combines  with  fear  to  overwhelm  her  : — 

"  Good  faith, 

I  tremble  still  with  fear.  But  if  there  be 
Yet  left  in  heaven  as  small  a  drop  of  pity 
As  a  wren's  eye,  fear'd  gods,  a  part  of  it  !  " 

She  looks  about  her ;  the  cave,  the  rocks,  the  woodland  that  she 
knew,  are  there  : — 

0 


210  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTEKS: 

"  The  dream's  here  still :  even  when  I  wake,  it  is 
Without  me,  as  within  me  ;  not  imagined,  felt." 

And  yet  how  comes  it  that  she  should  be  lying  beside  a  headless 
man1?  On  looking  closer  she  recognises  the  garments  of  Pos- 
thumus — the  figure  too — 'tis  very  Posthumus  ! 

"  I  know  the  shape  of  his  leg ;  this  is  his  hand  ; 
His  foot  Mercurial ;  his  Martial  thigh  ; 
The  brawns  of  Hercules  :  but  his  Jovial  face — 
Murder  in  heaven  ? — How  ! — 'Tis  gone." 

At  once  her  thoughts  fix  on  Pisanio  as  having  betrayed  them 
both  with  his  forged  letters.  It  is  he,  "conspired  with  that 
irregulous  devil  Cloten,"  that  has  cut  off  her  lord.  All  former 
distrust  of  that  "  dear  lord "  vanishes  on  the  instant,  and  he  is 
restored  to  the  place  in  her  heart  and  imagination  which  he  had 
held  before.  They  have  both  been  the  victims  of  the  blackest 
treachery,  and  Pisanio,  "damned  Pisanio,"  hath — 

"  From  this  most  bravest  vessel  of  the  world 
Struck  the  main -top  ! " 

Think  of  the  anguish  of  her  cry  : — 

"  0  Posthumus  !     Alas, 

Where  is  thy  head  ?  where's  that  ?    Ay  me  !  where's  that  ? 
Pisanio  might  have  killed  thee  at  the  heart, 
And  left  this  head  on.     How  should  this  be  ?     Pisanio— 
'Tis  he,  and  Cloten.     Malice  and  lucre  in  them 
Have  laid  this  woe  here.     Oh,  'tis  pregnant,  pregnant ! 
The  drug  he  gave  me,  which  he  said  was  precious 
And  cordial  to  me,  have  I  not  found  it 
Murderous  to  the  senses  ?     That  confirms  it  home  ! 
All  curses  madded  Hecuba  gave  the  Greeks, 
And  mine  to  boot,  be  darted  on  thee  !  " 

And  with  one  long  agonised  wail,  "  Oh,  my  lord,  my  lord  !  "  she 
falls  senseless  upon  the  body. 

There  she  is  presently  found  by  Caius  Lucius  and  his  fol- 
lowers, as  they  pass  on  their  way  to  Milford-Haven  to  meet  the 
legions  from  Gallia,  and  a  select  corps  from  Italy  "under  the 
conduct  of  the  bold  lachimo,"  who  have  arrived  there  for  the 
purpose  of  enforcing  the  tribute  from  Cymbeline.  On  perceiv- 
ing the  body  of  Cloten,  Lucius  exclaims : — 


IMOGEN.  211 

"  Soft,  ho  !     What  trunk  is  here 
Without  his  top  ?     The  ruin  speaks  that  sometime 
It  was  a  worthy  building,     How  !     A  page  ! 
Or  dead,  or  sleeping  on  him  ?     But  dead  rather  ; 
For  nature  doth  abhor  to  make  his  bed 
With  the  defunct,  or  sleep  upon  the  dead. 
Let's  see  the  boy's  face." 

They  raise  him  from  the  body,  and  Lucius  asks  in  language  full 
of  sympathy,  "What  is  thy  interest  in  this  sad  wreck?  How 
came  it?  Who  is  it?  What  art  thou?"  What  a  world  of 
pathos  is  in  her  answer — 

"  I  am  nothing  ;  or  if  not, 
Nothing  to  be  were  better. " 

Truly  may  she  say  so  !  All  interest  in  life  is  over.  She  is  full, 
too,  of  self-reproach,  to  add  to  the  bitterness  of  her  loss.  How 
could  she  slander,  even  in  thought,  the  man  who  was,  in  her 
esteem,  "  worth  any  woman,"  so  much  worthier  than  herself  that 
he  had  "  overbought  her  almost  the  sum  he  paid  "  ?  Her  words 
now  shall  at  least  make  some  atonement : — 

"  This  was  my  master, 
A  very  valiant  Briton,  and  a  good, 
That  here  by  mountaineers  lies  slain.     Alas  ! 
There  are  no  more  such  masters  :  I  may  wander 
From  east  to  Occident,  cry  out  for  service, 
Try  many,  all  good,  serve  truly,  never 
Find  such  another  master. 

Luc.  'Lack,  good  youth, 

Thou  mov'st  no  less  with  thy  complaining,  than 
Thy  master  in  bleeding.     Say  his  name,  good  friend. 

Imo.  Richard  du  Champ.     [Aside.]  If  I  do  lie,  and  do 
No  harm  by  it,  though  the  gods  hear,  I  hope 
They'll  pardon  it ! — Say  you,  sir  ? 

Luc.  Thy  name  ? 

Imo.  Fidele,  sir. 

Luc.  Thou  dost  approve  thyself  the  very  same  : 
Thy  name  well  fits  thy  faith,  thy  faith  thy  name. 
Will  take  thy  chance  with  me  ?     I  will  not  say 
Thou  shalt  be  so  well  master'd,  but,  be  sure, 
No  less  beloved." 

Here  we  see  how  the  very  tone  and  look  of  Imogen,  apart  from 
the  boy's  desolate  state,  impress  Caius  Lucius,  as  they  have  done 


212     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

all  those  who  have  ever  been  near  her,  with  their  resistless 
charm.  He  continues  : — 

"  The  Roman  emperor's  letters, 
Sent  by  a  consul  to  me,  should  not  sooner 
Than  thine  own  worth  prefer  thee.     Go  with  me." 

The  boy  says  he  will  follow,  but  first  must  see  all  honour  paid  to 
his  master's  grave.  It  shall  be  as  deep,  to  hide  him  from  the 
flies,  as  these  "poor  pickaxes"  (his  hands)  can  dig.  And  when 
it  has  been  strewn  with  wild  wood-leaves  and  weeds,  and  he  has 
"  on  it  said  a  century  of  prayers  "  as  best  he  can  through  choking 
tears  and  sighs,  he  will  then  take  leave  of  the  master,  the  like  of 
whom  the  world  holds  "  from  east  to  Occident "  no  other,  and  will 
follow  Lucius — "  So  please  you  entertain  me."  Imogen  promises 
no  new  service  to  this  new  master.  She  looks  forward  to  nothing. 
The  strength  of  her  heart,  her  hopes,  her  usefulness,  will  all  be 
buried  in  the  grave  thus  left  behind.  Not  to  go  with  this  kind 
man  who  offers  help  would  have  seemed  ungracious ;  and  to  keep 
up  her  disguise  for  a  while  will  leave  Imogen  more  free  to  nurse 
her  grief.  Alas  !  alas  !  all  the  strangers  to  her  are  kind  and  piti- 
ful !  but  the  one  is  gone,  done  horribly  to  death,  who  could  alone 
have  brought  comfort  to  her  heart !  If  anything  could  have 
drawn  her  towards  this  gentle,  manly  Eoman,  it  would  have 
been  the  way  he  assures  the  boy  that  he  shall  be  taken  into  his 
service,  and  treated  by  him  as  a  father  rather  than  a  master. 
"My  friends,"  he  adds, 

' '  The  boy  hath  taught  us  manly  duties  :  let  us 
Find  out  the  prettiest  daisied  plot  we  can, 
And  make  him  with  our  pikes  and  partisans 
A  grave.     .     .     .     Boy,  he  is  pref err'd 
By  thee  to  us  ;  and  he  shall  be  interr'd 
As  soldiers  can.     Be  cheerful ;  wipe  thine  eyes  ; 
Some  falls  are  means  the  happier  to  arise." 

That  she  should  be  "  cheerful,"  we  know  to  be  impossible  : — 

"All  was  ended  now — the  hope,  the  fear,  and  the  sorrow ; 
All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless  unsatisfied  longing  ; 
All  the  dull  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of  patience." 


IMOGEN.  213 

But  from  what  we  have  seen  of  her  before,  we  know  that  she 
will  fight  bravely  with  her  own  heart,  and  will  not  let  others  be 
made  unhappy  by  her  grief.  To  forget  is  past  her  power,  but 
she  will  repay  the  kindness  shown  her  by  throwing  herself  zeal- 
ously into  the  duties  of  her  position.  Lucius  will  keep  the  boy 
near  him,  employing  him  in  light  tasks  about  his  tent.  He 
will  note  with  what  noble  gentleness  and  patience  these  duties 
are  performed.  For  amid  the  noisy  stir  of  the  camp,  as  in  the 
silent  solitude  of  the  cave,  Imogen,  with  the  self-abnegation 
and  devotion  to  others  which  distinguish  her,  bears  her  heavy 
burden  silently  and  alone.  Never  master,  as  Lucius  afterwards 
tells  us,  had 

"  A  page  so  kind,  so  duteous,  diligent 
So  tender  over  his  occasions,  true, 
So  feat,  so  nurse-like." 

We  must  leave  Imogen  for  a  while,  for  the  events  are  now 
hurrying  on  which  are  to  bring  her  sorrows  to  a  happy  close. 
At  the  opening  of  the  fifth  act  we  find  Posthumus,  on  the 
eve  of  battle,  in  the  ground  betwixt  the  Eoman  and  the  British 
camps,  having  been  brought  over,  as  he  tells  us,  "among  the 
Italian  gentry,  to  fight  against  his  lady's  kingdom."  From  the 
hour  the  "  bloody  cloth  "  reached  him,  which  Pisanio  has  sent  as 
the  evidence  of  Imogen's  death,  he  has  been  upon  the  rack. 
What  was  he,  that,  even  were  she  the  guilty  thing  he  thought 
her,  he  should  have  sent  her  from  the  world  with  her  sins 
unshriven  ? — 

"  Gods  !  if  you 

Should  have  ta'en  vengeance  on  my  faults,  I  never 

Had  lived  to  put  on  this  :  so  had  you  saved 

The  noble  Imogen  to  repent,  and  struck 

Me,  wretch,  more  worth  your  vengeance. " 

Never,  never  can  he  have  been  without  misgiving  that  all 
lachimo  had  said  of  her  was  untrue.  Since  her  supposed  death, 
"  the  idea  of  her  life  "  must  have  "  sweetly  crept  into  his  study 
of  imagination,"  and  pictured  her  there  as  the  sweet,  pure,  noble 
creature  who  had  fostered  all  that  was  best  and  highest  in  him- 
self. Again  have  come  back  to  him,  in  all  their  vivid  freshness, 


214     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

her  beauty,  her  "gracious  parts,"  her  bright  mind,  the  grace  and 
colour  of  all  things  that  she  did. 

"  Tis  enough 

That,  Britain,  I  have  kill'd  thy  mistress.     Peace  ! 

I'll  give  no  wound  to  thee.     .     .     .     I'll  disrobe  me 

Of  these  Italian  weeds,  and  suit  myself 

As  does  a  Briton  peasant :  so  I'll  fight 

Against  the  part  I  come  with  ;  so  I'll  die 

For  thee,  0  Imogen,  even  for  whom  my  life 

Is,  every  breath,  a  death." 

And  to  what  purpose  he  does  fight  we  soon  see.  The  gods  have 
"  put  the  strength  of  the  Leonati "  in  him  for  which  he  prays, 
and  so  made  him  a  main  instrument  in  bringing  about  the  res- 
toration of  his  Imogen  to  his  arms,  and  in  avenging  the  wrong 
wrought  upon  them  both  by  lachimo.  In  the  next  scene  Pos- 
thumus  encounters  lachimo,  and  after  disarming  him,  he  leaves 
him  unscathed,  probably  from  a  noble  impulse  not  to  take  the  life 
of  a  man  towards  whom  he  felt  a  profound  personal  repugnance, 
lachimo,  who  has  not  recognised  Posthumus  in  his  peasant's  garb, 
thinks  that  his  guilt  has  robbed  him  of  his  manhood,  and  that  the 
air  of  the  country,  whose  princess  he  has  belied,  "revengingly 
enfeebles  "  him.  How  else  should  one  of  its  mere  "  carles  "  have 
subdued  him  1 

The  battle  continues,  success  wavering  from  side  to  side.  At 
first  the  Eomans  have  the  best  of  it,  and  Cymbeline  is  taken. 
Belarius,  Guiderius,  and  Arviragus  arrive,  and  rally  the  flying 
Britons.  The  stir  of  war,  we  have  been  shown  in  a  previous 
scene,  has  roused  the  princely  ardour  of  the  youths,  and  at  all 
risks  they  have  resolved  to  strike  a  blow  in  the  tented  field 
for  their  country's  sake.  How  they  and  Belarius  fight,  Pos- 
thumus, who  had  come  to  their  aid,  afterwards  tells  us  in  one 
of  those  passages  written  at  a  white-heat,  in  which  Shakespeare's 
patriotic  spirit  revels.  "  Athwart  the  lane,"  he  says,  "  an  ancient 
soldier,"  "  with  two  striplings," 

"  Made  good  the  passage  ;  cried  to  those  that  fled 
'  Our  Britain's  harts  die  flying,  not  our  men  : 
To  darkness  fleet  souls  that  fly  backwards  !     Stand.' 

These  three, 

Three  thousand  confident,  in  act  as  many — 
.     .     .    — with  this  word,  '  Stand,  stand,' 


IMOGEN.  215 

Accommodated  by  the  place,  more  charming 

With  their  own  nobleness  (which  could  have  turned 

A  distaff  to  a  lance),  gilded  pale  looks, 

Part  shame,  part  spirit  renew'd  ;  that  some,  turn'd  coward 

But  by  example  (oh,  a  sin  in  war, 

Damn'd  in  the  first  beginners  ! )  'gan  to  look 

The  way  that  they  did,  and  to  grin  like  lions 

Upon  the  pikes  o'  the  hunters,"  &c. 

The  tide  of  battle  is  turned,  Posthumus  himself  performing  pro- 
digies of  valour  in  the  rescue  of  Cymbeline,  while  he  seeks  vainly 
for  the  death  he  cannot  find  : — 

"  I,  in  mine  own  woe  charm'd, 
Could  not  find  death  where  I  did  hear  him  groan, 

Nor  feel  him  where  he  struck 

.     .     .     Well,  I  will  find  him." 

He  will  resume  the  Roman  dress,  and  so  be  taken  prisoner : — 

"  For  me,  my  ransom's  death  : 
On  either  side  I  come  to  spend  my  breath, 
Which  neither  here  I'll  keep  nor  bear  again, 
But  end  it  by  some  means  for  Imogen." 

His  wish  is  gratified.  Some  British  soldiers  bring  him  a  willing 
captive  to  the  presence  of  the  king.  A  crowd  of  prisoners  is 
already  there,  among  them  lachimo,  Lucius,  and  with  them 
Imogen,  who  has  obviously  followed  Lucius,  despite  his  en- 
treaties to  the  contrary,  through  all  the  chances  of  the  battle, 
hoping,  like  Posthumus,  to  meet  in  death  a  release  from  her 
now  hopeless  sorrow.  Here  the  fine  character  of  Lucius  is 
again  shown.  He  asks  no  mercy  for  himself.  "Sufficeth  a 
Eoman  with  a  Eoman's  heart  can  suffer."  His  only  care  is 
for  the  boy  who  has  served  him  so  well : — 

"  This  one  thing  only, 
I  will  entreat :  my  boy,  a  Briton  born, 
Let  him  be  ransom'd.     .     .     . 
.     .     .     He  hath  done  no  Briton  harm, 
Though  he  have  served  a  Roman.     Save  him,  sir, 
And  spare  no  blood  besides." 

Cymbeline  is  immediately  struck  by  the  boy's  resemblance  to 
some  erewhile  familiar  face.  At  once  his  heart  warms  towards 


216     SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHAEACTERS: 

him.  "  Boy,  thou  hast  looked  thyself  into  my  grace,  and  art 
mine  own."  Not  only  does  he  give  him  life;  he  bids  him,  as 
a  further  assurance  of  his  favour,  ask  "  what  boon  thou  wilt," — 

"  Yea,  though  thou  do  demand  a  prisoner, 
The  noblest  ta'en." 

Both  Cymbeline  and  Lucius  naturally  think  that  he  will 
demand  the  life  of  his  master.  But  "alack,"  as  Imogen  says, 
"there's  other  work  in  hand."  She  has  in  the  meantime  espied 
lachimo  among  the  Roman  prisoners,  and  noticed  upon  his  finger 
what  was  once  her  best  treasure,  "the  diamond  that  was  her 
mother's,"  and  which  she  had  given  to  Posthumus  at  parting. 
She  now  remembers  that  it  was  not  on  the  dead  hand  which  she 
had  lately  thought  her  husband's.  How  had  lachimo  come  by  it  ? 
Honourably  or  dishonourably?  This  must  before  all  things  be 
explained.  Cymbeline,  the  more  he  notes  the  boy,  is  the  more 
drawn  to  him.  He  marks  his  perplexed  looks,  his  fixed  gaze 
upon  lachimo.  "  Speak  !  "  he  says,  "  Wilt  have  him  live  ?  Is 
he  thy  kin?  Thy  friend?"  Imogen  asks  permission  to  tell 
him  in  private  the  reason  of  her  conduct,  and  they  step  aside 
that  she  may  do  so.  How  intently  she  has  been  absorbed  in 
watching  lachimo  is  further  shown  by  the  circumstance  that, 
though  near  her  late  companions  of  the  cave,  she  has  not  ob- 
served them.  They  have  been  struck  with  amazement  to  see 
alive  the  boy  Fidele  whom  they  had  left  for  dead.  Belarius 
will  not  believe  it  is  he  : — 

"  Peace,  peace  !     See  further  ;  he  eyes  us  not ;  forbear. 
Creatures  may  be  alike  :  were't  he,  I'm  sure 
He  would  have  spoke  to  us." 

Pisanio  has  no  such  doubts.  "  It  is  my  mistress  ! "  he  murmurs 
in  delight  to  himself. 

"  Since  she  is  living,  let  the  time  run  on 
To  good  or  bad  ! " 

And  now  Imogen  comes  forward  with  Cymbeline,  who  bids 
the  seeming  page  stand  by  his  side  and  make  his  demand  aloud, 
commanding  lachimo  at  the  same  time  to  answer  him  frankly  on 


IMOGEN.  217 

pain  of  torture.  My  boon,  says  Imogen,  is,  "  that  this  gentle- 
man may  render  of  -whom  he  had  this  ring1?"  Amazed  at  a 
question  so  strange,  Posthumus  mutters  to  himself,  ""What's  that 
to  him  1 "  Remorse  has  so  far  turned  to  penitence  in  lachimo, 
that  he  is  "  glad  to  be  constrained  to  utter  "  what  "  torments  him 
to  conceal "  : — 

' '  By  villainy 

I  got  this  ring  ;  'twas  Leonatus'  jewel, 

Whom  thou  didst  banish  ;  and  (which  more  may  grieve  thee, 

As  it  doth  me)  a  nobler  sir  ne'er  lived 

'Twixt  sky  and  ground." 

By  villainy]      Yet  how1?     As  yet  Imogen  is  without  a  clue. 

But  lachimo's  next  words,  in  answer  to  Cymbeline's  demand  for 

further  explanation,  must  have  sent  all  the  blood  back  to  her 

heart : — 

"That  paragon,  thy  daughter, 

For  whom  my  heart  drops  blood,  and  my  false  spirits 
Quail  to  remember —     Give  me  leave,  I  faint ! " 

How  dear  a  place  that  daughter  really  held  in  Cymbeline's  heart, 
we  see  from  his  exclamation  : — 

"  My  daughter  !     What  of  her  ?     Renew  thy  strength  : 
I  had  rather  thou  shouldst  live  while  nature  will, 
Than  die  ere  I  hear  more.     Strive,  man,  and  speak  !  " 

On  this,  lachimo  proceeds  to  recount  the  incidents  of  the  wager, 
and  of  his  visit  to  the  Court  of  Britain,  together  with  the  details 
noted  down  in  Imogen's  chamber,  that  composed  the  "simular 
proof"  which  made  "the  noble  Leonatus  mad." 

Imagine  Imogen's  state  of  mind  during  the  recital !  Oh  the 
shame,  the  agony  with  which  she  hears  that  her  "  dear  lord  "  has 
indeed  had  cause  to  think  her  false  !  All  is  now  clear  as  day. 
The  mystery  is  solved ;  but  too  late,  too  late !  She  remembers 
the  supposed  treasure  in  the  chest,  although  lachimo  does  not 
speak  of  it.  Then  the  lost  bracelet !  How  dull  she  has  been 
not  to  think  before  of  the  way  it  might  have  been  stolen  from 
her !  Worst  misery  of  all,  Posthumus  has  died  in  the  belief  of 
her  guilt.  No  wonder  he  wished  for  her  death !  What  bitter 
hopeless  shame  possesses  her,  even  as  though  all  were  true  that 
he  had  been  told !  Only  in  the  great  revealing  of  all  mysteries 


218  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

hereafter  will  Posthuraus  learn  the  truth.  But  till  then  she  has 
to  bear  the  burden  of  knowing  with  what  bitter  thoughts  of  her 
he  passed  out  of  life. 

Ah,  dear  friend,  as  I  write,  the  agony  of  all  these  thoughts 
seems  again  to  fill  my  mind,  as  it  ever  used  to  do  when  acting 
this  scene  upon  the  stage.  I  wonder  if  I  ever  looked  what  I 
felt !  It  is  in  such  passages  as  these  that  Shakespeare  surpasses 
all  dramatic  writers.  He  has  faith  in  his  interpreters,  and  does 
not  encumber  them  with  words.  None  could  express  what  then 
was  passing  in  Imogen's  soul.  At  such  moments  Emerson  has 
truly  said,  we  only  "live  from  a  great  depth  of  being." 

I  cannot  conceive  what  Imogen  would  have  done  eventually 
had  Posthumus  been  indeed  dead.  But  I  can  conceive  the 
strange  bewildered  rapture  with  which  she  sees  him  spring  for- 
ward to  interrupt  lachimo's  further  speech.  He  is  not  dead. 
He  has  heard  her  vindication ;  and  she,  too,  lives  to  hear  his 
remorse,  his  self-reproaches,  his  bitter  taunts  upon  his  own 
credulity  !  From  his  own  lips  her  vindication  comes : — 

"The  temple 

Of  virtue  was  she  ;  yea,  and  she  herself. 
Spit,  and  throw  stones,  cast  mire  upon  me,  set 
The  dogs  o'  the  street  to  bay  me  !     Every  villain 
Be  call'd  Posthumus  Leonatus.     .     .     .     O  Imogen  ! 
My  queen,  my  life,  my  wife  !     0  Imogen  ! 
Imogen,  Imogen  ! " 

Unable  to  bear  his  anguish  longer,  and  forgetting  her  page's  dis- 
guise, she  springs  forward  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms,  with 
the  words,  "  Peace,  my  lord  ;  hear,  hear  !  "  But  he  will  neither 
look  nor  hear,  and  casts  the  "  scornful  page  " — who,  he  thinks,  is 
trifling  with  his  grief — with  violence  away  from  him.  Pisanio, 
who,  next  to  Posthumus  and  Imogen,  has  been  the  most  in- 
terested and  wondering  hearer  of  lachimo's  story,  says,  as  he 
stoops  to  raise  Imogen  from  the  ground : — 

"  Oh  gentlemen,  help  ! 

Mine  and  your  mistress  !     Oh,  my  lord  Posthumus, 
You  ne'er  kill'd  Imogen  till  now.     Help  !  help  ! — 
Mine  honour'd  lady  !  " 

When  she  returns  to  consciousness,  Posthumus  has  scarce  re- 


IMOGEN.  219 

covered  from  the  bewilderment  of  his  surprise  to  find  Imogen 
alive,  of  whose  death  he  had  thought  himself  guilty.  But  with 
what  pangs  and  yearnings  of  the  heart  must  he  have  heard  her 
sweet  reproach  ! — 

"  Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady  from  you  ? 
Think  that  you  are  upon  a  rock,  and  now 
Throw  me  again.  [Embracing  him. 

Post.  Hang  there,  like  fruit,  my  soul, 

Till  the  tree  die  ! " 

Imogen  has  meanwhile  learned  how  innocent  Pisanio  was  of  all 
evil  intention  in  regard  to  the  drug  which  the  queen  had  hoped 
would  prove  fatal  to  her,  and  how  that  intention  had  been  frus- 
trated by  Cornelius  giving  to  the  queen,  instead  of  a  poison, 

' '  Certain  stuff,  which,  being  ta'en,  would  cease 
The  present  power  of  life,  but  in  short  time 
All  offices  of  nature  should  again 
Do  their  due  functions." 

The  loyal  servant,  we  may  be  sure,  was  more  than  requited 
for  the  suspicion  that  had  for  a  time  rested  on  him,  by  the  kind 
looks  and  words  with  which  Imogen  would  greet  him.  But  a 
last  sweet  moment  is  yet  to  come  for  her,  when  she  hears  the 
story  of  Belarius,  and  learns  that  those  from  whom  she  had 
received  such  timely  help  and  kindness  are  indeed,  what  she 
had  then  wished  them  to  be,  her  brothers.  When  Cymbeline 
says  to  her,  "Oh,  Imogen,  thou  hast  lost  by  this  a  kingdom," 
how  true  to  all  her  generous  impulses  is  her  rejoinder !  A  king- 
dom !  What  is  so  poor  a  thing  as  a  kingdom  in  her  account  1 
"  No,  my  lord ;  I  have  got  two  ivorlds  by  it ! "  And  then,  as 
when  the  heart  is  very  full  of  happiness,  we  are  afraid  of  giving 
way  to  great  emotion,  or  of  trusting  ourselves  to  speak  of  the 
joy  we  feel,  she  seeks  relief  in  reminding  them  half  jestingly, 
as  she  places  herself  between  them,  of  the  past : — 

"  Oh,  my  gentle  brothers, 
Have  we  thus  met  ?     Oh,  never  say  hereafter 
But  I  am  truest  speaker.     You  call'd  me  brother, 
When  I  was  but  your  sister ;  I  you  brothers, 
When  ye  were  so  indeed. 

Cym.  Did  you  e'er  meet 


220  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHAKACTERS: 

Arv.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Gui.  And  at  first  meeting  loved ; 

Continued  so,  until  we  thought  he  died. 

Cor.  By  the  queen's  dram  she  swallowed. 

Cym.  Oh,  rare  instinct ! 

When  shall  I  hear  all  through  ? " 

When  now  Cymbeline  hails  Belarius  as  his  brother,  Imogen 
will  not  be  behind  in  thankful  recognition.  She  says — 

"  You  are  my  father  too,  and  did  relieve  me, 
To  see  this  gracious  season." 

Nor  is  Lucius  forgotten ;  for  when  Cymbeline,  in  his  exuberant 
happiness,  bids  his  prisoners  be  joyful  too,  "for  they  shall  taste 
our  comfort,"  Imogen,  as  she  hangs  upon  the  breast  of  Posthu- 
mus,  turns  smilingly  to  the  noble  Eoman  with  the  words,  "  My 
good  master,  I  will  yet  do  you  service,"  and  helps  to  relieve 
him  of  his  chains.  They  are  the  last  she  speaks  ;  and  here  I 
might  well  leave  her,  with  the  picture  of  her  in  our  minds  which 
Shakespeare  has  drawn  for  us  in  the  words  of  her  delighted 
father  :— 

"See, 

Posthumus  anchors  upon  Imogen  ; 

And  she,  like  harmless  lightning,  throws  her  eye 

On  him,  her  brothers,  me,  her  master,  hitting 

Each  object  with  a  joy." 

Here,  too,  I  believe,  most  people  will  prefer  to  leave  her,  as 
Shakespeare  leaves  her  and  all  around  her,  both  good  and  bad, 
happy  :  "  Pardon's  the  word  for  all ! "  But  you  know  how,  in 
my  letter  on  Portia,  I  said  that  I  never  could  leave  my  char- 
acters when  the  scene  closed  in  upon  them,  but  always  dreamed 
them  over  in  my  mind  until  their  end.  So  it  was  with  Imogen. 
Her  sufferings  are  over.  The  "father  cruel,"  made  so  by  the 
"  step-dame  false,"  has  returned  to  his  old  love  and  pride  in  her, 
— the  love  made  doubly  tender  by  remembrance  of  all  that  he 
has  caused  her  to  suffer.  The  husband — ah,  what  can  measure 
his  penitence,  his  self-abasement !  That  he  had  dared  to  doubt 
her  purity,  her  honour, — he  who  had  known  her  inmost  thoughts 
from  childhood ! 

But  Imogen — can  she  think  of  him  as  before  ?     Yes !     She 


IMOGEN.  221 

is  truly  named  the  "  divine  Imogen  " ;  at  least,  she  has  so  much 
of  the  divine  "quality  of  mercy"  in  her,  that  she  can  blot  from 
her  memory  all  his  doubts,  all  his  want  of  faith,  as  if  they  had 
never  been.  Her  love  is  infinite — "beyond  beyond."  Hers  is 
not  a  nature  to  do  things  by  halves.  She  has  forgotten  as  well 
as  forgiven.  But  can  Posthumus  forgive  himself  1  No !  I  be- 
lieve, never.  The  more  angel  she  proves  herself  in  her  loving 
self-forgetfulness,  the  blacker  his  temporary  delusion  will  look 
in  his  own  eyes.  Imogen  may  surmise  at  times  the  thorns 
which  prick  his  conscience  so  sharply.  Then  she  will  quietly 
double  the  tender  ways  in  which  she  delights  to  show  her  love 
and  pride  in  him.  But  no  spoken  words  will  tell  of  this  heart- 
secret  between  them. 

In  her  brothers  Imogen  has  none  but  sweet  and  happy  mem- 
ories. These  "two  worlds"  are  an  immense  and  unlooked-for 
gain  to  her  life ;  they  fill  it  with  new  thoughts,  new  sympathies. 
She  has  their  future  to  look  forward  to,  their  present  to  help. 
One  can  see  how  their  unsophisticated  natures  will  go  forth  to 
her ;  how  the  tender  memory  of  the  "  rare  boy "  Fidele  will 
give  an  added  charm  to  the  grace  and  attractiveness  of  the  sweet 
sister-tie;  how,  in  their  quiet  hours  with  her,  they  will  repeat 
the  incidents  of  the  cave-life.  Imogen  will  never  tell  them  the 
whole  of  her  sorrow  there.  She  fears  they  would  not  forgive 
Posthumus.  We  can  suppose,  too,  how,  in  this  so  new  life  to 
them,  the  young  princes  would  be  for  ever  seeking  this  sweet 
counsellor  to  guide  them  in  the  usages  and  customs  of  the  Court 
life,  all  so  strange  to  them.  Men  will  ask  from  women  what 
they  would  be  shy  of  asking  from  one  another.  Think  of  the 
pleasant  banterings  there  would  be  at  times  between  them ! 
How  amused  Imogen  would  be  at  their  mistakes  in  the  Court 
etiquette !  How  often,  laughingly,  she  would  have  to  put  them 
right ;  and  how  all  these  things  would  draw  them  nearer  to  each 
other ! 

Then,  too,  the  old  soldier  Belarius, — the  tried  retainer  and 
friend  Pisanio  !  What  a  group  of  loving  hearts  about  the  happy 
princess  !  Caius  Lucius  also,  in  Koine,  carrying  in  his  memory 
tender  thoughts  of  his  once  "kind,  duteous"  page  Fidele,  to- 
gether with  the  admiring  respect  he  feels  for  the  noble  Imogen, 


222  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Princess  of  Britain.  And  lachimo !  The  time  is  to  come  when 
his  repentance  will  flow  from  a  still  deeper  source.  While  at 
the  Court  of  Britain,  he  could  not  fail  to  hear  of  all  the  misery 
which  he  had  wrought  upon  the  noble  lovers.  With  his  own 
ears  he  heard  the  despair  of  Posthumus  on  learning  the  truth 
— his  agony,  his  self-accusations — at  the  thought  that  he  had 
taken  away  the  life  of  the  maligned  princess.  But  even  bitterer 
pangs  of  remorse  than  he  then  felt  will  assail  lachimo  and  never 
leave  him, — for  we  find  he  is  capable  of  feeling  them, — when 
he  learns  that,  before  very  long,  the  young  noble  life  is  quenched 
through  the  suffering  and  bitter  trials  which  his  treachery  had 
brought  upon  it.  For  quenched,  I  believe,  it  is. 

Happiness  hides  for  a  time  injuries  which  are  past  healing. 
The  blow  which  was  inflicted  by  the  first  sentence  in  that  cruel 
letter  went  to  the  heart  with  a  too  fatal  force.  Then  followed, 
on  this  crushing  blow,  the  wandering,  hopeless  days  and  nights, 
without  shelter,  without  food  even  up  to  the  point  of  famine. 
Was  this  delicately  nurtured  creature  one  to  go  through  her 
terrible  ordeal  unscathed?  We  see  that  when  food  and  shelter 
came,  they  came  too  late.  The  heart-sickness  was  upon  her  :  "  I 
am  sick  still — heart-sick."  Upon  this  follows  the  fearful  sight 
of,  as  she  supposes,  her  husband's  headless  body.  Well  may  she 
say  that  she  is  "  nothing ;  or  if  not,  nothing  to  be  were  better." 
When  happiness,  even  such  as  she  had  never  known  before,  comes 
to  her,  it  comes,  like  the  food  and  shelter, — too  late. 

Tremblingly,  gradually,  and  oh,  how  reluctantly  !  the  hearts 
to  whom  that  life  is  so  precious  will  see  the  sweet  smile  which 
greets  them  grow  fainter,  will  hear  the  loved  voice  grow  feebler ! 
The  wise  physician  Cornelius  will  tax  his  utmost  skill,  but  he 
will  find  the  hurt  too  deep  for  mortal  leech-craft  to  heal.  The 
"  piece  of  tender  air  "  very  gently,  but  very  surely,  will  fade  out 
like  an  exhalation  of  the  dawn.  Her  loved  ones  will  watch  it 
with  straining  eyes,  until  it 

' '  melts  from 

The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air  ;  and  then 

Will  turn  their  eyes  and  weep. " 

And  when,  as  the  years  go  by,  their  grief  grows  calm,  that  lovely 
soul  will  be  to  them 


IMOGEN.  223 

"  like  a  star 
Beaconing  from  the  abodes  where  the  Immortals  are  ; " 

inspiring  to  worthy  lives,  and  sustaining  them  with  the  hope 
that  where  she  is,  they  may,  in  God's  good  time,  become  fit  to 
he.  Something  of  this  the  "  divine  Imogen  "  is  to  us  also.  Is 
it  not  sol 

This  was  my  vision  of  Imogen  when  I  acted  her ;  this  is  my 
vision  of  her  still. — Ever,  my  dear  friend,  affectionately  yours, 


HELENA   FAUCIT   MARTIN. 


BRYNTTSILIO,  LLANGOLLEN, 
NORTH  WALES,  Oct.  1882. 


VII. 
ROSALIND 


VII. 
KOSALIND. 


BRYNTYSILIO,  September  1884. 
"  But  heavenly  Rosalind  !  " 

"  That  gaze 

Kept,  and  shall  keep  me  to  the  end  her  own  ! 
She  was  above  it — but  so  would  not  sink 
My  gaze  to  earth." 

— Colombe's  Birthday,  Act  ii.  sc.  1. 

MY   DEAR  MR   BROWNING,— 

rpHE  note  in  which  you  thanked  me  with  so  many  kind  words 
for  sending  you  my  letter  upon  Imogen,  ended  with  the 
following  suggestion,  "  And  now  you  must  give  us  Eosalind."  I 
would  fain  think  you  were  moved  to  write  these  stimulating 
words  by  some  not  unpleasing  remembrance  of  the  way  in  which, 
to  use  Eosalind's  own  phrase,  "  I  set  her  before  your  eyes,  human 
as  she  is,"  in  the  days  when  our  kindred  studies, — yours  as  a 
dramatist,  mine  as  an  interpreter  of  the  drama, — first  drew  us  into 
the  communion  which  has  ripened  into  a  lifelong  friendship.  For 
whom  would  I  try  with  more  alacrity  to  execute  a  task  so  diffi- 
cult, yet  so  congenial,  than  for  the  poet  whose  Lucy  Carlisle,  whose 
Mildred  Tresham,  and,  last  not  least,  whose  exquisite  Colombe  are 
associated  with  the  earliest  recollections  of  my  artist  life  1 

With  what  sweet  regret  I  look  back  to  the  time  when,  with 


228  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

other  gifted  men, — Talfourd,  Bulwer,  Marston,  Troughton,  and 
the  rest, — you  made  common  cause  with  Mr  Macready  in  raising 
the  drama  of  our  time  to  a  level  not  unworthy  of  the  country  of 
Shakespeare !  How  generously  you  all  wrought  towards  this 
end !  How  warmly  were  your  efforts  seconded  by  the  public  ! 
And  yet  I  used  the  word  "regret,"  because  of  the  sudden  end 
which  came  to  all  our  strivings,  when  Mr  Macready  threw  up 
the  enterprise  just  when  it  seemed  surest  of  success.  It  was 
an  evil  hour  for  my  own  art,  and  not  less  evil,  I  venture  to 
think,  for  the  literature  of  the  drama.  But  for  this  mischance, 
we  might  have  looked  to  you  for  that  fuller  development  of  your 
dramatic  genius,  which  I  can  well  believe  you  did  not  care  to 
put  forth,  when  you  were  no  longer  sure  of  a  combination  of 
trained  actors  and  actresses  to  understand,  and  to  make  others 
understand,  the  characters  you  had  drawn.  Grateful  as  I  am  for 
what  you  have  given  to  the  world  in  many  ways,  I  have  always 
felt  how  great  a  loss  the  stage  has  suffered  from  the  diversion 
into  other  channels  of  that  creative  dramatic  power  which  you, 
of  all  our  contemporaries,  seem  to  me  pre-eminently  to  possess. 
You  may  remember  saying  at  a  casual  meeting  in  Hyde  Park, 
when  I  was  expressing  my  love  and  admiration  for  Pompilia, 
— "Ah,  if  I  could  have  had  you  for  Pompilia,  I  would  have 
made  the  story  into  a  drama."  Your  words  made  me  very 
happy.  How  gladly  would  I  have  done  my  best  to  illustrate  a 
character  so  finely  conceived ! 

"And  now  you  must  give  us  Eosalind."  Your  words  lie 
before  me  as  I  take  up  your  letter  again,  after  a  long  interval  of 
suffering,  which,  for  nearly  two  years,  has  made  writing,  and 
even  continuous  thought,  impossible.  They  are  my  encourage- 
ment to  throw  myself  again  into  that  world,  so  ideal  yet  so  real, 
in  which,  with  Eosalind,  it  was  my  delight  to  sojourn,  and 
endeavour  to  put  before  you  what  was  in  my  heart  and  my 
imagination  when  I  essayed  to  clothe  her  with  life.  Ah  me ! 
what  it  will  be  to  me  to  enter  again  into  that  delicious  dream- 
land out  of  the  life  in  death  in  which,  for  so  long,  I  have  been 
"  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  pain  " ! 

I  need  not  tell  you  that,  when  you  first  saw  my  Eosalind, 
"  I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her,"  and  could  not  enter 


ROSALIND.  229 

so  fully  into  her  rich  complex  nature  as  to  do  justice  to  it. 
This  was  no  more  possible  than  it  would  have  been  for  Shake- 
speare to  have  written,  before  the  maturity  of  manhood,  a  play 
so  full  of  gentle  wisdom,  so  catholic  in  its  humanity,  so  subtle 
in  the  delineation,  so  abounding  in  nicely  balanced  contrasts,  of 
character,  so  full  of  happy  heart,  so  sweetly  rounded  into  a  har- 
monious close,  as  As  You  Like  It.  His  mind  had  assuredly 
worked  its  way  through  the  conflicts  and  perplexities  of  life, 
within  as  well  as  without,  and  had  settled  into  harmony  with 
itself,  before  this  play  was  written. 

In  my  first  girlhood's  studies  of  Shakespeare  this  play  had  no 
share.  Pathos,  heroism,  trial,  suffering — in  these  my  imagina- 
tion revelled,  and  my  favourites  were  the  heroines  who  were 
put  most  sorely  to  the  proof.  Juliet,  Desdemona,  Cordelia, 
Imogen,  I  had  brooded  over  until  they  had  become,  as  it  were, 
part  of  my  life ;  and,  as  you  may  remember,  in  the  more  modern 
plays,  in  which  I  performed  the  heroines,  the  pathetic  or  tragic 
element  almost  invariably  predominated.  When,  therefore,  I 
was  told  by  Mr  Macready  that  he  wished  me  to  act  Rosalind  for 
my  benefit  at  the  end  of  a  season,  I  was  terrified.  I  did  not 
know  the  words,  nor  had  I  ever  seen  the  play  performed,  but 
I  had  heard  enough  of  what  Mrs  Jordan  and  others  had  done 
with  the  character,  to  add  fresh  alarm  to  my  misgivings.  Mr 
Macready,  however,  was  not  to  be  gainsaid ;  so  I  took  up  my 
Shakespeare,  determined  to  make  the  best  of  what  had  to  me 
then  all  the  aspect  of  a  difficult  and  somewhat  irksome  task. 
Of  course  I  had  not  time  to  give  to  the  entire  play  the  study  it 
requires,  if  Rosalind  is  to  be  rightly  understood. 

The  night  of  trial  came.  Partly  because  the  audience  were 
indulgent  to  me  in  everything  I  did,  partly,  I  suppose,  because 
it  was  my  benefit  night,  the  performance  was  received  with  en- 
thusiasm. I  went  home  happy,  and  thinking  how  much  less 
difficult  my  task  had  been  than  I  had  imagined.  But  there  a 
rude  awakening  met  me.  I  was  told  that  I  had  been  merely 
playing,  not  acting,  not  impersonating  a  great  character.  I  had 
not,  it  seemed  to  my  friends,  made  out  what  were  generally  con- 
sidered the  great  points  in  the  character.  True,  I  had  gained 
the  applause  of  the  audience,  but  this  was  to  be  deemed  as 


230  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

nothing.  Taken  in  the  mass,  they  were  as  ignorant  as  I  was, 
perhaps  more  so,  as  probably,  even  in  my  hasty  study,  I  had 
become  better  acquainted  with  the  play  than  most  of  them.  It 
was  very  necessary,  I  have  no  doubt,  and  wholesome  for  me,  to 
receive  this  lesson.  But  oh,  what  a  pained  and  wounded  heart 
I  took  with  me  that  night  to  my  pillow !  I  had  thought  that 
upon  the  whole  I  had  not  been  so  very  bad, — that  I  had  been 
true  at  least  to  Shakespeare  in  my  general  conception,  though, 
even  as  I  acted,  I  felt  I  had  not  grasped  anything  like  the  full 
significance  of  the  words  I  was  uttering.  Glimpses  of  the  poet's 
purpose  I  had,  no  doubt,  for  I  do  not  think  I  ever  altered  the 
main  outlines  of  my  first  conception  ;  but  of  the  infinite  develop- 
ment of  which  it  is  capable  I  had  no  idea.  It  was  only  when  I 
came  to  study  the  character  minutely,  and  to  act  it  frequently, 
that  its  depths  were  revealed  to  me. 

As  I  recall  the  incidents  of  this  first  performance,  I  am  re- 
minded how  little  the  public  knew  of  the  disadvantages  under 
which,  in  those  days,  one  used  sometimes  to  be  called  upon  to 
play  important  parts.  To  an  artist  with  a  conscience,  and  a 
reputation  to  lose,  this  was  a  serious  affair.  In  much  the  same 
hurried  way  I  was  originally  required  to  act  Lady  Macbeth,  and 
this  before  the  Dublin  audience,  which,  I  had  been  told,  was 
then  in  many  respects  more  critical  than  that  of  London.  After 
the  close  of  the  Drury  Lane  season,  in  June,  I  acted  a  short  en- 
gagement in  Dublin  with  Mr  Macready.  Macbeth  was  one  of 
his  favourite  parts,  and  to  oblige  the  manager,  Mr  Calcraft,  I 
had  promised  to  attempt  Lady  Macbeth ;  but  in  the  busy  work 
of  each  day,  up  to  the  close  of  the  London  season,  I  had  had  no 
time  to  give  the  character  any  real  thought  or  preparation.  In- 
deed the  alarm  I  felt  at  the  idea  of  presuming  to  go  upon  the 
stage  in  such  a  character,  made  me  put  off  grappling  with  it  to 
the  last  possible  moment.  The  mere  learning  of  the  words  took 
no  time.  Shakespeare's  words  seem  to  fasten,  without  an  effort, 
upon  the  mind,  and  to  live  there  for  ever.  Mr  Macready  at  our 
one  rehearsal  taught  me  the  business  of  the  scene,  and  I  confided 
to  him  the  absolute  terror  I  was  in  as  the  time  of  performance 
drew  near.  He  kindly  encouraged  me,  and  said,  from  what  he 
had  seen  during  the  rehearsal,  he  was  sure  I  should  get  on  very 


ROSALIND.  231 

•well.  At  night,  when  it  was  all  over,  he  sent  to  my  dressing-room 
to  invite  me  to  take  the  call  of  the  audience  along  with  him.  But 
by  this  time  the  poor  frightened  "  Lady  "  had  changed  her  sleep- 
walking dress  with  the  extremest  haste,  and  driven  away  home. 
I  was  rather  scolded  the  next  day  by  Mr  Macready,  who  reminded 
me  that  he  had  asked  me  to  remain,  feeling  assured  the  audience 
would  wish  to  see  me.  This  I  had  quite  forgotten,  thinking  only 
of  the  joy  of  having  got  over  my  fearful  task,  and  desirous  of 
running  away  and  forgetting  it  as  quickly  as  possible. 

I  have  no  remembrance  of  what  the  critics  said.  But  Mr 
Macready  told  me  that  my  banquet  and  sleep-walking  scenes 
were  the  best.  In  the  latter,  he  said,  I  gave  the  idea  of  sleep, 
disturbed  by  fearful  dreams,  but  still  it  was  sleep.  It  was  to  be 
seen  even  in  my  walk,  which  was  heavy  and  unelastic,  marking 
the  distinction — too  often  overlooked — between  the  muffled  voice 
and  seeming-mechanical  motion  of  the  somnambulist,  and  the 
wandering  mind  and  quick  fitful  gestures  of  a  maniac,  whose 
very  violence  would  wake  her  from  the  deepest  sleep, — a  criticism 
I  never  forgot,  always  endeavouring  afterwards  to  work  upon 
the  same  principle,  which  had  come  to  me  then  by  instinct. 
Another  remark  of  his  about  the  sleep-walking  scene  I  remember. 
He  said :  "  Oh,  my  child,  where  did  you  get  that  long-drawn 
sigh  1  What  can  you  know  of  such  misery  as  that  sigh  speaks 
of1?"  He  also  said  that  my  first  scene  was  very  promising, 
especially  the  soliloquy,  also  my  reception  of  Duncan,  but  that 
my  after  scenes  with  him  were  very  tame.  I  had  altogether 
failed  in  "chastising  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue." 

The  only  criticism  I  remember  on  this  my  first  attempt  in 
Dublin,  besides  Mr  Macready's,  was  that  of  a  most  highly  cul- 
tivated and  dear  lady  friend,  who  said  to  me  a  day  or  two  after- 
wards :  "  My  dear,  I  will  never  see  you  again  in  that  terrible 
character.  I  felt  horror-stricken.  Lear  says  of  Cordelia,  '  So 
young  and  so  untrue  ! '  I  should  say  of  your  Lady  Macbeth,  '  So 
young  and  yet  so  wicked  ! ' " 

Her  antipathy  was  equalled  by  my  own.  To  the  last  time 
of  my  performing  the  character  I  retained  my  dread  of  it,  and  to 
such  a  degree,  that  when  I  was  obliged  to  act  it  in  the  course 
of  my  engagements  (as  others  did  not  seem  to  dislike  seeing  me 


232  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

in  the  character  so  much  as  I  disliked  acting  it),  I  invariably 
took  this  play  first,  so  as  not  to  have  it  hanging  over  my  head, 
and  thus  cleared  my  mind  for  my  greater  favourites.  Not  that, 
in  the  end,  I  disliked  the  character  as  a  whole.  I  had  no  mis- 
givings after  reaching  the  third  act,  but  the  first  two  always 
filled  me  with  a  shrinking  horror.  I  could  not  but  admire  the 
stern  grandeur  of  the  indomitable  will  which  could  unite  itself 
with  "  fate  and  metaphysical  aid "  to  place  the  crown  upon  her 
husband's  brow.  Something,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  also  to  be 
said  in  extenuation  of  the  eagerness  with  which  Lady  Macbeth 
falls  into  his  design,  and  urges  him  on  to  catch  that  crown  "  the 
nearest  way."  If  we  throw  our  minds  into  the  circumstances  of 
the  time,  we  can  understand  the  wife  who  would  adventure  so 
much  for  so  great  a  prize,  though  we  may  not  sympathise  with 
her.  Deeds  of  violence  were  common ;  succession  in  the  direct 
line  was  often  disturbed  by  the  doctrine  that  "  might  was  right "  ; 
the  moral  sense  was  not  over-nice,  when  a  great  stake  was  to 
be  played  for.  Eetribution  might  come,  or  it  might  not;  the 
triumph  for  the  moment  was  everything,  and  what  we  should 
call,  and  rightly  call,  murder,  often  passed  in  common  estima- 
tion for  an  act  of  valour.  Lady  Macbeth  had  been  brought  up 
amid  such  scenes,  and  one  murder  more  seemed  little  to  her. 
But  she  did  not  know  what  it  was  to  be  personally  implicated  in 
murder,  nor  foresee  the  Nemesis  that  would  pursue  her  waking, 
and  fill  her  dreams  with  visions  of  the  old  man's  blood  slowly 
trickling  down  before  her  eyes.  Think,  too,  of  her  agony  of 
anxiety,  on  the  early  morning  just  after  the  murder,  lest  her 
husband  in  his  wild  ravings  should  betray  himself ;  and  of  the 
torture  she  endured  while,  no  less  to  her  amazement  than  her 
horror,  he  recites  to  Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  with  fearful  minute- 
ness of  detail,  how  he  found  Duncan  lying  gashed  and  gory  in  his 
chamber  !  She  had  faced  that  sight  without  blenching,  when  it 
was  essential  to  replace  the  daggers,  and  even  to  "smear  the 
sleepy  grooms  with  blood " ;  but  to  have  the  whole  scene  thus 
vividly  brought  again  before  her  was  too  great  a  strain  upon  her 
nerves.  No  wonder  that  she  faints.  It  was  not  Macbeth  alone, 
as  we  soon  see,  whose  sleep  was  haunted  by  the  affliction  of  ter- 
rible dreams.  She  says  nothing  of  them,  for  hers  was  the  braver, 


ROSALIND.  233 

more  self -sustained  nature  of  the  two ;  but  I  always  felt  an  invol- 
untary shudder  creep  over  me  when,  in  the  scene  before  the  ban- 
quet scene,  he  mentions  them  as  afflicting  himself.  He  has  no 
thought  of  what  she,  too,  is  suffering  ;  but  that  a  change  has 
come  over  her  by  this  time  is  very  clearly  indicated  by  her  words 
at  the  beginning  of  the  same  scene  (Act  iii.  sc.  2)  : — 

"  Nought's  had,  all's  spent, 
Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
"Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy, 
Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy," — 

words  which  must  never  be  lost  sight  of,  pointing,  as  they  do, 
to  the  beginning  of  that  mental  unrest  brought  on  by  the  re- 
currence of  images  and  thoughts  which  will  not  "  die  with  them 
they  think  on,"  and  which  culminates  in  the  "slumbery  agita- 
tion "  of  the  troubled  nights  that  were  quickly  followed  by  her 
death,  of  which,  in  the  sleep-walking  scene,  we  have  a  glimpse.1 

I  acted  Lady  Macbeth, ,  for  the  second  time,  during  Mr  Mac- 
ready's  management  at  Drury  Lane ;  it  was  then  also  upon  an 
emergency,  caused  by  the  sudden  illness  of  Mrs  Warner,  the 
Lady  Macbeth  of  the  theatre.  Not  long  afterwards  I  had  to 
take  this  character,  among  others  selected  for  a  series  of  per- 
formances in  Paris.  This  and  Ophelia  and  Virginia  I  had  con- 
sented to  play,  to  oblige  Mr  Mitchell  of  Bond  Street,  whose 
enterprise  it  was,  upon  the  understanding  that  I  was  to  act  in 
other  plays  more  identified  with  my  name,  which  I  selected. 
When  I  made  my  engagement  with  Mr  Mitchell,  Mr  Macready 
was  in  America.  On  his  return  my  plays  were  put  aside  by  him, 
and  others  of  his  own  substituted.  Mr  Mitchell  came  to  me  in 
great  distress,  and  represented  that,  did  I  not  feel  for  him,  and 
give  in  to  his  necessity,  the  whole  scheme  would  collapse,  and  all 
his  labour  and  his  expense  would  be  thrown  away. 

Juliet  I  had  only  the  opportunity  of  acting  once,  and  that 
was  on  the  last  night  of  the  twelve  performances.  Romeo  and 
Juliet  had  been,  with  other  plays,  cut  out  of  the  list  by  Mr 
Macready;  but  Mr  Mitchell  took  it  for  his  benefit,  telling  me 
that  I  should  at  least  have  the  chance  of  acting  one  character 

1  See  Appendix,  p.  400. 


234  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

of  my  own  selecting.  That  was  a  happy  night  to  me,  for  the 
audience  went  with  me  enthusiastically  throughout  the  perform- 
ance. The  success,  indeed,  was  so  great,  that  Mr  Mitchell  was 
most  anxious  I  should  renew  my  engagement  without  Mr  Mac- 
ready  ;  but  he  could  not  get  the  use  of  the  theatre  for  a  longer 
period.  I  was  told  at  the  time  that  his  disappointment  was 
attributable  to  the  intervention  of  the  Parisian  actors,  who  ap- 
pealed to  the  authorities  to  prevent  the  prolongation  of  the 
English  performances — a  piece  of  jealousy  so  unworthy,  that  I 
found  it  hard  to  believe  it.1 

Upon  the  whole,  as  things  turned  out,  I  had  no  great  reason 
to  regret  having  yielded  to  Mr  Mitchell's  necessities.  It  was  a 
delight  to  play  to  audiences  so  refined  and  sympathetic,  and  to 
learn,  from  the  criticisms  of  such  men  as  Victor  Hugo,  Alex- 
andre  Dumas,  Edouard  Thierry,  and  Jules  Janin,  that  I  had 
carried  them  along  with  me  in  my  treatment  of  characters  so 
varied.  I  remember  well  how  strange  they  seemed  to  think  it, 
that  the  same  actress  should  play  Juliet,  Ophelia,  Desdemona, 
and  Lady  Macbeth — impressing  each,  as  they  were  indulgent 
enough  to  say,  with  characteristics  so  distinct  and  so  marked,  as 
to  make  them  forget  the  actress  in  the  woman  she  represented. 

In  what  they  said  and  wrote  I  had  some  compensation  for  the 
chagrin  I  naturally  felt  at  being  deprived  by  Mr  Macready  of  the 
opportunity  of  personating  before  a  Parisian  audience  the  char- 
acters which  were  considered  more  peculiarly  my  own.  Mr  Mac- 
ready  was  a  great  actor,  and  a  distinguished  man  in  many  ways  ; 
but  you  will,  I  daresay,  remember  that  he  would  never,  if  he 
could  help  it,  allow  any  one  to  stand  upon  the  same  level  with 
himself.  I  read  once  in  Punch,  that  they  supposed  Mr  Mac- 
ready  thought  Miss  Helen  Faucit  had  a  very  handsome  back, 
for,  when  on  the  stage  with  her,  he  always  managed  that  the 
audience  should  see  it  and  little  else.  But  I  must  say  that  I 
was  never  so  conscious  of  this  unfairness  with  him,  as  with  his, 
in  my  opinion,  very  inadequate  successor  Mr  Phelps,  who  always 
took  his  stand  about  two  feet  behind  you,  so  that  no  face  should 
be  seen,  and  no  voice  be  distinctly  heard,  by  the  audience,  but 
his  own.  I  remember  finding  this  particularly  unpleasant  on  the 
1  See  Appendix,  p.  404. 


KOSALIND.  235 

night  I  played  Lady  Macbeth  at  the  first  performance  given  in 
honour  of  the  Princess  Eoyal's  marriage.  These  performances 
took  place  at  Her  Majesty's  Theatre  in  the  Haymarket,  soon 
afterwards  burned  down.  The  stage  was  the  largest  in  London, 
and  fully  one-third  of  it  was  occupied  by  the  proscenium.  I  was 
then,  as  was  my  choice  after  my  marriage,  acting  very  rarely,  and 
at  long  intervals.  From  want  of  continuous  practice,  therefore, 
I  was  not  so  sure  of  the  penetrating  power  of  my  voice,  especi- 
ally in  a  theatre  of  such  unusual  size.  At  one  of  the  rehearsals, 
kind  Sir  Julius  Benedict  warned  me  against  speaking  further 
back  than  the  proscenium.  He  said  no  voice,  however  powerful, 
could  be  heard  behind  it,  and  that  the  singers  invariably  planted 
themselves  well  in  front.  I  mentioned  this  to  Mr  Phelps,  who 
was  the  Macbeth,  and  he  seemed  to  agree  to  act  upon  the  sugges- 
tion. But  at  night,  from  his  first  entry  to  Lady  Macbeth,  he 
took  up  a  position  far  behind  me,  and  kept  it,  wherever  possible, 
throughout  all  my  scenes  with  him.  In  my  subsequent  experi- 
ence with  him,  I  found  this  to  be  his  invariable  practice.  Tricks 
of  this  sort  are  as  foolish  as  they  are  ungenerous,  and  could  never 
enter  the  minds  of  those  who  desire  to  be  truly  artists.  When 
actors  have  told  me,  as  they  often  have,  that  I  was  always  so 
fair  to  act  with,  I  could  only  express  my  surprise ;  for  how  can 
you  hope  to  represent  characters  faithfully  unless  mind  is  acting 
upon  mind  and  face  meeting  face,  so  that  the  words  flow  natur- 
ally in  answer  to  the  thoughts  you  see  depicted  there  ? 

Forgive  these  details,  which  have  thrust  themselves  in  by  the 
way,  and  return  with  me  to  As  You  LiJte  It.  When  I  resolved 
to  make  a  thorough  study  of  the  play,  I  little  thought  how  long, 
yet  how  fascinating,  a  task  I  had  imposed  upon  myself.  With 
every  fresh  perusal  new  points  of  interest  and  new  charms  re- 
vealed themselves  to  me ;  while,  as  for  Rosalind,  "  she  drew  me 
on  to  love  her"  with  a  warmth  of  feeling  which  can  only  be 
understood  by  the  artist  who  has  found  in  the  heroine  she  imper- 
sonates that  "  something  never  to  be  wholly  known,"  those  sug- 
gestions of  high  qualities  answerable  to  all  the  contingencies  or 
trials  of  circumstance  by  which  we  are  captivated  in  real  life, 
and  which  it  is  her  aim  and  her  triumph  to  bring  home  to  the 
hearts  and  imaginations  of  her  audience  as  they  have  come  home 


236  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

to  her  own.  Often  as  I  have  played  Rosalind  since,  I  have  never 
done  so  without  giving  fresh  thought  to  the  character,  nor  with- 
out finding  in  it  something  that  had  escaped  me  before.  It  was 
ever,  therefore,  a  fresh  delight  to  bring  out  as  best  I  could  in 
action  what  had  thus  flashed  upon  me  in  my  hours  of  medita- 
tion, and  to  try  to  make  this  exquisite  creature  as  dear  and  fas- 
cinating to  my  audience  as  she  had  become  to  myself.  In  the 
very  acting  I  learned  much  ;  for  if  on  the  stage  you  leave  your 
mind  open  to  what  is  going  on  around  you,  even  an  unskilful 
actor  by  your  side — and  I  need  not  say  how  much  more  a  gifted 
one — may,  by  a  gesture  or  an  intonation,  open  up  something 
fresh  to  your  imagination.  So  it  was  I  came  to  love  Rosalind 
with  my  whole  heart ;  and  well  did  she  repay  me,  for  I  have 
often  thought,  "and  have  been  told  so  of  many,"  that  in  imper- 
sonating her  I  was  able  to  give  full  expression  to  what  was  best 
in  myself  as  well  as  in  my  art. 

It  was  surely  a  strange  perversion  which,  we  read,  assigned 
Kosalind,  as  at  one  time  it  had  assigned  Portia,  to  actresses 
whose  strength  lay  only  in  comedy.  Even  the  joyous,  buoyant 
side  of  her  nature  could  hardly  have  justice  done  to  it  in  their 
hands  ;  for  that  is  so  inextricably  mingled  with  deep  womanly 
tenderness,  with  an  active  intellect  disciplined  by  fine  culture, 
as  well  as  tempered  by  a  certain  native  distinction,  that  a  mere 
comedian  could  not  give  the  true  tone  and  colouring  even  to  her 
playfulness  and  her  wit.  Those  forest  scenes  between  Orlando 
and  herself  are  not,  as  a  comedy  actress  would  be  apt  to  make 
them,  merely  pleasant  fooling.  At  the  core  of  all  that  Eosalind 
says  and  does,  lies  a  passionate  love  as  pure  and  all-absorbing 
as  ever  swayed  a  woman's  heart.  Surely  it  was  the  finest  and 
boldest  of  all  devices,  one  on  which  only  a  Shakespeare  could 
have  ventured,  to  put  his  heroine  into  such  a  position  that  she 
could,  without  revealing  her  own  secret,  probe  the  heart  of  her 
lover  to  the  very  core,  and  thus  assure  herself  that  the  love  which 
possessed  her  being  was  as  completely  the  master  of  his.  Neither 
could  any  but  Shakespeare  have  so  carried  out  this  daring  design, 
that  the  woman  thus  rarely  placed  for  gratifying  the  impulses  of 
her  own  heart,  and  testing  the  sincerity  of  her  lover's,  should 
come  triumphantly  out  of  the  ordeal,  charming  us,  during  the 


ROSALIND.  237 

time  of  probation,  by  her  wit,  her  fancy,  by  her  pretty  womanly 
waywardnesses  playing  like  summer  lightning  over  her  throbbing 
tenderness  of  heart,  and  never  in  the  gayest  sallies  of  her  happiest 
moods  losing  one  grain  of  our  respect.  Xo  one  can  study  this 
play  without  seeing  that,  through  the  guise  of  the  brilliant- 
witted  boy,  Shakespeare  meant  the  charm  of  the  high-hearted 
woman,  strong,  tender,  delicate,  to  make  itself  felt.  Hence  it  is 
that  Orlando  finds  the  spell  which  "heavenly  Rosalind"  had 
thrown  around  him,  drawn  hourly  closer  and  closer,  he  knows 
not  how,  while  at  the  same  time  he  has  himself  been  winning 
his  way  more  and  more  into  his  mistress's  heart.  Thus,  when 
at  last  Eosalind  doffs  her  doublet  and  hose,  and  appears  arrayed 
for  her  bridal,  there  seems  nothing  strange  or  unmeet  in  this 
somewhat  sudden  consummation  of  what  has  been  in  truth  a 
lengthened  wooing.  The  actress  will,  in  my  opinion,  fail  signally 
in  her  task,  who  shall  not  suggest  all  this,  who  shall  not  leave 
upon  her  audience  the  impression  that,  when  Rosalind  resumes 
her  state  at  her  father's  court,  she  will  bring  into  it  as  much 
grace  and  dignity,  as  by  her  bright  spirits  she  had  brought 
of  sunshine  and  cheerfulness  into  the  shades  of  the  forest  of 
Arden. 

To  me,  As  You  Like  It  seems  to  be  essentially  as  much  a 
love-poem  as  Romeo  and  Juliet,  with  this  difference — that  it 
deals  with  happy  love,  while  the  Veronese  story  deals  with  love 
crossed  by  misadventure  and  crowned  with  death.  It  is  as  full 
of  imagination,  of  the  glad  rapture  of  the  tender  passion,  of  its 
impulsiveness,  its  generosity,  its  pathos.  No  "hearse-like  airs," 
indeed,  come  wailing  by,  as  in  the  tale  of  those  "  star-crossed 
lovers,"  to  warn  us  of  their  too  early  tragic  "  overthrow."  All 
is  blended  into  a  rich  harmonious  music,  which  makes  the  heart 
throb,  but  never  makes  it  ache.  Still  the  love  is  not  less  deep, 
less  capable  of  proving  itself  strong  as  death ;  neither  are  the 
natures  of  Orlando  and  Rosalind  less  touched  to  all  the  fine  issues 
of  that  passion  than  those  of  "Juliet  and  her  Romeo." 

Is  not  love,  indeed,  the  pivot  on  which  the  action  of  the  play 
turns — love,  too,  at  first  sight  ?  Does  it  not  seem  that  the  text 
the  poet  meant  to  illustrate  was  that  which  he  puts  into  Phebe's 
mouth — 


238  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  Dead  shepherd,  now  I  find  thy  saw  of  might, — 
'  Who  ever  loved,  that  loved  not  at  first  sight  ? '  " 

And  this,  too,  the  Phebe  who  but  a  few  minutes  before  had 
smiled  with  scorn  at  her  suitor's  warning — 

"  If  ever  (as  that  ever  may  be  near), 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy, 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. " 

Love  at  first  sight,  like  that  of  Juliet  and  Borneo,  is  the  love  of 
Eosalind  and  Orlando,  of  Celia  and  Oliver,  and  of  Phebe  herself 
for  Ganymede.  The  two  latter  pairs  of  lovers  are  perhaps  but 
of  little  account ;  but  is  not  the  might  of  Marlowe's  saw  as  fully 
exemplified  in  Eosalind  and  Orlando  as  in  the  lovers  of  Verona  1 
Happily  for  them,  and  for  us,  there  were  no  ancestral  feuds, 
no  unsympathetic  parents  to  step  in  and  place  a  bar  upon  their 
affections.  Whether  or  not  Shakespeare  believed  his  own  words 
(A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  Act  i.  sc.  1) — "The  course  of 
true  love  never  did  run  smooth,"  who  may  tell  ?  I  venture  to 
think  he  no  more  held  this  creed  than  he  did  many  of  what  are 
called  his  opinions,  which,  although  most  apt  in  the  mouths  of 
his  characters,  were  never  meant  to  be  taken  as  universally  true. 
What,  for  example,  can  be  more  absurd  than  the  too  common 
habit  of  quoting,  as  if  it  expressed  Shakespeare's  personal  con- 
viction, the  phrase,  "  What's  in  a  name  1 "  No  man,  we  may 
be  sure,  better  understood  how  very  much  there  may  be  in  a 
name.  As  Juliet  uses  it,  the  phrase  is  apt  and  true.  In  the 
rapture  of  her  love  it  was  nothing  to  her  that  Eomeo  bore  the 
name  of  the  enemy  of  her  house.  What  were  ancestral  feuds 
to  her,  who  saw  in  him  "the  god  of  her  idolatry"?  "His 
gracious  self  "  was  her  all  in  all.  What,  then,  was  in  his  name  ? 
But  the  phrase  is  not  only  meaningless,  but  false,  when  cited,  as 
it  too  often  is,  without  regard  to  person,  place,  or  circumstance. 
In  any  case,  Shakespeare  has  given  us  in  this  play  a  supreme 
instance  in  disproof  of  Lysander's  sad  axiom.  The  love  in  it 
does  run  smooth  all  through,  with  no  more  check  or  difficulty 
than  serves  to  prove  how  genuine  it  is,  and  to  bring  two  "  true 
minds  "  into  that  perfect  unison  which  is  the  only  right  prelude  to 


ROSALIND.  239 

marriage.  Circumstances,  sad  enough  in  themselves,  have  left 
both  the  lovers  untrammelled  by  the  ties  of  kindred.  Orlando's 
father  is  dead.  His  elder  brother  defrauds  him  of  his  fortune, 
stints  him  of  the  training  due  to  his  rank,  and  hates  him. 
Rosalind's  father  has  been  deposed  from  his  dukedom  while  she 
was  yet  in  early  girlhood,  and  she  has  not  seen  him  for  years. 
She  owes  no  allegiance  to  her  uncle,  at  whose  court  she  has  been 
detained.  The  wills  of  both  lovers  are  thus  entirely  free,  and, 
by  the  time  that  each  has  found  out  what  is  in  the  other's  heart, 
the  turn  of  events  makes  everything  smooth  for  their  marriage, 
after  the  intermediate  period  of  probation,  which  is  in  itself 
happiness  as  nearly  perfect  as  heart  could  desire. 

With  what  skill  does  Shakespeare  at  the  outset  of  the  play 
engage  our  interest  for  Orlando  !  In  vain  his  elder  brother  has 
tried  to  crush  in  him,  by  neglect,  and  by  "keeping  him  rusti- 
cally at  home"  without  the  liberal  culture  of  a  gentleman,  the 
inherent  nobility  of  his  nature.  His  father  had  left  him  "  but  a 
poor  thousand  crowns."  Good  old  Sir  Eowland  was  no  doubt 
fettered  by  the  usage  that  makes  eldest  sons  rich  at  the  cost  of 
the  younger;  but  he  had  charged  Oliver  "on  his  blessing"  to 
breed  Orlando  well,  feeling  confident  that  this  training  only  was 
wanted  to  enable  him  to  carve  out  fortune  for  himself.  How 
had  Oliver  obeyed  the  charge?  "You  have  trained  me,"  Or- 
lando tells  him,  "  like  a  peasant,  obscuring  and  hiding  from  me 
all  gentlemanlike  qualities."  But  as  he  has  grown  into  manhood, 
this  state  of  things  has  become  intolerable : — 

"  The  spirit  of  my  father  grows  strong  in  me,  and  I  will  no  longer  endure 
it :  therefore,  allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  become  a  gentleman,  or  give 
me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by  testament ;  with  that  I  will  go 
buy  my  fortunes." 

Why  did  Oliver  treat  him  thus?  Why  was  it  that,  as  he 
says,  "he  hates  nothing  more  than  he,  and  yet  he  knows  not 
why  "  ?  Was  it  that  Orlando  had  been  his  father's  favourite,  as 
indeed  he  seems  to  have  inherited  the  virtues  of  that  good  man  1 
"  0  my  sweet  master  ! "  says  old  Adam  (Act  ii.  sc.  3) — 

"  0  you  memory 
Of  old  Sir  Rowland  ! 


240  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Why  are  you  virtuous  ?     Why  do  people  love  you  ? 
And  wherefore  are  you  gentle,  strong,  and  valiant  ? 

Your  virtues,  gentle  master, 
Are  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  you." 

No  lack  of  "  inland  nurture "  was  able  to  spoil  a  nature  so 
manly,  in  which  the  best  instincts  of  "race"  were  paramount. 
We  picture  him  handsome,  courteous,  modest,  gallant,  with  the 
fresh  cheek  and  the  frank  cordial  eyes  that  speak  of  health,  of 
active  habits,  and  a  genial  nature  such  as  wins  men's  hearts. 
Even  Oliver  is  forced  to  admit  that  his  efforts  to  spoil  him 
have  completely  failed.  "  He's  gentle ;  never  schooled,  and  yet 
learned  ;  full  of  noble  device  ;  of  all  sorts  enchantingly  beloved  ; 
and,  indeed,  so  much  in  the  heart  of  the  world,  and  especially  of 
my  own  people,  who  best  know  him,  that  I  am  altogether  mis- 
prised." 

But  of  what  avail  is  all  this  1  Orlando  has  no  career  before 
him ;  all  his  powers  are  lying  unused.  He  is  in  the  saddest  of 
all  plights — that  of  a  poor  gentleman,  full  of  noble  aspirations, 
and  without  a  chance  of  proving  that  he  is  not  of  the  common 
herd.  What  wonder,  then,  that  we  see  him  dejected  and  out  of 
heart,  or  that  his  words  should  vibrate  with  feeling,  when  he 
entreats  Celia  and  Rosalind  to  forgive  him  for  not  yielding  to 
their  entreaty  that  he  will  not  risk  his  life  by  wrestling  with 
Charles,  "  the  bony  prizer  of  the  humorous  Duke  "  1 — 

"  I  beseech  you,  punish  me  not  with  your  hard  thoughts  ;  wherein  I  con- 
fess me  much  guilty,  to  deny  so  fair  and  excellent  ladies  anything.  But  let 
your  fair  eyes  and  gentle  wishes  go  with  me  to  my  trial :  wherein  if  I  be 
foiled,  there  is  but  one  shamed  that  was  never  gracious ;  if  killed,  but  one 
dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so  !  I  shall  do  my  friends  no  wrong,  for  I  have 
none  to  lament  me  ;  the  world  no  injury,  for  in  it  I  have  nothing  ;  only  in 
the  world  I  fill  up  a  place,  which  may  be  better  supplied  when  I  have  made 
it  empty." 

Such  words  in  the  mouth  of  one  so  young,  so  obviously  at  all 
points  a  gentleman,  could  not  fail  to  touch  a  gentlewoman's 
heart ;  and  in  Rosalind's  case  they  were  all  the  more  likely  to  do 
so,  because  in  her  own  fortunes  and  her  own  mood  at  the  time 
there  was  much  to  beget  in  her  a  sympathetic  feeling.  The 
world  had  not  gone  well  with  her,  either.  When  her  father  was 


KOSALIND.  241 

deposed  she  was  yet  a  child,  little  likely,  perhaps,  to  appreciate 
the  change  from  a  princess  of  the  reigning  to  a  princess  of  the 
dethroned  house.  She  and  her  cousin  Celia,  the  daughter  of  the 
man  who  dispossessed  her  father  of  his  throne,  had  been  "  ever 
from  their  cradles  bred  together,"  and  her  superior  charm  and 
force  of  character  had  so  won  upon  the  affections  of  her  cousin, 
that,  as  Shakespeare  is  at  pains  to  tell  us,  through  the  mouth  of 
Charles  the  Wrestler  (Act  i.  sc.  1),  when  Rosalind's  father  was 
banished — "  Celia  would  have  followed  her  exile,  or  have  died  to 
stay  behind  her."  The  usurping  Duke,  whose  only  child  Celia 
was,  would  not  let  Rosalind  go  into  banishment  with  her  father, 
for  fear  of  the  effect  upon  his  daughter.  "  We  stay'd  her,"  as  he 
says  to  Celia,  "  for  your  sake ;  else  had  she  with  her  father 
ranged  along."  But  the  beauty  and  gentle  bearing  of  Rosalind, 
as  the  years  went  on,  made  her  dear  to  the  people,  who  had 
probably  found  out  by  this  time  that  they  had  made  a  bad  ex- 
change in  the  "  humorous  Duke "  for  the  amiable  and  accom- 
plished ruler  whom  he  had  supplanted, — just  as  the  retainers  of 
Oliver  had  found  that  not  in  him,  but  in  his  youngest  brother, 
"  the  memory  of  old  Sir  Rowland "  was  perpetuated.  Celia's 
father  holding  his  place  by  an  uncertain  tenure,  and  therefore 
jealous  of  one  who  must  be  ever  painfully  reminding  him  of 
his  usurpation,  did  not  fail  to  observe  this  feeling  among  his 
subjects.  It  was  dangerous  to  let  it  grow  to  a  head ;  and  so  we 
see  that,  before  the  play  opens,  the  thought  had  been  present  to 
his  mind  that  Rosalind  must  stay  no  longer  at  his  court.  As  he 
tells  his  daughter — 

"  Her  very  silence,  and  her  patience, 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her." 

To  a  mind  like  his,  full  of  misgiving  as  to  his  own  position,  the 
observation  of  this  fact  must  have  been  an  hourly  torment.  But 
the  old  difficulty,  the  affection  between  Rosalind  and  his  child, 
was  by  this  time  increased  rather  than  diminished.  "  Never  two 
ladies  loved  as  they  do,"  says  Charles ;  "  Their  loves,"  says  Le 
Beau,  "  are  dearer  than  the  natural  love  of  sisters," — both  speak- 
ing the  common  voice  of  the  people.  And  how  united  were  their 
lives,  we  learn  from  Celia  herself — 
Q 


242     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  We  still  have  slept  together, 
Hose  at  an  instant,  learn'd,  play'd,  ate  together  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  swans, 
Still  we  went  coupled  and  inseparable. " 

But  her  father's  feeling  of  distrust  had  of  late  been  growing 
into  one  of  antipathy.  Le  Beau,  a  shrewd  observer  in  spite  of  all 
his  courtierly  manner,  and  with  a  good  heart,  which  the  selfish 
habits  of  a  court  life  have  not  wholly  spoiled,  sees  pretty  clearly 
the  fate  that  is  hanging  over  liosalind  : — 

"  Of  late  this  duke 

Hath  ta'en  displeasure  'gainst  his  gentle  niece, 
Grounded  upon  no  other  argument 
But  that  the  people  praise  her  for  her  virtues, 
And  pity  her  for  her  good  father's  sake  ; 
And,  on  my  life,  his  malice  'gainst  the  lady 
Will  suddenly  break  forth." 

What  the  courtly  Le  Beau  had  so  plainly  seen  to  be  the  state  of 
the  Duke's  mind  was  not  likely  to  have  escaped  Eosalind's  quick 
sensitive  nature.  She  feels  the  cloud  of  her  uncle's  displeasure 
hanging  over  her,  and  ready  to  burst  at  any  moment.  She  will 
not  pain  Celia  with  her  forebodings,  who  is  so  far  from  surmising 
the  truth,  that  the  first  lines  she  speaks  are  a  gentle  reproach  to 
Eosalind  for  her  want  of  gaiety ;  to  which  Eosalind  replies,  "  I 
show  more  mirth  than  I  am  mistress  of ;  and  would  you  yet  I 
were  merrier  1 "  Then,  throwing  the  blame  of  her  present  trouble 
upon  an  old  sorrow,  she  adds  :  "  Unless  you  could  teach  me  to 
forget  a  banished  father,  you  must  not  learn  me  how  to  remember 
any  extraordinary  pleasure."  From  Celia's  reply,  it  is  obvious 
she  has  no  idea  that  Eosalind  has  fallen  out  of  favour  with  the 
usurping  Duke.  "  If  my  uncle,  thy  banished  father,  had  ban- 
ished thy  uncle,  the  Duke  my  father,  so  thou  hadst  been  still 
with  me,  I  could  have  taught  my  love  to  take  thy  father  for 
mine."  Too  well  Eosalind  knows  that  the  obstacle  to  this  pretty 
proposal  lies  not  with  herself,  but  with  Celia's  father.  Still  she 
will  hide  from  Celia  the  trouble  she  sees  looming  for  herself  in 
the  not  far  distance.  She  will  not  show  her  "the  darks  un- 
dream'd  of"  into  which  their  pleasant  sisterly  life  is  running. 
Why  "forestall  her  date  of  grief"?  Why  throw  a  shade  over 


ROSALIND.  243 

her  cousin's  happy  spirit,  or  refuse  anything  to  one  so  generous 
in  her  assurance,  that  she  will  atone  for  the  wrong  done  by  her 
father  to  Eosalind,  given  in  such  words  as  these  ? — 

"  You  know  my  father  hath  no  child  but  I,  nor  none  is  like  to  have  :  and, 
truly,  when  he  dies,  thou  shalt  be  his  heir  ;  for  what  he  hath  taken  away 
from  thy  father  perforce,  I  will  render  thee  again  in  affection ;  by  mine 
honour  I  will ;  and  when  I  break  that  oath,  let  me  turn  monster  :  there- 
fore, my  sweet  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  be  merry." 

A  sad  smile  breaks  over  Eosalind's  face  as  she  replies, — "  From 
henceforth  I  will,  coz,  and  devise  sports."  "Let  me  see,"  she 
adds, — little  dreaming  how  near  was  the  reality, — "  what  think 
you  of  falling  in  love  1 "  To  which  Celia  rejoins, — "  Marry,  pr'y- 
thee,  do,  to  make  sport  withal :  but  love  no  man  in  good  earnest ; 
nor  no  farther  in  sport  neither,  than  with  safety  of  a  pure  blush 
thou  mayst  in  honour  come  off  again."  And  so  these  loving 
cousins  prattle  on  brightly  upon  the  lawn  before  the  ducal  palace, 
where  presently  an  incident  occurs  which  is  to  change  the  cur- 
rent of  their  lives.  They  have  just  heard  from  Le  Beau  of  the 
murderous  triumphs  of  the  wrestler  Charles,  and  would  fain  have 
escaped  from  seeing  a  repetition  of  his  "  rib-breaking."  But  be- 
fore they  can  get  away,  the  Duke  arrives  with  his  suite  upon 
the  ground  to  see  the  contest  to  which  Orlando  has  challenged 
Charles,  with  a  determination,  very  clearly  shown,  to  lower  the 
tone  of  that  professional  braggart,  if  skill  and  good  heart  can 
do  it. 

At  once  the  attention  of  the  ladies  is  riveted  by  Orlando's  ap- 
pearance. "  Is  yonder  the  man  ? "  are  the  words  that  break  from 
Eosalind.  "  Alas,"  exclaims  her  cousin,  "  he  is  too  young  !  yet 
he  looks  successfully."  The  Duke,  judging  from  his  looks  that 
the  odds  are  all  against  the  young  fellow,  tells  the  ladies  they 
will  take  little  delight  in  the  wrestling,  and  urges  them  to  try  to 
dissuade  him  from  persevering  in  his  challenge.  Celia,  as  the 
reigning  Duke's  daughter,  and  also  because  she  is  probably  not 
so  much  moved  as  her  cousin,  does  most  of  the  talking ;  but  not 
a  word,  either  of  her  entreaties  or  of  Orlando's  refusal,  escapes 
Eosalind.  Sho  could  not  but  respect  a  resolution  so  manly,  yet 
so  modestly  expressed,  however  she  may  fear  the  issue.  Or- 


244     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

lando's  heart  must  have  leapt  within  him  when  she  says,  "  The 
little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it  were  with  you.  Fare  you 
well.  Pray  heaven,  I  be  deceived  in  you  !  "  Deceived  she  shall 
be,  he  is  determined,  for  her  words  have  given  to  his  sinews  the 
strength  of  steel. 

No  thought  now  of  leaving  the  ground.  The  ladies  will  see 
the  fate  of  the  young  hero,  and  "rain  influence"  on  him  with 
their  bright  eyes.  The  wrestling  begins — 

"  Ros.  0  excellent  young  man  ! 
Cd.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can  tell  who  should  down." 

Charles  is  thrown  by  Orlando,  and  carried  off  insensible.  And 
now  they  are  to  learn  who  the  young  hero  is.  In  answer  to  the 
Duke,  he  tells  his  name,  adding  that  he  is  the  youngest  son  of 
Sir  Rowland  de  Bois.  Here  is  the  link  between  Rosalind  and 
Orlando.  Sir  Eowland  has  been  loyal  to  the  banished  Duke — a 
sin  the  usurper  cannot  pardon  in  the  son. 

"  The  world  esteemed  thy  father  honourable, 
But  I  did  find  him  still  mine  enemy. 
.     .     .     Thou  art  a  gallant  youth  : 
I  would  thou  hadst  told  me  of  another  father. " 

Celia's  heart  revolts  at  this  injustice.  Turning  to  Eosalind,  she 
says — 

"  Were  I  my  father,  coz,  would  I  do  this  ? " 

And  what  says  Eosalind  1 — 

"  My  father  loved  Sir  Rowland  as  his  soul, 
And  all  the  world  was  of  my  father's  mind  : 
Had  I  before  known  this  young  man  his  son, 
I  should  have  given  him  tears  unto  entreaties, 
Ere  he  should  thus  have  ventured." 

She  needs  not  the  prompting  of  her  cousin  to  "go  thank  him 
and  encourage  him";  but  while  Celia  finds  ready  words,  Eosa- 
lind's  deeper  emotion  suggests  to  her  a  stronger  token  of  the  ad- 
miration he  has  roused.  She  has  taken  a  chain  from  her  neck, 
and  stealthily  kissing  it — at  least  I  always  used  to  do  so — she 
gives  it  to  Orlando,  saying : — 


ROSALIND  245 

"Gentleman, 

Wear  this  for  me,  one  out  of  suits  with  fortune, 
That  could  give  more,  but  that  her  hand  lacks  means." 

Here  she  pauses,  naturally  expecting  some  acknowledgment  from 
Orlando  ;  but  finding  none  come,  and  not  knowing  how  to  break 
off  an  interview  which  has  kindled  a  strange  emotion  within  her, 
she  adds,  "  Shall  we  go,  coz  ? "  Celia,  heart-whole  as  she  is,  has 
no  such  difficulty.  "Ay.  Fare  you  well,  fair  gentleman,"  she 
says,  and  turns  away.  Eosalind  is  going  with  her.  Meanwhile 
Orlando,  overcome  by  a  new  feeling,  finds  himself  spell-bound. 

"  Orl.  Can  I  not  say  I  thank  you  ?     My  better  parts 
Are  all  thrown  down  ;  and  that  which  here  stands  up 
Is  but  a  quintain,  a  mere  lifeless  block." 

It  cannot  be  that  he  should  let  them  go  thus  without  a  word  of 
thanks  !  Eosalind  at  least  will  not  think  so.  What  he  mutters 
faintly  to  himself  must  surely  have  been  meant  for  them. 

"  Ros.  He  calls  us  back  :  my  pride  fell  with  my  fortunes  ; 
I'll  ask  him  what  he  would. — Did  you  call,  sir  ? " 

But  his  heart  is  too  full,  his  tongue  too  heavily  weighted  by 
passion,  to  find  vent  in  words.  His  action  is  constrained.  He 
bows  but  makes  no  answering  sign,  and  with  trembling  lips  she 
continues : — 

"  Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies." 

This  "more  than  your  enemies"  is  very  significant,  and  speaks 
plainly  enough,  though  spoken  as  it  would  be  with  great  reserve 
of  manner,  of  the  favourable  impression  which  the  young  wrestler 
has  made  upon  her.  We  may  be  sure  that,  but  for  his  modest 
demeanour,  Rosalind  would  not  have  allowed  herself  to  confess 
so  much. 

Celia  amused,  and  disposed  to  rally  her  cousin  about  what 
looks  to  her  rather  more  than  "  falling  in  love  in  sport,"  accosts 
Rosalind  mockingly  in  the  phrase  she  has  used  but  a  few  mo- 
ments before,  "  Will  you  go,  coz  ? "  "  Have  with  you,"  Rosalind 
rejoins,  quite  understanding  the  roguish  sparkle  in  her  cousin's 


246     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

eyes,  but  not  deterred  by  it  from  giving  to  Orlando  as  she  goes 
an  earnest  "  Fare  you  well ! "  But  she  is  still  slow  to  leave, 
hoping  and  longing  for  some  words  from  his  lips  addressed  to 
herself.  When  Celia  takes  her  hand  and  is  leading  her  away, 
Celia  bows  slightly  to  Orlando;  but  Eosalind  in  a  royal  and 
gentle  manner  curtseys  to  him,  wishing  to  show  her  respect  for 
the  memory  of  his  father,  the  dear  friend  of  her  father,  and  also 
her  sympathy  with  his  fortunes.  These  she  can  give  him,  if 
nothing  else. 

This  scene,  you  will  agree,  needs  most  delicate  touching  in  the 
actress.  Eosalind  has  not  much  to  say,  but  she  has  to  make  her 
audience  feel  by  subtle  indications  the  revolution  that  is  going 
on  in  her  heart  from  the  moment  her  eyes  fall  upon  her  future 
lover,  down  to  the  parting  glance  with  which  her  lingering  fare- 
well is  accompanied.  It  is  Juliet  in  the  ball-room,  but  under 
conditions  that  demand  a  far  greater  variety  of  expression.  There 
is  no  avowal  of  love  ;  but  when  she  leaves  the  stage,  the  audience 
must  have  been  made  to  feel  that  in  her  case,  as  in  Juliet's,  her 
heart  has  made  its  choice,  and  that  a  change  has  come  over  her 
akin  to  that  which  has  come  over  Orlando.  Only  when  she  is 
gone  can  he  find  words  to  tell  it. 

"  What  passion  hangs  these  weights  upon  my  tongue  ? 
I  cannot  speak  to  her,  yet  she  urg'd  conference. 
0  poor  Orlando,  thou  art  overthrown  ; 
Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee." 

He  is  in  this  state  of  strange  bewildered  delight  when  Le  Beau, 
whom  I  like  very  much,  and  who,  I  am  sure,  was  a  favourite 
with  Rosalind,  returns,  and  warns  him  not  to  linger  near  the 
court.  The  sympathy  of  the  bystanders  for  the  brave  young 
fellow  has  alarmed  the  Duke,  and  Le  Beau's  keen  eyes  have  seen 
signs  that  bode  no  good  to  Sir  Rowland's  son. 

"  Such  is  now  the  Duke's  condition," 
he  teUs  Orlando, 

"  That  he  misconstrues  all  that  you  have  done  ;  " 

adding,  with  a  nice  sense  that  a  certain  reticence  is  becoming  in 
himself  as  a  member  of  the  ducal  court, — 


ROSALIND.  247 

"  The  Duke  is  humorous  :  what  he  is,  indeed, 
More  suits  you  to  conceive  than  me  to  speak  of." 

Orlando  is  in  no  mood  to  think  much  about  his  own  safety. 
Besides,  what  is  the  court  to  him  t  The  all-important  thing  in 
his  eyes  is  to  know  which  of  the  two  gracious  ladies  "  that  here 
were  at  the  wrestling  "  is  daughter  of  the  Duke  1  He  has  lived 
near  the  court,  and  must  have  often  heard  the  names  of  the 
two  princesses.  When,  therefore,  Le  Beau  replies,  "The  shorter 
is  his  daughter,"  he  knows  that  the  name  of  the  daughter  of 
the  banished  Duke,  who  left  her  chain  with  him,  is  Eosalind. 
Only  after  he  is  satisfied  of  this  does  he  bethink  him  of  what 
danger  may  await  him. 

"  Thus  must  I  from  the  smoke  into  the  smother  ; 
From  tyrant  duke  unto  a  tyrant  brother." 

But  come  what  may,  one  image,  we  see,  will  be  ever  present 
with  him, — that  of  "heavenly  Eosalind." 

When  soon  after  we  see  her  with  her  cousin,  it  is  no  secret 
between  them  that  the  sweet  poison  of  love  is  working  no  less 
strongly  in  her.  She  is  surprised  at  herself,  she  tells  us,  because 
she  finds  herself  unable  to  resist  it.  How  charmingly  is  this 
brought  before  us  ! — 

' '  Gel.  Why,  cousin  ;  why,  Rosalind  ;  Cupid  have  mercy  ! — Not  a  word  ? 
Ros.  Not  one  to  throw  at  a  dog. 

Gel.  But  is  all  this  for  your  father  ? 

Ros.  No  ;  some  of  it  is  for  my  father's  child. 

Cel.  Come,  come,  wrestle  with  thy  affections. 

Ros.  Oh,  they  take  the  part  of  a  better  wrestler  than  myself  ! 

Gel.  Oh,  a  good  wish  upon  you  !  ...  Is  it  possible,  on  such  a  sudden, 
you  should  fall  into  so  strong  a  liking  with  old  Sir  Rowland's  youngest  son  ? 

Ros.  The  duke  my  father  lov'd  his  father  dearly. 

Cd.  Doth  it  therefore  ensue  that  you  should  love  his  son  dearly  ?  By 
this  kind  of  chase,  I  should  hate  him,  for  my  father  hated  his  father  dearly  ; 
yet  I  hate  not  Orlando. 

Ros.  No,  'faith,  hate  him  not,  for  my  sake. 

Cd.  Why  should  I  not  ?     Doth  he  not  deserve  well  ? 

Ros.  Let  me  love  him  for  that ;  and  do  you  love  him  because  I  do. " 

But  now  the  storm  bursts,  of  which  Eosalind  had   lived  for 


248    •  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

some  time  in  apprehension.  The  Duke  enters,  his  "eyes  full 
of  anger,"  and  his  "rough  and  envious  disposition"  vents  its 
long-pent-up  jealousy  upon  her  in  the  cruel  words — 

"  Within  these  ten  days,  if  that  thou  be'st  found 
So  near  our  public  court  as  twenty  miles, 
Thou  diest  for  it." 

At  this  sentence  the  spirit  of  the  princess  must  have  grown 
warm  within  her.  She  knows  her  uncle  too  well  to  think  of 
remonstrance.  But  what  has  she  done  to  justify  or  to  provoke 
this  sudden  outburst  of  his  wrath?  Still  she  controls  herself, 
and  asks  in  a  tone  of  entreaty — 

"  I  do  beseech  your  grace, 

Let  me  the  knowledge  of  my  fault  bear  with  me  ; 
If  with  myself  I  hold  intelligence, 
Or  have  acquaintance  with  mine  own  desires  ; 
If  that  I  do  not  dream,  or  be  not  frantic 
(As  I  do  trust  I  am  not),  then,  dear  uncle, 
Never  so  much  as  in  a  thought  unborn 
Did  I  offend  your  highness." 

His  reply,  "Thus  do  all  traitors,"  &c.,  rouses  the  royal  blood 
within  her ;  gentleness  gives  place  to  righteous  remonstrance  : — 

"  Your  mistrust  cannot  make  me  a  traitor  : 
Tell  me  whereon  the  likelihood  depends  ? " 

His  reply — 

"  Thou  art  thy  father's  daughter ;  there's  enough"— 

brings  the  instant  answer,  in  which  years  of  silent  endurance 
find  a  voice.  She  can  bear  any  reproach  to  herself,  but  her 
loyalty  to  her  father  gives  pungency  to  her  answer : — 

"  So  was  I  when  your  highness  took  his  dukedom  ; 
So  was  I  when  your  highness  banish'd  him. 
Treason  is  not  inherited,  my  lord  ; 
Or,  if  we  did  derive  it  from  our  friends, 
What's  that  to  me  ?    My  father  was  no  traitor." 

In  speaking  this  I  could  never  help  laying  a  slight  emphasis  on 
the  last  words.  For  what  but  a  traitor  had  the  Duke  himself 
been  1  The  sarcasm  strikes  home ;  but,  recovering  herself  a 
little  for  Celia's  sake,  she  adds  more  gently — 


ROSALIND.  249 

"  Then,  good  my  liege,  mistake  me  not  so  much, 
To  think  my  poverty  is  treacherous." 

In  vain  Celia  tries  to  shake  her  father's  resolution,  telling  him 
that,  when  first  he  had  kept  back  her  cousin  to  be  her  com- 
panion— 

"  I  was  too  young  that  time  to  value  her ; 

But  now  I  know  her  :  if  she  be  a  traitor, 

Why  so  am  I." 

Celia  heeds  not  her  father  when  he  replies  that  she  suffers  in 
general  estimation  by  the  presence  of  Eosalind: — 

' '  She  robs  thee  of  thy  name  ; 

And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright  and  seem  more  virtuous 
When  she  is  gone  !  " 

And  when  he  renews  his  doom  of  banishment,  she  proves,  by 
her  reply,  that  the  yearning  of  the  child  had  become  the  fixed 
resolution  of  the  woman  : — 

1 '  Pronounce  that  sentence,  then,  on  me,  my  liege  ; 
I  cannot  live  out  of  her  company." 

The  angry  tyrant,  thinking  these  to  be  but  idle  words,  and  un- 
able to  conceive  a  friendship  of  this  exalted  strain,  breaks  away, 
saying— 

"  You  are  a  fool.     You,  niece,  provide  yourself  : 
If  you  outstay  the  time,  upon  my  honour, 
And  in  the  greatness  of  my  word,  you  die." 

Then  comes  a  passage,  than  which  what  prettier  picture  of  more 
than  sisterly  devotion  was  ever  painted  1 — 

"  Gel.   0  my  poor  Rosalind  !  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 
Wilt  thou  change  fathers  ?     I  will  give  thee  mine. 
I  charge  thee,  be  not  thou  more  griev'd  than  I  am. 

Ros.  I  have  more  cause. 

Cel.  Thou  hast  not,  cousin  : 

Pr'ythee,  be  cheerful.     Know'st  thou  not,  the  Duke 
Hath  banish'd  me,  his  daughter  ? 

Ros.  That  he  hath  not 

Cel.  No  ?  hath  not  ?    Rosalind  lacks,  then,  the  love 
Which  teacheth  thee  that  thou  and  I  am  one. 
Shall  we  be  sunder'd  ?     Shall  we  part,  sweet  girl 
No  :  let  my  father  seek  another  heir. 


250  SHAKESPEARE'S   FEMALE   CHARACTERS: 

Therefore  devise  with  me  how  we  may  fly, 
Whither  to  go,  and  what  to  bear  with  us  : 
And  do  not  seek  to  take  your  change  upon  you, 
To  bear  your  griefs  yourself,  and  leave  me  out ; 
For,  by  this  heaven,  now  at  our  sorrows  pale, 
Say  what  thou  canst,  I'll  go  along  with  thee." 

Rosalind,  touched  to  the  heart,  and  feeling  that  she  also  could 
not  live  without  Celia,  accepts  the  generous  offer  without  remon- 
strance. It  told  that  Celia's  love,  never  very  deep  for  such  a 
father,  had  been  so  completely  alienated  by  his  injustice  to  her 
cousin,  as  well  as  by  his  late  ungenerous  treatment  of  Orlando, 
that  to  have  remained  behind,  subject  to  his  "  rough  and  envious 
disposition,"  would  have  been  misery.  When  Eosalind,  half 
desponclingly,  says — 

"  Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? " 
her  cousin's  ready  answer — 

"  To  seek  my  uncle  in  the  forest  of  Arden." 

opens  up,  we  may  conceive,  a  delightful  vision  of  freedom  and 
independence.  But  then  the  danger  to  them — 

"  Maids  as  we  are,  to  travel  forth  so  far  !  " 
Celia  is  ready  with  her  plan : — 

"  I'll  put  myself  in  poor  and  mean  attire, 
The  like  do  you  :  so  shall  we  pass  along, 
And  never  stir  assailants." 

Rosalind  was  not  likely  to  be  behind  her  friend  in  courage. 
Besides,  is  not  Celia  sacrificing  all  for  her,  and  has  she  not, 
therefore,  a  claim  upon  her  for  protection?  ?So  she  betters 
Celia's  suggestion : — 

"  Were  it  not  better, 
Because  that  I  am  more  than  common  tall," 

(How  glad  I  always  felt  that  in  this  respect,  at  least,  I  was  akin 
to  the  poet's  Rosalind !) 

"That  I  did  suit  me  all  points  like  a  man  ! " 
Her  fancy  quickens  at  the  thought,  and  with  that  fine  buoyancy 


ROSALIND.  251 

of  spirit,  and  play  of  graceful  humour,  of  which  we  are  anon  to 
see  so  much,  she  goes  on  to  complete  the  picture  : — 

"A  gallant  curtle-axe  upon  my  thigh, 
A  boar-spear  in  my  hand  ;  and  (in  my  heart 
Lie  there  what  hidden  woman's  fear  there  will) 
We'll  have  a  swashing  and  a  martial  outside ; 
As  many  other  mannish  cowards  have, 
That  do  outface  it  with  their  semblances." 

Celia  enters  with  delight  into  the  idea  : — 

"  Cel.  What  shall  I  call  thee,  when  thou  art  a  man  ! 
Ros.  I'll  have  no  worse  a  name  than  Jovs's  own  page  ; 
And  therefore  look  you  call  me  Ganymede. 
But  what  will  you  be  call'd  ? " 

Aliena,  Celia  says,  shall  be  her  name,  as  having  "reference  to 
her  state  " ;  and  now  they  have  grown  so  happy  at  the  thought 
of  escaping  from  the  trouble  which  seemed  so  terrible  at  first, 
that  they  can  jest  and  play  with  the  anticipation  of  the  life 
before  them.  Touchstone,  the  court  fool,  shall  be  their  com- 
panion— 

"  He'll  go  along  o'er  the  wide  world  with  me  ; " 

says  Celia.  He  will  be  both  a  comfort  and  a  protection;  and 
so  with  happy  hearts  they  set  about  getting  their  "jewels  and 
their  wealth  together  "  for  the  enterprise,  which  is  to  lead  them 

"  To  liberty,  and  not  to  banishment." 

While  things  have  thus  come  to  an  extremity  with  his 
"heavenly  Eosalind,"  a  similar  fate  is  overtaking  Orlando. 
His  brother,  foiled  in  the  hope  that  he  would  be  killed  by 
Charles,  is  determined  to  get  rid  of  him  by  more  desperate 
means.  This  Orlando  learns  from  Adam,  that  ideal  pattern  of 
an  old  retainer,  made  doubly  dear  to  us  by  the  tradition  that 
this  was  one  of  the  characters  which  Shakespeare  himself  de- 
lighted to  impersonate.  You  remember,  doubtless,  Coleridge's 
words,  as  reported  by  Mr  Payne  Collier:  "Great  dramatists 
make  great  actors.  But,  looking  at  Shakespeare  merely  as  a 
performer,  I  am  certain  that  he  was  greater  as  Adam  in  As  You 
Like  It,  than  Burbage  as  Hamlet  or  Eichard  the  Third.  Think 


252  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

of  the  scene  between  him  and  Orlando,  and  think  again  that 
the  actor  of  that  part  had  to  carry  the  author  of  it  in  his 
arms  !  Think  of  having  had  Shakespeare  in  one's  arms !  It 
is  worth  having  died  two  hundred  years  ago  to  have  heard 
Shakespeare  deliver  a  single  line.  He  must  have  been  a  great 
actor."  I  love  to  think  so.  Especially  does  my  fancy  gladly 
picture  him  in  this  scene,  and  find  in  doing  so  a  richer  music 
in  the  exquisite  cadences  of  the  lines  in  which  the  devotion  and 
humble  piety  of  that  "good  old  man"  are  couched.  Through 
his  lips  we  learn,  how  worthy  in  all  ways  to  be  loved  is  Orlando 
— a  matter  of  first  importance  in  one  who  is  to  be  beloved  by 
such  a  woman  as  Eosalind.  The  devotion  of  Celia  to  the 
heroine  of  the  play  also  finds  its  counterpart  in  that  of  Adam 
to  the  hero — and  the  plot  derives  a  fresh  interest  from  the 
introduction  of  a  character,  not  only  charming  in  itself,  but 
most  skilfully  used,  both  in  this  scene  and  the  few  others  in 
which  he  appears,  to  heighten  the  favourable  impression  of 
Orlando's  character  created  by  his  demeanour  in  the  earlier 
scenes.  The  savings  of  Adam's  life  enable  the  old  man  and 
his  young  master  to  seek  better  fortunes  elsewhere,  in  hopes  to 
light  "upon  some  settled  low  content."  And  so  they,  too,  go 
forth,  to  reappear  in  that  wondrous  forest  of  Arden. 

Of  the  little  world  there  we  are  given  a  delightful  glimpse, 
before  either  Celia  and  Eosalind,  or  Orlando  and  Adam,  become 
its  denizens.  The  second  act  opens  in  it,  and  shows  us  in 
Eosalind's  father,  the  banished  Duke,  a  character  widely  dif- 
ferent from  her  own,  with  none  of  her  vivacity  or  force,  though 
with  something  of  her  sweetness  of  disposition.  Like  Prospero, 
a  scholarly  man,  his  retiring  and  unostentatious  habits  have,  as 
in  Prospero's  case,  given  scope  for  an  ambitious  brother  to  rob 
him  of  his  kingdom.  Like  Prospero,  too,  in  this,  "  so  dear  the 
love  his  people  bore  him,"  they  would  not  have  endured  any 
attempt  upon  his  life,  so  that  the  worst  his  brother  dared  had 
been  to  banish  him.  To  one  who  had, — again  like  Prospero, — 
"  neglected  worldly  aids,"  dedicating  the  time,  which  ought  more 
fitly  to  have  been  devoted  to  the  duties  of  government,  "to 
closeness,  and  the  bettering  of  his  mind,"  banishment  has  obvi- 
ously been  no  great  privation.  Custom  very  soon  has  made 


ROSALIND.  253 

the  rough  forest  life  "more  sweet  than  that  of  painted  pomp." 
Adversity  has  given  him  clearer  views  of  men,  and  taught  him 
more  of  his  own  heart,  than  he  could  have  ever  learned  in  "  the 
envious  court."  His  calm,  meditative  mind  discovers  in  the 
scenes  around  him  delightful  incidents,  reminding  him  by  con- 
trast of  the  turmoil  and  perils  of  his  former  state.  He 

"  Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything," 

and  has  in  fact  translated 

"  The  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style," 

that  any  regrets  for  his  lost  wealth  and  honours  are  to  all 
appearance  dead.  Unlike  Prospero,  he  shows  no  bitterness 
against  his  usurping  brother,  and  has  no  yearnings  for  the 
power  of  which  he  has  been  despoiled.  The  easy  dreamy  life 
of  the  woods  suits  his  languid  temperament.  He  likes  nothing 
better  than  an  argument  with  Jaques,  whose  cynical  views  of 
life  excite  and  amuse  him,  though  he  has  no  sympathy  with 
them.  Amiable,  but  weak,  separation  from  his  daughter  does 
not  seem  to  have  cost  him  much  regret.  He  believes  she  is 
happy  where  he  has  left  her,  in  the  position  and  with  the  sur- 
roundings that  become  her  birth,  and  which,  in  his  banish- 
ment, he  could  not  give  her.  And  she,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
no  doubt  aware  that  her  presence  is  by  no  means  essential  to 
his  happiness.  Thus  she  has  no  temptation  to  make  herself 
known  to  him,  when  they  meet  casually  in  the  forest,  and  when 
to  have  done  so  would  have  broken  up  the  sweet  masking 
intercourse  with  her  lover,  in  which  she  was  by  that  time 
involved. 

When  we  first  see  Rosalind  on  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
wayworn  and  weary,  we  have  scarce  time  to  note  how  she  tries 
to  forget  her  own  fatigue,  and  to  comfort  "  the  weaker  vessel," 
her  still  more  weary  cousin,  "  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show 
itself  courageous  to  petticoat."  Her  thoughts,  and  ours,  are 
soon  carried  off  in  another  direction  by  the  dialogue  between 
the  shepherd  Corin  and  the  young  Silvius,  in  whose  passion  for 


254  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

the  shepherdess  Phebe  Eosalind  finds  the  counterpart  to  her 
own  haunting  dreams  about  Orlando.  Something  of  what  these 
have  been  her  words  show:  "Alas,  poor  shepherd !  searching  of 
thy  wound,  I  have  by  hard  adventure  found  mine  own."  In 
this  train  of  thought  Eosalind  for  the  moment  forgets  weariness 
and  hunger  ;  but  Celia,  "  faint  almost  to  death,"  has  to  be 
thought  for.  Corin  comes  to  their  help,  and  puts  them  in  the 
way  of  buying  that  cottage  "  by  the  tuft  of  olives "  on  the 
skirts  of  the  forest,  to  which  lovers  of  this  play  will  always  in 
their  day-dreams  find  their  way,  leaving  to  the  right  "  the  rank 
of  osiers,  by  the  murmuring  stream,"  that  mingled  its  music 
with  the  songs  of  the  birds  and  the  rustling  of  the  forest-leaves. 
In  this  delightful  retreat  one  loves  to  picture  these  two 
charming  women  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  their  new-born 
liberty,  made  more  piquant  by  their  little  secret  and  by  Rosa- 
lind's masquerading  attire.  For  all  her  mannish  dress  and  airs, 
there  was,  of  course,  something  of  a  feminine  character  about 
the  youth.  "The  boy  is  fair,  of  female  favour,"  we  are  told 
later  on,  and,  by  contrast  with  Celia,  "bestows  himself  like 
a  ripe  sister;"  while  Celia  is  "low,  and  browner  than  her 
brother."  Again,  Rosalind's  picture  is  drawn  for  us  by  Phebe, 
and  what  a  picture  it  is ! — 

"  It  is  a  pretty  youth  : — not  very  pretty  : — 
But,  sure,  he's  proud ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes  him  : 
He'll  make  a  proper  man  :  the  best  thing  in  him 
Is  his  complexion  ;  and  faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up. 
He  is  not  tall ;  yet  for  his  years  he's  tall : 
His  leg  is  but  so-so  ;  and  yet  'tis  well : 
There  was  a  pretty  redness  in  his  lip  ; 
A  little  riper  and  more  lusty  red 

Than  that  mixed  in  his  cheek  ;  'twas  just  the  difference 
Betwixt  the  constant  red  and  mingled  damask." 

This  is  as  she  appeared  to  the  rustic  Phebe.  Orlando,  however, 
has  seen  something  finer  and  nobler  in  his  "  heavenly  "  Rosalind 
during  their  brief  meeting  at  the  court.  And  naturally  so,  for 
she  is  then  a  lovely  woman,  and  in  a  woman's  flowing  dress  her 
height  and  carriage  would  make  her  look  fairer  and  more  majestic. 
So  he  ascribes  to  her 


KOSALIND.  255 

"  Helen's  cheek,  but  not  her  heart ; 

Cleopatra's  majesty  ; 
Atalanta's  better  part ; 
Sad  Lucretia's  modesty." 

Add  to  this  fine  health,  fine  spirits,  a  vivid  fancy,  the  courage 
of  a  pure  heart  and  a  frank  generous  nature,  together  with  a 
voice  rich,  melodious,  resonant,  clear,  that  filled  the  air  and  left 
its  tones  lingering  there,  and  the  picture  will  be  complete. 

To  a  nature  such  as  hers,  the  woodland  life  must  have  given 
exquisite  pleasure.  In  her  rambles  a  vision  of  the  young  Orlando 
would  often  mingle  with  her  thoughts,  and  not  unpleasantly. 
His  forlorn  position,  so  like  her  own,  his  bravery,  his  modesty, 
had  made  a  deep  impression  on  her,  and  yet  this  impression  was 
one  which  she  must  have  felt  it  would  be  foolish  to  cherish. 
They  were  now  separated  in  such  a  way  that  their  paths  were 
not  likely  again  to  cross  each  other.  Their  worlds  were  different. 
Her  heart's  fancy  must  therefore  be  put  aside,  forgotten.  How 
long  this  inward  struggle  has  been  going  on,  Shakespeare  does 
not  tell  us — it  could  not  have  been  very  long,  for  Orlando  must 
have  reached  the  glades  of  Arden  soon  after  she  did, — when 
roaming  through  the  forest,  she  comes  across  a  copy  of  verses 
hung  (delightful  defiance  of  local  truth ! )  upon  a  palm-tree. 
Think  of  the  throb  at  her  heart,  as  she  reads  her  own  name 
running  through  every  couplet !  Still  there  are  many  Eosalinds 
in  the  world  ;  and  how  should  he,  of  whom  she  has  been 
dreaming,  even  know  her  name, — or  how  should  he,  of  all  men, 
be  there  in  Arden  1  ~No,  no,  it  must  be  mere  coincidence ;  and 
yet  the  pulse  is  quickened,  the  heart-throb  felt.  Presently  she 
sees  Celia  coming  through  the  wood,  and  she,  too,  is  reading 
verses  in  praise  of  this  unknown  Eosalind.  Although  she  has 
listened  to  every  word  with  panting  eagerness,  Eosalind  affects 
indifference,  taxing  Celia  with  inflicting  upon  her  hearers  "  a 
tedious  homily  of  love."  Before  Celia  answers,  she  sends  Touch- 
stone away,  for  she  has  just  seen  the  author  of  this  homily ,  and 
knows  enough  of  her  cousin's  heart  to  be  sure  that  her  tone  will 
alter  the  moment  she  learns  who  it  is,  and  may  thus  betray  her 
secret  to  the  sharp  eyes  of  "the  roynish  fool."  Untouched  by 
love  herself,  and  so  seeing  only  the  humorous  side  of  the  passion, 


256      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Celia  begins  by  tantalising  Rosalind  with  the  question,  "  Trow 
you  who  hath  done  this  1 "  With  the  same  air  of  affected  in- 
difference Rosalind  replies,  "Is  it  a  man?"  and  at  first  thinks 
Celia  is  only  teasing  her,  when  she  rejoins,  "And  a  chain,  that 
you  once  wore,  about  his  neck  1 "  The  tell-tale  blood  now  rushes 
to  Rosalind's  cheek,  as  she  exclaims,  "  I  pr'ythee,  who  1 "  It 
may  be  Orlando  then  after  all,  and  yet  how  should  it  be1?  Is 
Celia  merely  mocking  her1?  "Nay,  I  pray  thee  now,  with  most 
petitionary  vehemence,  tell  me  who  it  is."  Celia,  unconscious  of 
the  torture  of  suspense  in  which  she  is  keeping  her  cousin,  parries 
all  her  questions.  At  last,  after  what  seems  to  Rosalind  an  age, 
she  owns  that  "  It  is  young  Orlando,  that  tripp'd  up  the  wrestler's 
heels,  and  your  heart,  both  in  an  instant."  Rosalind  will  not 
believe  her,  but  thinks  her  still  mocking.  "Nay,"  she  says, 
"  speak  sad  brow,  and  true  maid."  When  Celia  replies,  "  I'  faith, 
coz,  'tis  he ! "  not  even  yet  can  such  happiness  be  believed. 
Again  the  question  must  be  asked — "  Orlando  1 "  The  name  we 
see  by  this  had  been  often  spoken  between  them.  "  Orlando  !  " 
Celia  answers,  and  this  time  gravely,  for  Rosalind's  emotion  shows 
her  this  is  no  jesting  matter. 

Oh  happiness  beyond  belief,  oh  rapture  irrepressible !  The 
tears  at  this  point  always  welled  up  to  my  eyes,  and  my  whole 
body  trembled.  If  before  Rosalind  had  any  doubt  as  to  the  state 
of  her  own  heart,  from  this  moment  the  doubt  must  have  ended. 
Overwhelmed  as  she  is  at  the  bare  idea  of  Orlando's  being  near, 
the  thought  flashes  upon  her — "  Alas  the  day  !  what  shall  I  do 
with  my  doublet  and  hose  1 "  but  Celia  has  seen  him — he  perhaps 
has  seen  Celia — and  that  perplexing  thought  is  put  aside  in  her 
eagerness  to  learn  full  particulars  about  her  lover. 

' '  What  did  he,  when  thou  saw'st  him  ?  What  said  he  ?  How  look'd  he  ? 
Wherein  went  he  ?  What  makes  he  here  ?  Did  he  ask  for  me  ?  Where 
remains  he  ?  How  parted  he  with  thee  ?  and  when  shalt  thou  see  him 
again  ? " 

These  questions,  all  different,  all  equally  to  the  purpose,  huddled 
with  breathless  eagerness  one  upon  another,  yet  each  with  differ- 
ent meaning  and  urged  with  varying  intonation,  must  all — so 
ravenous  is  her  curiosity — be  answered  "in  one  word."  Well 


ROSALIND.  257 

may  Celia  reply  that  she  must  borrow  for  her  Gargantua's  mouth 
first,  for  "  to  say  ay,  and  no,  to  these  particulars,  is  more  than  to 
answer  in  a  catechism."  But  Rosalind's  questions  are  not  even 
yet  exhausted.  She  must  learn  whether  Orlando  knows  that  she 
is  in  the  forest,  and  in  man's  apparel  1  And  then  comes,  to  sum 
up  all,  the  sweet  little  womanly  question,  "Looks  he  as  freshly 
as  he  did  the  day  he  wrestled  ? "  After  some  further  banter  as 
to  the  general  unreasonableness  of  lovers,  Celia  mentions  that  she 
saw  him  under  a  tree,  where  he  lay  "  stretched  along,"  evidently 
having  no  eyes  for  her  or  any  one,  "  like  a  wounded  knight.  He 
was  furnished  like  a  hunter." 

"  JRos.   0  ominous  !  he  comes  to  kill  my  heart. 

Cel.  I  would  sing  my  song  without  a  burden  :  thou  bring'st  me  out  of 
tune. 

Ros.  Do  you  not  know  I  am  a  woman  ?  when  I  think,  I  must  speak. 
Sweet,  say  on." 

At  this  moment  Orlando  is  seen  approaching  with  Jaqu.es 
through  the  trees.  A  glance  assures  Rosalind  that  it  is  indeed 
he ;  but  now  the  woman's  natural  shyness  at  being  discovered  in 
so  strange  a  dress  comes  over  her.  "  Slink  by  and  note  him," 
she  says;  and  withdrawing  along  with  Celia  to  a  point  where 
she  may  see  and  not  be  seen,  she  listens, — with  what  delight  we 
may  conceive, — to  the  colloquy  in  which  her  lover  more  than 
holds  his  own,  when  the  misanthrope  Jaques  rallies  him  on  being 
in  love,  and  marring  the  forest-trees  "  with  writing  love-songs  in 
their  barks."  On  the  assurance  given  by  Orlando's  answers  that 
she  is  the  very  Rosalind  of  these  songs,  her  heart  leaps  with 
delight.  Not  for  the  world  would  she  have  Orlando  recognise 
her  in  her  unmaidenly  disguise ;  but  now  a  sudden  impulse 
determines  her  to  risk  all,  and  even  to  turn  it  to  account  as  the 
means  of  testing  his  love.  Boldness  must  be  her  friend,  and  to 
avert  his  suspicion,  her  only  course  is  to  put  on  a  "  swashing  and 
a  martial  outside,"  and  to  speak  to  him  "  like  a  saucy  lacquey, 
and  under  that  habit  play  the  knave  with  him."  He  must  not 
be  allowed  for  an  instant  to  surmise  the  "  hidden  woman's  fear  " 
that  lies  in  her  heart.  Besides,  it  is  only  by  resort  to  a  rough 
and  saucy  greeting  and  manner  that  she  could  mask  and  keep 
under  the  trembling  of  her  voice,  and  the  womanly  tremor  of 
R 


258  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

her  limbs.  I  always  give  the  "Do  you  hear,  forester?"  with  a 
defiant  air,  as  much  as  to  say,  What  are  you  doing  here,  you,  a 
stranger,  intruding  in  the  forest  on  those  who  are  "natives  of 
the  place"?  With  such  a  swagger,  too,  that  Orlando  feels 
inclined,  "at  first,  to  turn  round  sharply  upon  the  boy,  as  he  had 
just  done  upon  the  cynical  Jaques.  But  despite  this  swagger, 
verging  almost  upon  insolence,  Orlando  at  once  feels  something 
that  interests  him  in  the  "pretty  youth,"  for  as  he  afterwards 
tells  her  father — 

"  My  lord,  the  first  time  that  I  ever  saw  him, 
Methought  he  was  a  brother  to  your  daughter." 

Once  fairly  launched  on  her  delicate  venture,  Eosalind  does  not 
give  Orlando  time  to  examine  her  appearance  too  closely,  or  to 
question  himself  wherein  this  attraction  lies.  She  engages  him 
in  brilliant  talk  of  a  kind  such  as  he  had  never  before  heard,  but 
which  his  natural  aptitude  and  shrewdness  enable  him  thoroughly 
to  appreciate. 

How  witty  it  all  is,  and  how  directly  bearing  upon  the  topic  of 
his  love,  of  which  she  wishes  to  bring  him  to  speak  more  ! 

"Ros.  I  pray  you,  what  is't  o'clock  ? 

Orl.  You  should  ask  me  what  time  o'  day  ;  there's  no  clock  in  the  forest. 

Ros.  Then  there  is  no  true  lover  in  the  forest ;  else  sighing  every  minute, 
and  groaning  every  hour,  would  detect  the  lazy  foot  of  Time  as  well  as  a 
clock. 

Orl.  And  why  not  the  swift  foot  of  Time  ?     Had  not  that  been  as  proper  ? 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir.  Time  travels  in  divers  paces  with  divers  persons. 
I'll  tell  you  who  Time  ambles  withal,  who  Time  trots  withal,  who  Time  gal- 
lops withal,  and  who  he  stands  still  withal. 

Orl.  I  pr'ythee,  who  doth  he  trot  withal  ? 

Ros.  Marry,  he  trots  hard  with  a  young  maid,  between  the  contract  of 
her  marriage  and  the  day  it  is  solemnised.  If  the  interim  be  but  a  se'n- 
night,  Time's  pace  is  so  hard  that  it  seems  the  length  of  seven  years. 

Orl.  Who  ambles  Time  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  priest  that  lacks  Latin,  and  a  rich  man  that  hath  not  the 
gout ;  for  the  one  sleeps  easily  because  he  cannot  study  and  the  other  lives 
merrily  because  he  feels  no  pain.  .  .  .  These  Time  ambles  withal. 

Orl.  Who  doth  he  gallop  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  a  thief  to  the  gallows  ;  for  though  he  go  as  softly  as  foot  can 
fall,  he  finds  himself  too  soon  there. 

Orl.  Who  stays  it  still  withal  ? 

Ros.  With  lawyers  in  the  vacation  ;  for  they  sleep  between  term  and  term, 
and  then  they  perceive  not  how  Time  moves. " 


KOSALIND.  259 

Strange  that  one  who  gives  himself  out  as  forest-born,  "as 
the  coney  that  you  see  dwell  where  she  is  kindled,"  should 
possess  so  much  knowledge  of  the  world,  so  much  fluency  and 
polish  of  expression.  But  when  Orlando  gives  vent  to  his  sur- 
prise, by  telling  Ganymede  that  his  "  accent  is  something  finer " 
than  was  to  be  purchased  in  so  "  removed  a  dwelling,"  Rosalind, 
after  scarcely  an  instant's  pause,  is  ready  with  her  answer :  "  I 
have  been  told  so  of  many;  but,  indeed,  an  old  religious  uncle 
of  mine  taught  me  to  speak."  She  cannot,  however,  keep  off 
the  theme  that  is  uppermost  in  her  heart,  as  it  is  in  Orlando's, 
so  she  continues, — "  one  that  knew  courtship  too  well,  for  there 
he  fell  in  love."  And  then,  to  throw  Orlando  off  the  scent  of 
her  being  otherwise  than  the  boy  she  seems,  she  adds :  "  I  have 
heard  him  read  many  lectures  against  it ;  and  I  thank  Heaven 
I  am  not  a  woman  to  be  touched  with  so  many  giddy  offences 
as  he  hath  generally  taxed  their  whole  sex  withal."  By  this 
time  Orlando's  attention  is  thoroughly  arrested.  The  note  has 
been  touched  that  is  all  music  for  him — Woman.  For  him  at 
that  moment  there  was  but  one  in  the  world,  and  what  "giddy 
offence  "  could  be  truly  laid  to  her  charge  1  He  will  learn,  how- 
ever, if  he  can,  some  of  the  "principal  evils"  imputed  to  her 
sex.  When  Rosalind  replies  with  witty  promptitude,  "  There 
were  none  principal ;  they  were  all  like  one  another  as  half- 
pence are :  every  one  fault  seeming  monstrous,  till  its  fellow 
fault  came  to  match  it,"  he  entreats  her  to  recount  some  of 
them.  What  an  opening  here  for  her  to  put  her  lover  to  the 
test,  to  hear  him  say  all  that  a  woman  most  longs  to  hear  from 
him  she  loves,  while  he  is  all  the  while  ignorant  that  he  is  laying 
bare  his  heart  before  her  ! 

"  No,"  she  rejoins,  "  I  will  not  cast  away  my  physic,  but  upon  those  that 
are  sick.  There  is  a  man  haunts  the  forest,  that  abuses  our  young  plants 
with  carving  '  Rosalind '  on  their  barks  " — (she  has  just  heard  Jaques  say 
he  did  so,  but  obviously  says  this  merely  upon  his  report), — "hangs  odes 
upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies  on  brambles :  all,  forsooth,  deifying  the  name 
of  Rosalind  :  if  I  could  meet  that  fancy -monger,  I  would  give  him  some  good 
counsel,  for  he  seems  to  have  the  quotidian  of  love  upon  him." 

Poor  Orlando,  racked  by  what  he  believes  to  be  a  hopeless 
passion,  would  fain  be  helped  to  overcome  the  love-sickness 


260     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

that  consumes  him.  With  what  secret  joy  Eosalind  hears  his 
avowal !  "  I  am  he  that  is  so  love-shaked ;  I  pray  you,  tell  me 
your  remedy."  But  she  is  determined  he  shall  say  as  much 
again  and  again — for  what  words  are  so  sweet  to  her  ear  1 — and 
so  she  affects  to  disbelieve  him,  telling  him  he  has  none  of  her 
uncle's  marks  upon  him, — the  lean  cheek,  the  blue  eye  and 
sunken,  the  beard  neglected,  the  hose  ungartered,  the  bonnet 
unhanded,  the  sleeve  unbuttoned,  the  general  air  of  "careless 
desolation,"  which  are  supposed  to  denote  the  man  in  love. 
"  But  you  are  no  such  man ;  you  are  rather  point-device  in 
your  accoutrements ;  as  loving  yourself  rather  than  seeming 
the  lover  of  any  other."  His  earnest  protest,  "Fair  youth,  I 
would  I  could  make  thee  believe  I  love,"  only  provokes  the 
further  teasing  remark,  "  Me  believe  it !  you  may  as  soon  make 
her  that  you  love  believe  it ; "  and  then,  incapable  of  resisting 
the  humour  of  the  situation,  she  adds,  "which,  I  warrant,  she 
is  apter  to  do  than  to  confess  she  does :  that  is  one  of  the  points 
in  the  which  women  still  give  the  lie  to  their  consciences." 
She  sees  that  Orlando  is  rather  dashed  by  this  sarcastic  remark, 
possibly  pained,  but  she  knows  she  holds  the  remedy  for  his  pain 
in  her  own  hands ;  and  she  puts  him  at  his  ease  again  by  asking, 
with  a  softened  voice — 

"But,  in  good  sooth,  are  you  he  that  hangs  the  verses  on  the  trees, 
wherein  Rosalind  is  so  admired. 

Orl.  I  swear  to  thee,  youth,  by  the  white  hand  of  Rosalind,  I  arn  that  he, 
that  unfortunate  he. 

Ros.  But  are  you  so  much  in  love  as  your  rhymes  speak  ? 

Orl.  Neither  rhyme  nor  reason  can  express  how  much." 

Oh,  how  intently  has  she  watched  for  that  answer !  with  what 
secret  rapture  heard  it !  But  he  must  discern  nothing  of  this. 
So,  turning  carelessly  away,  and  smiling  inwardly  to  think  that 
she  is  herself  an  illustration  of  what  she  says,  she  exclaims — 

"  Love  is  merely  a  madness,  and,  I  tell  you,  deserves  as  well  a  dark  house 
and  a  whip  as  madmen  do :  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  punished 
and  cured  is,  that  the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary  that  the  whippers  are  in  love 
too." 

But  now,  coming  back  to  the  plan  which  has  sprung  up  in  her 
heart  for  riveting  still  closer  Orlando's  devotion,  she  adds — 


ROSALIND.  261 

"  Yet  I  profess  curing  it  by  counsel. 

Orl.  Did  you  ever  cure  any  so  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  one,  and  in  this  manner.  He  was  to  imagine  me  his  love,  his 
mistress  ;  and  I  set  him  every  day  to  woo  me  :  At  which  time  would  I,  being 
but  a  moonish  youth,  grieve,  be  effeminate,  changeable,  longing,  and  liking, 
proud,  fantastical,  apish,  shallow,  inconstant,  full  of  tears,  full  of  smiles,  for 
every  passion  something  and  for  no  passion  truly  anything,  as  boys  and 
women  are  for  the  most  part  cattle  of  this  colour  ;  would  now  like  him, 
now  loath  him  ;  then  entertain  him,  then  forswear  him  ;  .  .  .  that  I  drave 
my  suitor  from  his  mad  humour  of  love  to  a  living  humour  of  madness ; 
which  was, — to  forswear  the  full  stream  of  the  world  and  to  live  in  a  nook 
merely  monastic.  And  thus  I  cured  him  ;  and  this  way  will  I  take  upon 
me  to  wash  your  liver  as  clean  as  a  sound  sheep's  heart,  that  there  shall  not 
be  one  spot  of  love  in't." 

In  the  range  of  Shakespearian  comedy  there  is  probably  no 
passage  that  demands  more  subtle  treatment  in  the  actress  than 
this.  Rosalind's  every  faculty  is  quickened  by  delight,  and  this 
delight  breaks  out  into  a  witty  picture  of  all  the  wayward  coquet- 
tishness  that  has  ever  been  imputed  to  her  sex.  She  rushes  into 
this  vein  of  humorous  detraction,  in  order  to  keep  up  the  show 
of  curing  Orlando  of  his  passion  by  a  picture  of  some  of  their 
"  giddy  offences."  Note  the  aptness,  the  exquisite  suggestiveness 
and  variety  of  every  epithet,  which,  woman  as  she  is,  she  is  irre- 
sistibly moved  to  illustrate  and  enforce  by  suitable  changes  of 
intonation  and  expression.  But  note  also,  so  ready  is  her  in- 
telligence, that  she  does  not  forget  to  keep  up  the  illusion  about 
herself,  by  throwing  in  the  phrase,  that  boys  as  well  as  women 
"  are  for  the  most  part  cattle  of  this  colour."  All  the  playful- 
ness, the  wit,  the  sarcasm  bubble  up,  sparkle  after  sparkle,  with 
bewildering  rapidity.  Can  we  wonder  they  should  work  a  charm 
upon  Orlando?  What,  he  thinks,  might  a  gifted  creature  like 
this  not  do  1  What  if  the  boy  were  indeed  able  to  accomplish 
what  he  has  said  he  could  ?  No,  that  would  be  to  rob  life  of 
all  that  made  life  worth  ;  so  he  replies,  "  I  would  not  be  cured, 
youth  ! "  And  yet  there  is  a  certain  mysterious  fascination  which 
draws  him  on  ;  and  when  this  strangely  imperious  youth  rejoins, 
with  an  air  of  unhesitating  confidence,  "I  would  cure  you,  if 
you  would  but  call  me  Rosalind  " — how  she  would  linger  on  the 
name  ! — "  and  come  every  day  to  my  cote,  and  woo  me  ; "  he 
can  but  answer — "  Now,  by  the  faith  of  my  love,  I  will :  tell 


262  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

me  where  it  is."  She  will  show  it  to  him  at  once,  and  by  the 
way  he  shall  "tell  her  where  in  the  forest  he  lives."  And 
when  to  her  invitation,  "  Will  you  go  1 "  he  replies,  "  "With  all 
my  heart,  good  youth,"  she  begins  the  remedial  lesson  by  telling 
him  archly,  with  a  playful  smile  that  goes  to  his  heart — "  Nay, 
you  must  call  me  Eosalind."  And  turning  to  Celia,  who  must 
have  seen  with  no  small  amazement  the  unexpected  development 
of  her  cousin's  character  in  this  dialogue,  calls  to  her  to  go  home 
with  them. 

I  need  scarcely  say  how  necessary  it  is  for  the  actress  in  this 
scene,  while  carrying  it  through  with  a  vivacity  and  dash  that 
shall  avert  from  Orlando's  mind  every  suspicion  of  her  sex,  to 
preserve  a  refinement  of  tone  and  manner  suitable  to  a  woman 
of  Rosalind's  high  station  and  cultured  intellect ;  and  by  occa- 
sional tenderness  of  action  and  sweet  persuasiveness  of  look  to 
indicate  how  it  is  that,  even  at  the  outset,  she  establishes  a  hold 
upon  Orlando's  feelings,  which  in  their  future  intercourse  in  the 
forest  deepens,  without  his  being  sensibly  conscious  of  it,  his 
love  for  the  Rosalind  of  his  dreams.  I  never  approached  this 
scene  without  a  sort  of  pleasing  dread,  so  strongly  did  I  feel 
the  difficulty  and  the  importance  of  striking  the  true  note  in  it. 
Yet,  when  once  engaged  in  the  scene,  I  was  borne  along  I  knew 
not  how.  The  situation,  in  its  very  strangeness,  was  so  delight- 
ful to  my  imagination,  that  from  the  moment  when  I  took  the 
assurance  from  Orlando's  words  to  Jaques,  that  his  love  was  as 
absolute  as  woman  could  desire,  I  seemed  to  lose  myself  in  a 
sense  of  exquisite  enjoyment.  A  thrill  passed  through  me ;  I 
felt  my  pulse  beat  quicker ;  my  very  feet  seemed  to  dance  under 
me.  That  Rosalind  should  forget  her  first  woman's  fears  about 
her  "doublet  and  hose"  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.  Speak  to  Orlando  she  must  at  any  hazard.  But  oh,  the 
joy  of  getting  him  to  pour  out  all  his  heart,  without  knowing 
that  it  was  his  "  very  Rosalind  "  to  whom  he  talked, — of  prov- 
ing if  he  were  indeed  worthy  of  her  love,  and  testing,  at  the 
same  time,  the  depth  and  sincerity  of  her  own  devotion !  The 
device  to  which  she  resorted  seemed  to  suggest  itself  irresistibly ; 
and,  armed  with  Shakespeare's  words,  it  was  an  intense  pleasure 
to  try  to  give  expression  to  the  archness,  the  wit,  the  quick 


ROSALIND.  263 

ready  intellect,  the  ebullient  fancy,  with  the  tenderness  underly- 
ing all,  which  gave  to  this  scene  its  transcendent  charm.  Of  all 
the  scenes  in  this  exquisite  play,  while  this  is  the  most  wonder- 
ful, it  is  for  the  actress  certainly  the  most  difficult. 

How  mistaken,  I  think,  is  the  opinion  of  those  who  maintain 
that  Shakespeare  was  governed,  in  drawing  his  heroines,  by  the 
fact  that  they  were  acted  by  boys,  and  that  this  was  one  of  his 
reasons  for  choosing  stories  in  which  they  had  to  assume  male 
attire !  As  if  Imogen,  Viola,  and  Eosalind  were  not  "  pure 
women  "  to  the  very  core ;  as  if,  indeed,  this  were  not  the  secret 
of  the  way  in  which  they  win  the  hearts  of  those  whom  they 
meet.  Their  disguise  is  never  surmised,  not  even  by  their  own 
sex,  for  Olivia  falls  passionately  in  love  with  Viola,  and  Phebe 
with  Eosalind ;  and  how  markedly  is  Shakespeare's  genius  shown 
by  the  difference  of  the  way  this  circumstance  is  handled  in  the 
case  of  each !  Viola,  gentle,  self-sacrificing,  generous,  but  with 
no  spark  of  the  heroic  in  her  nature,  sees  the  humorous  absur- 
dity of  being  wooed  by  a  lady ;  but  she  is  more  perplexed  than 
amused  by  it.  She  neither  struggles  against  her  own  unrequited 
love,  nor  makes  an  effort  to  win  requital  for  it.  But,  if  placed 
in  Viola's  situation,  Eosalind's  mother- wit  and  high  spirit  would, 
I  fancy,  have  enabled  her  to  extricate  herself  handsomely.  At 
all  events,  if,  like  Viola,  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  Duke 
Orsino,  the  attractions  of  Olivia  which  fascinated  that  dreamy 
personage  would  have  grown  daily  fainter  before  the  address,  and 
vivacity,  and  bright  intelligence  of  such  a  woman  as  Eosalind. 
By  the  time  the  discovery  of  her  sex  was  made,  his  heart  would 
have  gone  clean  out  of  him,  for  he  was  capable  of  loving  a  noble 
woman  nobly.  How  fine  is  his  phrase,  "  Heaven  walks  on  earth  " 
(Act  v.  sc.  1),  as  he  sees  Olivia  approaching!  It  would  have 
been  to  his  lips,  and  not  to  Viola's,  that  words  laden  with  pas- 
sion would  have  risen  on  discovering  her  sex, — he  would  have 
clasped  her  to  his  breast  with  irrepressible  eagerness,  instead  of 
coldly  giving  her  his  hand,  with  the  chilling  request — 

"  Give  me  thy  hand, 
And  let  ine  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds." 

Eosalind  was  not  one  to  care  for  being  loved  in  this  stately 


264  SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

fashion,  nor  indeed  for  being  taken  up  on  any  terms  at  second- 
hand. In  her  eyes,  one  of  the  chief  attractions  of  Orlando  was 
that  his  love  was  a  first  love,  unsophisticated  by  any  mixture  of 
personal  vanity  or  of  selfish  interest.  His  feeling,  as  he  thinks 
of  her,  she  sees,  is  the  same  as  that  of  Helena  in  All's  Well  that 
Ends  Well— 

"'Twere  all  one, 

That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star 
And  think  to  wed  it,  she  is  so  above  me." 

And  this  feeling  is  made  more  precious  to  Eosalind  by  her  own 
consciousness  of  the  complete  conquest  he  has  made  of  her  own 
heart.  Very  woman  as  she  is,  she  cannot  help  showing  this  in 
the  next  scene  in  which  we  see  her.  Orlando  has  not  kept  a 
promise  to  be  with  her  that  morning,  and  she  is  "  in  the  very 
height  of  heart-heaviness  "  in  consequence.  In  vain  Celia  tries 
to  laugh  her  out  of  her  depression.  To  Celia  his  absence  is  easily 
to  be  accounted  for.  She  has  learned  he  is  in  attendance  on  the 
banished  Duke,  and  that,  being  so,  he  is  not  master  of  his  own 
time.  But  not  till  she  has  teased  Rosalind  by  maintaining  that 
"there  is  no  truth  in  him,"  that  she  does  not  think  he  is  in 
love,  and,  "besides,  the  oath  of  a  lover  is  no  stronger  than  the 
word  of  a  tapster :  they  are  both  the  confirmer  of  false  reckon- 
ings," does  she  suggest  such  an  explanation.  In  this  Eosalind 
manifestly  finds  some  ease;  she  turns  from  the  subject  to  tell 
Celia — 

"  I  met  the  Duke  yesterday,  and  had  much  question  with  him.  He  asked 
me  of  what  parentage  I  was  ;  I  told  him,  of  as  good  as  he  ;  so  he  laughed, 
and  let  me  go.  But  what  talk  we  of  fathers,  when  there  is  such  a  man  as 
Orlando  ? " 

What  a  world  of  passionate  emotion  is  concentrated  in  that  last 
sentence,  and  how  important  it  is  to  bear  this  in  mind  in  the 
subsequent  scenes  with  Orlando ! 

At  this  point  Rosalind's  thoughts  are  turned  into  a  new  chan- 
nel by  the  arrival  of  old  Corin,  who  comes  to  tell  them  that  "  the 
shepherd  that  complained  of  love,"  after  whom  they  have  often 
inquired,  is  now  with  "the  proud  disdainful  shepherdess  that 
was  his  mistress";  and  that  if  they 


KOSALIND.  265 

"  Will  see  a  pageant  truly  play'd, 
Between  the  pale  complexion  of  true  love 
And  the  red  glow  of  scorn  and  proud  disdain," 

he  will  take  them  to  the  place.  Rosalind  jumps  at  the  sugges- 
tion, for 

"  The  sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love. 

Bring  us  to  this  sight,  and  you  shall  s&y, 

I'll  prove  a  busy  actor  in  their  play." 

Herself  loving  deeply,  and  prizing  a  good  man's  love  as  her  best 
treasure,  she  is  in  no  mood  to  be  tolerant  of  the  scornful  cruelty 
shown  by  Phebe  to  Silvius,  of  which  in  the  scene  that  ensues  she 
is  an  unseen  witness.  At  the  same  time,  his  love-sickness,  which 
has  taken  all  the  manhood  out  of  him,  inspires  her  with  some- 
thing not  very  far  from  contempt.  But  the  poor  fellow  pleads 
his  cause  well.  His  passion  is  genuine,  and  his  words  are  echoes 
of  a  feeling  in  her  own  heart : — 

"  0  dear  Phebe, 

If  ever  (as  that  ever  may  be  near) 
You  meet  in  some  fresh  cheek  the  power  of  fancy, 
Then  shall  you  know  the  wounds  invisible 
That  love's  keen  arrows  make. " 

They  merited  at  least  a  gentle  answer ;  and  when  Phebe  heart- 
lessly replies — 

"But  till  that  time, 

Come  thou  not  near  me  :  and  when  that  time  comes, 

Afflict  me  with  thy  mocks,  pity  me  not ; 

As,  till  that  time,  I  shall  not  pity  thee"— 

Eosalind  can  restrain  herself  no  longer,  and  breaks  in  upon  the 
speakers.  In  what  ensues  she  seems  to  me  to  show  something 
of  that  quality,  characteristic  of  princely  blood  and  training, 
which,  without  directly  claiming  deference,  somehow  commands 
it,  and  which  is  frequently  exemplified  in  the  progress  of  the 
play  :— 

"  Ros.  And  why,  I  pray  you  ?     Who  might  be  your  mother, 
That  you  insult,  exult,  and  all  at  once, 
Over  the  wretched  ?     What  though  you  have  some  beauty, 
(As,  by  my  faith,  I  see  no  more  in  you, 
Than  without  candle  may  go  dark  to  bed, ) 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless  ?  " 


266  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

How  great  must  have  been  the  charm  of  the  seeming  boy,  when 
the  haughty  rustic  beauty  does  not  fire  up  at  such  a  rebuke  as 
this !  Yet  there  she  stands,  breathless,  all  eyes,  all  admiration. 
Eosalind  continues : — 

"  Why,  what  means  this  ?     Why  do  you  look  on  me  ? 
I  see  no  more  in  you  than  in  the  ordinary 
Of  nature's  sale-work.     'Od's  my  little  life, 
I  think  she  means  to  tangle  my  eyes  too  ! 
No,  faith,  proud  mistress,  hope  not  after  it : 
"Pis  not  your  inky  brows,  your  black  silk  hair, 
Your  bugle  eyeballs,  nor  your  cheek  of  cream, 
That  can  entame  my  spirits  to  your  worship." 

With  her  wonted  readiness  of  wit  she  follows  up  this  vivid  pic- 
ture of  commonplace  beauty  by  words  that,  while  giving  encour- 
agement to  Silvius,  are  cleverly  designed  to  take  some  of  Phebe's 
conceit  out  of  her  : — 

"  You  foolish  shepherd,  wherefore  do  you  follow  her  ?     .     .     . 
You  are  a  thousand  times  a  properer  man 
Than  she  a  woman  :  'tis  such  fools  as  you 
That  make  the  world  full  of  ill-favoured  children : 
'Tis  not  her  glass,  but  you,  that  flatters  her.     .     .     . 
But,  mistress,  know  yourself :  down  on  your  knees, 
And  thank  heaven,  fasting,  for  a  good  man's  love  : 
For  I  must  tell  you  friendly  in  your  ear, — 
Sell  when  you  can  :  you  are  not  for  all  markets. " 

Then  with  a  softer  tone,  almost  entreatingly  she  adds — 

"  Cry  the  man  mercy  ;  love  him  ;  take  his  offer  :     .     . 
So  take  her  to  thee,  shepherd  :  fare  you  well." 

But  Phebe  has  by  this  time  "  felt  the  power  of  fancy "  too 
strongly  to  let  the  interview  break  off  so  soon.  "  Sweet  youth," 
she  exclaims,  as  she  runs  after  to  detain  him, 

"  I  pray  you,  chide  a  year  together  ;  I  had  rather  hear  you  chide  than  this 
man  woo." 

The  situation  is  becoming  too  absurd.  The  tables  have  indeed 
been  turned  upon  Phebe.  With  all  her  sense  of  humour  Rosa- 
lind, as  a  woman,  could  not  but  feel  some  pity  for  her,  as  Viola 


EOSALIND.  267 

does  for  Olivia.  She  must  be  told  at  once,  and  in  unmistakable 
terms,  to  put  all  thought  of  Ganymede  out  of  her  head : — 

"  fios.  I  pray  you,  do  not  fall  in  love  with  me, 
For  I  am  falser  than  vows  made  in  wine. 
Besides,  I  like  you  not. 

Will  you  go,  sister  ?     Shepherd  [aside  to  him],  ply  her  hard. 
Come,  sister.     Shepherdess  [aside  to  her],  look  on  him  better, 
And  be  not  proud  :  though  all  the  world  could  see, 
None  could  be  so  abused  in  sight  as  he." 

I  have  already  called  attention  to  the  picture  of  the  boy  Gany- 
mede drawn  for  us  by  Phebe,  after  he  has  left  her.  It  is  not 
merely  the  beauty  of  his  person  that  strikes  her ;  she  feels  the 
distinction  of  his  bearing, — the  unconscious  imperiousness  of  Rosa- 
lind, the  princess — "  Sure,  he's  proud ;  and  yet  his  pride  becomes 
him  " — and  how  this  is  blended  with  a  strange  tenderness,  that 
tempers  the  severity  of  his  rebuke  to  herself,  for 

"  Faster  than  his  tongue 
Did  make  offence,  his  eye  did  heal  it  up." 

In  this  scene,  as  elsewhere,  the  woman's  heart  modifies  the  keen- 
ness of  Eosalind's  wit,  and  the  combination  makes  her  ascendancy 
over  all  those  she  cares  for  more  complete. 

But  when  we  see  her  next,  at  the  opening  of  the  fourth  act, 
in  colloquy  with  Jaques,  her  intellect  alone  is  called  into  play, 
and  the  cynic  comes  off  second-best  in  the  encounter.  He,  too, 
feels  the  attraction  of  the  young  Ganymede,  and  would  fain  be 
intimate  with  him; — "I  prithee,  pretty  youth,  let  me  be  better 
acquainted  with  thee."  To  Eosalind  this  patronising  address 
would  be  far  from  agreeable.  By  a  natural  instinct  she  recoils, 
as  we  have  previously  seen  Orlando  recoil,  from  the  society  of 
a  man  who  has  exhausted  the  zest  for  life  in  years  of  sensual 
indulgence,  and  who  sees  only  the  dark  side  of  human  nature 
and  of  the  world,  because  he  has  squandered  his  means  and  used 
up  his  finest  sensations.  She  has  heard  of  him  and  his  morbid 
moralisings,  and  so  replies — 

"  They  say  you  are  a  melancholy  fellow." 


268  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Her  healthy  common-sense  is  roused  by  his  answer,  "  that  he  is  so, 
and  that  he  loves  it  better  than  laughing,"  and  she  replies — 

"  Those  that  are"  in  the  extremity  of  either  are  abominable  fellows  ;  and 
betray  themselves  to  every  modern  censure  worse  than  drunkards. 
Jaq.  Why,  'tis  good  to  be  sad  and  say  nothing. 
Ros.  Why,  then,  'tis  good  to  be  a  post." 

Jaques  then  runs  off  into  his  famous  definition  of  the  varieties  of 
melancholy,  winding  up — self-complacent  egotist  as  he  is,  always 
referring  everything  to  himself  and  his  own  perverted  experiences 
— with  the  intimation,  that  "  indeed  the  sundry  contemplation  of 
his  travels,  in  which  his  often  rumination  wraps  him,  is  a  most 
humorous  sadness."  This  answer  in  no. way  increases  Rosalind's 
respect.  "  A  traveller  ! "  she  exclaims — 

"  By  my  faith,  you  have  great  reason  to  be  sad  :  I  fear  you  have  sold  your 
own  lands  to  see  other  men's  ;  then,  to  have  seen  much  and  to  have  nothing, 
is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor  hands. 

Jaq.  Yes,  I  have  gained  my  experience. 

Ros.  And  your  experience  makes  you  sad :  I  had  rather  have  a  fool  to 
make  me  merry,  than  experience  to  make  me  sad ;  and  to  travel  for  it 
too  !  " 


unused  to  be  picked  to  pieces  in  this  way, — for  the 
people  about  the  banished  Duke,  though  amused  by  this  mop- 
ing philosopher's  churlish  temper,  seem  to  stand  rather  in  awe 
of  it, — is  glad  to  take  the  opportunity  afforded  by  Orlando's 
appearance  to  escape  from  the  "pretty  youth,"  whom  he  has 
found  to  be  so  unexpectedly  formidable.  But  Rosalind  cannot 
refrain  from  sending  after  him  some  further  shafts  from  her 
quiver : — 

"  Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller  :  look  you  lisp  and  wear  strange  suits,  dis- 
able all  the  benefits  of  your  own  country,  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity, 
and  almost  chide  Heaven  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are,  or  I 
will  scarce  think  you  have  swum  in  a  gondola." 

Not  till  she  has  seen  Jaques  fairly  out  of  hearing  does  she  turn 
to  Orlando,  who  has  by  this  time  thoroughly  learned  the  first 
lesson  she  had  set  him.  He  accosts  her  throughout  the  scene  as 
"  dear  Rosalind,"  "  fair  Rosalind,"  and  never  trips  into  speaking 
to  the  boy  otherwise  than  as  the  lady  of  his  love.  His  visits 


ROSALIND.  269 

to  the  sheepcote,  we  see,  have  been  frequent,  but  the  promised 
cure  has  clearly  made  no  progress.  The  feminine  waywardness 
with  which  the  boy  menaced  him  has  served  only  to  establish  a 
sweet,  and,  to  him,  mysterious  control  over  his  heart  and  will. 
Again  he  has  failed  in  coming  at  the  appointed  hour.  See  how 
she  punishes  him  for  the  little  pang  of  disappointment  he  has 
caused  her ! — 

"  Why,  how  now,  Orlando  !  where  have  you  been  all  this  while  ?  You  a 
lover  !  An  you  serve  me  such  another  trick,  never  come  in  my  sight  more. 

Orl.  My  fair  Rosalind,  I  come  within  an  hour  of  my  promise. 

Ros.  Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love  !  He  that  will  divide  a  minute  into 
a  thousand  parts,  and  break  but  a  part  of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute 
in  the  affairs  of  love,  it  may  be  said  of  him  that  Cupid  hath  clapped  him  o' 
the  shoulder,  but  I'll  warrant  him  heart-whole. 

Orl.   Pardon  me,  dear  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Nay,  an  you  be  so  tardy,  come  no  more  in  my  sight :  I  had  as  lief  be 
wooed  of  a  snail. 

Orl.  Of  a  snail  ? 

Ros.  Ay,  of  a  snail ;  for  though  he  comes  slowly,  he  carries  his  house  on 
his  head  ;  a  better  jointure,  I  think,  than  you  can  make  a  woman." 

And  now  we  are  to  see  how  Rosalind  carries  out  in  practice  her 
own  suddenly  devised  fiction  of  the  way  she  once  cured  a  lover 
of  his  passion — by  being  effeminate,  changeable,  "full  of  tears, 
full  of  smiles,  would  now  like  him,  now  loathe  him,  now  enter- 
tain, now  forswear  him."  She  throws  aside  her  first  mood  of 
pouting  and  banter.  Her  own  heart  is  brimful  of  happy  love, 
and  only  by  variety  of  mood  and  volubility  of  utterance  can  she 
keep  down  its  emotion.  "  Come,  woo  me  !  "  she  exclaims.  See- 
ing Orlando  taken  aback  by  the  suddenness  of  this  invitation, 
she  repeats  it :  "  Woo  me ;  for  now  I  am  in  a  holiday  humour, 
and  like  enough  to  consent."  Still  he  hangs  back;  but  she  is 
not  to  be  foiled  in  her  determination  to  make  him  play  the  lover, 
so  she  adds — "  What  would  you  say  to  me  now,  an  I  were  your 
very  very  Rosalind  1 "  This  brings  from  him  the  laughing  answer, 
"  I  would  kiss  before  I  spoke."  "  Nay,"  she  rejoins,  "  you  were 
better  speak  first,  and  when  you  were  gravelled  for  lack  of  matter, 
you  might  take  occasion  to  kiss."  After  some  more  badinage  on 
this  theme,  Rosalind  turns  suddenly  upon  Orlando  with  the 
question — "Am  not  I  your  Rosalind?"  and  as  she  does  so,  her 


270  SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

voice,  I  fancy,  vibrates  with  feeling  she  finds  it  hard  to  conceal. 
But  this  vein  is  dangerous ;  and  when  Orlando  answers,  "  I  take 
some  joy  to  say  you  are,  because  I  would  be  talking  of  her,"  she 
dashes  off  again  into  her  playful  mocking  mood,  with  the  words, 
"Well,  in  her  person  I  say  I  will  not  have  you."  This  elicits 
from  Orlando  the  very  avowal  for  which  she  yearns — "  Then  in 
mine  own  person  I  die  ! "  But  the  opening  thus  offered  to  her  to 
profess  a  disbelief,  which  she  does  not  feel,  in  the  sincerity  of  all 
such  protestations  is  not  to  be  lost,  and  her  fancy  revels  in  throw- 
ing ridicule  upon  the  model  heroes  of  romantic  love  : — 

"No,  faith,  die  by  attorney.  The  poor  world  is  almost  six  thousand  years 
old,  and  in  all  this  time  there  was  not  any  man  died  in  his  own  person, 
videlicet,  in  a  love-cause.  Troilus  had  his  brains  dashed  out  with  a  Grecian 
club  ;  yet  he  did  what  he  could  to  die  before  ;  and  he  is  one  of  the  patterns 
of  love.  Leander,  he  would  have  lived  many  a  fair  year  though  Hero  had 
turned  nun,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  hot  mid-summer  night ;  for,  good  youth, 
he  went  but  forth  to  wash  him  in  the  Hellespont,  and  being  taken  with  the 
cramp  was  drowned  :  and  the  foolish  chroniclers  of  that  age  found  it  was — 
Hero  of  Sestos.  But  these  are  all  lies :  men  have  died  from  time  to  time, 
and  worms  have  eaten  them,  but  not  for  love. 

Orl.  I  would  not  have  my  right  Rosalind  of  this  mind  :  for,  I  protest,  her 
frown  might  kill  me." 

Eosalind's  rejoinder,  "By  this  hand,  it  will  not  kill  a  fly," 
should,  I  think,  be  given  with  a  marked  change  of  intonation, 
sufficient  to  indicate  that,  notwithstanding  all  the  wild  raillery 
of  her  former  speech,  there  is  in  herself  a  vein  of  tenderness 
which  would  make  it  impossible  for  her  to  inflict  pain  deliber- 
ately. We  should  be  made  to  feel  the  woman  just  for  the 
moment, — before  she  passes  op.  to  her  next  words,  which,  playful 
as  they  are,  lead  her  on  unawares  to  what  I  believe  was  regarded 
by  her  as  a  very  real  climax  to  this  sportive  wooing : — 

"  But  come,  now  I  will  be  your  Rosalind  in  a  more  coming-on  disposition  ; 
and  ask  me  what  you  will,  I  will  grant  it. 
Orl.  Then  love  me,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  Yes,  faith,  will  I— Fridays  and  Saturdays,  and  all. 
Orl.  And  wilt  thou  have  me  ? 
Ros.  Ay,  and  twenty  such. 
Orl.  What  say'st  thou  ? 
Ros.  Are  you  not  good  ? 
Orl.  I  hope  so. 
Ros.  Why,  then,  can  one  desire  too  much  of  a  good  thing  ?  " 


KOSALIND.  271 

Who  does  not  feel  through  all  this  exuberance  of  sportive 
raillery  the  strong  emotion  which  is  palpitating  at  the  speaker's 
heart1?  She  has  proved  and  is  assured  of  Orlando's  devotion, 
and  now  she  will  plight  her  troth  to  him — irrevocably,  as  she 
knows,  but  as  he  does  not  know.  Turning  to  Celia,  she  says  : — 

"Come,  sister,  you  shall  be  the  priest,  and  marry  us.     Give  me  your 
hand,  Orlando.     What  do  you  say,  sister  ? 
Orl.  Pray  thee,  marry  us.     ... 

Ros.  You  must  begin, —  'Will  you,  Orlando ' 

Cel.  Go  to.     Will  you,  Orlando,  have  to  wife  this  Rosalind  ? 

Orl.  I  will. 

Ros.  Ay,  but  when  ? 

Orl.  Why  now  ;  as  fast  as  she  can  marry  us. 

Ros.  Then  you  must  say, — '  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. ' 

Orl.  I  take  thee,  Rosalind,  for  wife. 

Itos.  I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband." 

It  is  not  merely  in  pastime,  I  feel  assured,  that  Eosalind  has 
been  made  by  Shakespeare  to  put  these  words  into  Orlando's 
mouth.  This  is  for  her  a  marriage,  though  no  priestly  formality 
goes  with  it ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  actress  should  show 
this  by  a  certain  tender  earnestness  of  look  and  voice,  as  she 
replies  "I  do  take  thee,  Orlando,  for  my  husband."  I  could 
never  speak  these  words  without  a  trembling  of  the  voice,  and 
the  involuntary  rushing  of  happy  tears  to  the  eyes,  which  made 
it  necessary  for  me  to  turn  my  head  away  from  Orlando.  But, 
for  fear  of  discovery,  this  momentary  emotion  had  to  be  over- 
come, and  turned  off  by  carrying  his  thoughts  into  a  different 
channel.  Still  Eosalind's  gravity  of  look  and  intonation  will  not 
have  quite  passed  away — for  has  she  not  taken  the  most  solemn 
step  a  woman  can  take  1 — as  she  continues — 

"Ros.  Now  tell  me  how  long  you  would  love  her,  after  you  have  pos- 
sessed her  ? 

Orl.  For  ever  and  a  day. 

Ros.  Say  a  day  without  the  ever.  No,  no,  Orlando  ;  men  are  April  when 
they  woo,  December  when  they  wed  :  maids  are  May  when  they  are  maids, 
but  the  sky  changes  when  they  are  wives." 

Here,  however,  Kosalind  finds  herself  running  into  a  strain  of 
serious  earnest,  with  too  much  of  the  apprehensive  woman  in  it  ; 
so  she  takes  up  her  former  cue  of  exaggerating  the  capriciousness 
of  her  own  sex  : — 


272      SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHAKACTERS: 

"  I  will  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  a  Barbary  cock-pigeon  over  his  hen  ; 
more  clamorous  than  a  parrot  against  rain  ;  more  new-fangled  than  an  ape  ; 
more  giddy  in  my  desires  than  a  monkey  :  I  will  weep  for  nothing,  like 
Diana  in  the  fountain,  and  I  will  do  that  when  you  are  disposed  to  be  merry  ; 
I  will  laugh  like  a  hyena,  and  that  when  thou  art  inclined  to  sleep. 

Orl.  But  will  my  Rosalind  do  so  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  she  will  do  as  I  do. 

Orl.  0,  but  she  is  wise. 

Ros.  Or  else  she  could  not  have  the  wit  to  do  this  :  the  wiser  the  way- 
warder  :  make  the  doors  upon  a  woman's  wit,  and  it  will  out  at  the  case- 
ment ;  shut  that,  and  'twill  out  at  the  keyhole  ;  stop  that,  'twill  fly  with 
the  smoke  out  at  the  chimney." 

Bosalind  through  all  this  scene  is  like  the  bird  "  that  cannot 
get  out  its  song  "  for  very  joy.  She  dares  not  give  direct  vent 
to  the  happiness  that  fills  her  heart,  and  so  she  seeks  relief  by 
letting  her  fancy  run  riot  in  these  playful  exaggerations.  We 
feel  how  these  flashes  of  sprightly  fancy,  that  amuse  even  while 
they  bewilder  him,  all  help  to  weave  a  spell  of  fascination 
around  Orlando's  heart.  Eosalind  sees  this,  and  revelling  in  her 
triumph,  pursues  to  the  uttermost  the  course  she  had  told  him 
would  cure  him  of  his  passion.  Observe  how  this  is  carried  out, 
when  he  tells  her  presently  that  he  must  leave  her  for  two  hours. 
Here  is  an  opportunity  for  showing  what  Ganymede  has  formerly 
told  Orlando  a  woman  cannot  choose,  but  must  be.  She  is  now 
to  "grieve,  be  effeminate,  changeable." 

"  Ros.  Alas,  dear  love,  I  cannot  lack  thee  two  hours. 

Orl.  1  must  attend  the  Duke  at  dinner  :  by  two  o'clock  I  will  be  with 
thee  again. 

Ros.  Ay,  go  your  ways,  go  your  ways  ;  I  knew  what  you  would  prove  : 
my  friends  told  me  as  much,  and  I  thought  no  less  :  that  flattering  tongue 
of  yours  won  me  :  'tis  but  one  cast  away,  and  so, — Come,  death  !  " 

This  is  to  be  "  full  of  tears  " ;  and  when  she  has  put  a  pang  into 
her  lover's  heart  by  this  semblance  of  reproachful  grief,  she 
suddenly  floods  it  with  delight  by  turning  to  him,  her  face 
radiant  with  smiles,  and  saying,  "  Two  o'clock's  your  hour ! " 
This  is  to  be  "full  of  smiles,"  and  the  charm  so  works  upon 
him,  that  we  see  he  has  lost  the  consciousness  that  it  is  the 
boy  Ganymede,  and  not  his  own  Eosalind,  that  is  before  him, 
as  he  answers,  "  Ay,  sweet  Eosalind."  And  she  too,  in  her 


ROSALIND.  273 

parting  adjuration  to  him,  comes  nearer  than  she  has  ever  done 
before  to  letting  him  see  what  is  in  her  heart : — 

' '  By  my  troth,  and  in  good  earnest,  and  so  Heaven  mend  me,  and  by  all 
pretty  oaths  that  are  not  dangerous,  if  you  break  one  jot  of  your  promise, 
or  come  one  minute  behind  your  hour,  I  will  think  you  the  most  pathetical 
break -promise,  and  the  most  hollow  lover,  and  the  most  unworthy  of  her  you 
call  Rosalind,  that  may  be  chosen  out  of  the  gross  band  of  the  unfaithful. 
Therefore,  beware  my  censure,  and  keep  your  promise. 

Orl.  With  no  less  religion  than  if  thou  wert  indeed  my  Rosalind :  so, 
adieu  ! " 

Celia — who,  admirable  as  she  may  be,  is  by  no  means  of  a 
highly  imaginative  nature — is  no  sooner  alone  with  Eosalind 
than  she  takes  her  to  task  for  what  appears  to  her  the  un- 
favourable light  in  which  her  pictures  of  the  waywardness  of 
women  in  courtship  and  in  marriage  have  placed  her  sex.  "  You 
have  simply  misused  our  sex  in  your  love -prate,"  she  says; 
but  this  is  a  matter  Rosalind  is  too  full  of  her  own  emotions 
to  discuss.  Her  tongue  has  run  wild  in  trying  to  conceal  the 
pressure  at  her  heart ;  and  she  has  talked  herself  out  of  breath 
only  to  get  deeper  in  love. 

"0  coz,  coz,  my  pretty  little  coz,"  she  replies,  "that  thou  didst  know 
how  many  fathoms  deep  I  am  in  love  !  But  it  cannot  be  sounded.  .  .  . 
That  same  wicked  bastard  of  Venus,  that  was  begot  of  thought,  conceived 
of  spleen,  and  born  of  madness,  that  blind  rascally  boy  that  abuses  every 
one's  eyes  because  his  own  are  out,  let  him  be  judge  how  deep  I  am  in  love. 
I'll  tell  thee,  Aliena,  I  cannot  be  out  of  the  sight  of  Orlando  :  I'll  go  find 
a  shadow,  and  sigh  till  he  come." 

We  see  from  this  confession  how  great  has  been  the  constraint 
she  has  been  keeping  upon  her  emotions  through  all  her  spark- 
ling badinage  in  the  interviews  with  Orlando.  He  was  to  be 
but  two  hours  absent,  and  had  protested  he  should  be  with  her 
by  two  o'clock ;  but  when  we  next  see  her,  two  o'clock  has 
come,  but  not  Orlando.  "How  say  you  now?"  she  says  to 
Celia.  "  Is  it  not  past  two  o'clock  ?  and  here  much  Orlando  !  " 
While  she  is  in  this  state  of  disappointment  and  unrest,  Silvius 
arrives  with  the  love-letter  of  which  Phebe  has  made  him  the 
bearer.  Such  is  the  rare  elasticity  of  Eosalind's  temperament, 
and  the  activity  of  her  intelligence,  that  she  at  once  puts  aside 


274      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

her  own  vexation — which  could  not  have  been  small — and  does 
what  she  can  to  give  something  of  a  manly  spirit  to  this  most 
forlorn  of  lovers.  So  far  from  thinking  the  letter  he  has  brought 
to  be  one  of  love,  he  is  under  the  impression,  from  "  the  stern 
brow  and  waspish  action  "  of  Phebe  in  writing  it,  that  "  it  bears 
an  angry  tenor,"  and  apologises  for  being  the  bearer  of  it. 
Eosalind  at  once  follows  out  this  idea,  though  she  has  of  course 
seen,  by  a  glance  at  its  contents,  how  very  far  this  is  from  the 
truth  :— 

"Patience  herself  would  startle  at  this  letter 
And  play  the  swaggerer  ;  bear  this,  bear  all : 
She  says  I  am  not  fair,  that  I  lack  manners ; 
She  calls  me  proud ;  and  that  she  could  not  love  me, 
Were  man  as  rare  as  phoenix.     'Od's  my  will ! 
Her  love  is  not  the  hare  that  I  do  hunt : 
Why  writes  she  so  to  me  ?    Well,  shepherd,  well, 
This  is  a  letter  of  your  own  device." 

In  answer  to  his  vehement  protestations  to  the  contrary,  she 
goes  on  to  depict  its  contents  with  her  wonted  fertility  of 
fancy : — 

"  Why,  'tis  a  boisterous  and  a  cruel  style, 
A  style  for  challengers.     .     .     .     Women's  gentle  brain 
Could  not  drop  forth  such  giant-rude  invention, 
Such  Ethiop  words,  blacker  in  their  effect 
Than  in  their  countenance.     Will  you  hear  the  letter  ? " 

She  then  proceeds  to  read  it,  commenting  on  its  evident  avowals 
of  admiration  in  the  same  ironical  spirit.  But  when  she  comes 
to  the  lines — 

"  He  that  brings  this  love  to  thee 
Little  knows  this  love  in  me," 

followed  by  the  request  that  Ganymede  will  use  Silvius  to  bear 
his  answer  back,  she  is  revolted  by  Phebe's  treachery,  and 
scarcely  less  by  the  pusillanimous  insensibility  of  her  suitor 
to  it.  Celia,  in  her  matter-of-fact  way,  exclaims,  "Alas,  poor 
shepherd ! "  But  Rosalind,  wiser  and  higher-hearted,  takes  a 
different  view : — 

"Do  you  pity  him?  no,  he  deserves  no  pity.  Wilt  thou  love  such  a 
woman  ?  What,  to  make  thee  an  instrument  and  play  false  strains  upon 
thee  !  not  to  be  endured  ! " 


ROSALIND.  275 

But  not  even  this  can  rouse  him;  so  she  dismisses  him  in  a 
gentler  strain  : — 

' '  Well,  go  your  way  to  her,  for  I  see  love  hath  made  thee  a  tame  snake, 
and  say  this  to  her  :  That  if  she  love  me,  I  charge  her  to  love  thee  ;  if  she 
will  not,  I  will  never  have  her  unless  thou  entreat  for  her. " 

Still  Orlando  comes  not.  The  fond  woman's  heartache,  into 
which  some  shade  of  anxiety  at  his  failure  to  keep  his  promise 
would  by  this  time  be  sure  to  steal,  has  not  time  to  reassert 
itself,  when  her  attention  is  arrested  by  a  stranger  inquiring  the 
way  to  the  "  sheepcote  fenced  about  with  olive-trees,"  which  is 
her  home.  Attention  deepens  into  interest  as  she  finds  from  his 
words  that  he  is  a  messenger  from  Orlando  : — 

"  Orlando  doth  commend  him  to  you  both, 
And  to  that  youth  he  calls  his  Rosalind 
He  sends  this  bloody  napkin.     Are  you  he  ?  " 

Interest  now  becomes  apprehension,  and  she  answers,  "I  am : 
what  must  we  understand  by  this  1 "  With  breathless  eagerness 
she  listens  as  the  stranger  tells  how  Orlando  had  found  his  elder 
brother  asleep  in  the  forest,  doubly  threatened  with  death  by 
"a  green  and  gilded  snake *"  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the  other 
by  "a  lioness  with  udders  all  drawn  dry."  The  different  natures 
of  Celia  and  Rosalind  are  well  expressed  by  the  ways,  each  so 
different,  in  which  they  are  affected  by  this  narrative.  Celia 
exclaims  : — 

"  Oh,  I  have  heard  him  speak  of  that  same  brother  ; 
And  he  did  render  him  the  most  unnatural 
That  lived  'mongst  men." 

Eosalind's  first  thought  is  not  of  this  brother's  cruelty,  but 
whether  her  lover  has  forgot  the  past  and  interposed  to  save 
his  life. 

"  But,  to  Orlando  :  did  he  leave  him  there, 
Food  to  the  suck'd  and  hungry  lioness  ?  " 

How  her  heart  leaps  within  her  as  she  learns  that,  conquering 
the  first  impulse  to  leave  his  brother  to  his  fate,  Orlando  has 
given  "  battle  to  the  lioness,  who  quickly  fell  before  him " ! 
When  the  stranger  goes  on  to  tell  them  that  he  is  that  brother, 
Eosalind's  first  impulse  naturally  is  to  turn  with  undisguised 


276      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

aversion  from  the  man  who  had  for  years  done  Orlando  such 
grievous  wrong.  But  his  answer  to  her  question,  "Was't  you 
he  rescued?"  disarms  her, 

"  Oli.  'Twas  I,  yet  'tis  not  I.     I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  since  my  conversion 
So  sweetly  tastes,  being  the  thing  I  am." 

By  the  word  "  conversion,"  coupled  with  Oliver's  downcast  looks 
and  contrite  tone,  Rosalind  is  touched.  She  feels  that  she  has 
been  ungenerous,  and  turning  to  him  with  a  much  gentler  voice 
and  manner,  almost  as  though  asking  pardon  for  the  resentment 
she  had  shown,  she  asks,  "  But  for  the  bloody  napkin  1 "  And 
here  arises  one  of  the  many  opportunities  which  are  afforded  in 
this  play  for  that  silent  suggestive  acting  which  is  required  to 
give  effect  to  the  purpose  of  the  poet.  "  The  woman,  naturally 
born  to  fears,"  has  now  to  be  indicated  by  the  changing  ex- 
pression of  Eosalind's  look  and  manner,  as  she  listens  to  Oliver's 
narrative.  Her  lover, — her  more  than  lover — her  plighted 
husband  ever  since  she  gave  him  her  hand  when  they  last  met, 
— has  still  further  proved  his  worthiness  by  making  it  his  first 
care  to  introduce  his  brother  to  the  banished  Duke.  Still,  what 
does  the  bloody  napkin  imply  ]  And  how  much  is  there  to  rouse 
her  alarm,  when  Oliver  goes  on  to  say  that,  on  leaving  the  Duke, 
his  brother  led  him  to  his  own  cave, 

"  There  stripp'd  himself,  and  here  upon  his  arm 
The  lioness  had  torn  some  flesh  away, 
Which  all  this  while  had  bled  ;  and  now  he  fainted, 
And  cried,  in  fainting,  upon  Rosalind  "  ? 

The  sweet  feeling  of  admiration  for  her  lover's  courageous  en- 
durance, and  of  delight  that  his  foremost  thought  had  been  of 
his  Rosalind,  cannot  keep  her  from  thinking  of  his  wound  as 
something  more  serious  than  it  proves  to  be.  A  sick  feeling 
comes  over  her  as  Oliver  proceeds  : — 

"  Brief,  I  recover'd  him,  bound  up  his  wound  ; 
And,  after  some  small  space,  being  strong  at  heart, 
He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  as  I  am, 
To  tell  this  story,  that  you  might  excuse 
His  broken  promise,  and  to  give  this  napkin 
Dyed  in  his  blood  unto  the  shepherd  youth, 
That  he  in  sport  doth  call  his  Rosalind. " 


KOSALIND.  277 

As  he  speaks,  Bosalind's  vivid  imagination  brings  before  her  the 
peril  of  the  contest  in  which  her  lover  had  been  engaged,  and 
how  near  she  has  been  to  losing  him.  The  strain  upon  her 
feelings  is  too  much  even  for  her  powers  of  self-command,  great 
as  they  are,  and  she  falls  fainting  into  her  cousin's  arms.  She 
has  borne  up,  however,  so  well,  that  Oliver  has  no  suspicion  of 
her  sex,  and  ascribes  her  fainting  to  the  not  uncommon  ex- 
perience, that  "Many  will  swoon  when  they  do  look  on  blood." 
When  she  recovers,  and  he  says  to  her,  "Be  of  good  cheer, 
youth ;  you  a  man  !  You  lack  a  man's  heart,"  she  admits  the 
fact,  but,  ready  and  adroit  as  ever,  tries  to  avert  his  suspicion 
by  affecting  to  have  merely  feigned  to  swoon.  The  rest  of  the 
scene,  with  the  struggle  between  actual  physical  faintness  and 
the  effort  to  make  light  of  it,  touched  in  by  the  poet  with  ex- 
quisite skill,  calls  for  the  most  delicate  and  discriminating  treat- 
ment in  the  actress.  The  audience,  who  are  in  her  secret,  must 
be  made  to  feel  the  tender  loving  nature  of  the  woman  through 
the  simulated  gaiety  by  which  it  is  veiled ;  and  yet  the  character 
of  the  boy  Ganymede  must  be  sustained.  This  is  another  of  the 
many  passages  to  which  the  actress  of  comedy  only  will  never 
give  adequate  expression.  How  beautiful  it  is ! — 

"Ah,  sirrah,  a  body  would  think  this  was  well  counterfeited!  I  pray 
you,  tell  your  brother  how  well  I  counterfeited.  Heigh-ho  ! 

OIL  This  was  not  counterfeit :  there  is  too  great  testimony  in  your  com- 
plexion that  it  was  a  passion  of  earnest. 

Ros.  Counterfeit,  I  assure  you. 

OH.  Well,  then,  take  a  good  heart,  and  counterfeit  to  be  a  man. 

Ros.  So  I  do  :  but  i'faith,  I  should  have  been  a  woman  by  right. 

Cel.  Come,  you  look  paler  and  paler  :  pray  you,  draw  homewards.  Good 
sir,  go  with  us. 

Oli.  That  will  I,  for  I  must  bear  answer  back,  how  you  excuse  my 
brother,  Rosalind. 

Ros.  I  shall  devise  something  :  but,  I  pray  you,  commend  my  counter- 
feiting to  him.  Will  you  go  ? " 

And  that  her  quick  wit  did  devise  something  to  the  purpose, 
who  can  doubt  ?  for  it  is  clear  that  Orlando's  suspicions  were  not 
aroused.  But  in  the  brief  interval  that  elapses  before  she  again 
sees  him,  events  have  occurred  which  turn  his  thoughts  into 
another  channel.  In  that  charmed  forest  region,  where  every- 


278  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

thing  is  "as  you  like  it,"  events  move  swiftly.  Celia,  who  has 
hitherto  mocked  at  love,  becomes,  as  such  mockers  often  do,  its 
unresisting  victim.  She  has  met  her  fate  in  the  repentant  Oliver, 
and  he  his  fate  in  her.  Making  all  allowance  for  the  necessity 
of  bringing  the  action  of  the  play  to  a  speedy  conclusion,  the 
readiness  with  which  Celia  succumbs  to  Oliver's  suit  is  somewhat 
startling.  Shakespeare  perhaps  felt  this  himself,  and  so  does  his 
best  to  take  the  edge  off  its  apparent  improbability.  How  wit- 
tily has  he  made  Kosalind  discourse  of  it  to  Orlando ! — 

"  There  never  was  anything  so  sudden  but  the  fight  of  two  rams,  and 
Caesar's  Thrasonical  brag  of  '  I  came,  saw,  and  overcame  : '  for  your  brother 
and  my  sister  no  sooner  met  but  they  looked,  no  sooner  looked  but  they 
loved,  no  sooner  loved  but  they  sighed,  no  sooner  sighed  but  they  asked  one 
another  the  reason,  no  sooner  knew  the  reason  but  they  sought  the  remedy  ; 
and  in  these  degrees  have  they  made  a  pair  of  stairs  to  marriage. 
They  are  in  the  very  wrath  of  love,  and  they  will  together  ;  clubs  cannot 
part  them." 

This  is  very  amusing,  but  Orlando  can  only  think  how  enviable 
is  his  brother's  case  compared  with  his  own.  "They  shall  be 
married  to-morrow,"  he  says,  "  and  I  will  bid  the  Duke  to  the 
nuptial.  But,  oh,  how  bitter  a  thing  it  is  to  look  into  happiness 
through  another  man's  eyes  ! "  The  sad  earnestness  with  which 
this  is  said  finds  an  echo  in  Rosalind's  own  feelings,  as  she  re- 
plies, "  "Why,  then,  to-morrow  I  cannot  serve  your  turn  for  Rosa- 
lind 1 "  Can  we  wonder  at  his  answer,  "  I  can  live  no  longer  by 
thinking  " — worked  up  to  a  very  fever-heat  of  yearning  devotion 
as  he  has  been  to  his  ideal  Rosalind  by  the  hours  and  days  he 
has  spent  in  playing  the  lover  to  the  pretty  youth  who  has  borne 
her  name,  and  kept  her  image  continually  before  him,  fascinating 
him  hour  after  hour  by  all  the  qualities  which  he  had  dreamed 
his  ideal  to  possess1?  When  Rosalind  had  herself  got  to  the 
point,  that  she  "  could  not  live  out  of  the  sight "  of  her  lover,  and 
had  learned,  by  what  she  suffered  at  the  thought  of  his  recent 
danger,  how  essential  he  had  become  to  her  happiness,  she  was 
not  likely  to  be  deaf  to  this  outcry  of  Orlando's  hungry  heart. 
The  time  has  come  for  her  to  yield.  But  she  will  keep  up  a  little 
longer  the  illusion  under  which  he  labours,  so  she  answers  : — 

"  I  will  weary  you  no  longer  then  with  idle  talking.     Know  of  me  then, 
for  now  I  speak  to  some  purpose,  .  .  .  that  I  can  do  strange  things.    I  have, 


ROSALIND.  279 

since  I  was  three  years  old,  conversed  with  a  magician,  most  profound  in  his 
art,  and  yet  not  damnable.  If  you  do  love  Rosalind  so  near  the  heart  as 
your  gesture  cries  it  out,  when  your  brother  marries  Aliena,  shall  you  marry 
her.  I  know  into  what  straits  of  fortune  she  is  driven  ;  and  it  is  not  im- 
possible for  me,  if  it  appear  not  inconvenient  to  you,  to  set  her  before  your 
eyes,  human  as  she  is,  and  without  any  danger. 

Orl.  Speakest  thou  in  sober  meanings  ? 

Ros.  By  my  life,  I  do ;  which  I  tender  dearly,  though  I  say  I  am  a  magician. 
Therefore,  put  you  in  your  best  array,  bid  your  friends ;  for,  if  you  will  be 
married  to-morrow,  you  shall, — and  to  Rosalind,  if  you  will." 

Their  colloquy  is  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  Phebe  with  Sil- 
vius.  Phebe  tasks  Ganymede  with  "much  ungentleness "  for 
having  shown  Silvius  her  letter.  With  pretty  imperiousness 
Rosalind  replies  : — 

"  I  care  not  if  I  have  :  it  is  my  study 
To  seem  ungentle  and  despiteful  to  you  : 
You  are  there  followed  by  a  faithful  shepherd  ; 
Look  upon  him,  love  him  :  he  worships  you." 

The  humbled  Phebe  can  only  answer  by  asking  Silvius  to  "  tell 
this  youth  what  'tis  to  love."  The  charming  scene  which  en- 
sues, in  which  Silvius  fulfils  his  task  with  a  skill  the  most  pas- 
sionate lyrist  might  envy,  gives  Eosalind  a  further  opportunity 
of  assuring  herself  of  her  lover's  devotion.  All  that  Silvius 
protests  he  feels  for  Phebe,  Orlando  protests  he  feels  for  Eosa- 
lind; and  when  at  last,  addressing  Eosalind,  he  says,  "If  this 
be  so,  why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  1 "  he  speaks  as  though  it 
were  his  "  very  very  Eosalind  "  he  was  addressing.  On  this  she 
at  once  catches  him  up,  saying — 

"  Ros.  Whom  do  you  speak  to  ?     '  Why  blame  you  me  to  love  you  ? ' 
Orl.  To  her  that  is  not  here,  nor  doth  not  hear. " 

But  Eosalind,  finding  the  "  homily  of  love,"  in  which  Orlando, 
Silvius,  and  Phebe  echo  each  other,  grow  tedious,  breaks  in  upon 
them  with  the  words — 

"  Pray  you  no  more  of  this  ;  'tis  like  the  howling  of  Irish  wolves  against 
the  moon.  I  will  help  you  [to  Silvius]  if  I  can  :  I  would  love  you  [to  Phebe] 
if  I  could.  To-morrow  meet  we  all  together.  I  will  marry  you  [to  Phebe] 
if  ever  I  marry  woman,  and  I'll  be  married  to-morrow.  I  will  satisfy  you 
[to  Orlando]  if  ever  I  satisfied  man,  and  you  shall  be  married  to-morrow. 


280  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

I  will  content  you  [to  Silvius],  if  what  pleases  you  contents  you,  and  you 
shall  be  married  to-morrow.  As  you  [to  Orlando]  love  Rosalind,  meet ;  as 
you  [to  Sttvius]  love  Phebe,  meet ;  and  as  I  love  no  woman,  I'll  meet.  So 
fare  you  well ;  I  have  left  you  commands. " 

The  ascendancy  which  the  hoy  Ganymede  has  established  over 
all  who  come  within  his  sphere  is  so  complete,  that  Orlando, 
Phebe,  and  Silvius  part  from  him  with  a  complete  belief  that 
he  will  accomplish  everything  he  has  promised.  Orlando  reports 
to  the  Duke  the  hope  that  has  been  held  out  to  him ;  and  any 
misgiving  he  may  have  had  would  be  dispelled,  when  presently 
he  finds  (Act  v  sc.  4)  that  the  boy  Ganymede  comes  to  ask  the 
banished  Duke  if,  when  he  shall  bring  in  his  daughter,  he  will 
give  her  to  Orlando.  His  answer,  "  That  would  I,  had  I  king- 
doms to  give  with  her,"  removes  the  only  obstacle  which  as  a 
dutiful  daughter  she  would  recognise.  But  not  until  she  has 
obtained  a  fresh  assurance  from  Orlando,  that  he  would  marry 
his  Eosalind  "  were  he  of  all  kingdoms  king,"  and  from  Phebe 
that  if  she  refuses  to  marry  Ganymede  she  will  give  herself  to 
Silvius,  does  she  go  away  "  to  make  all  doubts  even  "  by  appear- 
ing forthwith  in  her  own  true  character,  along  with  Celia,  and  led 
on  by  "  Hymen." 

It  is  Rosalind,  of  course,  who  has  arranged  the  masque  of 
Hymen,  keeping  up  to  the  last  the  film  of  glamour  which  she  has 
thrown  around  her  lover  and  the  other  strangers  to  her  secret. 
Mr  Macready,  in  his  revival  of  the  play  at  Drury  Lane,  with  Mrs 
ISTesbitt  as  Eosalind,  restored  it  to  the  stage ;  but  beautiful  as  it 
is  in  itself,  and  bringing  this  charming  love-romance  most  appro- 
priately to  a  close,  yet  it  delays  the  action  too  much  for  scenic 
purposes.  Hymen's  lines,  as  he  leads  in  Rosalind  and  Celia  in 
their  wedding-robes,  are  like  a  strain  of  sweet  music,  solemn  but 
not  sad,  as  befits  a  bridal  hymn  : — 

"  Then  is  there  mirth  in  heaven, 
When  earthly  things  made  even 

Atone  together. 

Good  Duke,  receive  thy  daughter  : 
Hymen  from  heaven  brought  her, 

Yea,  brought  her  hither, 
That  thou  might'st  join  her  hand  in  his 
Whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is." 


ROSALIND.  281 

How  beautiful  is  this  last  line,  and  how  fully  does  it  express  that 
perfect  union  of  the  two  lovers'  hearts  ! 

With  her  masking  guise,  Eosalind  drops  the  witty  volubility 
that  has  served  her  purpose  so  well.  Her  words  are  few,  but 
they  are  pregnant  with  feeling.  Turning  to  her  father,  she  says, 
"  To  you  I  give  myself,  for  I  am  yours ; "  and  while  still  hang- 
ing on  his  breast,  she  holds  out  her  hand  to  Orlando,  repeating 
the  same  words.  What  others  could  so  well  express  the  sur- 
render which  a  loving  daughter  here  makes  of  herself  to  the 
lover  "whose  heart  within  her  bosom  is"?  Her  own  heart  is 
too  full  to  say  much;  her  soul  too  much  enwrapped  in  the 
thoughts  which  the  climax  of  marriage  brings  to  a  noble  woman, 
for  her  to  sport  with  the  surprise  which  this  sudden  revelation 
produces : — 

"  Duke.  If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  daughter. 

Orl.   If  there  be  truth  in  sight,  you  are  my  Rosalind. 

Phcbe.  If  sight  and  shape  be  true, 
Why,  then,  my  love,  adieu  ! 

Ros.  I'll  have  no  father,  if  you  be  not  he  ; 
I'll  have  no  husband  if  you  be  not  he ; 

Nor  ne'er  wed  woman,  if  you  [to  Phebe]  be  not  she. " 

But  the  "conclusion  of  these  most  strange  events"  is  not  yet. 
Oliver,  we  have  been  told,  had  determined  to  settle  upon  Or- 
lando "  all  the  revenue  that  was  old  Sir  Rowland's,  and  live  and 
die  a  shepherd  in  the  forest"  with  his  Aliena.  She,  on  the 
other  hand,  had,  as  we  have  seen,  long  since  told  Eosalind  that, 
when  Duke  Frederick  died,  Eosalind  should  be  his  heir.  But 
now  Eosalind  is  to  resume  her  state  by  means  more  direct.  The 
usurping  Duke,  smitten  with  remorse,  as  we  learn  from  Sir  Eow- 
land's  second  son,  who  at  this  point  appears  upon  the  scene,  has 
taken  to  a  religious  life — 

"  His  crown  bequeathing  to  his  banish'd  brother, 
And  all  their  lands  restored  to  them  again 
That  were  with  him  exiled." 

Thus  is  the  wrong  made  right :  this  alone  was  wanted  to  com- 
plete the  story,  As  YWL  Like,  It. 

No  word  escapes  from  Eosalind's  lips,  as  we  watch  her  there, 
the  woman  in  all  her  beauty  and  perfect  grace,  now  calmly  happy, 


282      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

beside  a  father  restored  to  "  a  potent  dukedom,"  and  a  lover 
whom  she  knows  to  be  wholly  worthy  to  wield  that  dukedom, 
when  in  due  season  she  will  endow  him  with  it  as  her  husband. 
Happiest  of  women  !  for  who  else  ever  had  such  means  of  testing 
that  love  on  which  her  own  happiness  depends  ?  In  the  days  that 
are  before  her,  all  the  largeness  of  heart,  the  rich  imagination, 
the  bright  commanding  intellect,  which  made  her  the  presiding 
genius  of  the  forest  of  Arden,  will  work  with  no  less  beneficent 
sway  in  the  wider  sphere  of  princely  duty.  With  what  delight 
will  she  recur  with  her  lover-husband  to  the  strange  accidents  of 
fortune  Avhich  "  forced  sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood," 
and  to  the  never-to-be-forgotten  hours  when  he  was  a  second  time 
"o'erthrown"  by  the  wit,  the  playful  wiles,  the  inexplicable 
charm  of  the  young  Ganymede !  How,  too,  in  all  the  grave 
duties  of  the  high  position  to  which  his  alliance  will  raise  him, 
will  Orlando  not  only  possess  in  her  an  honoured,  beloved,  and 
admired  companion,  but  will  also  find  wise  guidance  and  support 
in  her  clear  intelligence  and  courageous  will !  It  is  thus,  at  least, 
that  I  dream  of  my  dear  Rosalind  and  her  Orlando. 

"  0,  they  will  walk  this  world, 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 
And  so  through  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  no  man  knows." 

Oliver's  proposal  to  make  over  his  estates  to  Orlando,  and  "  to 
live  and  die  a  shepherd  in  the  forest,"  naturally  falls  to  the 
ground  with  the  reinstatement  of  Rosalind's  father  in  his  duchy. 
Oliver  will  resume  his  former  position — his  "land  and  great 
allies,"  as  Jaques  says — and  Rosalind  and  Celia  will  not  be 
separated.  Is  it  likely  that  Rosalind  should  be  outdone  in 
generosity?  When  the  heavens  were  "at  their  sorrows  pale," 
Celia  insisted  upon  sharing  her  banishment.  Could  Rosalind's 
happiness  be  complete  without  the  love  and  presence  of  that 
constant  dearest  friend  ?  No  !  If  they  might  not  henceforward 
move,  "like  Juno's  swans,  still  coupled  and  inseparable,"  yet 
they  must  pass  their  lives  near  to  each  other,  and  in  ever  sweet 
and  loving  communion. 

Much  as  I  have  written,  I  feel  how  imperfectly  I  have  brought 


ROSALIND.  283 

out  all  that  this  delightful  play  has  been  and  is  to  me.  I  can 
but  hope  that  I  have  said  enough  to  show  why  I  gave  my  heart 
to  Rosalind,  and  found  an  ever  new  delight  in  trying  to  imper- 
sonate her. 

Never  was  that  delight  greater  than  the  last  time  I  did  so. 
As  it  happened,  it  was  the  last  time  I  appeared  upon  the  stage. 
The  occasion  was  a  benefit,  in  October  1879,  for  the  widow  of 
Mr  Charles  Calvert,  himself  an  excellent  actor,  who  had  spent 
many  years  in  producing  Shakespeare  worthily  to  the  Manchester 
public  at  the  Prince's  Theatre.  In  his  revivals  he  had  kept  the 
scene-painter  and  the  costume-maker  under  wise  control,  insisting 
that  what  they  did  should  be  subservient  to  the  development  of 
character  and  of  plot.  His  death  was  justly  felt  by  the  Man- 
chester public  to  be  a  great  loss  to  the  dramatic  art,  and  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  me  to  join  with  them  in  doing  honour  to  his  mem- 
ory. He  told  me  once  a  pretty  story  of  his  wife.  He  had  sent 
her  to  see  me  in  Rosalind,  at  the  Theatre  Royal — for  I  never 
acted  in  his  theatre.  On  returning  home,  he  found  her  in  tears. 
Upon  inquiring  the  reason,  she  replied,  "  How  could  you  ever 
allow  me  to  go  upon  the  stage  for  Rosalind  1  I  am  ashamed  of 
myself,  for  I  see  I  knew  nothing  about  her."  It  reminded  me  of 
what  had  been  my  own  case,  until  I  had  made  the  loving  study 
of  her  which  I  have  tried  to  describe. 

I  can  never  forget  the  warmth  of  my  Manchester  friends  that 
night,  when  I  left  my  retirement  to  join  in  helping  the  widow 
and  children,  whom  their  old  manager  had  left  behind  him.  I 
had  expected,  and  thought  I  had  nerved  myself  to  meet,  a  cordial 
greeting,  but  this  was  so  prolonged  and  so  overwhelming,  that  it 
took  away  my  breath  and  my  courage ;  and  even  when  at  last  it 
ceased,  I  could  not  recover  myself  enough  to  speak.  My  agita- 
tion quite  alarmed  the  young  lady  by  my  side,  who  acted  Celia, 
Miss  Kate  Pattison,  and  we  stood  like  a  pair  of  mutes  for  a 
moment  or  two,  until  the  renewed  plaudits  of  the  audience 
roused  us  to  a  sense  of  what  was  expected  from  us.  The  old 
sensation  of  stage-fright,  never  completely  lost,  came  back  upon 
me  as  freshly  then  as  upon  the  night  of  my  first  appearance. 
After  a  while,  when  this  had  somewhat  passed  away  in  the  inter- 
est of  the  scene,  I  was  full  of  gratitude  to  find  that  I  had  not 


284  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

rusted  in  my  privacy.  I  had  found  also  in  the  rehearsal  of  the 
previous  day,  which,  from  the  large  number  attending  it,  became 
almost  a  performance,  that  I  had  as  much  delight  as  ever  in 
depicting  the  life  of  one  so  dear  to  my  imagination,  and  that 
I  could  do  so  with  as  much  freshness  and  elasticity  as  at  the 
beginning  of  my  career. 

I  was  very  much  interested  in  seeing  the  careful  study  which 
the  actors  on  this  occasion,  mostly  amateurs,  had  given  to  all  the 
characters,  great  and  small,  in  the  play.  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
act  beside  so  much  intelligence  and  artistic  talent.  I  felt  quite 
a  keen  regret  when  this  not-to-be-repeated  performance  was 
over. 

How  many  good  parts  there  are  in  this  play,  as  indeed  there 
must  be  in  every  fine  play,  and  how  great  would  be  the  delight 
of  acting  in  it  with  every  character  adequately  represented ! 
How  little  do  those  who  usually  act  what  are  called  the  smaller 
parts  in  Shakespeare  know  the  gems  within  their  reach,  and  the 
splendid  opportunities  they  throw  away  !  I  have  tried  in  my 
rehearsals  to  bring  those  who  acted  with  me  up  to  the  highest 
level  I  could,  by  calling  their  attention  to  these  opportunities 
(though  not  always  with  success),  and  by  showing  them  the 
value  of  the  passages  they  had  overlooked.  Some  were  incapable 
of  seeing  the  author's  meaning,  some  indifferent  to  it;  others 
have  looked  as  though  I  were  taking  a  liberty,  and  had  no  busi- 
ness to  leave  my  own  character  and  interfere  with  theirs ;  some 
few,  I  am  glad  to  say,  have  thanked  me  when  they  found  the 
audience  recognise  and  appreciate  the  significance  given  to  the 
text  by  following  my  suggestions. 

Out  of  London  I  never  saw  the  play  of  As  You  Like  It  more 
fully  enjoyed  or  better  acted  than  in  Edinburgh.  There,  in  the 
first  years  of  my  visits,  a  fine  illustration  was  given  of  the  way 
in  which  a  minor  part  may  be  raised  into  importance  by  the 
actor's  skill.  Mr  Murray,  the  manager,  was  the  William.  Mght 
after  night  I  used  to  go  to  the  side  scene  to  see  the  only  occasion 
in  which  in  the  fifth  act  William  appears  with  Touchstone.  He 
was  the  very  man,  one  felt,  whom  Shakespeare  had  in  his  mind, 
— dress,  voice,  look,  manner,  were  all  life-like; — just  such  a 
blunder-headed,  good-natured,  staring,  grinning,  frightened  oaf 


ROSALIND.  285 

as  at  once  provokes  and  falls  an  easy  victim  to  the  waggishness 
of  Touchstone.  He  had  so  little  to  say,  and  yet  so  much  to 
suggest. 

The  Touchstone  of  the  same  theatre  in  those  days,  a  Mr  Lloyd, 
was  almost  the  best  I  have  ever  seen ;  and  though  wanting  in  the 
courtly  demeanour,  which  I  think  is  one  of  Touchstone's  charac- 
teristics, he  brought  out  the  dry,  quaint,  sententious  humour  of 
the  man  with  the  happiest  effect. 

One  word  about  the  Epilogue  before  I  conclude.  This,  as  it  is 
written,  was  fit  enough  for  the  mouth  of  a  boy-actor  of  women's 
parts  in  Shakespeare's  time,  but  it  is  altogether  out  of  tone 
with  the  Princess  Eosalind.  It  is  the  stage  tradition  to  speak 
it,  and  I,  of  course,  had  to  follow  the  tradition — never,  however, 
without  a  kind  of  shrinking  distaste  for  my  task.  Some  of  the 
words  I  omitted,  and  some  I  altered,  and  I  did  my  best,  in  speak- 
ing it,  to  make  it  serve  to  illustrate  how  the  high-toned  winning 
woman  reasserted  herself  in  Rosalind,  when  she  laid  aside  her 
doublet  and  hose.  I  have  been  told  that  I  succeeded  in  this. 
Still,  speaking  the  Epilogue  remained  the  one  drawback  to  my 
pleasure.  In  it  one  addresses  the  audience  neither  as  Ganymede 
nor  as  Eosalind,  but  as  one's  own  very  self.  Anything  of  this 
kind  was  repugnant  to  me,  my  desire  being  always  to  lose  my- 
self in  the  character  I  was  representing.  When  taken  thus  per- 
force out  of  my  ideal,  I  felt  stranded  and  altogether  unhappy. 
Except  when  obliged,  as  in  this  instance,  I  never  addressed  an 
audience,  having  neither  the  wish  nor  the  courage  to  do  so. 
Therefore,  as  I  advanced  to  speak  the  Epilogue,  a  painful  shy- 
ness came  over  me,  a  kind  of  nervous  fear,  too,  lest  I  should  for- 
get what  I  had  to  say, — a  fear  I  never  had  at  other  times, — and 
thus  the  closing  words  always  brought  to  me  a  sense  of  inexpres- 
sible relief. 

And  now,  my  dear  Mr  Browning,  you  must  be  glad  that  I  have 
at  last  come  to  the  end  of  what  I  have  to  say  about  my  much- 
loved  Eosalind.  Let  me,  then,  set  you  free ;  for  which  release 
I  hope  you  will  kindly,  in  the  words  of  that  Epilogue,  "  when  I 
make  curtsy,  bid  me  farewell." — Ever  most  sincerely  yours, 

HELENA  FAUCIT  MARTIN. 


VIII. 
BEATRICE 


VIII. 
BEATKIGE. 


"There  was  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  was  I  born." 
DEAR   MR   RUSKIN,— 

T  AM  glad  to  see  by  your  letter  that  Beatrice  is  a  favourite 
with  you.  The  heresy  of  Campbell  and  others,  which  de- 
scribes her  as  a  compound  of  tomboy,  flirt,  and  shrew, — "an 
odious  woman,"  I  think,  Campbell  calls  her, — has  manifestly 
not  enlisted  you  among  its  adherents.  Whilst,  therefore,  I 
am  sure  of  your  sympathy  in  trying  to  put  into  words  the 
conception  of  this  brilliant  and  charming  woman  which  I  en- 
deavoured to  embody  on  the  stage,  still  I  must  approach  the 
subject  with  great  trepidation,  as  you  tell  me  that  you  are 
"listening  with  all  your  heart  to  what  I  shall  say  of  her."  I 
cannot  dare  to  hope  I  shall  throw  much  light  upon  the  char- 
acter that  will  be  new  to  you,  who  have  shown,  in  so  many 
places,  how  thorough  has  been  your  study  of  Shakespeare's 
heroines,  and  with  what  loving  insight  you  have  used  them 
to  illustrate  the  part  women  have  played,  and  are  meant  to 
play,  in  bringing  sweetness  and  comfort,  and  help  and  moral 
strength,  into  man's  troubled  and  perplexing  life.  The  lesson 
Shakespeare  teaches  seems  to  me  to  be  entirely  in  accordance 
with  your  own  belief,  expressed  in  many  ways,  "that  no  man 
ever  lived  a  right  life  who  had  not  been  chastened  by  a 
T 


290  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

woman's  love,  strengthened  by  her  courage,  and  guided  by  her 
discretion." 

Of  Beatrice  I  cannot  write  with  the  same  full  heart,  or  with 
the  same  glow  of  sympathy,  with  which  I  wrote  of  Eosalind. 
Her  character  is  not  to  me  so  engaging.  We  might  hope  to  meet 
in  life  something  to  remind  us  of  Beatrice ;  but  in  our  dreams  of 
fair  women  Eosalind  stands  out  alone. 

Neither  are  the  circumstances  under  which  Beatrice  comes 
before  us  of  a  kind  to  draw  us  so  closely  to  her.  Unlike 
Rosalind,  her  life  has  been  and  is,  while  we  see  her,  one  of 
pure  sunshine.  Sorrow  and  wrong  have  not  softened  her  nature, 
nor  taken  off  the  keen  edge  of  her  wit.  When  we  are  intro- 
duced to  her,  she  is  the  great  lady,  bright,  brilliant,  beautiful, 
enforcing  admiration  as  she  moves  "  in  maiden  meditation  fancy 
free"  among  the  fine  ladies  and  accomplished  gallants  of  her 
circle.  Up  to  this  time  there  has  been  no  call  upon  the  deeper 
and  finer  qualities  of  her  nature.  The  sacred  fountain  of  tears 
has  never  been  stirred  within  her.  To  pain  of  heart  she  has 
been  a  stranger.  She  has  not  learned  tenderness  or  toleration 
under  the  discipline  of  suffering  or  disappointment,  of  unsatisfied 
yearning  or  failure.  Her  life  has  been 

"  A  summer  mood, 
To  which  all  pleasant  things  have  come  unsought," 

and  across  which  the  shadows  of  care  or  sorrow  have  never 
passed.  She  has  a  quick  eye  to  see  what  is  weak  or  ludicrous 
in  man  or  woman.  The  impulse  to  speak  out  the  smart  and 
poignant  things  that  rise  readily  and  swiftly  to  her  lips,  is 
irresistible.  She  does  not  mean  to  inflict  pain,  though  others 
besides  Benedick  must  at  times  have  felt  that  "every  word 
stabs."  She  simply  rejoices  in  the  keen  sword-play  of  her  wit, 
as  she  would  in  any  other  exercise  of  her  intellect,  or  sport  of 
her  fancy.  In  very  gaiety  of  heart  she  flashes  around  her  the 
playful  lightning  of  sarcasm  and  repartee,  thinking  of  them  only 
as  something  to  make  the  time  pass  brightly  by.  "  I  was  born," 
she  says  of  herself,  "to  speak  all  mirth  and  no  matter."  Again, 
when  Don  Pedro  tells  her  she  has  "  a  merry  heart,"  she  answers, 
"  Yea,  my  lord,  I  thank  it ;  poor  fool,  it  keeps  on  the  windy 


BEATRICE.  291 

side    of    care."      And    what    does    her    uncle    Leonato    say   of 
her?— 

"  There's  little  of  the  melancholy  element  in  her,  my  lord :  she  is  never 
sad  but  when  she  sleeps ;  and  not  ever  sad  then  ;  for  I  have  heard  my 
daughter  say  she  hath  often  dreamt  of  unhappiness,  and  waked  herself  with 
laughing." — (Act.  ii.  sc.  1.) 

Wooers  she  has  had,  of  course,  not  a  few ;  but  she  has 
"mocked  them  all  out  of  suit."  Very  dear  to  her  is  the  in- 
dependence of  her  maidenhood, — for  the  moment  has  not  come 
when  to  surrender  that  independence  into  a  lover's  hands  is  more 
delightful  than  to  maintain  it.  But  though  in  the  early  scenes 
of  the  play  she  makes  a  mock  of  wooers  and  of  marriage,  with 
obvious  zest  and  with  a  brilliancy  of  fancy  and  pungency  of 
sarcasm  that  might  well  appal  any  ordinary  wooer,  it  is  my  con- 
viction that,  although  her  heart  has  not  as  yet  been  touched,  she 
has  at  any  rate  begun  to  see  in  "Signor  Benedick  of  Padua" 
qualities  which  have  caught  her  fancy.  She  has  noted  him 
closely,  and  his  image  recurs  unbidden  to  her  mind  with  a  fre- 
quency which  suggests  that  he  is  at  least  more  to  her  than  any 
other  man.  The  train  is  laid,  and  only  requires  a  spark  to 
kindle  it  into  flame.  How  this  is  done,  and  with  what  exquisite 
skill,  will  be  more  and  more  felt  the  more  closely  the  structure 
of  the  play  and  the  distinctive  qualities  of  the  actors  in  it  are 
studied. 

Indeed,  I  think  this  play  should  rank,  in  point  of  dramatic 
construction  and  development  of  character,  with  the  best  of 
Shakespeare's  works.  It  has  the  further  distinction,  that  what- 
ever is  most  valuable  in  the  plot  is  due  solely  to  his  own  inven- 
tion. In  this  respect  it  differs  signally  from  As  You  Like  It. 
In  The  Tale  of  Gamelyn,  and  more  particularly  in  Lodge's  Rosa- 
lynde,  Shakespeare  found  ready  to  his  hand  the  main  plot  of 
that  play,  and  suggestions  for  several  of  the  characters.  With 
his  usual  wonderful  aptitude  he  assimilated  everything  that  could 
be  turned  to  dramatic  account.  Yet  his  debt  was  after  all  of  no 
great  amount.  He  had  to  discard  far  more  than  he  adopted. 
The  story  with  the  actors  in  it  became  a  new  creation ;  and  by 
infusing  into  a  pretty  but  tedious  pastoral  and  some  very  unreal 
characters  a  purpose  and  a  life  which  were  exclusively  his  own, 


292  SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS-. 

he  transmuted  mere  pebbles  into  gems.  But  neither  for  plot 
nor  character  was  he  indebted  to  any  one  in  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing.  It  is  no  doubt  true,  that  in  Ariosto  and  Bandello  and 
in  our  own  Spenser  he  found  the  incident  of  an  innocent  lady 
brought  under  cruellest  suspicion  by  the  base  device  of  which 
Hero  is  the  victim.  Here,  however,  his  obligation  ends;  and 
but  for  the  skill  with  which  this  incident  is  interwoven  with 
others,  and  a  number  of  characters  brought  upon  the  scene  which 
are  wholly  of  his  own  creating,  it  would  be  of  little  value  for 
dramatic  purposes. 

How  happy  was  the  introduction  of  such  men  as  Dogberry — 
dear,  delightful  Dogberry  ! — and  his  band,  "  the  shallow  fools 
who  brought  to  light "  the  flimsy  villany  by  which  Don  Pedro 
and  Claudio  had  allowed  themselves  to  be  egregiously  befooled ! 
How  true  to  the  irony  of  life  was  the  accident,  due  also  to 
Shakespeare's  invention,  that  Leonato  was  so  much  bored  by 
their  tedious  prate,  and  so  busy  with  the  thought  of  his  daugh- 
ter's approaching  marriage,  that  he  did  not  listen  to  them,  and 
thus  did  not  hear  what  would  have  prevented  the  all  but  tragic 
scene  in  which  that  marriage  is  broken  off!  And  how  much 
happier  than  all  is  the  way  in  which  the  wrong  done  to  Hero  is 
the  means  of  bringing  into  view  the  fine  and  generous  elements 
of  Beatrice's  nature,  of  showing  Benedick  how  much  more  there 
was  in  her  than  he  had  imagined,  and  at  the  same  time  proving 
to  her,  what  she  was  previously  quite  prepared  to  "  believe  better 
than  reportingly,"  that  he  was  of  a  truly  "noble  strain,"  and  that 
she  might  safely  trust  her  happiness  in  his  hands !  Viewed  in 
this  light  the  play  seems  to  me  to  be  a  masterpiece  of  construc- 
tion, developed  with  consummate  skill,  and  held  together  by  the 
unflagging  interest  which  we  feel  in  Beatrice  and  Benedick,  and 
in  the  progress  of  the  amusing  plot  by  which  they  arrive  at  a 
knowledge  of  their  own  hearts. 

I  was  called  upon  very  early  in  my  career  to  impersonate 
Beatrice ;  but  I  must  frankly  admit  that,  while,  as  I  have  said, 
I  could  not  but  admire  her,  she  had  not  taken  hold  of  my  heart 
as  my  other  heroines  had  done.  Indeed  there  is  nothing  of  the 
heroine  about  her,  nothing  of  romance  or  of  poetic  suggestion  in 
the  circumstances  of  her  life — nothing,  in  short,  to  captivate  the 


BEATRICE.  293 

imagination  of  a  very  young  girl,  such  as  I  then  was.  It  caused 
me  great  disquietude  when  Mr  Charles  Kemble,  who  was  play- 
ing a  series  of  farewell  performances  at  Covent  Garden,  where 
I  had  made  my  debut  on  the  stage  but  a  few  months  before, 
singled  me  out  to  play  Beatrice  to  his  Benedick  on  the  night 
when  he  bade  adieu  to  his  profession.  That  I  who  had  hitherto 
acted  only  the  young  tragic  heroines  was  to  be  thus  transported 
out  of  my  natural  sphere  into  the  strange  world  of  high  comedy, 
was  a  surprise  indeed.  To  consent  seemed  to  me  nothing  short 
of  presumption.  I  urged  upon  Mr  Kemble  how  utterly  unquali- 
fied I  was  for  such  a  venture.  His  answer  was,  "  I  have  watched 
you  in  the  second  act  of  Julia  in  The  Hunchback,  and  I  know 
that  you  will  by-and-by  be  able  to  act  Shakespeare's  comedy.  I 
do  not  mean  now,  because  more  years,  greater  practice,  greater 
confidence  in  yourself,  must  come  before  you  will  have  sufficient 
ease.  But  do  not  be  afraid.  I  am  too  much  your  friend  to  ask 
you  to  do  anything  that  would  be  likely  to  prove  a  failure." 
This  he  followed  up  by  offering  to  teach  me  the  "  business  "  of 
the  scene.  What  could  I  do?  He  had,  from  my  earliest  re- 
hearsals, been  uniformly  kind,  helpful,  and  encouraging — how 
could  I  say  him  "  Nay  "  ?  My  friends,  too,  who  of  course  acted 
for  me,  as  I  was  under  age,  considered  that  I  must  consent.  I 
was  amazed  at  some  of  the  odd  things  I  had  to  say, — not  at  all 
from  knowing  their  meaning,  but  simply  because  I  did  not  even 
surmise  it.  My  dear  home  instructor,  of  whom  I  have  often 
spoken  in  these  letters,  said,  "  My  child,  have  no  fear,  you  will 
do  this  very  well.  Only  give  way  to  natural  joyousness.  Let 
yourself  go  free :  you  cannot  be  vulgar,  if  you  tried  ever  so 
hard." 

And  so  the  performance  came,  and  went  off  more  easily  than 
I  had  imagined,  as  so  many  dreaded  events  of  our  lives  do  pass 
away  without  any  of  the  terrible  consequences  which  we  have 
tormented  ourselves  by  anticipating.  The  night  was  one  not 
readily  to  be  forgotten.  The  excitement  of  having  to  act  a  char- 
acter so  different  from  any  I  had  hitherto  attempted,  and  the 
anxiety  natural  to  the  effort,  filled  my  mind  entirely.  I  had  no 
idea  of  the  scene  which  was  to  follow  the  close  of  the  comedy,  so 
that  it  came  upon  me  quite  unexpectedly. 


294  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

The  "  farewell "  of  a  great  actor  to  his  admiring  friends  in  the 
arena  of  his  triumphs  was  something  my  imagination  had  never 
pictured,  and  all  at  once  it  was  brought  most  impressively  before 
me,  touching  a  deep  sad  minor  chord  in  my  young  life.  It 
moved  me  deeply.  As  I  write,  the  exciting  scene  comes  vividly 
before  me, — the  crowded  stage,  the  pressing  forward  of  all  who 
had  been  Mr  Kemble's  comrades  and  contemporaries, — the  good 
wishes,  the  farewells  given,  the  tearful  voices,  the  wet  eyes,  the 
curtain  raised  again  and  again.  Ah,  how  can  any  one  support 
such  a  trial !  I  determined  in  that  moment  that,  when  my  time 
came  to  leave  the  stage,  I  would  not  leave  it  in  this  way.  My 
heart  could  never  have  borne  such  a  strain.  I  need  not  say  that 
this  resolve  has  remained  unchanged.  I  could  not  have  expected 
such  a  demonstrative  farewell ;  but,  whatever  it  might  have  been, 
I  think  it  is  well  the  knowledge  that  we  are  doing  anything  for 
the  last  time  is  kept  from  us.  I  see  now  those  who  had  acted 
in  the  play  asking  for  a  memento  of  the  night, — ornaments, 
gloves,  handkerchiefs,  feathers  one  by  one  taken  from  the  hat, 
then  the  hat  itself, — all,  in  short,  that  could  be  detached  from 
the  dress.  I,  whose  claim  was  as  nothing  compared  with  that  of 
others,  stood  aside,  greatly  moved  and  sorrowful,  weeping  on  my 
mother's  shoulder,  when,  as  the  exciting  scene  was  at  last  draw- 
ing to  a  close,  Mr  Kemble  saw  me,  and  exclaimed,  "  What !  My 
Lady  baby l  Beatrice  all  in  tears !  What  shall  I  do  to  comfort 
her1?  What  can  I  give  her  in  remembrance  of  her  first  Bene- 
dick 1 "  I  sobbed  out,  "  Give  me  the  book  from  which  you 
studied  Benedick."  He  answered,  "  You  shall  have  it,  my  dear, 
and  many  others ! "  He  kept  his  word,  and  I  have  still  two 
small  volumes  in  which  are  collected  some  of  the  plays  in  which 
he  acted,  and  also  some  in  which  his  daughter,  Fanny  Kemble, 
who  was  then  married  and  living  in  America,  had  acted.  These 


1  I  must  explain  that  "baby"  was  the  pet  name  by  which  Mr  Kemble 
always  called  me.  I  cannot  tell  why,  unless  it  were  because  of  the  contrast 
he  found  between  his  own  wide  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  art,  and  my 
innocent  ignorance  and  youth.  Delicate  health  had  kept  me  in  a  quiet 
home,  which  I  only  left  at  intervals  for  a  quieter  life  by  the  seaside,  so  that 
I  knew,  perhaps,  far  less  of  the  world  and  its  ways  than  even  most  girls  of 
my  age. 


BEATRICE.  295 

came  with  a  charming  letter  on  the  title-page  addressed  to  his 
"dear  little  friend."1 

He  also  told  my  mother  to  bring  me  to  him,  if  at  any  time  she 
thought  his  advice  might  be  valuable ;  and  on  several  occasions 
afterwards  he  took  the  trouble  of  reading  over  new  parts  with  me 
and  giving  me  his  advice  and  help.  One  thing  which  he  im- 
pressed upon  me  I  never  forgot.  It  was,  on  no  account  to  give 
prominence  to  the  merely  physical  aspect  of  any  painful  emotion. 
Let  the  expression  be  genuine,  earnest,  but  not  ugly.  He  pointed 
out  to  me  how  easy  it  was  to  simulate  distortions — for  example, 
to  writhe  from  the  supposed  effect  of  poison,  to  gasp,  to  roll  the 
eyes,  &c.  These  were  melodramatic  effects.  But  if  pain  or 
death  had  to  be  represented,  or  any  sudden  or  violent  shock,  let 
them  be  shown  in  their  mental  rather  than  in  their  physical 
signs.  The  picture  presented  might  be  as  sombre  as  the  darkest 
Rembrandt,  but  it  must  be  noble  in  its  outlines  ;  truthful,  pictur- 
esque, but  never  repulsive,  mean,  or  commonplace.  It  must  sug- 
gest the  heroic,  the  divine,  in  human  nature,  and  not  the  mere 
everyday  struggles  or  tortures  of  this  life,  whether  in  joy  or 
sorrow,  despair  or  hopeless  grief.  Under  every  circumstance  the 
ideal,  the  noble,  the  beautiful,  should  be  given  side  by  side  with 
the  real. 

I  have  always  felt  what  a  happy  circumstance  it  was  for  a  shy 
and  sensitive  temperament  like  mine,  that  my  first  steps  in  my 
art  should  have  been  guided  and  encouraged  by  a  nature  so  gen- 
erous and  sympathetic  as  Mr  Kemble's.  He  made  me  feel  that  I 
was  on  the  right  road  to  success,  and  gave  me  courage  by  speak- 
ing warmly  of  my  natural  gifts,  and  praising  my  desire  to  study 
and  improve,  and  my  readiness  in  seizing  his  meaning  and  profit- 
ing by  his  suggestions.  How  different  it  was  when,  shortly  after- 
wards, I  came  under  Mr  Macready's  influence  !  Equally  great  in 
their  art,  Nature  had  cast  the  men  in  entirely  different  moulds. 

1  The  letter  was  in  these  terms  : — 

"11  PARK  PLACE,  ST  JAMES'S. 

"  MY  DEAR  LITTLE  FRIEND, — To  you  alone  do  these  parts,  which  once  were 
Fanny  Kemble's,  of  right  belong ;  for  from  you  alone  can  we  now  expect 
the  most  efficient  representation  of  them.  Pray  oblige  me  by  giving  them  a 
place  in  your  study  ;  and  believe  me  ever  your  true  friend  and  servant, 

"C.  KBMBLB." 


296      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Each  helped  me,  but  by  processes  wholly  unlike.  The  one,  while 
pointing  out  what  was  wrong,  brought  the  balm  of  encouragement 
and  hope ;  the  other,  like  the  surgeon,  who  "  cuts  beyond  the 
wound  to  make  the  cure  more  certain,"  was  merciless  to  the  feel- 
ings, where  he  thought  a  fault  or  a  defect  might  so  best  be 
pruned  away.  Both  were  my  true  friends,  and  both  were  most 
kind  to  me,  each  in  his  own  way  of  showing  kindness.  Yet  it 
was  well  for  my  self-distrustful  nature  that  the  gentler  kindness 
came  first. 

Mr  Kemble  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  making  you  happy. 
When  Joanna  Baillie's  play,  The  Separation,  was  produced  with- 
in two  months  of  my  first  appearance,  I  had,  in  the  heroine  Mar- 
garet, a  very  difficult  part — quite  unlike  any  I  had  previously 
acted  or  even  studied.  The  story  turns  upon  a  wife's  hearing 
that  before  their  marriage  her  husband  had  murdered  her  brother. 
The  play  opens  with  the  wife's  learning  the  terrible  truth  from  a 
dying  servant,  just  as  the  tidings  reach  her  that  her  husband  has 
returned  safely  from  battle,  and  is  close  at  hand.  Of  course 
"  the  Separation  "  ensues.  It  must  have  been  a  great  trouble  to 
Mr  Kemble,  who  played  Garcio,  the  husband,  to  study  a  new 
part  at  that  period  of  his  career,  and  I  wonder  that  he  undertook 
it.  You  may  imagine  how  nervous  and  anxious  I  felt  at  attempt- 
ing the  leading  character  in  a  play  never  before  acted,  and  one, 
moreover,  with  which  I  had  little  sympathy.  During  the  first 
performance  Mr  Kemble  also  appeared  very  nervous,  and  at  times 
seemed  at  a  loss  for  his  words.  He  was  deaf,  too, — not  very 
deaf,  but  sufficiently  so  to  make  the  prompter's  voice  of  no  use  to 
him.  Happily  I  was  able  on  several  occasions,  being  close  to 
him,  to  whisper  the  words.  How  I  knew  them  I  can  hardly  tell, 
because  we  had  not  copies  of  the  play  to  study  from,  but  only 
our  own  manuscript  parts.  But  I  had  heard  him  repeat  them 
often  at  rehearsal,  and  so  they  had  fixed  themselves  in  my 
memory.  Naturally,  I  thought  nothing  of  this  at  the  time. 
The  next  morning,  when  we  met  upon  the  stage  to  make  some 
little  changes  in  the  play,  Mr  Kemble  spoke  openly  of  the  help 
I  had  been  to  him,  making  very  much  more  of  it  than  it  deserved, 
and  above  all,  marvelling  at  the  self-command  of  the  young 
novice  coming  with  so  much  readiness  to  support  an  old  actor, 


BEATRICE.  297 

who  should  have  been  on  the  look-out  to  do  that  office  for  her. 
I  felt  much  ashamed  to  be  praised  for  so  small  a  thing.  But 
how  quietly  glad  was  the  little  mouse  when  she  found  that  she 
had  helped,  ever  so  slightly,  her  good  friend  the  noble  lion  ! l 

Mr  Kemble  was  before  everything  pre-eminently  a  gentle- 
man ;  and  this  told,  as  it  always  must  tell,  when  he  enacted 
ideal  characters.  There  was  a  natural  grace  and  dignity  in  his 
bearing,  a  courtesy  and  unstudied  deference  of  manner  in  ap- 
proaching and  addressing  women,  whether  in  private  society  or 
on  the  stage,  which  I  have  scarcely  seen  equalled.  Perhaps  it 
was  not  quite  so  rare  in  his  day  as  it  is  now.  What  a  lover  he 
must  have  made  !  What  a  Eomeo  !  What  an  Orlando  !  I  got 
glimpses  of  what  these  must  have  been  in  the  readings  which 
Mr  Kemble  gave  after  he  left  the  stage,  and  which  I  attended 
diligently,  with  heart  and  brain  awake  to  profit  by  what  I  heard. 
How  fine  was  his  Mercutio  !  What  brilliancy,  what  ease,  what 
spontaneous  flow  of  fancy  in  the  Queen  Mab  speech  !  The  very 
start  of  it  was  suggestive — "  0,  then,  I  see  Queen  Mab  "  (with 
a  slight  emphasis  on  "Mab")  "hath  been  with  you!"  How 
exquisite  was  the  play  of  it  all,  image  rising  up  after  image,  one 
crowding  upon  another,  each  new  one  more  fanciful  than  the 
last !  "  Thou  talk'st  of  nothing,"  says  Eomeo  ;  but  oh  what 
nothings !  As  picture  after  picture  was  brought  before  you  by 
Mr  Kemble's  skill,  with  the  just  emphasis  thrown  on  every 
word,  yet  all  spoken  "trippingly  on  the  tongue,"  what  objects 

1  I  remember  well  my  surprise,  when,  on  going  into  the  Soho  Bazaar  one 
day,  during  the  run  of  Separation,  and  coming  to  the  doll-stall — a  never- 
forgotten  spot  of  interest  for  me — I  saw  a  doll,  labelled  "  Miss  Helen  Faucit 
as  the  Lady  Margaret  in  Separation."  Such  things  were  very  unusual 
then,  and  I  felt,  oh  such  a  throb  of  delight !  The  doll's  dress  was  exactly 
mine — copied  most  accurately.  I  am  sure,  if  I  had  not  thought  it  would 
look  like  vanity,  I  should  have  liked  to  buy  my  waxen  self.  Moreover,  my 
funds  at  that  time  might  not  have  permitted  such  extravagance,  and  I  felt 
too  shy  to  ask  the  price.  She  was  a  grandly  got-up  lady  ;  and  although  my 
salary  was  the  largest  ever  given  in  those  days,  I  was,  as  a  minor,  only 
allowed  by  my  friends  a  slight  increase  to  the  pocket-money  which  had 
been  mine  before  my  ddbut.  Happily  for  me,  both  then  and  since,  money 
has  never  been  a  matter  of  first  importance  in  my  regard.  Success  in  my 
art,  and  the  preservation  of  the  freshness  and  freedom  of  spirit  which  are 
essential  to  true  distinction  in  it,  were  always  my  first  desire. 


298  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

that  one  might  see  or  touch  could  be  more  real1?  I  was  dis- 
appointed in  his  reading  of  Juliet,  Desdemona,  &c.  His  hero- 
ines were  spiritless,  tearful — creatures  too  merely  tender,  without 
distinction  or  individuality,  all  except  Lady  Macbeth,  into  whom 
I  could  not  help  thinking  some  of  the  spirit  of  his  great  sister, 
Mrs  Siddons,  was  transfused.  But,  in  truth,  I  cannot  think  it 
possible  for  any  man's  nature  to  simulate  a  woman's,  or  vice 
versa.  Therefore  it  is  that  I  have  never  cared  very  much  to 
listen  to  "  readings "  of  entire  plays  by  any  single  person.  I 
have  sometimes  given  parts  of  them  myself ;  but  very  rarely, 
and  only,  like  Beatrice,  "upon  great  persuasion." 

Pardon  this  digression.  It  was  so  much  my  way  to  live  with 
the  characters  I  represented,  that,  when  I  sit  down  to  write,  my 
mind  naturally  wanders  off  into  things  which  happened  to  me 
in  connection  with  the  representation  of  them.  It  was  some 
little  while  before  I  again  performed  Beatrice,  and  then  I  had 
for  my  Benedick  Mr  James  Wallack.  He  was  by  that  time 
past  the  meridian  of  his  life;  but  he  threw  a  spirit  and  grace 
into  the  part,  which,  added  to  his  fine  figure  and  gallant  bearing, 
made  him,  next  to  Mr  Charles  Kemble  although  far  beneath 
him,  the  best  Benedick  whom  I  have  ever  seen.  Oh  for  some- 
thing of  the  fervency,  the  fire,  the  undying  youthfulness  of  spirit, 
the  fine  courtesy  of  bearing,  now  so  rare,  which  made  the  acting 
with  actors  of  this  type  so  delightful ! 

By  this  time  I  had  made  a  greater  study  of  the  play ;  moved 
more  freely  in  my  art,  and  was  therefore  more  able  to  throw 
myself  into  the  character  of  Beatrice  than  in  the  days  of  my 
novitiate.  The  oftener  I  played  the  character,  the  more  it  grew 
upon  me.  The  view  I  had  taken  of  it  seemed  also  to  find 
favour  with  my  audiences.  I  well  remember  the  pleasure  I 
felt,  when  some  chance  critic  of  my  Beatrice  wrote  that  she  was 
"a  creature  overflowing  with  joyousness, — raillery  itself  being 
in  her  nothing  more  than  an  excess  of  animal  spirits,  tempered 
by  passing  through  a  soul  of  goodness."  That  she  had  a  soul, 
brave  and  generous  as  well  as  good,  it  was  always  my  aim  to 
show.  All  this  was  easy  work  to  me  on  the  stage.  To  do  it 
with  my  pen  is  a  far  harder  task  ;  but  I  must  try. 

It  may  be  a  mere  fancy,  yet  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 


BEATRICE.  299 

Shakespeare  found  peculiar  pleasure  in  the  delineation  of  Beat- 
rice, and  more  especially  in  devising  the  encounters  between  her 
and  Benedick.  You  remember  what  old  Fuller  says  of  the  wit- 
combats  between  Ben  Jonson  and  Shakespeare,  in  which  he 
likens  Jonson  to  a  Spanish  galleon,  "  built  high,  solid,  but 
slow " ;  and  Shakespeare  to  an  English  man-of-war,  "  lesser  in 
bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  tacking  about  and  taking  advantage 
of  all  winds  by  the  quickness  of  his  wit  and  invention."  It  is 
just  this  quickness  of  wit  and  invention  which  is  the  special 
characteristic  of  both  Benedick  and  Beatrice.  In  their  skir- 
mishes, each  vies  with  each  in  trying  to  outflank  the  other  by 
jest  and  repartee ;  and,  as  is  fitting,  the  victory  is  generally  with 
the  lady,  whose  adroitness  in  "  tacking  about,  and  taking  advan- 
tage of  all  winds,"  gives  her  the  advantage  even  against  an 
adversary  so  formidable  as  Benedick. 

That  Beatrice  is  beautiful,  Shakespeare  is  at  pains  to  indicate. 
If  what  Wordsworth  says  was  ever  true  of  any  one,  assuredly  it 
was  true  of  her,  that 

"  Vital  feelings  of  delight 
Had  reared  her  form  to  stately  height." 

Accordingly  we  picture  her  as  tall,  and  with  the  lithe  elastic 
grace  of  motion  which  should  come  of  a  fine  figure  and  high 
health.  We  are  made  to  see  very  early  that  she  is  the  sunshine 
of  her  uncle  Leonato's  house.  He  delights  in  her  quaint,  daring 
way  of  looking  at  things ;  he  is  proud  of  her,  too,  for  with  all 
her  sportive  and  somewhat  domineering  ways,  she  is  every  inch 
the  noble  lady,  bearing  herself  in  a  manner  worthy  of  her  high 
blood  and  courtly  breeding.  He  knows  how  good  and  sound  she 
is  in  heart  no  less  than  in  head, — one  of  those  strong  natures 
which  can  be  counted  on  to  rise  up  in  answer  to  a  call  upon 
their  courage  and  fertility  of  resource  in  any  time  of  difficulty 
or  trouble.  Her  shrewd  sharp  sayings  have  only  a  pleasant 
piquancy  for  him.  Indeed,  however  much  weak  colourless 
natures  might  stand  in  awe  of  eyes  so  quick  to  detect  a  flaw, 
and  a  wit  so  prompt  to  cover  it  with  ridicule,  there  must  have 
been  a  charm  for  him  and  for  all  manly  natures  in  the  very 
peril  of  coming  under  the  fire  of  her  raillery.  A  young,  beauti- 


300  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

ful,  graceful  woman,  flashing  out  brilliant  sayings,  charged  with 
no  real  malice,  but  with  just  enough  of  a  sting  in  them  to  pique 
the  self-esteem  of  those  at  whom  they  are  aimed,  must  always, 
I  fancy,  have  a  peculiar  fascination  for  men  of  spirit.  And  so 
we  see,  at  the  very  outset,  it  was  with  Beatrice.  Not  only  her 
uncle,  but  Don  Pedro  and  the  Count  Claudio  also,  have  the 
highest  admiration  of  her.  That  she  was  either  a  vixen  or  a 
shrew  was  the  last  idea  that  could  have  entered  their  minds. 
"  By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited  lady ! "  says  Don  Pedro ;  and 
the  words  express  what  was  obviously  the  general  impression  of 
all  who  knew  her  best. 

How  long  Benedick  and  Beatrice  have  known  each  other 
before  the  play  begins  is  not  indicated.  I  think  we  may  fairly 
infer  that  their  acquaintance  is  of  some  standing.  It  certainly 
did  not  begin  when  Don  Pedro,  Prince  of  Aragon,  in  passing 
through  Messina  (on  his  way  probably  to  attack  the  Turks,  with 
whom  Spain,  Austria,  and  Venice  were  at  war  about  the  period 
to  which  we  may  reasonably  assign  the  action  of  the  play), 
picked  Benedick  up,  and  attached  him  to  his  suite.  They  were 
obviously  intimate  before  this.  At  all  events  there  had  been 
time  for  an  antagonism  to  spring  up  between  them,  which  was 
natural,  where  both  were  witty,  and  both  accustomed  to  lord  it 
somewhat,  as  witty  people  are  apt  to  do,  over  their  respective 
circles.  Benedick  could  scarcely  have  failed  to  draw  the  fire 
of  Beatrice  by  his  avowed  and  contemptuous  indifference  to  her 
sex,  if  by  nothing  else.  To  be  evermore  proclaiming,  as  we  may 
be  sure  he  did,  just  as  much  before  he  went  to  the  wars  as  he 
did  after  his  return,  that  he  rated  all  women  cheaply,  was  an 
offence  which  Beatrice,  ready  enough  although  she  might  be 
herself  to  make  epigrams  on  the  failings  of  her  sex,  was  certain 
to  resent.  Was  it  to  be  borne  that  he  should  set  himself  up 
as  "a  professed  tyrant  to  her  whole  sex,"  and  boast  his  freedom 
from  the  vassalage  to  "love,  the  lord  of  all"?  And  this,  too, 
when  he  had  the  effrontery  to  tell  herself,  "  It  is  certain  I  am 
loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted." 

It  is  true  that  Beatrice,  when  she  is  pressed  upon  the  point, 
has  much  the  same  pronounced  notions  about  the  male  sex,  and 
the  bondage  of  marriage.  But  she  does  not,  like  Benedick,  go 


BEATRICE.  301 

about  proclaiming  them  to  all  comers ;  neither  does  she  denounce 
the  whole  male  sex  for  the  faults  or  vices  of  the  few.  Besides, 
there  has  clearly  been  about  Benedick,  in  these  early  days,  an 
air  of  confident  self-assertion,  a  tendency  to  talk  people  down, 
which  have  irritated  Beatrice.  The  name  "  Signor  Montanto," 
borrowed  from  the  language  of  the  Italian  fencing-school,  by 
which  she  asks  after  him  in  the  first  sentence  she  utters,  and 
her  announcement  that  she  had  "promised  to  eat  all  of  his 
killing,"  seem  to  point  to  the  first  of  these  faults.  And  may 
we  not  take  as  an  indication  of  the  other  her  first  remark  to 
himself,  "  I  wonder  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signor  Benedick  ; 
nobody  marks  you ; "  and  also  the  sarcasm  in  her  description  of 
him  to  her  uncle,  as  "too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore 
tattling  "  t 

What  piques  Beatrice,  also,  is  the  undeniable  fact  that  this 
contemptuous  Benedick  is  a  handsome,  gallant  young  soldier,  a 
general  favourite,  who  makes  his  points  with  trenchant  effect 
in  the  give  and  take  of  their  wit-combats,  and,  in  short,  has 
more  of  the  qualities  to  win  the  heart  of  a  woman  of  spirit  than 
any  of  the  gallants  who  have  come  about  her.  She,  on  the  other 
hand,  has  the  attraction  for  him  of  being  as  clever  as  she  is 
handsome,  the  person  of  all  his  circle  who  puts  him  most  upon 
his  mettle,  and  who  pays  him  the  compliment  of  replying  upon 
his  sharp  sayings  with  repartees,  the  brilliancy  of  which  he 
cannot  but  acknowledge,  even  while  he  smarts  under  them. 
We  can  tell  he  is  far  from  insensible  to  her  beauty  by  what 
he  says  of  her  to  Claudio  when  contrasting  her  with  Hero. 
"  There  is  her  cousin,  and  she  were  not  possessed  with  a  fury, 
exceeds  her  as  much  in  beauty  as  the  first  of  May  doth  the 
last  of  December."  No  wonder,  therefore,  that,  as  we  see,  they 
have  often  come  into  conflict,  creating  no  small  amusement  to 
their  friends,  and  to  none  more  than  to  Leonato.  When  Beat- 
rice, in  the  opening  scene  of  the  play,  says  so  many  biting  things 
about  Benedick,  Leonato,  anxious  that  the  Messenger  shall  not 
carry  away  a  false  notion  of  their  opinion  of  him,  says,  "You 
must  not,  sir,  mistake  my  niece ;  there  is  a  kind  of  merry  war 
between  Signor  Benedick  and  her ;  they  never  meet  but  there's 
a  skirmish  of  wit  between  them."  Life,  perhaps,  has  not  been 


302  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS. 

so  amusing  to  Leonato  since  Signor  Benedick  went  away.  It 
is  conceivable  that  Beatrice  herself  may  have  missed  him,  if 
for  nothing  else  than  for  the  gibes  and  sarcasm  which  had 
called  her  own  exuberance  of  wit  into  play. 

I  believe  we  shall  not  do  Beatrice  justice  unless  we  form  some 
idea,  such  as  I  have  suggested,  of  the  relations  that  have  sub- 
sisted between  her  and  Benedick  before  the  play  opens.  It 
would  he  impossible  otherwise  to  understand  why  he  should 
be  uppermost  in  her  thoughts,  when  she  hears  of  the  successful 
issue  of  Don  Pedro's  expedition,  so  that  her  first  question  to 
the  Messenger  who  brings  the  tidings  is  whether  Benedick  has 
come  back  with  the  rest.  Finding  that  he  has  returned  un- 
scathed "  and  as  pleasant  as  ever  he  was,"  she  proceeds  to  show 
him  under  no  very  flattering  aspect.  Her  uncle,  knowing  how 
very  different  Benedick  is  from  the  man  she  wittily  describes, 
tries  to  stop  her  by  saying,  "  Faith,  niece,  you  tax  Signor  Bene- 
dick too  much ;  but  he'll  be  meet  with  you,  I  doubt  not."  This 
only  stimulates  her  to  such  further  travesty  of  his  character,  that 
the  Messenger  observes,  "I  see,  lady,  the  gentleman,  is  not  in 
your  books."  In  sheer  enjoyment  of  her  own  humour,  she 
rejoins — "  No  :  an  he  were,  I  would  burn  my  study.  But  I 
pray  you,"  she  continues,  insensibly  betraying  her  interest  in 
him  by  the  question,  "  who  is  his  companion  ? "  And  when 
the  Messenger  answers,  "  The  right  noble  Claudio,"  the  humor- 
ous exaggeration  of  her  language  gives  a  delightful  foretaste  of 
what  we  may  expect  when  she  encounters  Benedick  himself  : — 

"  0  Lord  !  He  will  hang  upon  him  like  a  disease ;  he  is  sooner  caught 
than  the  pestilence,  and  the  taker  runs  presently  mad.  Heaven  help  the 
noble  Claudio  \l  If  he  have  caught  the  Benedick,  it  will  cost  him  a  thou- 
sand pound  ere  he  be  cured. 

Mess.   I  will  hold  friends  with  you,  lady. 

Seat.  Do,  good  friend. 

Leon.  You'll  ne'er  run  mad,  niece. 

Beat.  No,  not  till  a  hot  January." 


1  In  some  recent  reproductions  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  the  frequent  rep- 
etition of  the  name  of  the  Deity  has  struck  most  painfully  upon  my  ear. 
I  suppose,  when  Shakespeare  wrote,  the  familiar  use  of  this  sacred  name, 
like  many  other  things  repugnant  to  modern  taste,  was  not  generally  con- 
demned. In  this  play  the  name  of  "  God  "  occurs  continually,  and  upon 


BEATKICE.  303 

At  this  point  Don  Pedro  enters  with  his  suite,  and  Benedick 
among  them.  It  is  not  long  before  he  draws  upon  himself,  and 
deservedly  too,  a  shaft  from  the  quiver  of  Beatrice's  wit.  When 
Don  Pedro,  turning  to  Hero,  says,  "  I  think  this  is  your  daughter," 
and  Leonato  rejoins,  "  Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me  so," 
Benedick  strikes  in  with  the  somewhat  impertinent  freedom  of 
a  privileged  jester,  "  Were  you  in  doubt,  Signor,  that  you  asked 
her  1 "  Leonato  retorts  upon  him,  "  Signor  Benedick,  no  ;  for 
then  were  you  a  child."  "  You  have  it  full,  Benedick,"  exclaims 
Don  Pedro  ;  "  we  may  guess  by  this  what  you  are,  being  a  man," 
— adding,  "  Truly,  the  lady  fathers  herself ;  be  happy,  lady  !  for 
you  are  like  an  honourable  father."  Benedick,  a  little  stung  by 
Leonato's  repartee,  now  grows  rude.  "  If  Signor  Leonato,"  he 
says,  "be  her  father,  she  would  not  have  his  head  on  her 
shoulders  for  all  Messina,  as  like  him  as  she  is."  The  others 
turn  away  to  converse  together,  but  Beatrice,  indignant  at  what 
she  considers  his  impertinent  speech  to  her  uncle,  addresses  him 
tauntingly  with — 

"  I  wonder  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signor  Benedick  ;  nobody  marks  you. 

Bene.  What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain  !  are  you  yet  living  ? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible  disdain  should  die,  while  she  hath  such  meet  food  to 
feed  it  as  Signor  Benedick  ?  Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain  if  you 
come  in  her  presence." 

In  the  dialogue  which  ensues,  Benedick  falls  at  once  into  his 
old  habit  of  boasting  that  women  love  him,  but  that  he  cannot 
love  them.  In  what  he  says,  he  is  unmannerly  rather  than 
witty ;  and  finding  very  soon  that  he  has  the  worst  of  the 
encounter,  he  is  glad  to  break  off  the  interview,  telling  Beat- 
rice, "  I  would  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your  tongue,  and  so 
good  a  continuer.  But  keep  your  way,  o'  heaven's  name  ;  I  have 

the  most  trivial  occasions.  It  so  happens  that  it  rises  to  Beatrice's  lips 
more  often  than  to  any  other's.  In  the  books  from  which  I  studied, 
"  Heaven "  was  everywhere  substituted  for  it ;  and  I  confess  the  word 
sounds  pleasanter  and  softer  to  my  ear,  besides  being  in  the  circumstances 
less  irreverent.  I  cannot  help  the  feeling,  though  it  may  be  considered 
fastidious.  The  name  of  the  Deity,  I  think,  should  never  rise  lightly  to 
the  lips,  or  be  used  upon  slight  cause.  There  are,  of  course,  occasions  when, 
even  upon  the  stage,  it  is  the  right  word  to  use.  But  these  are  rare,  and 
only  where  the  prevailing  strain  of  thought  or  emotion  is  high  and  solemn. 


304  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

done."     She  is  ready  with  her  retort,  "  You  always  end  with  a 
jade's  trick ;  I  know  you  of  old." 

When  Beatrice  leaves  the  scene,  and  Benedick  remains  behind 
with  Claudio,  he  can  give  full  vent  to  his  disparagement  of  all 
womankind  with  no  fear  of  rebuke.  In  vain  does  Claudio  try 
to  extract  from  him  some  encouragement  in  his  admiration  of 
Leonato's  daughter  Hero.  "  In  mine  eye,"  says  Claudio,  "  she 
is  the  sweetest  lady  that  ever  I  looked  on."  But  Benedick  can 
"  see  no  such  matter."  Then  it  is  he  drops  out  the  acknowledg- 
ment, that  Beatrice  excels  her  cousin  in  beauty  as  "  the  first  of 
May  doth  the  last  of  December,"  if  only  she  were  not  "pos- 
sessed with  a  fury  " — a  qualification  made  in  very  soreness  at 
the  triumph  her  superior  skill  in  the  carte  and  tierce  of  bad- 
inage has  so  recently  given  her  over  him.  Claudio,  who,  on 
seeing  Hero  again,  finds  that  the  admiration  he  had  felt  for  her 
before  going  to  the  war  has  deepened  into  an  absorbing  passion, 
writhes  under  the  banter  of  his  unsympathetic  friend,  and  is 
very  glad  to  have  the  support  of  Don  Pedro,  who  now  joins 
them.  His  coming  is  the  signal  for  Benedick  to  start  off  afresh 
into  protestations  of  his  indifference  to  the  whole  female  sex, 
and  of  his  fixed  determination  to  live  a  bachelor.  When  Don 
Pedro,  who  knows  human  nature  a  great  deal  too  well  to  take 
such  protestations  for  serious  earnest,  says,  "  I  shall  see  thee,  ere 
I  die,  look  pale  with  love,"  Benedick  rejoins,  "  With  anger,  with 
sickness,  or  with  hunger,  my  lord,  but  not  with  love."  Don 
Pedro  adheres  to  his  opinion,  quoting  the  line,  "In  time  the 
savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke  " ;  and  this  draws  from  Benedick 
the  protest,  on  which  so  much  of  the  humour  of  what  happens 
afterwards  depends, — 

"  Bene.  The  savage  bull  may ;  but  if  ever  the  sensible  Benedick  bear  it, 
pluck  off  the  bull's  horns  and  set  them  in  my  forehead  :  and  let  me  be 
vilely  painted,  and  in  such  great  letters  as  they  write,  '  Here  is  good  horse 
to  hire, '  let  them  signify  under  my  sign,  '  Here  you  may  see  Benedick  the 
married  man.' 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his  quiver  in  Venice,  thou  wilt 
quake  for  this  shortly. 

Bene.  I  look  for  an  earthquake  too,  then." 

Benedick  gone,  Claudio  is  free  to  open  the  state  of  his  heart 


BEATKICE.  305 

to    his   patron   and    friend,    Don   Pedro.      He   fears  his   liking 

may  seem  too  sudden,  and  explains  that  it  was  of  old  standing. 

Before  he  had  gone  with  the  Prince  on  the  expedition  just  ended, 

he  had  looked  on  Hero 

"  with  a  soldier's  eye, 

That  liked,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love. 
But  now  I  am  return'd,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saying,  I  liked  her  ere  I  went  to  wars." 

This  heing  the  state  of  his  heart,  why  should  he  not  have  urged 
his  suit  in  person  1  Instead  of  doing  so,  however,  he  unwisely 
adopts  Don  Pedro's  suggestion,  that  she  should  be  wooed  by 
proxy  :— 

"  I  know  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night : 
I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise, 
And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio  ; 
And  in  her  bosom  I'll  unclasp  my  heart, 
And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 
And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale." 

Brides  for  princes  have  often  been  wooed  by  proxy,  and  with 
results  not  always  satisfactory  to  the  princes,  but  here  the  order 
of  things  is  reversed.  Surely  the  man  who  could  leave  another 
to  plead  for  him  in  such  a  cause  can  have  no  great  strength  of 
character  ;  and  that  this  is  true  of  Claudio  seems  to  me  to  be 
very  clearly  shown  by  his  subsequent  conduct.  Presently  we 
see  how  easily  he  allows  himself  to  be  swayed  by  what  other 
people  say,  as  weak  men  will,  when  Don  Pedro's  brother,  Don 
John,  to  gratify  the  personal  grudge  he  feels  for  having  been 
supplanted  by  Claudio  in  his  brother's  regard,  persuades  him 
that  Don  Pedro  is  playing  him  false,  and  wooing  Hero  for  him- 
self. The  discovery  that  this  was  merely  a  malicious  fiction 
would  have  put  most  men  upon  their  guard  against  believing 
any  further  innuendo  from  the  same  quarter.  But  Claudio  is 
still  perfectly  ready  to  give  credence  to  Don  John's  subsequent 
accusation  against  Hero,  and  to  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  it 
is  true,  upon  evidence  which  could  have  surely  misled  no  manly 
and  generous  mind.  The  very  look,  morose  and  vindictive,  of 
U 


306     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Don  John  ought  to  have  inspired  him  with  distrust.  What 
that  look  was,  Beatrice  puts  vividly  before  us  in  a  sentence 
or  two  at  the  opening  of  the  second  act.  The  whole  passage  is 
delightful. 

"  Leonato.  Was  not  Count  John  here  at  supper  ? 

Antonio.  I  saw  him  not. 

Beatrice.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks  !  I  never  can  see  him  but  I 
am  heart-burned  an  hour  after. 

Hero.  He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Beat.  He  were  an  excellent  man  that  were  made  just  in  the  midway 
between  him  and  Benedick  ;  the  one  is  too  like  an  image,  and  says  nothing ; 
and  the  other  too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore  tattling. 

Leon.  Then  half  Signer  Benedick's  tongue  in  Count  John's  mouth,  and 
half  Count  John's  melancholy  in  Signor  Benedick's  face — 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg,  and  a  good  foot,  uncle,  and  money  enough  in  his 
purse,  such  a  man  could  win  any  woman  in  the  world, — if  he  could  get  her 
good-will. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get  thee  a  husband,  if  thou  be 
so  shrewd  of  tongue. 

Beat.  .  .  .  For  the  which  blessing  I  am  upon  my  knees  every  morn- 
ing and  evening.  Lord  !  I  could  not  endure  a  husband  with  a  beard  on  his 
face.  .  .  . 

Leon.  You  may  light  upon  a  husband  that  hath  no  beard. 

Beat.  What  should  I  do  with  him  ?  Dress  him  in  my  apparel,  and  make 
him  my  waiting-gentlewoman  ?  He  that  hath  a  beard  is  more  than  a 
youth  ;  and  he  that  hath  no  beard  is  less  than  a  man ;  and  he  that  is  more 
than  a  youth  is  not  for  me,  and  he  that  is  less  than  a  man,  I  am  not  for 
him." 

Who  does  not  see  what  a  pleasant  person  Beatrice  must  have 
been  in  her  uncle's  home,  with  all  this  power  of  saying  the 
quaint  and  unexpected  things  which  bubble  up  from  an  uncon- 
trollable spirit  of  enjoyment  ]  Her  frankness  must  indeed  have 
been  a  pleasant  foil  to  the  somewhat  characterless  and  over-gentle 
Hero.  See  how  fearlessly  she  presently  tells  Hero  not  to  take  a 
husband  of  her  father's  choosing,  unless  he  pleases  herself.  She 
has  just  heard  of  the  Prince's  intention  to  make  suit  to  Hero  at 
the  coming  masked  ball ;  and  when  Antonio  tells  Hero  that  he 
trusts  she  will  not  follow  Beatrice's  creed,  but  "  be  ruled  by  her 
father,"  Beatrice  rejoins  : — 

"  Yes,  faith ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  curtsy,  and  say, '  As  it  please 
you  : ' — but  yet  for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or  else 
make  another  curtsy,  and  say,  ' Father,  as  it  please  me  ! '" 


BEATRICE.  307 

Leonato  loves  Beatrice  too  well  to  be  angry  at  this  instigation 
to  possible  rebellion,  and  only  answers  her  with  the  words, 
"Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted  with  a  husband." 
Beatrice  is  by  no  means  at  the  end  of  her  resources.  She  is 
bent  on  making  light  of  all  matrimonial  projects.  In  what  she 
goes  on  to  say  we  have  the  counterpart  of  what  Benedick  in  the 
previous  scene  had  said  to  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio ;  and  so  the 
groundwork  is  laid  for  the  coming  contrast  between  their  pro- 
testations of  resolute  celibacy  and  their  subsequent  engagement. 

"Beat.  Not  till  Heaven  make  men  of  some  other  metal  than  earth. 
Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  be  overmastered  with  a  piece  of  valiant 
dust  ?  To  make  account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl  ?  No,  uncle, 
I'll  none.  Adam's  sons  are  my  brethren  ;  and  truly  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  match 
in  my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you.  If  the  Prince  do  solicit  you 
in  that  kind,  you  know  your  answer. 

Beat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if  you  be  not  wooed  in  good 
time.  If  the  Prince  be  too  importunate,  tell  him  there  is  measure  in  every- 
thing, and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For,  hear  me,  Hero ;  wooing,  wed- 
ding, and  repenting  is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a  measure,  and  a  cinque-pace.  The 
first  suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as  fantastical ;  the 
wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a  measure,  full  of  state  and  ancientry ;  and 
then  comes  repentance,  and,  with  his  bad  legs,  falls  into  the  cinque-pace 
faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  into  his  grave. 

Leon.  Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beat.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle  :  I  can  see  a  church  by  daylight." 

Beatrice  is  now  in  the  gayest  spirits  and  in  the  very  mood  to 
encounter  her  old  enemy,  Benedick.  He  appears  forthwith  at  the 
revel  at  Leonato's  house,  masked  like  the  other  guests.  Bene- 
dick has  thrown  himself  in  her  way ;  he  has  danced  with  her ; 
and  thinking  she  does  not  penetrate  the  disguise  of  his  domino 
and  mask,  and  feigned  voice,  has  been  telling  her  he  had  been 
informed  that  her  wit  was  borrowed  and  her  temper  disdainful. 
She  knows  him  at  once,  but  affects  not  to  do  so  ;  and  thus  in 
the  dialogue  that  follows  between  them  the  actress  has  the  most 
delightful  scope  for  bringing  out  the  address,  the  graceful  move- 
ment, the  abounding  joyousness  which  makes  Beatrice  the 
paragon  of  her  kind.  With  a  plaintive,  ill-used  air  she  asks 
him — 


308  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  Beat.  Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 
Bene.  (in  a  feigned  voice).     No,  you  shall  pardon  me. 
Beat.  Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 
Bene.  Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful, — and  that  I  had  my  good  wit  out  of  '  The 
Hundred  Merry  Tales.' " 

Then,  as  if  the  truth  had  just  flashed  upon  her,  she  continues — 

' '  Well,  this  was  Signor  Benedick  that  said  so. 

Bene.  What's  he  ? 

Beat.  I  am  sure  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.  Not  I,  believe  me. 

Beat.  Did  he  never  make  you  laugh  ? 

Bene.  I  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? " 

By  this  time  Benedick  has  begun  to  wish  himself  anywhere  but 
where  he  is.  But  his  restlessness  only  stimulates  Beatrice  to 
take  her  full  revenge  upon  him,  by  presenting  him  in  the  light 
which  to  a  high-spirited  man  would  be  intolerable.  Never  again 
shall  he  venture  to  say  she  had  her  wit  out  of  '  The  Hundred 
Merry  Tales.' 

' '  Beat.  Why,  he  is  the  Prince's  jester  :  a  very  dull  fool ;  only  his  gift  is  in 
devising  impossible  slanders.  None  but  libertines  delight  in  him  ;  and  the 
commendation  is  not  in  his  wit  but  in  his  villainy  ;  for  he  both  pleases  men 
and  angers  them,  and  then  they  laugh  at  him  and  beat  him.  .  .  ." 

Benedick  tries  to  break  away  from  her,  saying,  "  When  I  know 
the  gentleman,  I'll  tell  him  what  you  say;"  but  he  is  not  yet 
allowed  to  escape. 

"Do,  do  !  "  says  Beatrice,  mocking  him.  "  He'll  but  break  a  comparison 
or  two  on  me ;  which,  peradventure,  not  marked,  or  not  laughed  at,  strikes 
him  into  melancholy  ;  and  then  there's  a  partridge  wing  saved,  for  the  fool 
will  eat  no  supper  that  night." 

"With  this  Beatrice  lets  him  go ;  but  how  deeply  her  barbed 
shafts  have  pierced  him  is  seen  anon,  when  he  returns  to  the 
scene.  He  has  been  laughing  at  Claudio  for,  as  he  believes, 
letting  Don  Pedro  win  his  mistress  Hero  for  himself;  but  no 
sooner  does  Claudio  leave  him,  enraged  against  the  Prince,  than 
the  gibes  of  the  Lady  Beatrice  recur  to  his  memory  : — 

"  That  my  lady  Beatrice  should  know  me,  and  not  know  me  !  The 
Prince's  fool !  Ha !  it  may  be,  that  I  go  under  that  title,  because  I  am 


BEATRICE.  309 

merry.  Yea  ;  but  so  ;  I  ain  apt  to  do  myself  wrong.  I  am  not  so  reputed. 
It  is  nought  but  the  bitter  disposition  of  Beatrice,  that  puts  the  world  into 
her  person,  and  so  gives  me  out.  Well,  I'll  be  revenged  as  I  may." 

"As  he  may!"  There  is  an  amusing  despair  in  the  confession. 
He  feels  that  Beatrice  has  fairly  driven  him  off  the  field.  This 
becomes  more  apparent  when  Don  Pedro  breaks  in  upon  his 
musing  with  these  unwelcome  words,  "The  lady  Beatrice  hath 
a  quarrel  to  you ;  the  gentleman  that  danced  with  her  told  her 
she  is  much  wronged  by  you."  Poor  Benedick  at  once  lets  out 
the  secret,  which  Beatrice  had  kept  from  the  Prince,  that  the 
gentleman  in  question  was  himself.  Indignation  makes  him  elo- 
quent and  witty  even  beyond  his  wont. 

"  0,  she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of  a  block.  An  oak,  but  with 
one  green  leaf  on  it,  would  have  answered  her.  My  very  visor  began  to 
assume  life  and  scold  with  her.  She  told  me,  not  thinking  I  had  been  my- 
self,"— ah,  where  then  was  his  vaunted  shrewdness  ? — "  that  I  was  the 
Prince's  jester,  and  that  I  was  duller  than  a  great  thaw,  huddling  jest  upon 
jest,  with  such  impossible  conveyance  upon  me,  that  I  stood  like  a  man  at 
a  mark,  with  a  whole  army  shooting  at  me.  She  speaks  poniards,  and  every 
word  stabs.  ...  I  would  not  marry  her,  though  she  were  endowed 
with  all  that  Adam  had  left  him  before  he  transgressed." 

Not  marry  her !  Are  we  to  read  in  this,  that  Benedick  had 
at  some  time  nourished  dreams  about  her,  not  wholly  consistent 
with  his  creed  of  celibacy]  Not  unlikely,  if  we  couple  this 
remark  with  what  he  had  said  to  Claudio  about  her  beauty  as 
compared  with  Hero's.  But,  while  they  speak,  Beatrice  is  seen 
approaching  with  her  Uncle,  Claudio,  and  Hero,  and  in  the  same 
spirit  of  exquisite  exaggeration  Benedick,  who  in  his  present 
mood  will  not  run  the  risk  of  a  fresh  encounter,  asks  Don  Pedro 
if  he  will  not  "  command  him  any  service  to  the  world's  end  1 " 
offering  to  go  anywhere,  do  anything,  "  rather  than  hold  three 
words'  conference  with  this  harpy,"  and  makes  his  escape,  ex- 
claiming as  he  goes,  "0  God,  sir,  here's  a  dish  I  love  not;  I 
cannot  endure  my  Lady  Tongue."  All  this  time  Benedick  quite 
forgets  that  he  was  himself  to  blame,  if  Beatrice  has  dealt  sharply 
with  him ;  for  had  he  not  given  her  the  severest  provocation  by 
attacking  her  under  the  shelter  of  his  mask  1  If  volubility  of 
speech  were  her  sin,  how  much  greater  was  his !  Rich  as  her 


310  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

invention  is,  and  fertile  her  vocabulary,  Benedick  excels  her  in 
both.  But  what  great  talker  ever  knew  his  own  weakness  1 

Meanwhile  Beatrice  has  been  requested  by  Don  Pedro  to  bring 
Count  Claudio.  She  has  evidently  found  out,  by  the  way,  the 
secret  of  his  sullenness ;  and  when  Don  Pedro  inquires  the  cause, 
she  puts  the  case  with  her  usual  aptness  and  pleasantry,  "The 
Count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor  merry,  nor  well :  but  civil 
Count,  civil  as  an  orange,  and  something  of  that  jealous  com- 
plexion." He  is  speedily  disabused  of  his  suspicions,  and  made 
happy  by  Don  Pedro's  assurance  that  Hero  has  been  won  for  him, 
and  her  father's  "  goodwill  obtained." 

Despite  of  all  that  she  has  said  against  marriage  for  herself, 
Beatrice,  who  is  in  Hero's  secret,  is  glad  of  a  result  which  makes 
her  cousin  happy.  "  Speak,  Count,"  she  says  to  Claudio,  who 
has  scarcely  recovered  from  his  surprise,  "'tis  your  cue."  And 
when  he  does  speak,  and  very  well  too,  she  turns  with  a  similar 
adjuration  to  Hero. 

"  Seat.  Speak,  cousin  ;  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop  his  mouth  with  a  kiss,  and 
let  him  not  speak  neither. 

D.  Pedro.  In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry  heart. 

Beat.  Yea,  my  lord  :  I  thank  it,  poor  fool,  it  keeps  on  the  windy  side  of 
care." 

But  she  is  for  the  moment  too  intent  on  watching  the  lovers  to 
think  of  herself,  and  she  continues — 

"  My  cousin  tells  him  in  his  ear  that  he  is  in  her  heart. 

Claud.  And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  Lord,  for  alliance  !  Thus  goes  every  one  to  the  world  but  I, 
and  I  am  sunburnt ;  I  may  sit  in  a  corner,  and  cry,  heigho  !  for  a  husband. 

D.  Pedro.  Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

Beat.  I  would  rather  have  one  of  your  father's  getting.  Hath  your  grace 
ne'er  a  brother  like  you  ?  Your  father  got  excellent  husbands,  if  a  maid 
could  come  by  them. 

D.  Pedro.  Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beat.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another  for  working-days.  Your 
grace  is  too  costly  to  wear  every  day. " 

Here,  true  lady  as  she  is,  it  crosses  her  mind  that  her  high  spirits 
may  have  carried  her  too  far,  and  may  lead  the  Prince  to  mis- 
understand her.  With  the  bright  and  innocent  frankness  which 
obviously  gives  her  a  special  charm  in  his  eyes,  she  prays  his 
forgiveness. 


BEATRICE.  311 

"  I  beseech'your  grace,  pardon  me  !  I  was  born  to  speak  all  mirth,  and 
no  matter. 

I).  Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to  be  merry  best  becomes 
you  ;  for,  out  of  question,  you  were  born  in  a  merry  hour." 

With  just  the  slightest  inflection  of  pathos  in  her  voice  Beatrice 
replies — 

"No,  sure,  my  lord,  my  mother  cry'd  ;  but  then  there  was  a  star  danced, 
and  under  that  was  I  born.  Cousins,  Heaven  give  you  joy  ! " 

Her  uncle  now  asks  her  "  to  look  to  some  things  he  had  told 
her  of."  Be  sure  that  Beatrice  was  the  presiding  spirit  in  his 
household.  How  sweetly  and  readily  does  she  go  upon  his  bid- 
ding !  "  I  cry  you  mercy,  uncle ; "  then  curtseying  to  the  Prince 
of  Aragon,  "  By  your  grace's  leave  ! "  to  excuse  herself  for  leaving 
thus  abruptly.  When  she  has  gone,  Don  Pedro  sums  up  his 
impression  of  her  in  the  words,  "  By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited 
lady."  In  answer  to  his  remark  that  Beatrice  "cannot  endure 
to  hear  tell  of  a  husband,"  Leonato  says,  "  0,  by  no  means :  she 
mocks  all  her  wooers  out  of  suit ! "  Don  Pedro  has,  however, 
seen  enough  of  the  relations  between  her  and  Benedick  to  con- 
clude that  a  worse  thing  might  befall  them,  than  that  their  witty 
warfare  should  be  turned  to  wooing.  He  has  obviously  a  strong 
regard  for  both,  and  he  "  would  fain  have  it  a  match."  She,  he 
says,  "  were  an  excellent  wife  for  Benedick  ; "  and  Benedick,  a 
man  "  of  noble  strain,  of  approved  valour,  and  confirmed  honesty," 
as  he  knows  him  to  be,  is  "  not  the  unhopefullest  husband  that 
he  knows."  So,  to  beguile  the  week  that  is  to  elapse  before 
Claudio's  marriage,  he  undertakes  "  to  bring  them  into  a  mountain 
of  affection,  the  one  with  the  other."  Hero,  acting  upon  the 
suggestions  Don  Pedro  will  give  her,  is  so  to  "humour"  her 
cousin,  "  that  she  shall  fall  in  love  with  Benedick  ; "  while  he 
himself,  along  with  Leonato  and  Claudio,  are  so  to  "  practise  on 
Benedick  that,  in  despite  of  his  quick  wit  and  his  queasy  stomach," 
he  shall  fall  in  love  with  Beatrice. 

While  they  are  perfecting  their  little  well-meant  plot,  Don 
John  and  his  retainer,  Borachio,  are  hatching  theirs  for  destroy- 
ing Hero's  reputation  and  breaking  off  her  marriage,  by  making 
Don  Pedro  and  Count  Claudio  believe  that,  on  the  night  before 


312  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

her  wedding-day,  they  see  Borachio  leave  her  chamber  by  the 
window.  The  way  in  which  the  temporary  success  of  this  second 
plot  is  made  to  work  most  effectually  for  the  permanent  success 
of  the  first,  is  one  of  the  many  proofs  of  Shakespeare's  transcen- 
dent skill  in  dramatic  construction. 

There  is  no  need  to  speak  at  length  of  the  admirable  scene  in 
which  Don  Pedro,  Leonato,  and  Count  Claudio  persuade  Bene- 
dick that  Beatrice  dotes  upon  him,  while  "  she  hath  in  all  out- 
ward behaviours  seemed  ever  to  abhor  him,"  and  "  will  die  ere  she 
will  make  her  love  known."  So  cleverly  is  the  dialogue  man- 
aged, that  Benedick  must  have  had  a  heart  of  stone,  as  well  as 
superhuman  acuteness,  had  he  not  been  moved  by  it.  He  does 
not  easily  fall  into  the  snare.  Don  Pedro  alone  could  not  have 
deceived  him.  But  how  can  he  refuse  to  believe  Leonato,  "  the 
white-bearded  fellow,"  whom  he  knows  to  be  devoted  to  Beatrice  1 
Was  it  conceivable  that  he,  her  uncle  and  guardian,  should  be 
speaking  pure  fiction,  when  he  says  that  "she  loves  Benedick 
with  an  enraged  affection, — it  is  past  the  infinite  of  thought "  1 
And  why  should  Claudio,  his  own  familiar  and  trusted  friend,  be 
in  the  same  tale,  unless  he  had  really  learned  from  Hero,  as  he 
says  he  has,  the  true  state  of  Beatrice's  affection,  and  "  that  she 
will  die  ere  she  make  her  love  known  "  ? 

The  conspirators  have  not  spared  Benedick,  while  extolling 
Beatrice — dwelling  much  on  his  scornful  and  contemptuous 
spirit, — Don  Pedro,  at  the  same  time  that  he  protests  he  "  loves 
him  well,"  adding  very  craftily  a  wish,  that  Benedick  "would 
modestly  examine  himself,  to  see  how  much  he  is  unworthy 
so  good  a  lady."  Benedick's  first  thought  is  not  of  his  own 
shortcomings.  In  this,  as  we  presently  see,  he  is  very  differ- 
ent from  Beatrice.  He  at  once,  with  pardonable  complacency, 
accepts  the  fact  that  Beatrice  loves  him;  in  that  belief  all 
his  former  invectives  against  her  are  forgotten,  and  he  feels 
her  love  "  must  be  requited."  She  is  no  longer  "  Lady  Disdain," 
"the  fury,"  "the  harpy."  On  the  contrary  she  is  "fair," 
"virtuous,"  "wise,  but  in  loving  him."  In  any  case  he  "will  be 
horribly  in  love  with  her;"  and,  so  possessed  is  he  with  the 
triumphant  feeling  that  he  stands  high  in  her  regard,  that  when 
she  presently  appears  to  tell  him  she  is  "sent  against  her 


BEATRICE.  313 

will  to  bid  him  come  in  to  dinner,"  he  actually  "spies  some 
marks  of  love  in  her,"  and  finds  a  meaning  flattering  to  the 
thought  in  the  very  phrases  which  she  studiously  uses  to  prove 
with  what  reluctance  she  had  come  upon  the  errand.  He  leaves 
the  scene,  protesting,  "  I  will  go  get  her  picture  ! " 

Now  it  is  Beatrice's  turn  to  fall  into  a  similar  snare.  It  is 
laid  for  her  by  Hero  and  her  gentlewoman  Ursula  ;  and  in  the 
very  exuberance  of  a  power  that  runs  without  effort  into  the 
channel  of  melodious  verse,  Shakespeare  passes  from  the  terse 
vivid  prose  of  the  previous  scene  into  rhythmical  lines,  steeped 
in  music  and  illumined  by  fancy.  Margaret  is  despatched  to 
tell  Beatrice  that  her  cousin  and  Ursula  are  talking  about  her, 
and  to 

"  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 

Where  honeysuckles,  ripened  by  the  sun, 

Forbid  the  sun  to  enter." 

And  anon  we  see  her, 

"  like  a  lapwing,  run 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  their  conference." 

It  is  of  course  an  overwhelming  surprise  to  Beatrice  to  hear 
that  "  Benedick  loves  her  so  entirely."  She  is  at  first  incredu- 
lous. Still  her  attention  is  fairly  arrested.  She  listens  with 
eager  curiosity;  but  begins  to  feel  a  tightening  at  the  heart 
when  her  cousin  says — 

"  But  nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice  : 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising  what  they  look  on  ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak.     She  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Urs.  Sure,  I  think  so  ; 

And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good, 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  of  it." 

Hero  with  a  power  of  witty  and  somewhat  merciless  sarcasm, 
new  to  Beatrice  in  her  gentle  cousin,  drives  still  further  home  the 
charge  of  pride  and  scornfulness  : — 


314      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

' '  Why,  you  speak  truth  :  I  never  yet  saw  man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward  :  if  fair-faced, 
She'd  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister  ; 
If  black,  why  nature,  drawing  of  an  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot ;  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed  ; 
If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut ; 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds  ; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none." 

All* this  somewhat  surprises  and  yet  amuses  Beatrice,  for  it  re- 
minds her  of  her  own  thoughts  about  some  of  her  unsuccessful 
wooers.  But  what  follows  sends  the  blood  in  upon  her  heart : — 

"  So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out ; 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. " 

Why,  why,  if  this  be  so,  has  not  Hero  let  her  hear  of  it  from 
herself  ?  The  feeling  of  shame  and  bitter  self-reproach  deepens 
as  Hero  goes  on  : — 

"To  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable  : 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?     If  I  should  speak, 
She  would  mock  me  into  air :  0,  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  covered  fire, 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly — 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks." 

We  know  that  all  this  is  overstated  for  a  purpose.  But  Beatrice 
has  no  such  suspicion.  She  is  wounded  to  the  quick,  and  Hero's 
words  strike  deeper,  because  Beatrice  up  to  this  time  has  seen  no 
signs  of  her  cousin  having  entertained  this  harsh  view  of  her 
character.  The  cup  of  self-reproach  is  full,  as  Hero  proceeds  : — 

"  No,  I  will  rather  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion. 
And,  truly,  I'll  devise  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with  :  one  doth  not  know 
How  much  an  ill  word  doth  empoison  liking." 

This  was  too  much,  and  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  listened,  as  if  I 
could  endure  no  more,  but  must  break  from  my  concealment  and 
stop  their  cruel  words.  Ursula's  more  kindly  rejoinder  is  some 
balm  to  Beatrice  : — 


BEATRICE.  315 

"  0,  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, 
(Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit 
As  she  is  prized  to  have)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  Signor  Benedick." 

What  follows  is  not  unwelcome  to  her  ears,  for  it  is  all  in  praise 
of  Benedick  as  one  who — 

"  For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,  and  valour, 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy." 

When  they  are  gone,  and  Beatrice  comes  from  her  hiding- 
place  in  "  the  pleached  bower,"  she  has  become  to  herself  another 
woman.  It  is  not  so  much  that  her  nature  is  changed,  as  that 
it  has  been  suddenly  developed.  She  is  dazed,  astounded  at 
what  she  has  overheard.  "  What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  1 "  she 
exclaims ;  "  Can  this  be  true  1 "  Am  I  such  a  self  -  assured, 
scornful,  disdainful,  vainglorious  creature1?  Is  it  thus  I  appear 
even  to  those  who  know  me  best,  and  Avhom  I  love  the  best1? 
Do  I  look  down  contemptuously  on  others  from  the  height  of  my 
own  deserts?  Am  I  so  "self-endeared"  that  I  see  worth  and 
cleverness  only  in  myself?  Do  I  carry  myself  thus  proudly? 
Have  I  been  living  in  a  delusion  ?  Have  my  foolish  tongue  and 
giddy  humour  presented  me  in  a  light  so  untrue  to  my  real  self? 
What  an  awakening !  She  does  not  blame  others.  She  feels  no 
shade  of  bitterness  against  Hero,  her  reproaches  are  all  against 
herself.  "Stand  I  condemned  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much?" 
There  must  be  an  end  to  this,  and  quickly. 

"Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu  ! 
No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such." 

After  this  complete  self-abasement  comes  fresh  wonder,  in  the 
remembrance  of  what  Hero  and  Ursula  have  said  of  Benedick's 
infatuation  for  her.  That  he  likes  her  she  has  probably  sus- 
pected more  than  once  ;  and  now  she  learns  that  it  is  her  wicked 
mocking  spirit  which  has  alone  prevented  him  from  making  an 
open  avowal  of  his  devotion.  All  this  shall  be  changed.  If, 
despite  the  past,  he  indeed  loves  her,  he  must  be  rewarded.  No 
one  knows  his  good  qualities  better  than  she  does.  She  will 
accept  his  shortcomings — for  what  grave  faults  of  her  own  has 


316  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

she  not  to  correct1? — and  for  the  future  touch  them  so  gently, 
that  in  time  they  will  either  vanish,  or  she  will  hardly  wish 
them  away.  Henceforth  she  must  give  him  such  encouragement 
as  will  make  him  happy  in  the  avowal  of  his  love. 

"And,  Benedick,  love  on,  I  will  requite  thee, 
Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand. 

If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 
To  tie  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band  : 

For  others  say  thou  dost  deserve  ;  and  I 

Believe  it  better  than  reportingly." 

It  is  now  that  for  the  first  time  we  see  the  underlying  nobleness 
and  generosity  of  Beatrice  leap  into  view.  If  she  were  indeed 
what  Hero  described — still  more,  if  this  were,  as  Hero  had  said, 
the  general  impression — she  might  well  be  excused,  had  she  asked 
why  Hero,  her  bosom  friend,  her  "bedfellow,"  as  we  are  sub- 
sequently told,  had  never  hinted  at  faults  so  serious1?  But 
Beatrice  neither  reproaches  her  cousin  nor  seeks  to  extenuate 
the  defects  laid  to  her  charge.  She  trusts  Hero's  report  implic- 
itly, and  being  herself  incapable  of  deceit  or  misrepresentation, 
she  regards  Hero's  heavy  indictment  as  a  thing  not  to  be  im- 
pugned. The  future,  she  resolves,  shall  make  it  impossible  for 
any  one  to  entertain  such  a  conception  of  her  as  Hero  has 
described. 

This  is  the  turning-point  in  Beatrice's  life,  and  in  the  rep- 
resentation it  should  be  shown  by  her  whole  demeanour,  and 
especially  by  the  way  the  lines  just  quoted  are  spoken,  that  a 
marked  change  has  come  over  her  since,  "like  a  lapwing,"  she 
stole  into  the  bower  of  honeysuckles.  Thus  the  audience  will 
be  prepared  for  the  development  of  the  high  qualities  which  she 
soon  afterwards  displays. 

She  is,  then,  one  of  the  brilliant  group  that  accompanies  Hero 
to  the  altar.  When  Claudio  brings  forward  his  accusation  against 
his  bride,  Beatrice  is  struck  dumb  with  amazement.  Indignation 
at  the  falsehood  of  the  charge,  and  at  the  unmanliness  that  could 
wait  for  such  a  moment  to  make  it,  is  mingled  with  the  keenest 
sympathy  for  Leonato  as  well  as  for  Hero.  I  never  knew  exactly 
for  which  of  the  two  my  sympathy  should  most  be  shown,  and 
I  found  myself  by  the  side  now  of  the  one,  now  of  the  other. 


BEATKICE.  317 

Hero  had  her  friends,  her  attendants  round  her ;  but  the  kind 
uncle  and  guardian  stands  alone.  Strangely  enough,  his  brother 
Antonio,  who  plays  a  prominent  part  afterwards,  is  not  at  the 
wedding. 

Beatrice's  blood  is  all  on  fire  at  the  disgrace  thus  brought 
upon  her  family  and  herself.  When  she  hears  the  vile  slander 
supported  by  Don  Pedro ;  and  when  Don  John,  that  sour-visaged 
hypocrite  whom  she  dislikes  by  instinct,  with  insolent  cruelty 
throws  fresh  reproaches  upon  the  fainting  Hero,  her  eye  falls 
on  Benedick,  who  stands  apart  bewildered,  looking  on  the  scene 
with  an  air  of  manifest  distress.  In  that  moment,  as  I  think, 
Beatrice  makes  up  her  mind  that  he  shall  be  her  cousin's 
champion.  Were  she  not  a  woman,  she  would  herself  enter 
the  lists  to  avenge  the  wrong ;  since  she  cannot  do  this  directly, 
she  will  do  it  indirectly  by  enlisting  this  new-found  lover  in  her 
cause.  How  happy  a  coincidence  it  is,  that  Hero  has  so  lately 
brought  the  fact  of  Benedick's  devotion  to  her  knowledge  !  All 
remembrance  of  the  harsh,  the  unkind  accusations  against  herself 
with  which  the  information  was  mixed  up,  has  vanished  from 
her  mind.  It  was  Hero  who  revealed  to  her  the  unsuspected 
love  of  Benedick, — at  least  its  earnestness  and  depth, — and  Hero 
shall  be  the  first  to  benefit  by  it. 

Benedick  is  so  present  to  her  thoughts,  that  when  Hero  faints 
in  her  arms,  she  calls  to  him,  as  well  as  to  Leonato  and  the 
Friar,  to  come  to  her  assistance.  "  Help,  uncle !  Hero !  why, 
Hero  !  Uncle  !  Signer  Benedick  !  Friar  !  "  Nor  is  he  unmoved 
by  what  he  has  noted  in  Beatrice.  Her  deep  emotion  has 
touched  him,  and  he  begins  to  waver  in  his  belief  in  the  charge 
against  Hero  when  he  hears  Beatrice  exclaim,  with  a  voice 
resonant  with  the  energy  of  assured  conviction,  "  0,  on  my  soul, 
my  cousin  is  belied  ! "  He  is  not  disinclined  to  accept  the  Friar's 
suggestion  that  "there  is  some  strange  misprision  in  the  princes," 
and  his  instinct  at  once  leads  him  to  suspect  that  they  have  been 
the  dupes  of  Don  John. 

"  Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  of  honour ; 
And  if  their  wisdom  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard, 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villainies." 


318  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHAKACTERS: 

Possessed  as  Benedick  was  with  this  idea  of  the  man,  it  is  obvious 
that,  if  his  friends  had  taken  him  into  their  counsels,  they  would 
never  have  fallen  into  Don  John's  toils.  Benedick's  words  were, 
no  doubt,  the  echo  of  Beatrice's  own  thought.  She  would  be 
grateful  for  them,  and  still  more  for  the  tone  and  manner  of  his 
parting  speech  to  Leonato,  so  well  fitted  as  these  are  to  raise  him 
in  her  esteem  : — 

"  Signer  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you  : 
And  though  you  know  my  inwardness  and  love 
Is  very  much  unto  the  Prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honour,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly  and  justly  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body." 

What  a  conflict  of  strong  emotions  used  to  come  over  me 
when  acting  this  scene  !  It  begins  solemnly  yet  happily ;  but 
oh,  how  soon  all  is  changed !  One  may  imagine  that  to  the 
marriage  of  the  daughter  of  the  Governor  of  Messina  the  whole 
nobility  of  the  place  would  be  invited.  Claudio,  we  have  been 
told,  has  an  uncle  living  in  Messina.  This  uncle,  with  all 
Claudio's  kinsfolk,  would  be  present,  and  the  people  of  the  city 
would  naturally  throng  to  the  ceremony.  Think  what  it  was 
for  the  bride  to  be  brought  to  shame  before  such  an  assemblage, 
— to  be  given  back  into  her  father's  hands,  and  branded  with 
unchastity  !  What  consternation  to  even  the  mere  lookers-on — 
what  dismay  to  those  more  directly  concerned !  Hero  is  at  first 
so  stunned,  so  bewildered,  so  unable  to  realise  what  is  meant  by 
the  accusation,  that  she  cannot  speak.  When  Claudio,  assuming 
conscious  guilt  from  her  silence,  went  on  with  his  charge,  I  could 
hardly  keep  still.  My  feet  tingled,  my  eyes  flashed  lightning 
upon  the  princes  and  Claudio.  Oh  that  I  had  been  her  brother, 
her  male  cousin,  and  not  a  powerless  woman !  How  I  looked 
around  in  quest  of  help,  and  gladly  saw  Benedick  withdrawn 
from  the  rest !  And  how  shame  seemed  piled  on  shame  when 
that  hateful  Prince  John,  as  he  left  the  scene,  said  to  the  victim 
of  his  villainy — 

"Thus,  pretty  lady, 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovernment. " 

Oh  for  a  flight  of   deadly  arrows   to   send   after   him !     Then 


BEATKICE.  319 

Claudio's  parting  speech,  with  its  flowery  sentimentalism,  so 
out  of  place  in  one  who  had  played  so  merciless  a  part,  sickened 
me  with  contempt. 

How  gladly  I  saw  these  shallow  maligners  disappear !  Some- 
thing must  now  be  learned  or  done  to  clear  away  their  slander. 
I  felt  with  what  chagrin  Beatrice,  when  asked,  was  obliged  to 
confess  that  last  night  she  was  not  by  the  side  of  Hero — 

"  Although,  until  last  night 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow." 

And  yet  how  simple  to  myself  was  the  explanation !  Each  had 
to  commune  with  herself, — Hero  on  the  serious  step  she  was 
taking  on  the  morrow — a  step  requiring  "  many  orisons  to  move 
the  heavens  to  smile  upon  her  state ; "  and  Beatrice,  to  think  on 
what  had  been  revealed  to  her  of  her  own  shortcomings,  as  well 
as  of  Benedick's  undreamed-of  attachment  to  herself.  At  such 
a  time  hours  of  perfect  rest  and  solitary  meditation  would  be 
welcome  and  needful  to  them  both. 

But  Beatrice  is  no  dreamer.  The  Friar's  plan  of  giving  out 
that  Hero  is  dead,  and  so  awakening  Claudio's  remorse,  will  not 
wipe  out  the  wrong  done  to  her  cousin  or  the  indignity  offered 
to  her  kin.  Therefore  she  lets  her  friends  retire,  lingering  behind, 
to  the  surprise,  possibly,  of  some  who  might  expect  that  she 
would  go  with  them  to  comfort  Hero.  She  is  bent  on  finding 
for  her  a  better  comfort  than  lies  in  words.  Benedick,  she  feels 
sure,  will  remain  if  she  does.  And  he,  how  could  he  do  other- 
wise? This  beautiful  woman,  whom  he  has  hitherto  known  all 
joyousness,  and  seeming  indifference  to  the  feelings  of  others,  has 
revealed  herself  under  a  new  aspect,  and  one  that  has  drawn  him 
towards  her  more  than  he  has  ever  been  drawn  before  towards 
woman.  He  has  noted  how  all  through  this  terrible  scene  she 
has  been  the  only  one  to  stand  by,  to  defend,  to  try  to  cheer 
the  slandered  Hero.  Her  courage  and  her  tenderness  have  roused 
the  chivalry  of  his  nature.  So  deeply  is  he  moved,  that  I  believe, 
even  if  he  had  not  previously  been  influenced  by  what  he  had 
heard  of  Beatrice's  love,  he  would  from  that  time  have  been  her 
devoted  lover  and  servant. 

There  should  be  tenderness  in  his  voice  as  he  accosts  her. 


320      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this  while?"  But  it  is  only 
when  she  hears  him  say,  "  Surely,  I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is 
wronged,"  that  she  dashes  her  tears  aside,  and  can  give  voice  to 
the  thought  that  has  for  some  time  been  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

"  Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me  that  would  right  her  ! 
Bene.  Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ? 
Beat.  A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 
Bene.  May  a  man  do  it  ? 
Beat.  It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours." 

These  words  are  not  to  be  regarded,  as  by  some  they  have  been, 
as  spoken  in  Beatrice's  usually  sarcastic  vein.  She  only  means 
that,  being  neither  a  kinsman,  nor  in  any  way  connected  with 
Hero's  family,  he  cannot  step  forward  to  do  her  right.  In  this 
sense  the  words  are  understood  by  Benedick,  who  takes  the  most 
direct  way  of  removing  the  difficulty  by  the  avowal  of  his  love. 
"  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you.  Is  not  that 
strange  ? "  After  what  she  has  overheard,  this  makes  her  smile, 
but  it  causes  her  no  surprise.  With  the  thought  of  Hero's  vin- 
dication uppermost  in  her  heart,  what  can  she  do  but  answer 
Benedick's  avowal  by  her  own  ?  And  yet  to  make  it  is  by  no 
means  easy,  as  we  see  by  her  words,  somewhat  in  the  old  vein : — 

' '  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.  It  were  as  possible  for  me  to  say  I 
loved  nothing  so  well  as  you "  (half  confessing,  and  then  withdrawing), — 
"  but  believe  me  not,  and  yet  I  lie  not "  (again  yielding,  and  again  falling 
back).  "  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing." 

To  extricate  herself  from  her  embarrassment  she  turns  away  from 
the  subject  with  the  words,  spoken  with  tremulous  emotion,  "I 
am  sorry  for  my  cousin."  But  Benedick  is  impatient  for  a  clearer 
assurance.  Observe  how  skilfully,  even  while  she  humours  him, 
she  leads  him  on  to  the  point  on  which  she  has  set  her  mind : — 

"  Bene.  By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 
Beat.  Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it  that  you  love  me  ;  and  I  will  make  him  eat  it 
that  says  I  love  not  you. 

Beat.  Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it.     I  protest  I  love  thee. 

Beat.  Why,  then,  Heaven  forgive  me  ! 

Bene.  What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 


BEATRICE.  321 

Beat.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour ;  I  was  about  to  protest  I 
loved  you. 

Bene.  And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that  none  is  left  to  protest. " 

And  now  that  their  mutual  confessions  have  been  so  wittily 
and  earnestly  given,  Beatrice  recurs  to  what  she  has  never  for 
a  moment  forgotten, — the  wrongs  of  her  cousin,  the  outraged 
honour  of  the  house  of  which  she  is  herself  a  scion,  the  stain  on 
its  escutcheon.  These  must  be  avenged,  and,  if  Benedick  indeed 
loves  her,  it  must  be  he  who  shall  stand  forth  as  the  avenger, — 
for,  as  her  accepted  lover,  that  will  be  his  "office."  So  when  he 
says,  "  Come,  bid  me  do  any  thing  for  thee ! "  in  a  breath  she 
exclaims,  "  Kill  Claudio  ! "  This  demand,  spoken  with  an  inten- 
sity which  leaves  no  room  to  doubt  that  she  is  thoroughly  in 
earnest,  staggers  Benedick.  Claudio  is  his  chosen  friend,  they 
have  just  gone  through  the  perils  of  war  together,  and  he  replies, 
"  Ha  !  not  for  the  wide  world  !  "  "  You  kill  me  to  deny ;  fare- 
well," says  Beatrice,  and  is  about  to  leave  him.  In  vain  he 
importunes  her  to  remain  ;  and  now  he  is  made  to  see  indeed  the 
strength  and  earnestness  of  her  nature.  All  the  pent-up  passion, 
that  has  shaken  her  during  the  previous  scene,  breaks  out : — 

"  Beat.  In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Bene.  We'll  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me  than  fight  with  mine  enemy. 

Bene.  Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ? 

Beat.  Is  he  not  approved  in  the  height  a  villain,  that  hath  slandered, 
scorned,  dishonoured  my  kinswoman  ?  0  that  I  were  a  man  !  What  !  bear 
her  in  hand  until  they  come  to  take  hands  ;  and  then  with  public  accusation, 
uncovered  slander,  unmitigated  rancour, — 0  Heaven,  that  I  were  a  man  !  I 
would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place  ! 

Bene.  Hear  me,  Beatrice  ; 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  of  a  window  ?     A  proper  saying  ! 

Bene.  Nay,  but  Beatrice  ; 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero  !— She's  wronged,  she's  slandered,  she's  undone. 

Bene.  Beat 

Beat.  Princes  and  Counties  !  Surely  a  princely  testimony,  a  good  Count- 
Confect,  a  sweet  gallant  surely  !  0  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake  !  or  that 
I  had  any  friend  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  !  But  manhood  is  melted  into 
courtesies,  valour  into  compliment,  and  men  are  only  turned  into  tongue, 
and  trim  ones  too.  He  is  now  as  valiant  as  Hercules,  that  only  tells  a  lie 
and  swears  it !  I  cannot  be  a  man  with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a 
woman  with  grieving." 

X 


322  SHAKESPEAIIE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTEKS: 

In  her  anger  and  distress  Beatrice  will  not,  cannot  listen  to 
what  Benedick  would  say.  At  last  he  has  a  chance,  when  her 
tears  are  streaming,  and  her  invectives  are  exhausted.  "  By  this 
hand,  I  love  thee  ! "  he  says,  and  he  has  been  loving  her  more 
and  more  all  through  her  burst  of  generous  and  eloquent  indig- 
nation. "  Use  it  for  my  love,"  she  replies,  still  quivering  with 
emotion,  "  some  other  way  than  swearing  by  it ! "  Then  with 
all  seriousness  he  asks  her,  "  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  Count 
Claudio  hath  wronged  Hero  ? "  As  serious  and  solemn  is  her 
answer,  "  Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought  or  a  soul ! "  His 
rejoinder  is  all  she  could  desire  : — 

"  Enough,  I  am  engaged  ;  I  will  challenge  him.  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and 
so  leave  you.  By  this  hand,  Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account.  As 
you  hear  of  me,  so  think  of  me.  Go,  comfort  your  cousin.  I  must  say  she 
is  dead.  And  so,  farewell." 

And  so  they  part,  each  with  a  much  higher  respect  for  the  other 
than  before.  Thanks  to  the  poet's  skill,  the  trouble  that  has 
fallen  on  Leonato's  house  has  served  to  bind  them  to  each  other 
by  the  strongest  tie,  and  to  make  their  mutual  regard  and  ulti- 
mate union  only  in  the  very  slightest  degree  dependent  on  the 
plot  devised  by  their  friends. 

It  has  been,  I  know,  considered  by  some  critics  a  blemish  in 
Beatrice,  that  at  such  a  moment  she  should  desire  to  risk  her 
lover's  life.  How  little  can  such  critics  enter  into  her  position, 
or  understand  the  feelings  by  which  a  noble  woman  would  in 
such  circumstances  be  actuated !  What  she  would  have  done 
herself,  had  she  been  a  man,  in  order  to  punish  the  traducer  of 
her  kinswoman  and  bosom  friend,  and  to  vindicate  the  family 
honour,  she  has  a  right  to  expect  her  engaged  lover  will  do  for 
her.  Her  own  honour,  as  one  of  the  family,  is  at  stake ;  and 
what  woman  of  spirit  would  think  so  meanly  of  her  lover  as 
to  doubt  his  readiness  to  risk  his  life  in  such  a  cause?  The 
days  of  chivalry  were  not  gone  in  Shakespeare's  time ;  neither, 
I  trust  and  believe,  are  they  gone  now.  I  am  confident  that  all 
women  who  are  worthy  of  a  brave  man's  love  will  understand 
and  sympathise  with  the  feeling  that  animates  Beatrice.  Think 
of  the  wrong  done  to  Hero, — the  unnecessary  aggravation  of  it 


BEATRICE.  323 

by  choosing  such  a  moment  for  publishing  what  Beatrice  knows 
to  be  a  vile  slander !  Benedick  adopts  her  conviction,  and, 
having  adopted  it,  the  course  she  urges  is  the  one  he  must  him- 
self have  taken.  Could  he  leave  it  to  the  only  male  members  of 
his  adopted  family,  Leonato  and  Antonio,  two  elderly  men,  to 
champion  the  kinswoman  of  the  lady  of  his  love? 

The  manner  in  which  he  bears  himself  in  the  scene  where  he 
challenges  Count  Claudio  proves  that,  under  the  gaiety  of  his 
general  demeanour,  lies,  just  as  in  Beatrice,  a  high  and  earnest 
and  generous  spirit.  In  parting  from  her  he  had  said,  "  As  you 
hear  of  me,  so  think  of  me."  Had  she  seen  with  what  dignity 
and  quiet  courage  he  meets  the  gibes  and  sarcasms  of  Don  Pedro 
and  Claudio,  her  heart  must  have  gone  out  towards  him  with 
its  inmost  warmth.  How  much  it  cost  him  to  renounce  their 
friendship  is  very  delicately  shown.  He  has  heard,  by  the  way, 
that  Don  John  has  fled  from  Messina, — an  incident  calculated 
to  strengthen  his  suspicions  that  it  was  he  who  had  hatched  the 
plot  against  Hero.  But  however  this  may  be,  they  are  not  with- 
out reproach  ;  so,  turning  to  Don  Pedro,  he  says  : — 

"My  lord,  for  your  many  courtesies  I  thank  you.  I  must  discontinue 
your  company.  Your  brother,  the  bastard,  is  fled  from  Messina.  You  have, 
among  you,  killed  a  sweet  and  innocent  lady.  For  my  Lord  Lackbeard  there, 
he  and  I  shall  meet ;  and,  till  then,  peace  be  with  him. " 

Knowing  that  Beatrice  will  be  all  impatience  to  learn  what 
has  passed  between  himself  and  Claudio,  Benedick  hastens  to 
seek  her.  He  longs  to  be  again  with  her,  for  he  is  by  this  time 
"horribly  in  love,"  as  he  said  he  would  be.  Not  Leander,  he 
tells  us,  nor  Troilus,  nor  "  a  whole  bookful  of  these  quondam 
carpet-mongers,  whose  names  yet  run  smoothly  in  the  even  road 
of  a  blank  verse,  were  ever  so  truly  turned  over  and  over  as  my 
poor  self  in  love."  When  Beatrice  hears  from  Margaret  that  he 
desires  speech  of  her,  how  readily  does  she  answer  to  the  sum- 
mons !  Once  fairly  satisfied  that  Claudio  has  undergone  Bene- 
dick's challenge,  her  heart  is  lightened,  and  she  can  afford  to 
resume  some  of  her  natural  gaiety,  and  let  herself  be  wooed. 
Then  follows  the  charming  dialogue  in  which  the  problem  how 
they  came  to  fall  in  love  with  each  other  is  discussed.  How 


324  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

much  there  is  here  for  the  actress  to  express !  What  pretty 
sarcasms  and  humorous  sadness  ! — quite  impossible  to  explain  in 
words. 

"  Bene.  And,  I  pray  thee  now,  tell  me  for  which  of  my  bad  parts  didst 
thou  first  fall  in  love  with  me  ? 

Beat.  For  them  all  together  ;  which  maintained  so  politic  a  state  of  evil 
that  they  will  not  admit  any  good  part  to  intermingle  with  them.  But  for 
which  of  my  good  parts  did  you  first  suffer  love  for  me  ? 

Bene.  '  Suffer  love  '  ?  A  good  epithet !  I  do  suffer  love,  indeed,  for  I  love 
thee  against  my  will. 

Seat.  In  spite  of  your  heart,  I  think.  Alas,  poor  heart !  If  you  spite  it 
for  my  sake,  I  will  spite  it  for  yours  ;  for  I  will  never  love  that  which  my 
friend  hates.  .  .  . 

Bene.  And  now  tell  me,  how  doth  your  cousin  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill. 

Bene.  And  how  do  you  ? 

Beat.  Very  ill  too. 

Bene.  Serve  Heaven,  love  me,  and  mend  !  There  will  I  leave  you  too,  for 
here  comes  one  in  haste." 

This  is  Ursula  with  the  tidings  that  the  plot  against  Hero  has 
been  unmasked,  "  the  Prince  and  Claudio  mightily  abused,  and 
Don  John,  the  author  of  all,  fled  and  gone."  "  Will  you  go  hear 
this  news,  signor  ? "  says  Beatrice.  His  rejoinder  shows  him  all 
the  happy  lover.  "  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap,  and 
be  buried  in  thine  eyes ;  and,  moreover,  I  will  go  with  thee  to  thy 
uncle's."  How  quaintly  comes  in  the  "moreover  "  here  ! 

When  we  see  them  again,  they  are  with  Leonato,  Hero,  and 
the  others,  who  are  met  to  receive  Don  Pedro  and  Claudio,  and 
to  seal  the  reconciliation  which  has  been  arranged  by  the  marriage 
of  Claudio  with  the  lady  whom  he  believes  to  be  Hero's  cousin. 
Marriage  being  in  the  air,  Benedick  has  decided  that  the  good 
friar  shall  have  double  duty  to  perform  on  the  occasion.  Leon- 
ato's  consent  to  his  wedding  Beatrice  is  granted  freely ;  and  in 
giving  it  he  bewilders  Benedick  by  obscure  references  to  the  plot 
for  bringing  the  two  together.  Before  an  explanation  can  be 
given,  the  Prince  and  Claudio  arrive.  Although  well  pleased 
that  he  is  no  longer  required  to  call  his  old  friend  to  account, 
Benedick  takes  care  to  show,  by  his  coldness  and  reserve,  that  he 
considers  their  behaviour  to  have  been  unjustifiable,  even  had 


BEATK1CE.  325 

the  story  been  true  which  Don  John  had  beguiled  them  into 
believing.  When  the  Prince  rallies  him  about  his  "February 
face,"  he  makes  no  rejoinder.  But  when  Claudio,  with  infinite 
bad  taste,  at  a  moment  when  his  mind  should  have  been  full  of 
the  gravest  thoughts,  attacks  him  in  the  same  spirit,  Benedick 
turns  upon  him  with  caustic  severity.  The  entrance  of  Hero, 
with  her  ladies,  masked,  arrests  what  might  have  grown  into  hot 
words.  Hero  is  given  to  Claudio,  and  accepts  him  with  a  ready 
forgiveness,  which,  I  feel  very  sure,  Beatrice's  self-respect,  under 
similar  circumstances,  would  not  have  permitted  her  to  grant. 
Such  treatment  as  Claudio's  would  have  chilled  all  love  within 
her.  She  would  never  have  trusted  as  her  husband  the  man 
who  had  allowed  himself  to  be  so  easily  deceived,  and  who  had 
openly  shamed  her  before  the  world.  Hero,  altogether  a  feebler 
nature,  neither  looks  so  far  into  the  future,  nor  feels  so  intensely 
what  has  happened  in  the  past.  But,  to  my  thinking,  her  pros- 
pect of  lasting  happiness  with  the  credulous  and  vacillating 
Claudio  is  somewhat  doubtful. 

I  have  no  misgivings  about  the  future  happiness  of  Benedick 
and  Beatrice,  even  although  they  learn  how  they  have  been  mis- 
led into  thinking  that  each  was  dying  for  the  other,  and  up  to 
the  moment  of  going  to  the  altar  keep  up  their  witty  struggles 
to  turn  the  tables  on  each  other.  How  delightful  is  the  last 
glimpse  we  get  of  them  !  Beatrice,  to  tease  Benedick,  has  been 
holding  back  among  the  other  ladies,  when  he  expects  that  she 
would  be  ready  to  go  with  him  to  the  altar ;  and  when  at  last, 
fairly  puzzled,  he  asks,  "  Which  is  Beatrice  1 "  and  she  unmasks, 
with  the  words,  "  What  is  your  will  1 "  he  inquires,  with  an  air 
of  surprise,  "  Do  not  you  love  me  ? "  What  follows  gives  us 
once  more  the  bright,  joyous,  brilliant  Beatrice  of  the  early 
scenes : — 

"  Seat.  Why,  no  !     No  more  than  reason. 

Benc.  Why,  then,  your  uncle,  the  Prince,  and  Claudio,  have  been  de- 
ceived ;  they  swore  you  did. 

Heat.  Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  no  !     No  more  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why,  then,  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula,  are  much  deceived, 
for  they  did  swear  you  did. 

Bene.  They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  me. 


326      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Beat.  They  swore  that  you  were  well-nigh  dead  for  me. 
Bene.  "Tis  no  such  matter  : — Then  you  do  not  love  me  ? 
Beat.  No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. " 

And  they  break  away  from  each  other,  as  if  all  were  over  be- 
tween them.  But  when  their  love-sonnets  each  to  the  other  are 
produced  by  Claudio  and  Hero,  there  can  be  but  one  end.  Still, 
however,  the  war  of  wit  goes  on  : — 

"  Bene.  A  miracle  !  here's  our  own  hands  against  our  hearts !  Come,  I 
will  have  thee ;  but,  by  this  light,  I  take  thee  for  pity  ! 

Beat.  I  would  not  deny  you ; — but,  by  this  good  day,  I  yield  upon  great 
persuasion  ;  and,  partly  to  save  your  life,  for  I  was  told  you  were  in  a  con- 
sumption." 

Beatrice,  as  usual,  has  the  best  of  it  in  this  encounter,  but 
Benedick  is  too  happy  to  care  for  such  defeat.  He  knows  he 
has  won  her  heart,  and  that  it  is  a  heart  of  gold.  He  can  there- 
fore well  afford  to  smile  at  the  epigrams  of  "a  college  of  wit- 
crackers,"  and  the  quotation  against  himself  of  his  former  smart 
sayings  about  lovers  and  married  men.  His  home,  I  doubt  not, 
will  be  a  happy  one — all  the  happier  because  Beatrice  and  he 
have  each  a  strong  individuality,  with  fine  spirits  and  busy 
brains,  which  will  keep  life  from  stagnating.  They  will  always 
be  finding  out  something  new  and  interesting  in  each  other's 
character.  As  for  Beatrice,  at  least,  one  feels  sure  that  Benedick 
will  have  a  great  deal  to  discover  and  to  admire  in  her  as  he 
grows  to  know  her  better.  She  will  prove  the  fitness  of  her 
name  as  Beatrice  (the  giver  of  happiness),  and  he  will  be  glad  to 
confess  himself  blest  indeed  (Benedictus)  in  having  won  her. 

One  might  go  on  writing  of  this  delightful  play  for  ever. 
But  it  is  not  for  me  to  go  further  into  its  merits.  Such 
criticism  has,  I  dare  say,  been  often  written  by  abler  hands. 
I  have  but  to  do  with  Beatrice,  and  I  can  only  hope  that  in 
impersonating  her  I  have  given  one -half  the  pleasure  to  my 
audience  that  I  have  had  in  taking  upon  me  her  nature  for  the 
time.  Such  representations  were  to  me  a  pure  holiday.  How- 
ever tired  I  might  be  when  the  play  began,  the  pervading  joy- 
ousness  of  her  character  soon  took  hold  of  me,  and  bore  me 
delightedly  on.  The  change  to  this  bright,  high-spirited, 
gallant-hearted  lady  from  the  more  soul-absorbing  and  pathetic 


BEATRICE.  327 

heroines  which  on  most  occasions  I  had  to  represent,  was  wel- 
come to  my  often  wearied  spirits  as  a  breeze  from  the  sea. 

I  have  told  you  of  my  first  performance  of  Beatrice.  Before 
I  conclude,  let  me  say  a  word  as  to  my  last.  It  was  at  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon,  on  the  opening,  on  23rd  of  April  1879  (Shake- 
speare's birthday),  of  the  Shakespeare  Memorial  Theatre.  I  had 
watched  with  much  interest  the  completion  of  this  most  appro- 
priate tribute  to  the  memory  of  our  supreme  poet.  The  local 
enthusiasm,  which  would  not  rest  until  it  had  placed  upon  the 
banks  of  his  native  stream  a  building  in  which  his  best  plays 
might  be  from  time  to  time  presented,  commanded  my  warm 
sympathy.  It  is  a  beautiful  building;  and  when,  standing 
beside  it,  I  looked  upon  the  church  wherein  all  that  was  mortal 
of  the  poet  is  laid,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  my  eyes  rested  on 
the  site  of  New  Place,  where  he  died,  a  feeling  more  earnest, 
more  reverential,  came  over  me  than  I  have  experienced  even 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  in  Santa  Croce,  or  in  any  other  resting- 
place  of  the  mighty  dead.  It  was  a  deep  delight  to  me  to  be 
the  first  to  interpret  on  that  spot  one  of  my  great  master's 
brightest  creations.  Everything  conspired  to  make  the  occasion 
happy.  From  every  side  of  Shakespeare's  county,  from  London, 
from  remote  provinces,  came  people  to  witness  that  performance. 
The  characters  were  well  supported,  and  the  fact  that  we  were 
acting  in  Shakespeare's  birthplace,  and  to  inaugurate  his  memo- 
rial theatre,  seemed  to  inspire  us  all.  I  found  my  own  delight 
doubled  by  the  sensitive  sympathy  of  my  audience.  Every  turn 
of  playful  humour,  every  flash  of  wit,  every  burst  of  strong  feeling 
told ;  and  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  think,  that  on  that  spot 
and  on  that  occasion  I  made  my  last  essay  to  present  a  living  por- 
traiture of  the  Lady  Beatrice. 

The  success  of  this  performance  was  aided  by  the  very 
judicious  care  which  had  been  bestowed  upon  all  the  accessories 
of  the  scene.  The  stage,  being  of  moderate  size,  admitted  of  no 
elaborate  display.  But  the  scenes  were  appropriate  and  well 
painted,  the  dresses  were  well  chosen,  and  the  general  effect  was 
harmonious — satisfying  the  eye,  without  distracting  the  spec- 
tator's mind  from  the  dialogue  and  the  play  of  character.  It 
was  thus  possible  for  the  actors  to  engage  the  close  attention  of 


328      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

the  audience,  and  to  keep  it.  This  consideration  seems  to  me 
now  to  be  too  frequently  overlooked. 

The  moment  the  bounds  of  what  is  sufficient  for  scenic 
illustration  are  overleaped,  a  serious  wrong  is,  in  my  opinion, 
done  to  the  actor,  and,  as  a  necessary  consequence,  to  the  spec- 
tator also.  With  all  good  plays  this  must,  in  some  measure,  be 
the  case  ;  but  where  Shakespeare  is  concerned,  it  is  so  in  a  far 
greater  degree.  How  can  actor  or  actress  hope  to  gain  that  hold 
upon  the  attention  of  an  audience  by  which  it  shall  be  led  to 
watch,  step  by  step,  from  the  first  scene  to  the  last,  the  develop- 
ment of  a  complex  yet  harmonious  character,  or  the  links  of  a 
finely  adjusted  plot,  if  the  eye  and  ear  are  being  overfed  with 
gorgeous  scenery,  with  dresses  extravagant  in  cost,  and  not  un- 
frequently  quaint  even  to  grotesqueness  in  style,  or  by  the  bustle 
and  din  of  crowds  of  people,  whose  movements  unsettle  the 
mind  and  disturb  that  mood  of  continuous  observation  of  dia- 
logue and  expression,  without  which  the  poet's  purpose  can 
neither  be  developed  by  the  performer  nor  appreciated  by  his 
audience  1 

For  myself,  I  can  truly  say  I  would  rather  the  mise  en  scene 
should  fall  short  of  being  sufficient,  than  that  it  should  be  over- 
loaded. However  great  the  strain — and  I  have  too  often  felt  it 
— of  so  engaging  the  minds  of  my  audience  as  to  make  them 
forget  the  poverty  of  the  scenic  illustration,  I  would  rather  at 
all  times  have  encountered  it,  than  have  had  to  contend  against 
the  influences  which  withdraw  the  spectator's  mind  from  the 
essentials  of  a  great  drama  to  dwell  upon  its  mere  adjuncts. 
When  Juliet  is  on  the  balcony,  it  is  on  her  the  eye  should  be 
riveted.  It  should  not  be  wandering  away  to  the  moonlight,  or 
to  the  pomegranate-trees  of  Capulet's  garden,  however  skilfully 
counterfeited  by  the  scene-painter's  and  the  machinist's  skill. 
The  actress  who  is  worthy  to  interpret  that  scene  requires  the 
undivided  attention  of  her  audience.  I  cite  this  as  merely  one 
of  a  host  of  illustrations  that  have  occurred  to  my  mind  in 
seeing  the  lavish  waste  of  merely  material  accessories  upon  the 
stage  in  recent  years.  How  often  have  I  wished  that  some 
poetic  spirit  had  been  charged  with  the  task  of  fitting  the 
framework  to  the  picture,  which  would  have  kept  the  resources 


BEATRICE.  329 

of  the  painter's  and  costumier's  art  subordinate  to  the  poet's 
design,  and  have  furnished  a  harmonious  and  complete  yet  un- 
obtrusive background  for  the  play  of  character,  emotion,  pas- 
sion, humour,  and  imagination,  which  it  was  his  object  to  set 
before  us  ! 

Of  course  there  are  plays  where  very  much  must  depend  upon 
the  setting  in  which  they  are  placed.  Who  that  saw  it,  for 
example,  can  ever  forget  Stanfield's  scene  in  Ads  and  Galatea, 
when  produced  by  Mr  Macready1?  The  eye  never  wearied  of 
resting  upon  it,  nor  the  ear  of  listening  to  the  rippling  murmur 
of  the  waves  as  they  gently  washed  up  and  broke  upon  the  shore 
of  that  sun -illumined  sea.  Such  a  background  enriched  the 
charm  of  even  Handel's  music,  and  blended  delightfully  with 
the  movements  of  the  nymphs  and  shepherds  by  whom  the 
business  of  the  scene  was  carried  on. 

Xor,  as  I  have  been  told,  was  his  revival  of  the  Comus  less 
admirable.  You  may  have  seen  it,  dear  Mr  Kuskin ;  and, 
if  you  have,  you  can  judge  of  its  merits  far  better  than  I.  For 
as  I  acted  "  the  Lady,"  I  can,  of  course,  speak  only  of  the  scenes 
in  which  she  took  part.  These  impressed  me  powerfully,  and 
helped  my  imagination  as  I  acted.  The  enchanted  wood  was 
admirably  presented,  with  its  dense,  bewildering  maze  of  trees, 
so  easy  to  be  lost  in,  so  difficult  to  escape  from,  with  the  fitful 
moonlight  casting  deep  shadows,  and  causing  terrors  to  the 
lonely,  bewildered  girl,  whose  high  trust  and  confidence  in 
Supreme  help  alone  keep  her  spirits  from  sinking  under  the 
wild  "fantasies"  that  throng  into  her  memory,  "of  calling 
shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire."  It  seemed  to  me  the 
very  place  the  poet  must  have  pictured  to  himself.  Xot  less 
so  appeared  to  me  the  Hall  of  Comus — so  far  as  I  could  see  it 
from  the  enchanted  chair,  in  which  the  Lady  sits  spell-bound. 
It  was  a  kind  of  Aladdin's  garden,  all  aglow  with  light  and 
colour.  And  then  the  rabble -rout,  so  gay,  so  variously  clad, 
some  like  Hebes,  some  like  hags ;  figures  moving  to  and  fro, 
some  beautiful  as  Adonis,  others  like  Fauns,  and  bearded 
Satyrs.  Add  to  this  the  weird  fascination  of  the  music,  the 
rich  melody,  the  rampant  joyousness,  the  tipsy  jollity !  All 
served  to  quicken  in  me  the  feeling  with  which  the  poet  has 


330      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

inspired  the  lonely  "Lady,"  when  she  sees  herself,  without 
means  of  escape,  surrounded  by  a  rabble-rout  full  of  wine  and 
riot,  and  abandoned  to  shameless  revelry.  I  lost  myself  in  the 
reality  of  the  situation,  and  found  the  poet's  words  flow  from 
me  as  though  they  had  sprung  from  my  own  heart.  The  blan- 
dishments of  Comus's  rhetoric,  enforced  with  all  the  fervour  and 
persuasiveness  of  delivery  of  which  Mr  Macready  was  master, 
seemed  as  it  were  to  give  the  indignant  impulse  needed  to  make 
the  Lady  break  her  silence  : — 

"  I  had  not  thought  to  have  unlocked  my  lips 
In  this  unhallowed  air,  but  that  this  juggler 
Would  think  to  charm  my  judgment,  as  mine  eyes, 
Obtruding  false  rules  pranked  in  reason's  garb. 

To  him  that  dares 

Arm  his  profane  tongue  with  contemptuous  words 

Against  the  sun-clad  Power  of  chastity, 

Fain  would  I  something  say  ;  yet  to  what  end  ? 

Enjoy  your  dear  wit,  and  gay  rhetoric, 

That  hath  so  well  been  taught  her  dazzling  fence  : 

Thou  art  not  fit  to  hear  thyself  convinced  ; 

Yet,  should  I  try,  the  uncontrolled  worth 

Of  this  pure  cause  would  kindle  my  rapt  spirits 

To  such  a  flame  of  sacred  vehemence, 

That  dumb  things  should  be  moved  to  sympathise, 

And  the  brute  earth  would  lend  her  nerves,  and  shake, 

Till  all  thy  magic  structures,  reared  so  high, 

Were  shattered  into  heaps  o'er  thy  false  head  ! " 

I  could  never  speak  these  lines  without  a  thrill  that  seemed  to 
dilate  my  whole  frame,  and  to  give  an  unwonted  fulness  and 
vibration  to  the  tones  of  my  voice.  Given,  as  they  were,  with 
intense  earnestness,  they  no  doubt  impressed  the  actors  of  the 
rabble-rout,  and  made  them  feel  with  Comus,  when  he  says — 

"  She  fables  not ;  I  feel  that  I  do  fear 
Her  words  set  off  by  some  superior  power." 

It  was  somewhat  difficult  for  me  to  speak  the  lines,  with  my 
whole  frame  thrilling,  yet  unable  to  move  a  muscle,  for  the  Lady 
is  bound  by  a  spell  that  paralyses  all  her  limbs.  It  was  a  good 
experience  for  me,  for  at  that  time  I  was  rather  given  to  redun- 
dancy of  action.  One  of  the  most  difficult  things  to  acquire  in 


BEATRICE.  331 

the  technical  part  of  the  actor's  art  is  repose  of  manner, — to  be 
able,  in  fact,  to  stand  still,  and  yet  be  undergoing  and  expressing 
the  strongest  mental  emotion.  What  the  effect  may  have  been 
upon  the  audience  I  do  not  know  ;  but  the  revellers  near  my 
chair  upon  the  stage  told  me,  the  morning  after  the  first  repre- 
sentation, that  they  were  struck  with  awe;  that  my  whole 
appearance  seemed  to  become  so  completely  transfigured  under 
the  influence  of  my  emotion,  that  they  would  not  have  been 
amazed  if  the  chair  with  the  Lady  in  it  had  been  swept  upwards 
out  of  sight  to  some  holier  sphere. 

Here  was  a  case  in  which  the  poet's  purpose  was  aided  by  the 
skilful  use  of  scenic  adjuncts,  without  which  the  performer  could 
not  hope  to  produce  the  desired  impression  on  the  minds  of  the 
spectators.  I  can  easily  imagine  other  situations  where  they  are 
of  the  greatest  value.  Indeed  I  can  vividly  recall,  as  the  very 
perfection  of  scenic  illustration,  Henry  V.  and  Kiny  John,  as 
they  were  produced  by  Mr  Macready  at  Drury  Lane.  In  these 
revivals,  as  they  were  called,  the  predominating  mind  of  a  man 
who  knew  the  due  proportion  to  be  preserved  in  such  matters, 
so  as  not  to  drown  but  to  heighten  the  dramatic  interest,  was 
conspicuously  apparent.  In  plays  of  this  class,  moreover,  fulness 
of  scenic  illustration  is  appropriate,  and  in  skilful  hands  it  is 
never  allowed  to  place  the  actors  at  a  disadvantage.  But,  as 
a  rule,  it  seems  to  me  that  in  dramas  of  "  high  action  and  high 
passion,"  such  things  ought  to  be  sparingly  applied.  The  aim 
should  be,  while  keeping  scenic  accessories  in  stern  subordina- 
tion, to  economise  neither  pains  nor  money  in  getting  every 
character  acted  with  all  the  finish  that  trained  ability  and  con- 
scientious care  can  give. 

Foremost  of  all,  care  should  be  taken  that  the  actors  of  all 
grades  have  been  educated  to  speak  blank  verse  correctly, — to 
know  the  laws  of  its  construction, — and  while  giving  the  mean- 
ing, to  give  the  music  of  it  also.  It  is  sad  to  see  the  reckless 
ignorance  on  all  these  points  which  now  prevails,  and  to  note  to 
what  a  level  of  feebleness  and  commonplace  the  representation  of 
Shakespeare  has — with  some  notable  exceptions — been  reduced 
by  that  nerveless  and  colourless  thing,  mistakenly  called  "  natural 
acting."  Thus  it  is  that  Shakespeare's  plays  are  continually  re- 


332      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

produced  with  their  very  essence  left  out,  unheeded  by  the  actors, 
and,  alas !  to  all  appearance,  as  little  missed  by  the  audience. 
Of  what  account  is  elaborate  scenery,  or  dresses  that  will  satisfy 
the  most  fastidious  archaeologist,  if  those  who  wear  the  one  or 
move  about  in  the  other  are  untrue  to  the  characters  they  profess 
to  represent,  and  dead  to  the  significance  and  the  beauty  of  the 
language  they  have  to  speak  ? 

There  is  much  talk  in  these  days  about  realism,  and  keeping 
up  scenic  illusion.  But  how  inconsistent  with  this  talk  is  the 
practice,  once  happily  confined  to  the  Continent  and  the  Opera- 
house,  of  calling  on  the  performers  at  the  end  of  an  act  or  a 
scene — or,  as  sometimes  happens,  of  the  performers  obtruding 
themselves,  when  there  is  nothing  that  deserves  the  name  of  a 
call — to  bow  and  curtsey  to  the  audience  !  Surely,  just  in  pro- 
portion as  the  acting  has  been  of  a  quality  to  excite  genuine  en- 
thusiasm, is  it  unmeet  that  the  effect  produced  should  be  dis- 
turbed by  the  actor's  personality  being  interposed  between  one 
scene  and  another.  How  offensive  to  right  feeling,  as  well  as  to 
every  rule  of  art,  it  is,  for  example,  to  see  Claude  Melnotte  lead 
on  Pauline,  when  the  curtain  has  just  descended  on  their  separa- 
tion, she  in  despair  and  fainting  in  her  parents'  arms,  he  rushing 
away  to  "  redeem  his  honour  "  as  a  soldier,  with  the  prospect  that 
there  "  shall  not  be  a  forlorn-hope  without  him " :  or,  more  in- 
tolerable still,  where  Juliet  has  taken  the  potion,  been  mourned 
over  by  her  kindred  as  dead,  and  Eomeo  is,  as  we  think,  far 
away  in  Mantua,  to  see  her  advance  hand  in  hand  with  him  at 
the  end  of  the  act  in  answer  to  the  summons  of  the  unthinking 
few  !  Who  can  care  what  becomes  of  them  after  ?  The  spell  is 
broken,  the  interest  destroyed. 

For  myself,  I  can  truly  say  that  I  never  cared  for  the  character 
I  was  representing,  after  having  been  forced  to  yield  to  a  call 
during  the  progress  of  the  play.  On  the  occasions  when  the 
long-continued  and  not-to-be-silenced  clamour  of  the  audience 
left  me  no  choice,  and  I  have  gone  before  them  (I  fear  very  un- 
graciously), I  have  never  been  the  same  afterwards, — never  able 
to  lose  myself  in  full  measure  in  the  illusion  of  the  story, — never 
again  for  that  night  been  the  same  Pauline,  Rosalind,  or  what- 
ever else  I  was  acting,  that  I  was  before  this  interruption.  It 


BEATRICE.  333 

was  ever  my  desire  to  forget  my  audience.  Little  did  they,  who 
only  meant  kindness,  know  how  much  they  took  from  my  power 
of  working  out  my  conceptions  when  they  forced  me  in  this  way 
out  of  my  dream-world. 

\Arhen  the  play  is  over,  when  the  picture  is,  as  it  were,  com- 
plete, and  the  character  assumed  has  been  laid  down,  there  is 
something  to  be  said  in  favour  of  a  recall ;  for,  when  genuine  and 
general,  it  may  be  a  natural  expression  of  the  sympathy — and, 
may  I  say,  gratitude  1 — of  the  audience.  Such  calls  as  these,  in 
the  days  not  very  remote,  when  they  sprang  only  from  an  irresist- 
ible feeling  in  the  whole  audience,  were  a  distinction.  ]Xrow, 
from  being  far  too  common  and  too  indiscriminately  given,  they 
have  lost  this  character.  Having  lost  it,  any  inspiriting  influence 
which  they  may  once  have  had  upon  the  actor  has  necessarily 
passed  away,  and  he  can  only  look  upon  being  summoned  to 
appear  before  the  curtain  as  a  very  irksome  concession  to  a  mean- 
ingless custom,  which,  if  he  could,  he  would  be  glad  to  avoid. 
It  lies  with  actors  themselves,  and  with  the  public,  to  effect  the 
necessary  reform.  But  let  us  not  hear  of  the  importance  of  scenic 
illusion  while  the  present  system — for  to  a  system  it  seems  to 
have  been  reduced — is  tolerated  and  continued. 

The  interest  I  know  you,  dear  Mr  Ruskin,  feel  in  these  ques- 
tions must  be  my  excuse  for  touching  upon  them  here.  May  I 
hope  that  my  views  in  regard  to  them,  as  well  as  my  estimate  of 
the  character  of  Beatrice,  are  in  harmony  with  yours ;  and  that 
you  will  not  think  I  have  kept  you  too  long  "  listening  with  all 
your  heart "  to  what  I  have  had  to  say  1 

Believe  me  always,  with  sincere  esteem,  most  truly  yours, 

HELENA   FAUCIT  MAKTIN. 

31  ONSLOW  SQUARE,  6th  January  1885. 
To  JOHN  RUSKIN,  Esq. 

[It  has  pleased  me  greatly  to  read,  in  a  letter  (27th  February 
1885)  to  Sir  Theodore  Martin  from  M.  Eegnier,  formerly  the 
well-known  and  distinguished  member  of  the  Comedie  Franfaise, 
a  warm  approval  of  my  remarks  in  the  preceding  paragraphs  upon 
certain  characteristics  of  the  contemporary  stage  : — 


334      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS. 

"  Quant  aux  critiques,"  he  writes,  "  que  Lady  Martin  fait  de 
ces  orgies  de  mise  en  scene,  qui  etouffent  la  pensee  du  poete  sous 
le  pretexte  de  la  mieux  mettre  en  lumicre ;  quant  a  ces  rappels 
idiots  des  acteurs  pendant  le  cours  d'une  representation,  quant  a 
toutes  ces  extravagances  engendrees  par  la  vanite  des  acteurs  ou  la 
cupidite  des  directeurs,  je  les  approuve  toutes,  et  je  dis  comme  un 
des  medecins  de  M.  de  Pourceaugnac :  '  Manibus  et  pedibus  de- 
scendo  in  tuam  sententiam.'  Ce  Latin  de  cuisine  me  fait  souvenir 
qu'un  temps  ou  Ton  jouait  a  Eome  Plaute,  Terence,  et  les  grands 
tragiques,  Horace,  que  vous  connaissez  si  bien,  a  dit  quelque  part ; 
que  les  plus  beaux  vers  du  monde  sont  mis  en  d^route  par  un 
passage  de  chevaux  et  d'ours  traversant  la  scene.1  C'est  ce  qui  se 
fait  encore  aujourd'hui."] 

1  Horace,  Epistles  II.  1,  lines  184-186. 


IX. 
HERMIONE 


IX. 
H  E  E  M  I  0  N  E. 


"  How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 
How  may  measured  words  adore 

The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness  ?" 

DEAR  LORD   TENNYSON,— 

VOU  looked  more  than  kindly  on  my  attempts  to  describe 
what  was  in  my  mind  as  to  some  of  Shakespeare's  women, 
in  the  days  when  it  was  my  privilege  to  impersonate  them  upon 
the  stage.  Now  you  no  less  kindly  tell  me,  that  you  will  be 
glad  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say  about  a  near  relation  of  theirs 
—the  noble  Hermione  of  The  Winter's  Tale. 

I  remember  when,  at  the  conclusion  of  my  letter  on  Imogen, 
I  gave  expression  to  my  idea  that  she  was  not  likely  long  to 
survive  the  cruel  strain  upon  mind  and  body  to  which  she  had 
been  subjected,  you  wrote  to  me  that  you  liked  to  think  just 
the  contrary,  and  that  she  lived  long  and  happily  ever  after 
with  her  Posthumus,  just  like  all  the  good  people  in  the  fairy 
tales.  Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  distress  you  with  any  such 
conjectures  about  the  wife  of  Leontes,  although  she  of  a  truth 
was  made  more  unhappy 

"  Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devised 
And  play'd  to  take  spectators." 

In  accordance  with  his  wellnigh  uniform  practice,  Shakespeare 
Y 


338  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

borrowed  the  main  incidents  of  this  play  from  one  of  the  popular 
stories  of  his  day.  Strangely  enough,  in  this  instance  he  had 
recourse  to  a  tale  by  Robert  Greene,  the  dramatist  and  romance 
writer,  who  in  1592  had  attacked  him  as  "an  upstart  crow, 
beautified  Avith  our  feathers,"  and  "  in  his  own  conceit  the  only 
Shakescene  in  a  countrie."  How  indifferent  the  poet  was  to 
charges  of  this  nature  is  shown  in  the  well-known  sonnet  called 
"  The  Poet  Ape  "  by  Ben  Jonson,  which  is  commonly  believed 
to  have  been  directed  against  Shakespeare,  before  the  days  when 
Jonson  profited  by  his  friendship,  and  grew  familiar  with  his 
genius.  "Now  grown,"  the  sonnet  says, 

"  To  a  little  wealth  and  credit  in  the  scene, 
He  takes  up  all,  make's  each  man's  wit  his  own, 
And,  told  of  this,  he  slights  it." 

Well  might  he  slight  such  attacks,  knowing  how  much  that  was 
absolutely  his  own  he  put  into  every  play  which  he  recast,  or  for 
which  he  had  taken  hints  from  stories  told  by  other  men.  So 
far  from  bearing  Shakespeare  a  grudge  for  using  his  tale,  '  Pan- 
dosto,  or  the  Triumphs  of  Time,'  as  the  foundation  of  The  Winter's 
Tale,  Greene  might  rather  have  been  grateful  to  him  for  so  beauti- 
fying it  with  his  own  feathers  that  he  redeemed  the  work,  excel- 
lent of  its  kind  though  it  is,  from  the  oblivion  into  which  other- 
wise it  would  probably  have  fallen. 

Greene  had  long  been  dead,  however,  before  TJie  Winter's 
Tale  was  written.  For  there  is  no  record  of  it  before  1611, 
when  Dr  Simon  Forman  mentions  in  his  Diary  that  he  saw  it 
acted  at  the  Globe  Theatre  on  the  15th  of  May  in  that  year. 
Thus  it  may  fairly  be  assumed  that  it  was  one  of  the  poet's 
latest  works,  if  indeed  this  were  not  clear,  from  the  internal  evi- 
dence of  matured  power  in  every  element  of  thought,  pathos, 
humour,  and  dramatic  construction,  for  which  in  their  combina- 
tion Shakespeare  in  his  later  works  stands  without  a  peer. 

To  you,  who  have  done  for  the  characters  in  Sir  Thomas 
Malory's  '  History  of  King  Arthur  '  what  Shakespeare  did  for  the 
tales  from  which  he  took  suggestions  for  so  many  of  his  plots,  it 
would  be  idle  to  dwell  upon  the  folly  of  disputing  his  claim  to 
originality  because  others  had  gone  over  the  same  ground  before. 
Hundreds,  thousands,  go  over  the  same  ground  in  a  beautiful 


HERMIONE.  339 

country,  who  are  dead  to  its  beauties,  until  some  man  with  eyes 
to  see,  and  a  soul  to  illuminate  the  impressions  made  upon  him 
by  what  he  sees,  calls  attention  to  those  beauties,  and,  on  the 
canvas,  or  in  words  that  are  pictures,  glorifies  them  with 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream." 

It  is  the  same  with  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  history  and 
fiction.  It  is  only  the  great  poet  who  sees  what  scope  they  offer 
for  inspiring  them  with  life,  and  for  placing  them  under  conditions 
in  which  character,  emotion,  and  passion  may  be  portrayed  under 
ideal  forms,  but  still  with  a  truth  to  nature  which  makes  them 
even  more  real,  more  intimately  familiar  to  us,  than  the  people 
whom  we  have  longest  known. 

So  is  it  that  in  '  The  Idylls  of  the  King '  we  find  such  pictures 
of  true  knightliness,  tenderness,  beauty,  and  pathos,  as  are  no- 
where to  be  found  in  the  wild,  quaint,  but  assuredly  tedious  and 
not  unfrequently  coarse  incidents  and  legends  which  are  chron- 
icled in  Sir  Thomas  Malory's  book. 

JSTo  better  illustration  can  be  found  of  how  the  shaping  spirit 
of  imagination  turns  prose  into  poetry  than  by  comparing  The 
Winter's  Tale  with  Greene's  'Pandosto,'  or,  as  in  later  editions 
it  was  called,  'The  Pleasant  History  of  Dorastus  and  Fawnia.' 
In  both  we  find  the  sudden  outbreak  in  Pandosto  (the  Leontes 
of  the  play)  of  an  insane  jealousy  of  his  lifelong  friend  Egistus 
(Polixenes),  the  flight  of  Egistus  with  the  king's  cup-bearer 
Franion  (Camillo),  the  sending  away  by  Pandosto  of  the  new-born 
babe  to  be  destroyed,  the  trial  of  Bellaria  (Hermione),  the  judg- 
ment of  the  oracle  in  her  favour,  and  the  death  of  her  son  Ger- 
inter  (Mamillius).  But  the  Bellaria  of  the  story  dies,  and  the 
subsequent  history  of  her  daughter  Fawnia  (Perdita),  and  Dorastus 
(Florizel),  in  other  respects  much  the  same  as  in  the  play,  is  made 
peculiarly  unpleasant  by  the  passion  Pandosto  conceives  for  his 
own  child,  when  she  seeks  refuge  with  her  lover  at  his  Court, 
and  the  winding  up  of  the  story  with  his  suicide  in  a  fit  of 
remorse  for  having  entertained  this  passion.  Obviously  an  im- 
practicable story  this  for  the  purpose  of  a  play  !  But  how  skil- 
fully has  Shakespeare  bridged  over  all  difficulty  by  the  invention 


340      SHAKESPEAEE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

of  incidents,  and  the  introduction  of  characters — the  wittiest  of 
rogues,  Autolycus,  one  of  them — which  give  life,  coherence,  and 
probability  to  the  action  of  the  play,  while  they  enable  him  to 
bring  it,  as  with  a  strain  of  noble  music,  to  a  perfect  close,  by 
making  Hermione  live  to  see  her  daughter  restored  to  her  arms 
and  to  be  herself  reunited  to  her  husband  ! 

So  much  for  the  outlines  of  the  plot ;  but  it  is  in  the  delinea- 
tion of  the  characters  that  the  marked  difference  is  seen  between 
Greene,  the  man  of  talent,  and  Shakespeare,  the  myriad-minded 
man  of  genius.  How  clear  the  lines  with  which  they  are  drawn  ; 
with  what  precision  and  delicacy  of  touch  are  they  individualised  ; 
what  wonders  of  light  and  shade  are  shown  in  their  grouping ; 
what  richness  of  imagination,  what  power,  what  beauty,  what 
pathos,  what  humour  in  what  they  have  to  say  ! 

Shakespeare  shows  his  usual  constructive  skill  in  the  very  first 
scene,  by  bringing  into  prominence  in  the  dialogue  between 
Camillo  and  Archidamus  the  remarkable  attachment  between 
Leontes  and  Polixenes,  and  the  winning  ways  of  Hermione's 
little  son  Mamillius.  In  speaking  of  the  affection  of  the  two 
kings,  Camillo  says,  "  They  were  trained  together  in  their  child- 
hood. Since  their  more  mature  dignities,  and  royal  necessities, 
made  separation  of  their  society,"  they  had  kept  the  intimacy 
unbroken  by  such  interchange  of  letters  and  of  gifts,  "  that  they 
have  seemed  to  be  together,  though  absent.  The  heavens  con- 
tinue their  loves ! "  To  which  Archidamus  replies :  "I  think 
there  is  not  in  the  world  either  malice  or  matter  to  alter  it." 
Then  he  goes  on  to  praise  Leontes'  young  son  :  "  You  have 
an  unspeakable  comfort  of  your  young  prince  Mamillius;  it 
is  a  gentleman  of  the  greatest  promise  that  ever  came  into  my 
note." 

Here  two  notes  are  struck  which  reverberate  in  the  heart, 
when  these  bright  anticipations  are  soon  afterwards  turned  to 
anguish  and  dismay  by  the  wholly  unexpected  jealous  frenzy 
of  Leontes.  They  prepare  us  for  seeing  Leontes  in  the  next 
scene  urging  his  friend,  who  has  already  lingered  nine  months  at 
the  Sicilian  Court,  still  further  to  prolong  his  stay.  Hermione  is 
by,  but  she  is  silent,  until  Leontes,  who  appears  surprised  at  her 
silence,  says  to  her,  "Tongue-tied,  our  queen?  Speak  you!" 


HERMIONE.  341 

Thus  appealed  to,  she  shows  that  her  intercession  had  been 
reserved  until  her  husband  had  put  still  harder  pressure  upon 
their  guest. 

"  I  had  thought,  sir,  to  have  held  my  peace  until 
You  had  drawn  oaths  from  him  not  to  stay.     You,  sir, 
Charge  him  too  coldly.     Tell  him,  you  are  sure 
All  in  Bohemia's  well.     .     .     .     Say  this  to  him, 
He's  beat  from  his  best  ward. 
Leon.  Well  said,  Hermione  ! " 

Then  note  how  the  mother,  to  whom  her  own  boy  was  inexpress- 
ibly dear,  speaks  in  her  illusion  to  the  son  of  Polixenes,  of  whom 
no  word  has  hitherto  been  said : — 

"  To  tell,  he  longs  to  see  his  son,  were  strong  ; 
But  let  him  say  so  then,  and  let  him  go  ; 
But  let  him  swear  so,  and  he  shall  not  stay, 
We'll  thwack  him  hence  with  distaffs." 


Polixenes  does  not  avail  himself  of  the  plea  thus  suggested,  and 

Hermione  continues — 

"  When  at  Bohemia 

You  take  my  lord,  I'll  give  him  my  commission 
To  let  him  there  a  month  behind  the  gest 
Prefix'd  for's  parting." 

Then,  that  Leontes  may  not  think  she  could  bear  his  absence 
lightly,  she  turns  to  him,  saying — 

"Yet,  good  deed,  Leontes, 
I  love  thee  not  a  jar  of  the  clock  behind 
What  lady-she  her  lord." 

A  sweet  assurance  that  might  have  warmed  the  coldest  husband's 
heart !  And  with  the  winning  smile  playing  about  her  sensitive 
mouth,  and  the  loving  light  in  her  eyes,  —  those  "full  eyes," 
which  live  in  Leontes'  memory  long  years  after,  as  "stars,  stars, 
and  all  else  dead  coals," — she  turns  to  Polixenes  with  the  words, 
"You'll  stay]"  Hard  it  must  have  been  for  him  to  answer, 
"  No,  madam ! "  But  she  is  not  to  be  put  off,  for  now  she  is 
intent  on  carrying  her  point,  and  so  accomplishing  what  she 
believes  to  be  her  husband's  earnest  desire. 


342  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  Her.  Nay,  but  you  will  ? 

Pel.  I  may  not,  verily. 

Her.  Verily! 

You  put  me  off  with  limber  vows  ;  but  I, 
Though  you  would  seek  to  unsphere  the  stars  with  oaths, 
Should  yet  say,  '  Sir,  no  going  ! '     Verily, 
You  shall  not  go  ;  a  lady's  '  verily '  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's." 

Finding  Polixenes  makes  no  sign  of  yielding,  she  continues — 

"Will  you  go  yet? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner, 
Not  like  a  guest ;  so  you  shall  pay  your  fees 
When  you  depart,  and  save  your  thanks.     How  say  you  ? 
My  prisoner  or  my  guest  ?     By  your  dread  '  Verily,' 
One  of  them  you  shall  be. 

Pol.  Your  guest,  then,  madam  ! 

To  be  your  prisoner  would  import  offending, 
Which  is  for  me  less  easy  to  commit, 
Than  you  to  punish. 

Her.  Not  your  jailer,  then, 

But  your  kind  hostess.     Come,  I'll  question  you 
Of  my  lord's  tricks,  and  yours,  when  you  were  boys." 

On  this  follows  as  sweet  a  picture  of  innocent  boyhood  as  was 
ever  painted : — 

' '  Pol.  We  were,  fair  queen, 

Two  lads  that  thought  there  was  no  more  behind 
But  such  a  day  to-morrow  as  to-day, 
And  to  be  boy  eternal. 

Her.  Was  not  my  lord  the  verier  wag  of  the  two  ? 

Pol.  We  were  as  twinn'd  lambs,  that  did  frisk  i'  the  sun, 
And  bleat  the  one  at  the  other ;  what  we  changed 
Was  innocence  for  innocence ;  we  knew  not 
The  doctrine  of  ill-doing,  neither  dreamed 
That  any  did.     Had  we  pursued  that  life, 
And  our  weak  spirits  ne'er  been  higher  raised 
With  stronger  blood,  we  should  have  answered  heaven 
Boldly,  '  Not  guilty  ! ' 

Her.  By  this  we  gather, 

You  have  tripped  since." 

Polixenes'  first  words  in  reply  show  the  reverence  with  which 
the  serene  purity  of  Hermione  had  inspired  him : — 

"  Oh,  my  most  sacred  lady  ! 
Temptations  have  since  then  been  boi;n  to  us ;  for 


HERMIONE.  343 

In  those  unfledged  days  was  my  wife  a  girl ; 
Your  precious  self  had  not  then  cross'd  the  eyes 
Of  my  young  playfellow." 

Playfully  rallying  Polixenes  upon  the  suggestion  here  implied, 
that  his  queen  and  herself  have  been  their  tempters  to  evil, 
Hermione  rejoins  : — 

"  Grace  to  boot ! 

Of  this  make  no  conclusion,  lest  you  say 

Your  queen  and  I  are  devils.     Yet,  go  on  ; 

The  offences  we  have  made  you  do  we'll  answer." 

At  this  point  Leontes  breaks  in  with  "  Is  he  won  yet  1 " 

"Her.   He'll  stay,  my  lord. 

Leon.  At  my  request  he  would  not. 

Hermione,  my  dearest,  thou  ne'er  spok'st 
To  better  purpose." 

Strange  words  from  one  who  so  directly  afterwards  finds  cause 
for  jealousy  in  the  success  of  his  wife's  pleading  !  Still  stranger 
is  it,  and  more  suggestive  of  the  disturbance  already  at  work  in 
the  brain  of  Leontes,  that  he  could  possibly  doubt  Hermione's 
faith,  after  what  she  says  in  the  dialogue  that  follows,  in  which 
she  so  sweetly  challenges  his  remark  that  she  had  never  spoken 
to  better  purpose.  In  acting,  how  much  should  be  indicated  in 
the  tone  of  Hermione's  "  Never  "  ?  Have  you  forgotten,  it  asks, 
your  long  wooing,  and  the  consent  it  at  last  won  from  me  1  Will 
not  the  words  I  then  spoke  rank  for  ever  the  highest  in  your 
regard  1  Leontes,  quite  taking  her  meaning,  but  liking  to  be 
entreated,  only  says,  ' '  Never  but  once."  Then  comes  her  charm- 
ing rejoinder, — so  pretty,  so  coaxing,  something  like  Desdemona's 
to  Othello,  when  pleading  for  a  gentle  answer  to  Cassio's  suit 
(Act  iii.  sc.  3)  :— 

"  Her.  What  !  have  I  twice  said  well  ?    When  was't  before  ? 
I  prithee  tell  me  : 

One  good  deed  dying  tongueless 
Slaughters  a  thousand  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages  :  you  may  ride  us, 
With  one  soft  kiss,  a  thousand  furlongs,  ere 
With  spur  we  heat  an  acre.     But  to  the  goal ! 
My  last  good  deed  was  to  entreat  his  stay  ; 


344  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

What  was  my  first  ?    It  has  an  elder  sister, 
Or  I  mistake  you  :  oh,  would  her  name  were  Grace  ! 
But  once  before  I  spoke  to  the  purpose  :  When  ? 
Nay,  let  me  hav't :  I  long. 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had  soured  themselves  to  death, 
Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hands, 
And  clap  thyself  my  love ;  then  did'st  thou  utter — 
'  I  am  yours  for  ever  ! ' 

Her.  It  is  Grace  indeed. 

Why,  lo  you  now,  I  have  spoke  to  the  purpose  twice. 
The  one  for  ever  earn'd  a  royal  husband," 

giving,  as  she  speaks,  her  left  hand  with  the  marriage  symbol 
upon  it  to  Leontes.  Then  with  the  words — 

"  The  other  for  some  while  a  friend," 

she  offers  her  right  hand  in  token  of  friendship  to  Polixenes,  who 
retains  it  while  talking  apart  with  her  for  a  while,  amusing  her, 
we  may  imagine,  with  pleasant  stories  of  the  youthful  frolics  and 
fancies  of  Leontes  and  himself,  when  they  were  "as  twinn'd 
lamhs,  that  did  frisk  i'  the  sun,"  and  making  her  smile  in  pure 
joyousness  of  heart  to  hear  what  Leontes  was  in  the  days  before 
she  knew  him, — little  dreaming  the  while,  as,  leaving  her  hand 
in  that  of  Polixenes,  he  leads  her  along,  that  in  the  eyes  of 
Leontes  this  natural  evidence  of  friendship  is  being  construed  into 
"  paddling  palms  and  pinching  fingers,"  and  "  making  practised 
smiles  as  in  a  looking-glass." 

What  must  have  been  the  condition  of  his  mind,  when  room 
could  be  found  in  it  for  unholy  distrust  of  the  woman  who  the 
moment  before  had  dwelt  with  such  loving  tenderness  upon  the 
time  when  he  wooed  and  won  her,  and  this,  too,  in  the  presence 
of  the  very  man  whom  his  disordered  fancy  believes  to  have 
supplanted  him  in  her  affections !  A  sudden  access  of  madness 
can  alone  account  for  the  debasing  change  in  the  nature  of 
Leontes,  who  until  now  has  shown  himself  not  unworthy  of  his 
queen.  Such  inexplicable  outbreaks  of  jealousy,  I  have  been 
told,  do  occasionally  occur  in  real  life.  While  they  last,  the  very 
nature  of  their  victims  is  transformed,  and  their  imagination, 
wholesome  and  cleanly  till  then,  becomes,  like  that  of  Leontes, 
"foul  as  Vulcan's  stithy." 


HERMIONE.  345 

It  was  easy  for  Greene,  with  the  greater  latitude  which  the 
narrative  form  allows,  to  lead  up  to  and  explain  the  ultimate 
explosion  of  Pandosto's  jealousy,  which  had  been  silently  grow- 
ing through  the  protracted  stay  of  Egistus  at  his  Court,  until  at 
last  he  began  to  put  a  vile  construction  upon  his  wife's  simplest 
acts  of  courtesy  and  hospitality.  But  drama  allows  no  scope  for 
slow  development.  Shakespeare  has  therefore  dealt  with  Leontes 
as  a  man  in  whom  the  passion  of  jealousy  is  inherent ;  and  shows 
it  breaking  out  suddenly  with  a  force  that  is  deaf  to  reason,  and 
which,  stimulated  by  an  imagination  tainted  to  the  core,  finds 
evidences  of  guilt  in  actions  the  most  innocent.  How  different  is 
such  a  nature  from  Othello's!  He  was  "not  easily  jealous"; 
but,  having  become  "  perplexed  in  the  extreme "  by  lago's  per- 
version of  circumstances  innocent  in  themselves, — "  trifles  light 
as  air," — he  loses  for  a  while  his  faith  in  the  being  he  loved  as 
his  very  life.  Even  then,  grief  for  the  fall  of  her  whom  he  had 
made  his  idol, — "  Oh  the  pity  of  it,  the  pity  of  it,  lago  !  " — surges 
up  through  the  wildest  paroxysms  of  his  passion.  Tenderness  for 
a  beauty  so  exquisite  that  "  the  sense  ached  at  it,"  stays  his  up- 
lifted dagger.  In  his  mind  Desdemona  is,  to  the  last,  the  "  cun- 
ning'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature."  As  the  victim  of  craftily 
devised  stratagem,  he  never  himself  quite  forfeits  our  sympathy. 

Of  the  jealousy  that  animates  Leontes,  the  jealousy  that  needs 
no  extraneous  prompting  to  suspicion,  Emilia,  in  Othello,  gives  a 
perfect  description.  In  answer  to  the  hope  which  she  expresses 
to  Desdemona  that  Othello's  harsh  bearing  towards  her  is  due  to 
state  affairs,  and  to  "no  conception,  nor  no  jealous  toy  concern- 
ing you,"  Desdemona  replies,  "  Alas  the  day,  I  never  gave  him 
cause  !  "  To  this  Emilia  rejoins — 

' '  But  jealous  souls  will  not  be  answered  so ; 
They  are  not  ever  jealous  for  the  cause, 
But  jealous,  for  they  are  jealous  ;  'tis  a  monster 
Begot  upon  itself,  born  on  itself." 

This  is  the  jealousy  which  Shakespeare  has  portrayed  in  Leontes, 
— a  jealousy  without  excuse, — cruel,  vindictive,  and  remorseless 
almost  beyond  belief. 

Othello,  moreover,  had  been  wedded,  so  far  as  we  see,  but  a 
few  brief  weeks.  He  had  not  had  time  to  prove  how  deeply 


346  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Desdemona  loved  him.  But  years  of  happy  wedlock  had  assured 
Leontes  of  Hermione's  affection, — years  in  which  he  had  tested 
the  inward  nobility  which  expressed  itself  in  that  majestic  bear- 
ing, of  which  he  speaks  again  and  again,  long  after  he  has  reason 
to  believe  her  to  be  dead.  Maintaining  through  all  her  life  the 
charm  of  royal  graciousness  and  dignity,  she  has  inspired  the 
chivalrously  enthusiastic  admiration  and  devotion  of  every  mem- 
ber of  the  Court ;  a  woman,  in  short,  with  whom  no  derogatory 
thought  could  be  associated,  being,  as  she  is  described  by  one  of 
them  to  be,  "so  sovereignly  honourable." 

That  Leontes'  brain  is  by  this  time  unsettled  is  manifest  in  the 
broken  dialogue  which  he  holds  with  his  darling  Mamillius.  His 
altered  looks  and  manner  attract  the  attention  of  both  Hermione 
and  Polixenes.  "  You  look,"  says  Hermione — 

' '  As  if  you  held  a  brow  of  much  distraction  : 
Are  you  moved,  my  lord  ?" 

With  something  of  the  secretiveness  and  cunning  of  a  man  011 
the  brink  of  madness,  he  evades  the  inquiry  by  saying  that  his 
boy's  face  had  made  him  think  of  the  days  when,  twenty-three 
years  back,  he  was  a  child  of  the  same  age.  Then,  turning  to 
Polixenes  with  seemingly  all  the  old  friendliness,  he  asks — 

"  Are  you  as  fond  of  your  young  prince  as  we 
Do  seem  to  be  of  ours  ? " 

This  draws  from  Polixenes  a  delightful  description  of  the  boy, 
whom  we  are  afterwards  to  know  as  Florizel. 

"If  at  home,  sir, 

He's  all  my  exercise,  my  mirth,  my  matter  ; 
Now  my  sworn  friend,  and  then  mine  enemy  ; 
My  parasite,  my  soldier,  statesman,  all : 
He  makes  a  July's  day  short  as  December  ; 
And  with  his  varying  childness,  cures  in  me 
Thoughts  that  would  thick  iny  blood. 

Leon.  So  stands  this  squire 

Officed  with  me." 

With  this  Leontes  leaves  Polixenes  and  Hermione  to  what  he 
calls  their  "graver  steps,"  while  he  walks  away  ostensibly  to 
make  sport  with  his  boy.  We  know  from  what  he  says  later  on 


HERMIONE.  347 

that,  instead  of  this,  he  is  on  the  watch,  in  hopes  to  find  in  their 
demeanour  a  confirmation  of  his  suspicions. 

"  I  am  angling  now, 
Though  you  perceive  me  not,  how  I  give  line." 

But  with  the  madman's  shallow  cunning  he  enjoins  Hermione, 
as  he  goes,  to  show  how  she  loves  himself  "in  our  brother's 
welcome,"  adding — 

"  Next  to  thyself  and  my  young  rover,  he's 
Apparent  to  my  heart." 

Poor  Hermione  !  How  little  does  she  dream  of  the  canker 
that  is  even  now  eating  away  all  that  is  noble  in  the  character  of 
her  Leontes  !  Her  happiness  would  appear  to  be  without  alloy. 
Blest,  as  she  thinks  herself,  in  her  husband's  love  and  trust ; 
blest  in  a  child  more  than  usually  bright,  loving,  and  attractive ; 
happy  in  the  friendship  of  a  man  whose  high  qualities  she  cannot 
fail  to  admire  and  esteem,  and  whom  she  is  enjoined  by  her 
husband  to  trust  as  a  brother, — her  life  is  already  flooded  with 
sunshine;  and  in  her  mother's  heart  there  is  still  another  bud- 
ding hope  that  in  the  near  future  will  complete  the  measure  of 
her  joy. 

How  swiftly  all  is  changed !  Utterly  losing  self  -  control, 
Leontes  summons  his  chamber  -  councillor  Camillo,  and  pours 
out  a  flood  of  invectives  upon  the  queen,  so  gross  as  to  provoke 
the  rebuke — 

"  I  would  not  be  a  stander-by,  to  hear 
My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 
My  present  vengeance  taken.     'Shrew  my  heart, 
You  never  spoke  what  did  become  you  less 
Than  this." 

Remonstrance,  however,  is  useless.  Camillo  quickly  sees  that 
his  only  course  is  to  humour  the  passion  which  has  suddenly 
transformed  the  master  he  had  loved  into  a  furious  madman. 
Not,  however,  for  one  instant  does  he  waver  in  his  belief  in  the 
purity  of  his  "dread  mistress."  Thus,  while  making  a  show  of  con- 
senting to  the  demand  of  Leontes  that  he  shall  poison  Polixenes 
— a  demand  peculiarly  shameful,  as  Leontes  has  appointed  him 


348      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

the  cup-bearer  of  his  guest  (whom  therefore  he  was  especially 
bound  to  protect) — he  does  so  only 

"  Provided,  that  when  he's  removed,  your  highness 
Will  take  again  your  queen,  as  yours  at  first, 
Even  for  your  son's  sake,  and  thereby,  for  sealing 
The  injury  of  tongues,  in  courts  and  kingdoms 
Known  and  allied  to  yours." 

Leontes  professes  that  this  is  his  intention,  adding,  to  deceive 
Camillo,  "  I'll  give  no  blemish  to  her  honour — none."  At  such 
a  crisis  to  gain  time  was  everything,  and  with  this  view  Camillo 
urges  the  king  to  show  no  change  in  his  demeanour  towards 
Polixenes  and  Hermione.  Promising  to  follow  his  advice, 
Leontes  goes  away.  Camillo,  however,  foresees  nothing  but 
sorrow  for  his  beloved  mistress  in  the  future.  "  Oh,  miserable 
lady ! "  is  his  first  exclamation  when  left  alone.  But  he  has  to 
consider  his  own  position,  and  having  pledged  himself  to  the 
king  to  an  act  from  which  his  soul  recoils,  no  course  is  left  him 
but  to  leave  the  country.  In  his  present  mood,  Leontes,  he  feels, 
is  no  longer  a  responsible  being.  How  baseless  were  his  assur- 
ances that  he  would  continue  to  "  seem  friendly  "  to  the  object  of 
his  jealousy  is  promptly  shown  upon  the  entry  of  Polixenes,  who 
complains  that  Leontes  has  passed  him  without  speaking,  and 
with  "  such  a  countenance 

"  As  he  had  lost  some  province  and  a  region 
Loved  as  he  loves  himself.     Even  now  I  met  him 
With  customary  compliment ;  when  he, 
Wafting  his  eyes  to  the  contrary,  and  falling 
A  lip  of  much  contempt,  speeds  from  me  ;  and 
So  leaves  me  to  consider  what  is  breeding, 
That  changes  thus  his  manners." 

Urged  by  Polixenes  to  throw  light,  if  he  can,  upon  what  has 
caused  this  sudden  change,  Camillo  at  first  does  no  more  than 
urge  him  for  his  own  safety  to  leave  the  court  at  once,  as  he 
means  himself  to  do.  On  being  pressed  to  say  why,  he  confesses 
to  Polixenes  that  he  has  been  appointed  to  murder  him,  because 
he  is  suspected  by  Leontes  of  having  "touched  his  queen  for- 
biddenly."  "  Oh,  then,"  Polixenes  exclaims, 


HERMIONE.  349 

"My  best  blood  turn 
To  an  infected  jelly  ;  and  my  name 
Be  yoked  with  his  that  did  betray  the  Best !  " 

and  in  his  every  word  shows  how  impossible  it  was  for  him  ever 
to  have  entertained  any  feeling  towards  Hermione  but  that  of 
reverential  admiration.  His  instinct  as  a  man  of  honour  would 
have  led  him  to  remain  and  confront  Leontes.  But  from  what 
Camillo  tells  him,  he  sees  that  this  course  would  endanger  his 
own  life,  and  possibly  bring  further  indignity  upon  the  queen. 
At  the  same  time  he  sadly  divines  into  what  excesses  of  vindictive 
passion  Leontes  was  likely  to  be  driven.  "  This  jealousy,"  he 
says, 

"  Is  for  a  precious  creature  :  as  she's  rare, 
Must  it  be  great ;  and,  as  his  person's  mighty, 
Must  it  be  violent ;  and  as  he  does  conceive 
He  is  dishonour'd  by  a  man  which  ever 
Profess'd  to  him,  why,  his  revenges  must 
In  that  be  made  more  bitter." 

Therefore,  with  the  aid  of  Camillo,  who  escapes  with  him,  he 
secretly  and  swiftly  returns  to  his  own  kingdom  of  Bohemia,  and 
sixteen  years  elapse  before  we  hear  of  either  of  them  again. 

Meanwhile  Shakespeare  shows  us  Hermione  again  under  an 
aspect  that  brings  her  home  still  more  closely  to  our  sympathies, 
while  it  deepens  the  pathos  of  the  terrible  burden  that  is  pres- 
ently to  be  laid  upon  her. 

Is  there,  even  in  Shakespeare,  any  passage  more  charming  in 
itself,  or  more  cunningly  devised  to  reveal  to  an  audience  the 
main  purpose  of  the  play,  than  the  brief  scene  with  which  the 
second  act  opens  ?  The  boy  Mamillius,  of  whom  Archidamus  had 
spoken  as  the  "gallant  child,"  the  "gentleman  of  the  greatest 
promise  that  ever  came  into  his  note,"  unconscious  of  the  delicate 
condition  of  his  mother,  has  fatigued  her  with  his  caresses  and 
the  eager  importunity  of  his  questions.  "  Take  the  boy  to  you," 
she  says  to  her  ladies-in-waiting, 

"  He  so  troubles  me, 
"Tis  past  enduring. 

1st  Lady.  Come,  my  gracious  lord, 

Shall  I  be  your  playfellow  ? 

Mam.  No,  I'll  none  of  you. 


350      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTEKS: 

1st  Lady.  Why,  my  sweet  lord  ? 

Mam.  You'll  kiss  me  hard  ;  and  speak  to  me  as  if 
I  were  a  baby  still.     I  love  you  better. 

2nd  Lady.  And  why  so,  my  lord  ? 

Mam.  Not  for  because 

Your  brows  are  blacker  ;  yet  black  brows,  they  say, 
Become  some  women  best ;  so  that  there  be  not 
Too  much  hair  there,  but  in  a  semicircle, 
Or  half -moon  made  with  a  pen. 

2nd  Lady.  Who  taught  you  this  ? 

Mam.  I  learn'd  it  out  of  women's  faces." 

What  mother  could  long  keep  such  a  darling  from  her  side? 
Hermione  could  not,  and  presently  she  calls  him  back  to  her 
from  the  circle  of  her  ladies,  who  have  gathered  round  him, 
delighted  with  his  precocious  prattle. 

"  Her.  Come,  sir,  now 

I  am  for  you  again  :  pray  you,  sit  by  us, 
And  tell's  a  tale. 

Mam.  Merry,  or  sad,  shall't  be  ? 

Her.  As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mam.  A  sad  tale's  best  for  winter." 

[in  these  words  suggesting  the  name  for  the  play,  with  its  saddest 
of  tales.] 

"  I  have  one  of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Her.  Let's  have  that,  good  sir. 

Come  on,  sit  down.     Come  on,  and  do  your  best 
To  fright  me  with  your  sprites  ;  you're  powerful  at  it. 

Mam.  There  was  a  man, — 

Her.  Nay,  come,  sit  down  ;  then  on  ! 

Mam.  Dwelt  by  a  churchyard.     I  will  tell  it  softly  ; 
Yond  crickets  shall  not  hear  it. 

Her.  Come  on,  then, 

And  give't  me  in  mine  ear." 

But  that  tale  is  never  to  he  told.  It  is  arrested  by  the  abrupt 
entrance  of  Leontes  with  his  suite.  He  has  heard  of  the  secret 
departure  of  Polixenes  and  Camillo,  which  confirms  his  worst 
surmises. 

"  Camillo  was  his  help,  his  pander  : 
There  is  a  plot  against  my  life,  my  crown  ; " 

and  his  queen  is  privy  to  it.     Turning  to  her  in  fury,  he  drags 
Mamillius  from  her  side  : 


HERMIONE.  351 

"  Give  me  the  boy  !     I  am  glad  you  did  not  nurse  him  ; 
Though  he  does  bear  some  signs  of  me,  yet  you 
Have  too  much  blood  in  him." 

In  complete  bewilderment  Hermione  exclaims,  "What  is  this? 
Sport  1 "  At  first  she  seems  unable  to  regard  Leontes  as  in 
earnest,  even  when  his  answer  to  her  question  is 

"  Bear  the  boy  hence.     He  shall  not  come  about  her. 
Away  with  him  !  " 

and  in  the  coarsest  terms  charges  her  with  disloyalty  to  his  bed. 
In  a  kind  of  stupor  she  listens  to  his  vituperations,  until  he  brands 
her,  to  the  wonder-stricken  circle  of  his  lords,  as  "an  adultress." 
Upon  this  the  indignant  denial  leaps  to  her  lips — - 

"  Should  a  villain  say  so, 
The  most  replenish'd  villain  in  the  world, 
He  were  as  much  more  villain  !  " 

But  here  she  checks  herself.  The  name  of  villain  must  not  be 
coupled  with  his, — her  husband,  and  a  king, — and  with  a  voice 
softened,  but  resolute,  she  adds,  "  You,  my  lord,  do  but  mistake." 
Unmoved  by  her  gentleness,  Leontes  reiterates  his  accusations 
with  redoubled  vehemence.  The  blood  is  sent  back  upon  her 
heart,  speaking  as  these  do  of  the  overthrow  of  the  love  of  years 
in  the  inexplicable  delusion  by  which  he  is  possessed.  Humiliat- 
ing as  her  position  is,  thus  to  be  reviled  by  her  husband  and  be- 
fore the  Court,  she  never  loses  for  a  moment  her  queenly  dignity 
and  self-command.  Even  in  the  midst  of  her  anguish,  her  para- 
mount thought  is  for  him,  to  whom,  as  he  had  so  lately  reminded 
her,  she  had  vowed  herself  "for  ever."  We  seem  to  hear  the 
sad,  calm,  solemn  tones  of  her  voice  as  she  speaks. 

"  How  will  this  grieve  you, 

When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  have  thus  published  me  !     Gentle  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  truly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake." 

Insane  though  he  is  for  the  time,  yet  Leontes  feels  that,  if  she 
speaks  true — if  he  should  be  wrong — his  error  would  be  inexpi- 
able. "  No,"  he  replies ; 

"  If  I  mistake 
In  these  foundations  that  I  build  upon, 


352  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

The  centre  is  not  big  enough  to  bear 

A  school-boy's  top.     Away  with  her  to  prison  !  " 

Hermione  attempts  no  remonstrance.  She  accepts  her  fate 
meekly. 

"  There's  some  ill  planet  reigns  : 

I  must  be  patient,  till  the  heavens  look 

With  an  aspect  more  favourable." 

As  she  is  about  to  leave,  she  sees  the  lords  regarding  her  with 
mournful  faces.  They  cannot  surely  believe  her  guilty  ;  yet  men 
look  for  women's  tears  in  hours  of  trial.  She  has  none  to  give  ; 
her  heart  is  too  "  sorely  charged "  for  that.  But  from  her  dry 
eyes  they  must  draw  no  false  conclusions.  "Good  my  lords," 
she  says, 

"  I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are  ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your  pities.     But  I  have 
That  honourable  grief  lodged  here,  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown.     Beseech  you  all,  my  lords, 
With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me  ;  and  so 
The  king's  will  be  performed." 

No  one  stirs;  and  Leontes,  made  more  and  more  angry  and 
excited  by  her  presence,  says  roughly,  "Shall  I  be  heard1?" 
Upon  this  Hermione,  suddenly  reminded  by  a  painful  throb 
of  her  impending  trial,  is  affrighted  by  the  thought  that  jailers 
are  to  be  her  sole  attendants.  Who  can  read  without  emotion 
what  follows1? — 

"  Beseech  your  highness, 

My  women  may  be  with  me ;  for,  you  see, 

My  plight  requires  it.     Do  not  weep,  good  fools  ; 

There  is  no  cause  ;  when  you  shall  know  your  mistress 

Has  deserved  prison,  then  abound  in  tears, 

As  I  come  out :  this  action  I  now  go  on 

Is  for  my  better  grace." 

Then,  bending  with  a  low  reverence  to  the  king,  she  continues — 

' '  Adieu,  my  lord  : 

I  never  wished  to  see  you  sorry  ;  now 
I  trust  I  shall." 


HERMIONE.  353 

What  a  parting,  what  a  prophecy  !  And  in  our  common  life 
to  how  many  a  sad  heart  does  the  infinite  pathos  of  these  words 
strike  home ! 

JSTo  sooner  has  the  queen  withdrawn  with  her  ladies  than  the 
lords,  who  have  heen  restrained  by  her  presence,  break  forth  into 
passionate  remonstrances  with  Leontes,  heedless  of  his  words, 

"  He  who  shall  speak  for  her  is  afar  off  guilty, 
But  that  he  speaks." 

"  Beseech  your  highness,"  says  one,  "  call  the  queen  again  !  "  and 
Antigonus,  who  is  afterwards  to  play  a  material  part  in  the  story, 
speaks  with  a  solemn  voice  of  warning — 

"  Be  certain  what  you  do,  sir  ;  lest  your  justice 
Prove  violence  ;  in  the  which  three  great  ones  suffer, 
Yourself,  your  queen,  your  son." 

Later  on,  he  points  out  to  the  king  how  far  more  seemly  it  would 
have  been  for  him  to  have  tested  his  suspicions  silently  before 
blazoning  them  to  the  world.  So  absolute  is  the  belief  of  all 
the  lords  in  the  queen's  innocence,  that  they  are  not  deterred  by 
the  angry  resistance  of  Leontes  from  loudly  protesting  that  he 
is  under  a  delusion.  It  is  some  saving  grace  in  him  that  he 
argues  the  matter  with  them,  instead  of  ordering  them  to  prison 
for  their  boldness,  and  tells  them  that,  while  himself  assured  of 
the  queen's  guilt, 

"  Yet,  for  a  greater  confirmation, 
For,  in  an  act  of  this  importance,  'twere 
Most  piteous  to  be  wild," 

he  has  despatched  two  of  the  leading  members  of  his  Court  to 
obtain  the  opinion  of  the  Oracle  at  Delphi,  "whose  spiritual 
counsel  had  shall  stop  or  spur  him."  He  has  done  this  ob- 
viously not  for  his  own  satisfaction  but  to  "give  rest  to  the 
minds  of  others."  Neither  Antigonus  nor  any  of  the  lords  have 
any  misgivings  as  to  the  issue.  The  oracle  will  surely  show  their 
monarch's  folly,  "  if  the  good  truth  were  known." 

The  next  scene  introduces  us  to  Paulina,  the  wife  of  Antig- 
onus, a  lady  of  high  position,  who  henceforth  fills  a  most  import- 
ant part  in  the  drama,  and  who  should  be  impersonated  in  any 
Z 


354      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

adequate  representation  of  the  play  by  an  actress  of  the  first 
order.  She  is  a  woman  of  no  ordinary  sagacity,  with  a  warm 
heart,  a  vigorous  brain,  and  an  ardent  temper.  Her  love  for 
Hermione  has  its  roots  in  admiration  and  reverence  for  all  the 
good  and  gracious  qualities  of  which  the  queen's  daily  life  has 
given  witness.  She  has  been  much  about  her  royal  mistress, 
and  much  esteemed  and  trusted  by  her.  Leontes,  knowing 
this,  obviously  anticipates  that  she  will  not  remain  quiet  when 
she  hears  of  the  charge  he  has  brought  against  the  queen,  and 
that  he  has  thrust  her  into  prison.  Accordingly,  he  has  given 
express  orders  that  Pauliua  is  not  to  be  admitted  to  the  prison, 
and  this  fresh  act  of  cruelty  she  learns  from  the  governor  only 
when  she  arrives  there  in  the  hope  of  being  some  comfort  to 
her  much- wronged  mistress.  "  Good  lady,"  'she  exclaims,  to 
herself, 

"  No  court  in  Europe  is  too  good  for  thee  ; 
What  dost  thou,  then,  in  prison  ? " 

The  privilege  of  access  to  the  queen  is  resolutely  denied  to 
her.  She  prevails,  however,  on  the  governor  to  permit  her  to  see 
the  queen's  chief  woman,  Emilia,  and  from  her  she  learns  that, 
"on  her  frights  and  griefs,"  Hermione  has  been  prematurely  de- 
livered of  a  daughter,  "  a  goodly  babe,  lusty  and  like  to  live." 

"  The  queen  receives 

Much  comfort  in't ;  says  '  My  poor  prisoner, 
I  am  innocent  as  you.'  " 

How  Paulina's  heart  must  have  been  stirred  as  these  words 
brought  before  her  the  image  of  the  forlorn  mother  and  her 
child  !  In  hot  anger  she  exclaims,  "  I  dare  be  sworn ! " — and 
in  the  words  that  follow  shows  the  clear  common -sense  and 
fearless  courage  of  which  she  gives  remarkable  proofs  at  a  later 
stage.  From  first  to  last  she  regards  the  conduct  of  Leontes 
as  simple  madness. 

"These  dangerous  lunes  i'  the  king,  beshrew  them  ! 
He  must  be  told  on't,  and  he  shall :  the  office 
Becomes  a  woman  best.     I  take't  upon  me. 
If  I  prove  honey-mouthed,  let  my  tongue  blister, 
And  never  to  my  red-looked  anger  be 
The  trumpet  any  more." 


HERMIONE.  355 

But  here  a  plea  that  may  soften  the  king's  heart  flashes  upon 
her.  If  the  queen  will  trust  her  with  the  babe,  she  will  show  it 
to  the  king,  "  and  undertake  to  be  her  advocate  to  the  loud'st." 

"  We  do  not  know 

How  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  o'  the  child ; 
The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 
Persuades,  when  speaking  fails." 

The  idea  of  such  an  appeal,  Emilia  says,  had  occurred  to  the 
queen  herself ; 

"  Who,  but  to-day,  hammered  of  this  design, 
But  durst  not  trust  a  minister  of  honour, 
Lest  she  should  be  denied. " 

"There  is  no  lady  living,"  Emilia  adds,  "so  meet  for  this  great 
errand."  She  anticipates  "  a  thriving  issue "  for  it.  Presently 
we  find  that  Hermione  parts  with  her  child,  in  the  hope  that  the 
sight  of  its  sweet  face,  the  touch  of  the  baby  fingers,  its  likeness 
to  himself — 

"  Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole  matter 
And  copy  of  the  father"— 

may  turn  his  heart,  and  break  the  frightful  spell  by  which  he  is 
mysteriously  bound. 

Under  that  spell  Leontes  is  kept  upon  the  rack.  "  Nor  night 
nor  day,  no  rest ! "  are  his  first  words  when  next  we  see  him. 
His  thoughts  are  all  of  vengeance.  "  The  harlot  king,"  he  says, 
"  is  quite  beyond  mine  arm  ; "  but  Hermione  is  in  his  grasp. 

"  Say,  that  she  were  gone, 
Given  to  the  fire,  a  moiety  of  my  rest 
Might  come  to  me  again." 

He  has  still  another  bitter  grief,  one  for  which  he  can  take 
vengeance  upon  no  one,  neither  thrust  aside, — a  grief  which  will 
haunt  him  to  his  grave.  His  boy,  his  darling  Mamillius,  is  sick. 
"  How  does  the  boy  ? "  he  asks  eagerly  of  an  attendant  whom  he 
has  summoned,  who  answers — 

"  He  took  good  rest  to-night ; 
'Tis  hoped  his  sickness  is  discharged. 

Leon.  To  see  his  nobleness  ! 
Conceiving  the  dishonour  of  his  mother, 


356  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

He  straight  declined,  droop'd,  took  it  deeply  ; 
Fastened  and  fixed  the  shame  on't  in  himself  ; 
Threw  oft  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep, 
And  downright  languished.     Leave  me  solely  ;  go, 
See  how  he  fares." 

But  Leontes  is  no  sooner  alone  than  he  relapses  into  his  dreams 
of  vengeance.  In  these  he  becomes  absorbed,  until  his  attention 
is  aroused  by  the  voice  of  Paulina  in  loud  talk  with  his  attendants, 
who  are  trying  to  keep  her  from  making  her  way  to  him  with 
Hermione's  baby  in  her  arms.  Of  all  the  ladies  of  the  court  she 
is  the  one  he  has  most  feared  to  see.  "  I  charged  thee,"  he  says 
to  her  husband,  Antigonus,  "that  she  should  not  come  about  me. 
I  knew  she  would."  But  neither  Antigonus  nor  the  king  can 
shake  her  determination  to  speak  her  mind. 

"  I  say,  I  come 
From  your  good  queen. 

Leon.  Good  queen  ! 

Paul.  Good  queen,  my  lord,  good  queen  :  I  say,  good  queen  ; 
And  would  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A  man,  the  worst  about  you. 

The  good  queen, 

For  she  is  good,  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter ; 
Here  'tis  ;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

[Laying  down  the,  child." 

In  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  Leontes  calls  her  by  names  the  most 
opprobrious,  orders  her  "  out  o'  door,"  and  commands  Antigonus 
to  "take  up  the  bastard"  and  give  it  to  his  "crone."  "For 
ever,"  she  exclaims  to  her  husband, 

"  Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak'st  up  the  princess,  by  that  forced  baseness 
Which  he  has  put  upon't." 

Maddened  still  further  by  her  indifference  to  his  anger,  Leontes 
exclaims — 

"  This  brat  is  none  of  mine  ; 
It  is  the  issue  of  Polixenes  : 
Hence  with  it !     And  together  with  the  dam 
Commit  them  to  the  fire  !     .     .     . 
(To  Paulina)  I'll  have  thee  burn'd. 
Paul.  I  care  not : 

It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  fire, 
Not  she  which  burns  in't.     I'll  not  call  you  tyrant ; 


HERMIONE.  367 

But  this  most  cruel  usage  of  your  queen — 

Not  able  to  produce  more  accusation 

Than  your  own  weak-hinged  fancy — something  savours 

Of  tyranny,  and  will  ignoble  make  you, 

Yea,  scandalous  to  the  world." 

"  Out  of  the  chamber  with  her ! "  cries  the  king.  Paulina, 
eeeing  that  further  remonstrance  in  impossible,  retires ;  but  not 
without  some  further  words  of  warning.  "Look  to  your  babe, 
my  lord ;  'tis  yours.  Jove  send  her  a  better  guiding  spirit ! " 
How  dangerous,  how  unsafe  the  king's  frenzy  has  become,  is  seen 
in  the  way  he  turns  upon  Antigonus. 

"  Thou,  traitor,  hast  set  on  thy  wife  to  this. 
My  child  !     Away  with't !     Even  thou,  that  hast 
A  heart  so  tender  o'er  it,  take  it  hence, 
And  see  it  instantly  consumed  with  fire ; 
Even  thou,  and  none  but  thou.     Take  it  up  straight ; 
Within  this  hour  bring  me  word  'tis  done, 
And  by  good  testimony,  or  I'll  seize  thy  life, 
And  what  thou  else  call'st  thine.     If  thou  refuse, 
And  wilt  encounter  with  my  wrath,  say  so  ; 
The  bastard's  brains  with  these  my  proper  hands 
Shall  I  dash  out.     Go,  take  it  to  the  fire  ! " 

Stricken  with  horror,  the  attendant  lords  kneel,  beseeching  the 
king  to  "change  this  purpose,"  so  "horrible,  so  bloody."  Feeling 
obviously  some  misgiving  within  himself,  he  exclaims,  "  I  am  a 
feather  in  each  wind  that  blows,"  and  calls  to  Antigonus : 

"  You,  sir,  come  you  hither  ! 

You,  that  have  been  so  tenderly  officious     .     .     . 
To  save  this  bastard's  life  ;  for  'tis  a  bastard 
So  sure  as  thy  beard's  grey, — what  will  you  adventure 
To  save  this  brat's  life  ? 

Ant.  Anything,  my  lord, 

That  my  ability  may  undergo, 
And  nobleness  impose  ;  at  least  thus  much, 
I'll  pawn  the  little  blood  that  I  have  left, 
To  save  the  innocent, — anything  possible." 

"  It  shall  be  possible ! "  cries  Leontes,  and  straightway  enjoins 
him  to  bear  the  child 

"  To  some  remote  and  desert  place,  quite  out 
Of  our  dominions ;  and  that  there  thou  leave  it, 


358      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Without  more  mercy,  to  its  own  protection 

And  favour  of  the  climate.     .     .     . 

Where  chance  may  nurse  or  end  it.     Take  it  up." 

The  gentle,  kindly,  elderly  Antigonus,  upon  whom  the  plain 
speaking  of  his  younger  warm-tempered  wife  has  brought  this 
terrible  task,  swears  to  ohey  his  sovereign's  order,  "Though  a 
present  death,"  he  says,  "  had  been  more  merciful " ;  and  taking 
up  the  child,  with  the  words, 

"  Come  on,  poor  babe  ; 

Some  powerful  spirit  instruct  the  kites  and  ravens 
To  be  thy  nurses.     .     .     .     Sir,  be  prosperous 
In  more  than  this  deed  doth  require  !     And  blessing 
Against  this  cruelty  fight  on  thy  side, 
Poor  thing,  condemned  to  loss  ! " 

he  sets  out  upon  his  cruel  errand. 

Scarcely  has  he  gone  when  tidings  arrive  that  Cleomenes  and 
Dion,  the  messengers  despatched  to  the  Delphic  Oracle,  have 
returned,  and  are  "hasting  to  the  court."  Now,  thinks  Leontes, 
the  gods  will  prove  him  to  be  in  the  right.  That  their  answer 
should  be  such  as  to  stay  his  hand  from  destroying  his  queen  he 
believes  to  be  impossible.  He  orders,  indeed,  a  session  to  be 
forthwith  summoned — 

"  That  we  may  arraign 
Our  most  disloyal  lady  ;  for  as  she  hath 
Been  publicly  accused,  so  shall  she  have 
A  just  and  open  trial." 

But  that  it  will  result  in  her  condemnation  he  is  completely  as- 
sured, for  he  adds — 

"  While  she  lives, 
My  heart  will  be  a  burthen  to  me." 

Miserable  man  !  He  had  yet  to  learn  how  much  heavier  a  burden 
his  heart  will  have  to  bear. 

Here  follows  one  of  those  exquisite  scenes  with  which  Shake- 
speare so  often  enriches  his  plays,  in  the  creative  exuberance  of 
his  imagination,  and  prompted  by  the  subtle  sense  of  what  is 
wanted  to  put  his  audience  in  the  right  mood  for  what  is  next 
to  follow.  After  all  the  prophetic  vehemence  of  Paulina  and 
the  insane  passion  of  Leontes,  he  seems  to  have  felt  that  some- 


HERMIONE.  359 

thing  in  a  gentler  strain  was  needed  to  calm  the  emotions  of  his 
hearers,  and  lift  them  into  a  serener  air,  before  showing  Hennione 
upon  her  trial.  This  he  has  done  by  a  brief  dialogue  between 
Cleomenes  and  Dion,  which  takes  us  with  them  to  the  temple  at 
Delphi,  chosen  by  Apollo  as  the  mouthpiece  of  his  oracles  : — 

"  Cleo.  The  climate's  delicate  ;  the  air  most  sweet ; 
Fertile  the  isle  ;  the  temple  much  surpassing 
The  common  praise  it  bears. 

Dion.  I  shall  report, 

For  most  it  caught  me,  the  celestial  habits,  — 
Methinks  I  so  should  term  them, — and  the  reverence 
Of  the  grave  wearers.     Oh,  the  sacrifice  ! 
How  ceremonious,  solemn,  and  unearthly 
It  was  i'  the  offering  ! 

Cleo.  But,  of  all,  the  burst 

And  the  ear-deafening  voice  o'  the  oracle, 
Kin  to  Jove's  thunder,  so  surprised  my  sense, 
That  I  was  nothing. 

Dion.  If  the  event  o'  the  journey 

Prove  as  successful  to  the  queen, — oh,  be't  so  ! — 
As  it  hath  been  to  us  rare,  pleasant,  speedy, 
The  time  is  worth  the  use  on't. 

Cleo.  Great  Apollo, 

Turn  all  to  the  best !     These  proclamations, 
So  forcing  faults  upon  Hermione, 
I  little  like. 

Dion.  The  violent  carriage  of  it 

Will  clear  or  end  the  business,  when  the  oracle, — 
Thus  by  Apollo's  great  divine  seal'd  up, — 
Shall  the  contents  discover,  something  rare 
Even  then  will  rush  to  knowledge.     Go  !     Fresh  horses  ! 
And  gracious  be  the  issue  ! " 

How  much  does  this  scene  suggest,  and  in  such  brief  compass ! 
What  a  prelude,  also,  to  the  great  scene,  in  which  we  are  pre- 
sently to  see  Hermione  pleading  her  cause  before  the  assembled 
judges,  and  all  "  who  please  to  come  and  hear  "  !  This  is  a  scene 
which  makes  a  large  demand  upon  the  resources  of  the  actress, 
both  personal  and  mental.  With  enfeebled  health,  and  placed 
in  a  most  ignominious  position,  Hermione  must  be  shown  to 
maintain  her  queenly  dignity,  and  to  control  her  passionate 
emotion  under  an  outward  bearing  of  resigned  fortitude  and 
almost  inconceivable  forbearance. 


360  SHAKESPE ABE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

In  my  early  studies  for  the  impersonation  of  Hermione,  and 
in  my  acting  of  the  character,  I  used  to  find  myself  imagining 
the  procession  of  the  queen  and  her  suite  through  the  streets,  "  i' 
the  open  air,"  from  the  prison,  where  she  had  spent  the  last  few 
weeks,  to  the  Hall  of  Justice.  Her  ladies  are  by  her  side,  not 
weeping  now,  for  their  mistress  had  shown  them  how  to  bear 
affliction.  The  fragile  form,  the  sad,  far  away  looking  eyes,  the 
pale  but  lovely  face,  so  stricken  with  suffering,  reveal  too  well  all 
that  she  has  been  passing  through.  Whatever  impression  of  the 
queen's  guilt  may  have  been  raised  in  the  people's  mind  by  the 
sudden  flight  of  Polixenes  and  his  followers,  her  look  and  bearing, 
I  felt,  must  dispel  every  thought  save  that  of  the  cruel  indignity 
with  which  she  had  been  treated.  No  taunting  voice  would  be 
raised.  The  rumour  would  have  gone  abroad  that  the  young 
Prince  Mamillius  had  been  denied  access  to  her,  that  the  newly 
born  babe,  her  one  solace  in  her  prison,  had  been  taken  from  her 
and  cast  out  to  die  a  cruel  death.  The  people  would  think,  too, 
of  the  indecent  haste  which  was  now  hurrying  her  to  her  trial 
before  the  Court  of  Justice,  with  no  allowance  for  the  time  of 
rest,  which,  after  the  pains  of  maternity,  '"longs  to  women  of 
all  fashion."  Had  she  turned  her  head  towards  the  crowd,  she 
would  have  seen  the  men  with  bowed  heads  and  looks  of  rev- 
erence and  pity, — the  women  with  streaming  eyes  bent  tenderly 
and  sympathisingly  upon  her.  But,  no  !  her  thoughts  were  away 
upon  the  scene  that  awaited  her.  Would  her  strength  avail  for 
the  strain  which  she  knew  was  presently  to  be  put  upon  it,  when 
alone,  unaided,  she  must  plead  her  cause,  with  more  than  her  life 
— her  honour — at  stake,  and  with  him  for  her  accuser,  who 
should  best  have  known  how  her  whole  nature  belied  his  accusa- 
tion 1  Sorely,  indeed,  does  she  need  that  the  heavens  shall  look 
"  with  an  aspect  more  favourable  "  upon  her. 

In  the  Hall  of  Justice,  Leontes,  seated,  surrounded  by  the  lords 
of  his  Court,  opens  the  proceedings  by  protestations — how  insin- 
cere, we  know — of  his  grief  at  being  constrained  to  bring  his 
queen  to  trial  in  person.  In  obedience  to  his  command,  Hermione 
is  brought  in  guarded,  attended  by  Paulina  and  her  ladies.  She 
bows  respectfully  to  the  king,  and  is  conducted  to  a  dais,  on 
which  a  cushioned  chair  has  been  allotted  to  her  opposite  to  the 


HERMIONE.  361 

king.  What  a  contrast  do  the  royal  pair  present?  Leontes, 
restless,  feverish,  irritable,  trying  to  mask  his  intention  to  hear 
nothing  that  runs  counter  to  his  foregone  conclusion,  under  the 
transparently  unreal  semblance  of  a  simple  desire  for  justice; 
Hermione,  self-controlled,  queenly,  calm  with  the  quiet  courage 
of  the  martyr,  prepared  to  lose  her  life,  but  resolute  to  vindicate 
her  honour.  The  indictment  is  read,  charging  her  with  adultery 
with  Polixenes,  and  with  conspiring  with  him  and  Camillo 
against  her  husband's  life.  Rising  from  her  seat,  and  with  a 
voice  in  which  the  effects  of  her  recent  sufferings  may  be  heard, 
she  begins  by  expressing  how  bootless  it  must  be  for  her  to  plead 
"not  guilty,"  since  the  denial  must  rest  solely  upon  her  own 
testimony.  Then,  her  voice  deepening  in  tone  as  she  proceeds, 
she  enters  on  her  defence — 

"  But  thus  ;  if  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  as  they  do, 
I  doubt  not  then  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience.     You,  my  lord,  best  know, 
Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so,  my  past  life 
Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true, 
As  I  am  now  unhappy  ;  which  is  more 
Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devis'd 
And  play'd  to  take  spectators.     For,  behold  me, — 
A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 
A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  great  king's  daughter, 
The  mother  to  a  hopeful  prince, — here  standing 
To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honour  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare  :  for  honour, 
'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 
And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 
To  your  own  conscience,  sir,  before  Polixenes 
Came  to  your  court,  how  I  was  in  your  grace, 
How  merited  to  be  so  ;  since  he  came, 
With  what  encounter  so  uncurrent  I 
Have  strain'd  to  appear  thus  :  if  one  jot  beyond 
The  bound  of  honour,  or  in  act  or  will 
That  way  inclining,  harden'd  be  the  hearts 
Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  uear'st  of  kin 
Cry  fie  upon  my  grave  !  " 

This  noble  pleading,  however,  brings  from  Leontes  no  response 
but  this — 


362  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  I  ne'er  heard  yet, 

That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 
Less  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did, 
Than  to  perform  it  first." 

How  temperate,  how  forbearing  is  her  reply  ! — 

"  That's  true  enough  ; 
Though  'tis  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me." 

"You  will  not  own  it1?"  exclaims  Leontes,  in  a  transport  of 
anger.  More  than  may  be  laid  to  her  charge  in  name  of  fault, 
Hermione  replies,  "  she  must  not  acknowledge.  For  Polixenes," 
she  continues — 

"  With  whom  I  am  accus'd,  I  do  confess, 
I  lov'd  him,  as  in  honour  he  required, 
With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 
A  lady  like  me  ;  with  a  love,  even  such, 
So,  and  no  other,  as  yourself  commanded  ; 
Which  not  to  have  done,  I  think,  had  been  in  me 
Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude 
To  you,  and  towards  your  friend,  whose  love  had  spoke 
Even  since  it  could  speak,  from  an  infant,  freely, 
That  it  was  yours.     Now,  for  conspiracy 
I  know  not  how  it  tastes  ;     .     .     . 

All  I  know  of  it, 

Is  that  Camillo  was  an  honest  man  ; 

And  why  he  left  your  court  the  gods  themselves, 

Wotting  no  more  than  I,  are  ignorant. 

Leon.  You  knew  of  his  departure,  as  you  know 
What  you  have  underta'en  to  do  in's  absence. 

Her.  Sir, 

You  speak  a  language  that  I  understand  not. 
My  life  lies  in  the  level  of  your  dreams, 
Which  I'll  lay  down." 

Upon  this  Leontes  reiterates  his  charge  against  her  honour  in 
language  outrageous  in  its  coarseness  and  cruelty,  telling  her 
"she  shall  feel  his  justice," 

"  In  whose  easiest  passage 
Look  for  no  less  than  death. " 

To  this,  with  a  voice  trembling  with  emotion,  and  in  it  also 
something  of  impatience,  Hermione  replies — 

"  Sir,  spare  your  threats  : 
The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek. 


HERMIONE.  363 

To  me  life  can  be  no  commodity. 

The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favour, 

I  do  give  lost ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 

But  know  not  how  it  went. " 

Hitherto  she  has  borne  with  submission  the  insults  and 
outrages  heaped  upon  her, — forbearing  directly  to  charge  her 
wrongs  upon  Leontes.  But  now,  as  the  thought  of  all  she  has 
been  robbed  of  flashes  upon  her  mind,  her  tones,  laden  with  the 
anguish  so  long  suppressed,  vibrate  with  impassioned  intensity. 

"  My  second  joy 

And  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  his  presence 
I  am  barr'd  [icith  a  stifled  sob  in  her  voice]  like  one  infectious. 

My  third  comfort, 

Starr'd  most  unluckily,  is  from  my  breast, 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth, 
Haled  out  to  murder ;  myself  on  every  post 
Proclaim'd  a  strumpet ;  with  immodest  hatred 
The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion  ;  lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.     Now,  my  liege, 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive, 
That  I  should  fear  to  die  ?     Therefore  proceed." 

Then  summoning  all  her  remaining  strength,  which  is  slowly 
ebbing,  and  with  more  vehemence  than  she  has  yet  shown,  and 
some  indignation,  she  adds — 

"  But  yet  hear  this  !     Mistake  me  not :  no  life, 
I  prize  it  not  a  straw,  but  for  mine  honour, 
Which  I  would  free,  if  I  shall  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises ,  all  proofs  sleeping  else 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake,  I  tell  you 
'Tis  rigour  and  not  law  ! " 

These  are  the  last  words  spoken  by  her.  to  Leontes  in  the  play. 
Turning  from  him, — unjust  judge  as  he  has  throughout  shown 
himself, — she  addresses  herself  directly  to  the  members  of  the 
court. 

"Your  honours  all, 
I  do  refer  me  to  the  oracle  : 
Apollo  be  my  judge  ! " 

Leontes  is  awed  into  silence.     The  hush  is  broken  by  the  first 


364  SHAKESPE ABE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Lord,  who,  like  all  his  fellows,  was,  we  must  think,  by  this  time 
glad  that  judgment  had  been  thus  taken  out  of  the  hands  of 
their  king ; 

"  This  your  request 

Is  altogether  just :  thereforth  bring  forth, 

And  in  Apollo's  name,  his  oracle." 

Hermione,  exhausted,  has  sunk  back  upon  her  chair.  At  this 
moment  the  ignominious  humiliation  of  her  position  comes  over- 
whelmingly over  her,  and  she  says,  half  to  herself : 

"  The  Emperor  of  Russia  was  my  father  : 
Oh,  that  he  were  alive,  and  here  beholding 
His  daughter's  trial  !  that  he  did  but  see 
The  flatness  of  my  misery  ! " 

Then  thinking  with  what  direful  vengeance  he  would  have 
smitten  her  accuser,  she  adds  with  her  accustomed  merciful  ten- 
derness, 

' '  Yet  with  eyes 
Of  pity,  not  revenge  ! " 

The  response  of  the  oracle  is  brought  in,  solemnly  opened,  and 
read  aloud.  It  runs  : 

" Hermione  is  chaste;  Polixenes  blameless;  Camillo  a  true 
subject;  Leontes  a  jealous  tyrant;  his  innocent  babe  truly  begotten, 
and  the  king  shall  live  without  an  heir,  if  that  which  is  lost  be  not 
found." 

A  burst  of  satisfaction  breaks  from  the  lords  and  the  assembled 
crowd.  Hermione  receives  the  judgment  of  the  oracle  without  sur- 
prise, only  with  simple  gratitude  and  thanksgiving,  and  the  one 
word  "  Praised  ! "  The  powers  divine  "  have  made  false  accusa- 
tion blush."  "  Tyranny,"  however,  does  not  even  yet  "  tremble  at 
patience."  Baffled  on  every  point,  Leontes  exclaims — 

"There  is  no  truth  at  all  i'  the  oracle  ! 
The  sessions  shall  proceed  :  this  is  mere  falsehood." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  enters  hurriedly  in  great  consternation, 
calling,  "  My  lord  the  king,  the  king  !  " 

"  Leon.  What  is  the  business  ? 

Servant.  Oh,  sir,  I  shall  be  hated  to  report  it ! 


HERMIONE.  365 

The  prince,  your  son,  with  mere  conceit  and  fear, 
Of  the  queen's  speed,  is  gone. 

Leon.  How  !  gone  ! 

Serv.  Is  dead." 

Upon  this  a  cry  echoes  through  the  hall  like  a  death-knell ;  the 
cry  of  a  soul  from  which  all  happiness,  all  hope,  are  gone ;  the 
cry  of  a  broken  heart,  which  shakes  every  other  in  the  assembled 
crowd;  a  cry  that  will  ring  in  the  ears  of  Leontes  ever  after, 
and  that  even  now  chases  from  his  brain  every  mad  delusion. 
Upon  the  instant  his  senses  return  to  him,  and  all  his  monstrous 
distrust  and  cruelty  and  their  consequences  are  seen  by  him  in 
their  true  light : — 

"  Apollo's  angry  ;  and  the  heavens  themselves 
Do  strike  at  my  injustice." 

Then,  as  he  sees  a  commotion  around  Hermione, — she  has  fallen 
back  in  a  swoon  into  the  arms  of  her  women,  who  are  crowding 
around  her, — he  cries,  "  How  now  there  ? "  The  answer  comes 
from  Paulina,  the  lady  whose  warnings  he  had  repelled  with  con- 
tumely : — 

"  This  news  is  mortal  to  the  queen  :  look  down, 
And  see  what  death  is  doing." 

Death  !  He  will  not  believe  it.  "  Her  heart  is  but  o'ercharged ; 
she  will  recover."  Fly  to  her  side  he  dare  not — he,  unworthy 
to  touch  her  whom  he  had  so  foully  slandered.  But  as  she  is 
carried  from  the  hall  in  the  arms  of  her  ladies,  he  says  to  them — 

'•'  Beseech  you,  tenderly  apply  to  her 
Some  remedies  for  life. " 

Then  follows  a  burst  of  contrition,  in  which  those  better 
qualities  are  seen,  which  had  won  and  kept  for  him  until  now 
the  love  of  his  pure,  high-hearted  queen.  They  come  back  as 
suddenly  as  they  had  left  him.  He  beseeches  Apollo  to  forgive 
his  great  profaneness  "  'gainst  his  oracle "  ;  he  will  "  new  woo 
his  queen,"  be  reconciled  to  Polixenes,  recall  the  good  Camillo ; 
avowing  at  the  same  time  his  own  guilty  attempt  to  make  him 
poison  Polixenes.  In  the  midst  of  these  confessions  he  is  inter- 
rupted by  the  return  of  Paulina  with  tidings  of  the  yet  heavier 
punishment  which  has  overtaken  him.  She  will  not  spare  him. 


366  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Into  her  lips  Shakespeare  seems  as  if  he  wished  to  put,  as  the 
Greek  tragedians  put  into  those  of  the  Chorus,  the  concentrated 
judgment  of  every  man  and  woman  in  his  kingdom  : 

"  Thy  tyranny, 

Together  working  with  thy  jealousies, 
Fancies  too  weak  for  boys,  too  green  and  idle 
For  girls  of  nine, — oh,  think  what  they  have  done, 
And  then  run  mad  indeed,  stark  mad  !  " 

She  reminds  him  of  his  inconstancy  and  ingratitude  to  Polixenes, 
of  his  baseness  in  trying  to  poison  good  Camillo's  honour.  But 
these  are  only  "  poor  trespasses,  more  monstrous  standing  by  " — 
the  casting  forth  to  crows  his  baby-daughter,  the  death  of  the 
young  prince — 

"  Whose  honourable  thoughts, 

Thoughts  high  for  one  so  tender,  cleft  the  heart 

That  could  conceive  a  gross  and  foolish  sire 

Blemish'd  his  gracious  dam.     .     .     . 

But  the  last— oh  lords! 

When  I  have  said,  cry  '  Woe  ! ' — the  queen,  the  queen, 

The  sweetest,  dearest  creature's  dead  ;  and  vengeance  for't 

Not  dropp'd  down  yet. 

First  Lord.  The  higher  powers  forbid  ! 

Paul.  I  say  she's  dead.     I'll  swear't.     If  word  nor  oath 

Prevail  not,  go  and  see.     If  you  can  bring 

Tincture  or  lustre  in  her  lip,  her  eye, 

Heat  outwardly  or  breath  within,  I'll  serve  you 

As  I  would  do  the  gods.     But  oh,  thou  tyrant ! 

Do  not  repent  these  things,  for  they  are  heavier 

Than  all  thy  woes  can  stir  ;  therefore,  betake  thee 

To  nothing  but  despair.     A  thousand  knees, 

Ten  thousand  years  together,  naked,  fasting 

Upon  a  barren  mountain,  and  still  winter, 

In  storm  perpetual,  could  not  move  the  gods 

To  look  that  way  thou  wert." 

Leontes  accepts  his  chastisement !  Again  he  hears  the  piteous 
cry  of  his  queen's  broken  heart,  that  cry  which  sleeping  or  wak- 
ing will  haunt  him  all  his  days.  "  Go  on,  go  on  ! "  he  says, 

"  Thou  canst  not  speak  too  much.     I  have  deserv'd 
All  tongues  to  talk  their  bitterest." 

Paulina  sees  the  anguish  of  the  bowed  and  hopelessly  bereaved 
man.  "He  is  touched,"  she  says,  "to  the  noble  heart,"  and,  the 


HERMIONE.  367 

passion  of  her  grief  having  found  vent,  there  is  now  room  for  her 
womanly  compassion  to  reassert  itself. 

"  Sir,  royal  sir,  forgive  a  foolish  woman  ! 

The  love  I  bore  your  queen — [here  her  tears  choice  her}  lo,  fool  again  ! — 
I'll  speak  of  her  no  more,  nor  of  your  children. 
I'll  not  remember  you  of  my  own  lord, 
Who  is  lost  too.     Take  your  patience  to  you, 
And  I'll  say  nothing. 

Leon.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well, 

When  most  the  truth  ;  which  I  receive  much  better, 
Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee." 

Surest  sign  of  a  sincere  remorse.  Neither  reproof  nor  sympathy 
can  meet  a  case  like  his.  Only  when  alone  with  his  dead  can  his 
penitence  and  grief  find  full  vent — 

"  Prithee,  bring  me 

To  the  dead  bodies  of  my  queen,  and  son  : 
One  grave  shall  be  for  both.     Upon  them  shall 
The  causes  of  their  death  appear,  unto 
Our  shame  perpetual.     Once  a-day  I'll  visit 
The  chapel  where  they  lie  :  and  tears,  shed  there, 
Shall  be  my  recreation.     So  long  as  nature 
Will  bear  up  with  this  exercise,  so  long 
I  daily  vow  to  use  it.     Come,  and  lead  me 
To  these  sorrows." 

And  so  we  leave  him  with  the  woman  whom  but  lately  he  had 
feared  and  spurned,  but  who,  through  the  long  years  that  were  to 
pass  before  we  meet  them  again,  is  to  be  the  stay  and  comfort  of 
his  sorrow-stricken  life. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  "  a  desert  country  near  the  sea  in 
Bohemia."  Shakespeare  has  been  much  blamed  for  giving  to 
Bohemia  a  sea-coast.  But  it  was  not  he  who  first  did  this.  He 
simply  followed  Greene,  apparently  not  thinking  it  worth  while 
to  deviate  in  this  matter  from  the  old  tale,  with  which  many  of 
his  audience  must  have  been  familiar.  And,  indeed,  what  neces- 
sity was  there  for  minute  geographical  accuracy?  The  poet's 
business  is  to  present  human  beings  under  conditions  which  give 
scope  for  the  play  of  character  and  passion.  If  he  so  draws  them 
that  his  audience  becomes  absorbed  in  the  interest  of  the  action, 
if  he  makes  them  feel  that  what  his  characters  say  and  do  is  true 


368  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS  : 

to  nature,  under  the  circumstances  in  which  he  has  placed  them, 
of  what  moment  is  it  whether  Bohemia  has  a  sea-coast  or  not  ? 

To  this  lonely  spot  Antigonus  has  come  with  his  baby  charge, 
accompanied  by  one  of  the  sailors  of  the  ship  that  has  brought 
him  from  Sicily.  A  storm  is  rolling  up.  "  In  my  conscience," 
says  the  seaman, 

"  The  heavens  with  what  we  have  in  hand  are  angry, 
And  frown  upon  us." 

He  leaves  Antigonus,  urging  him  to  make  his  best  haste,  and  not 
to  venture  inland,  for  the  place  is  haunted  by  beasts  of  prey. 
Left  to  himself,  Antigonus  gives  the  description  of  a  dream, — a 
passage  which  Milton  must,  I  think,  have  had  in  his  mind  when 
writing  his  sonnet  "  On  his  Deceased  Wife."  "  Come,  poor  babe ! " 
he  says : 

"  I  have  heard,  but  not  believ'd,  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
May  walk  again.     If  such  thing  be,  thy  mother 
Appear'd  to  me  last  night ;  for  ne'er  was  dream 
So  like  a  waking.     To  me  comes  a  creature, 
Sometimes  her  head  on  one  side,  some  another  ; 
I  never  saw  a  vessel  of  tike  sorrow, 
So  ftt'd,  and  so  becoming :  in  pure  white  robes 
Like  very  sanctity  she  did  approach 
My  cabin  where  I  lay  ; 1  thrice  bowed  before  me, 
And,  gasping  to  begin  some  speech,  her  eyes 
Became  two  spouts.     The  fury  spent,  anon 
Did  this  break  from  her  :  '  Good  Antigonus, 
Since  fate,  against  thy  better  disposition, 
Hath  made  thy  person  for  the  thrower-out 
Of  my  poor  babe,  according  to  thine  oath, — 
Places  remote  enough  are  in  Bohemia, 
There  weep,  and  leave  it  crying ;  and,  for  the  babe 
Is  counted  lost  for  ever,  Perdita, 
I  prithee,  call  it.     For  this  ungentle  business, 
Put  on  thee  by  my  lord,  thou  ne'er  shalt  see 
Thy  wife  Paulina  more  ! '     And  so,  with  shrieks 
She  melted  into  air." 

A  dream  so  vivid  naturally  makes  Antigonus  believe  that  Her- 

1  "  Methought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  Saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave, 
And  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind." — MILTON. 


HERMIONE.  369 

mione  is  dead,  and  that  he  has  been  visited  by  her  spirit.  He 
will  follow  her  behest  to  leave  the  child  in  Bohemia,  all  the  more 
because  he  thinks  now,  contrary  to  all  his  previous  convictions, 
that  it  "  being  indeed  the  issue  of  Polixeues,"  Apollo  wills  that 
it  should  be  left  "  either  for  life  or  death,  upon  the  earth  of  its 
right  father."  For  this  conclusion  he  is  scarcely  to  be  forgiven. 
But  his  tenderness  for  the  child  is  very  sweet  and  touching.  His 
words,  "  Blossom,  speed  thee  well ! "  show  how  the  babe  has 
wound  itself  about  his  heart.  It  is  wrapped  in  a  warm  rich 
mantle,  and  he  places  in  a  bundle  a  paper  with  its  name,  Perdita, 
upon  it,  and  a  large  sum  in  gold  with  some  costly  baby  dresses, 

' '  Which  may,  if  fortune  please,  both  breed  thee  pretty, 
And  still  rest  thine." 

Scarcely  has  he  laid  down  his  charge  when  he  has  to  fly,  pur- 
sued by  a  bear,  into  whose  deadly  clutches  he  presently  falls, 
while  the  ship  that  brought  him  to  Bohemia  founders  in  the 
storm. 

This  we  learn  from  an  old  shepherd  and  his  son,  in  a  scene 
where  Shakespeare  exhibits  delightfully  his  familiarity  with  the 
talk  and  ways  of  country  folks  of  that  class.  The  shepherd  ex- 
claims on  finding  the  babe  :  "  Mercy  on's  !  a  barne,  a  very  pretty 
barne !  A  boy  or  a  child,  I  wonder  ?  A  pretty  one,  av  ery 
pretty  one  !  "  Clearly,  he  thinks  it  is  of  gentle  birth,  though  he 
suspects  not  honestly  come  by.  He  is  a  kindly  man.  "  I'll  take 
it  up  for  pity ! "  he  says,  and  waits  to  open  the  bundle  until  his 
son  joins  him,  bringing  news  of  the  death  of  Antigonus  and  the 
shipwreck  of  his  companions.  "  Heavy  matters ! "  he  says, 
"  heavy  matters  !  But  look  thee  here,  boy — here's  a  sight  for 
thee !  Look  thee,  a  bearing-cloth  [a  christening  mantle]  for  a 
squire's  child ! "  He  tells  his  son  to  open  the  bundle — 

"  So,  let's  see.  It  was  told  me  I  should  be  rich  by  the  fairies.  This  is 
some  changeling.  What's  within,  boy  ? 

Clown.  You're  a  made  old  man.     .     .     .     Gold,  all  gold  ! 

Shep.  This  is  fairy  gold,  boy,  and  'twill  prove  so.  Up  with  it,  keep  it 
close  ;  home,  home,  the  next  way.  We  are  lucky,  boy,  and  to  be  so  still 
requires  nothing  but  secrecy." 

And  home  he  goes  with  the  precious  charge  and  the  rich  belong- 
2  A 


370  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

ings,  which  are  years  after  to  be  the  means  of  proving  Perdita's 
parentage,  while  his  clownish,  good-natured  son  stays  behind  to 
bury  so  much  of  Antigonus  as  the  bear  has  left.  "That's  a  good 
deed,"  says  his  father  ;  "Tis  a  lucky  day,  and  we'll  do  good  deeds 
on't." 

The  poet  had  now  to  leap  over  an  interval  of  sixteen  years,  a 
novelty  in  drama  so  daring,  that  he  prepared  his  audience  for  it 
by  a  Soliloquy  of  Time  as  Chorus,  in  which  he  asks  them  to  trans- 
port themselves  to  Bohemia  and  to  remember  well, 

"  I  mention'd  a  son  of  the  king's,  which  Florizel 
I  now  name  to  you.     And  with  speed  so  pace 
To  speak  of  Perdita,  now  grown  in  grace 
Equal  with  wondering.     ...     A  shepherd's  daughter." 

More  than  this  he  will  not  tell  them.  They  are  to  "  let  Time's 
news  be  known  when  'tis  brought  forth,"  and,  having  thus  kin- 
dled the  curiosity  of  the  audience  as  to  how  Florizel  and  Perdita 
are  to  work  out  the  conclusion  of  the  sad  events  which  have  gone 
before,  the  Chorus  retires. 

By  the  conversation  of  Polixenes  and  Camillo  in  the  next  scene, 
they  are  early  put  in  the  way  to  hope  that  it  will  work  out  hap- 
pily, through  the  loves  of  Florizel  and  Perdita.  Camillo,  full  of 
home-sickness,  longs  to  go  back  to  Sicily.  "  Besides,"  he  says, 
"  the  king,  my  master,  has  sent  for  me  ;  to  whose  feeling  sorrows 
I  may  be  some  allay,  or  I  o'erween  to  think  so,  which  is  another 
spur  to  my  departure."  Camillo  has  proved  himself  so  valuable, 
however,  as  councillor  and  statesman,  that  Polixenes  cannot  agree 
to  part  with  him,  and  begs  him  to  speak  no  more  of  "  that  fatal 
Sicilia,  whose  very  naming  punishes  me  with  the  remembrance  of 
that  penitent  and  reconciled  king,  my  brother,  whose  loss  of  his 
most  precious  queen  and  children  are  even  now  to  be  afresh 
lamented."  The  conversation  then  turns  to  the  subject  of  the 
king's  son  Florizel,  who  has  of  late  been  in  the  habit  of  absenting 
himself  from  Court.  His  movements  have  been  watched,  and  a 
report  brought  to  Polixenes,  "  that  he  is  seldom  from  the  house 
of  a  most  homely  shepherd ;  a  man,  they  say,  that  from  very 
nothing,  and  beyond  the  imagination  of  his  neighbours,  is  grown 
into  an  unspeakable  estate."  Camillo,  too,  has  heard  "  of  such  a 
man,  who  hath  a  daughter  of  most  rare  note.  The  report  of  her 


HERMIONE.  371 

is  extended  more  than  can  be  thought  to  begin  from  such  a  cot- 
tage." The  matter  is  one  which  must  be  seen  to,  and  Camillo 
agrees  to  go  with  Polixenes  in  disguise  to  the  shepherd,  from 
whom  it  is  thought  it  will  be  easy  to  learn  the  reason  of  Florizel's 
frequent  visits  to  his  farm. 

We  now  see  that  the  shepherd  has  acted  in  accordance  with 
what  he  said  of  his  good  luck,  that  it  "  wanted  nothing  but 
secrecy."  He  has  kept  his  secret  well,  and  so,  too,  have  his  wife, 
now  dead,  and  his  clownish  son.  Little  by  little  he  has  made 
use  of  some  of  the  gold  he  found  with  Perdita,  managing  it  so  as 
not  to  raise  surmises  among  his  neighbours,  while  growing  by 
slow  degrees  into  a  well-to-do  sheep-farmer.  When  we  next  see 
him,  he  is  keeping  the  festival  of  the  sheep-shearing,  which,  it 
appears,  he  has  celebrated  handsomely  for  many  years.  He 
speaks  of  his  wife's  active  part  in  these  festivals  in  days  gone  by, 
and  how  pleasant  is  the  picture !  She  is  no  Bohemian  house- 
wife, but  a  true  English  dame,  such  as  Shakespeare  had  no  doubt 
seen  in  many  a  country  homestead — 

"When  my  old  wife  liv'd,  upon 
This  day  she  was  both  pantler,  butler,  cook, 
Both  dame  and  servant ;  welcom'd  all,  serv'd  all ; 
Would  sing  her  song,  and  dance  her  turn  ;  now  here, 
At  upper  end  of  the  table,  now  in  the  middle  ; 
On  his  shoulder,  and  his  ;  her  face  o'  fire 
With  labour  ;  and  the  thing  she  took  to  quench  it, 
She  would  to  each  one  sip." 

Such  a  woman,  we  may  be  sure,  would  be  a  good  mother  to  the 
poor  foundling  so  strangely  cast  upon  her  care.  As  the  child 
grew  older,  these  kindly  folks  would  use  the  means  which  came 
with  her  to  give  her  the  best  education  that  was  to  be  had.  By- 
and-by  they  would  see  something  about  her  superior  to  the  other 
country  lasses — something  that  so  commanded  their  respect  and 
admiration,  that  she  would  be  spared  the  rough  work  of  their 
household  and  farm.  She  took,  we  see,  her  share  of  herding  the 
sheep,  and  the  lighter  work  of  their  simple  home.  But  she 
would  live  the  while  in  a  world  of  observation,  thought,  and 
fancy,  in  which  they  had  no  share,  and  so  she  became  in  person 
and  mind  and  manner  such  as  we  imagine  Hermione  to  have  been 


372  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

in  her  happy  days  of  girlhood.  Especial  pains  indeed  seem  to 
have  been  taken  to  make  us  see  the  mother  in  the  child.  Al- 
though placed  amid  surroundings  so  widely  different,  we  can  trace 
in  her  the  same  nature,  the  same  gentle  dignity  of  manner,  the 
same  thoughtful  spirit,  the  same  unstudied  grace  of  movement, 
the  same  refined  beauty  of  both  face  and  form. 

"Well  may  Florizel  "  bless  the  time,  when  his  good  falcon  made 
his  flight  across"  the  ground  of  the  old  shepherd's  farm.  The 
moment  his  eye  rests  upon  Perdita,  he  is  drawn  by  an  irresistible 
instinct  towards  her.  She  is  thenceforth  the  ruler  of  his  life. 
He  cannot  be,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  his  own,  nor  anything  to 
any,  if  he  be  not  hers."  Their  story  in  this  respect  is  like  that 
of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  in  The  Tempest,  and  it  is  hard  to  say 
which  of  these  tales  of  love  at  first  sight  Shakespeare  has  in- 
vested with  the  greater  charm.  From  the  first  moment,  we  learn 
from  Prospero,  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  "  are  both  in  cither's 
power."  It  is  not  so  said  expressly  of  Perdita,  yet  it  was  prob- 
ably no  less  true  of  her  than  of  her  princely  lover.  Unlike  Mir- 
anda, she  had  seen  many  men ;  but  what  a  vision  of  noble  manly 
beauty  must  Florizel  have  presented  to  her  eyes  !  Being  what  he 
was  in  person  and  in  mind,  he  must,  in  contrast  with  the  rustics 
around  her,  have  been  as  much  a  delightful  revelation  as  Ferdi- 
nand was  to  Miranda,  when,  thinking  him  a  being  of  another 
world,  she  calls  him  "  a  thing  divine,  for  nothing  natural  I  ever 
saw  so  noble."  Such  natures  must  have  been  quickly  drawn 
together.  It  was  impossible  for  Perdita,  with  her  inborn  sym- 
pathies with  all  that  was  refined  and  noble,  to  withhold  her  heart 
from  one  in  every  way  fitted  to  awake  the  slumbering  soul  within 
her,  touched,  as  she  must  have  been,  to  find  herself  approached 
with  reverential  homage  by  one  so  different  from  all  her  eyes  had 
ever  seen.  From  the  first  he  has  made  no  secret  of  his  royal 
blood ;  but,  come  what  may,  she  is  to  be  his  queen.  Perdita, 
who  believes  the  shepherd  to  be  her  father,  though  dwelling 
more  than  her  lover  upon  their  difference  in  rank,  and  apprehen- 
sive that  this  must  disunite  them,  yet  cannot  in  her  frank  sim- 
plicity hide  from  him  that  their  love  is  mutual. 

At  every  successive  meeting  he  finds  fresh  graces  in  her.  He 
sees  that  in  spite  of  her  superior  beauty  her  companions  are  not 


HEEMIONE.  373 

envious.  Their  submission  to  her  sway — the  influence  of  native 
dignity — is  involuntary.  She  is  as  unconscious  of  it  as  they  are. 
She  is  chosen  by  them  as  their  queen  in  all  their  sports,  and  with 
most  queenly  graciousness  she  distributes  her  flowers  and  other 
simple  favours  among  them,  Florizel  watching  her  every  move- 
ment. He  is  as  much  amazed  as  attracted  by  the  poetic  turn  of 
her  thoughts,  by  the  way  she  gives  expression  to  them,  by  the 
wisdom,  the  winning  humility  of  a  creature  who,  in  all  she  does 
and  says,  fascinates  him  with  sweet  surprises.  In  her  soft  voice, 
her  words,  her  mien,  there  is  something  that  speaks  unmistakably 
of  the  royal  blood  within  her.  This  it  is  left  to  the  impersonator 
of  Perdita  to  suggest.  The  audience  should  be  made  to  feel  as 
well  as  to  see  the  princess.  Florizel  does  so;  and  hence  it  is 
that  not  his  heart  only  is  enthralled,  but  his  judgment  also — 
nay,  his  whole  being.  He  is  her  subject,  and  she  is  his  queen- 
elect,  worthy,  most  worthy,  to  share  his  present  state  and  future 
royalty,  and  to  do  grace  and  honour  to  them  both. 

He  has  won  her  consent  to  be  his  bride,  when  the  poet  intro- 
duces them  to  us  at  the  sheep-shearing  festival.  Florizel  en- 
treats her  to  cast  aside  all  misgiving  as  to  what  his  father  may 
attempt,  and  to  receive  her  guests  with  a  light  heart : — 

"  Lift  up  your  countenance,  as  it  were  the  day 
Of  celebration  of  that  nuptial,  which 
We  two  have  sworn  shall  come. 

Your  guests  approach, 

Address  yourself  to  entertain  them  sprightly, 
And  let's  be  red  with  mirth." 

Among  the  guests  are  Polixenes  and  Camillo  in  disguise.  They 
are  quickly  attracted  by  the  pre-eminence  among  the  rustic 
revellers  of  one  strikingly  unlike  them,  both  in  look  and  in 
demeanour.  Florizel  has  persuaded  Perdita  to  wear  a  costly 
dress  which  he  has  provided  for  her,  as  more  befitting  the  queen 
of  the  feast,  and  more  worthily  setting  off  her  most  rare  beauty. 
She  has  yielded  reluctantly,  as  we  infer  from  what  she  says  : — 

"  Your  high  self , 

The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscur'd 
With  a  swain's  wearing ;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid, 
Most  goddess -like  prankt  up." 


374      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

But  it  is  her  beauty  and  the  distinction  of  her  bearing,  and  not 
her  dress,  which  rivet  the  attention  of  Polixenes  and  his  friend. 
Her  greeting  deepens  their  surprise,  as,  taking  flowers  from  one 
of  her  companions,  she  says  : — 

"  Reverend  sirs, 

For  you  there's  rosemary  and  rue  ;  these  keep 

Seeming,  and  savour,  all  the  winter  long  : 

Grace,  and  remembrance  be  to  you  both, 

And  welcome  to  our  shearing  ! 

Pol.  Shepherdess,— 

A  fair  one  are  you, — well  you  fit  our  ages 

With  flowers  of  winter." 

How  his  wonder  must  have  grown  as  she  replied — 

"  Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, — 
Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter, — the  fairest  flowers  of  the  year 
Are  our  carnations,  and  streak'd  gillyvors, 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards  ;  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden's  barren,  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

Pol.  Wherefore,  gentle  maiden, 

Do  you  neglect  them  ? 

Per.  For  I  have  heard  it  said, 

There  is  an  art  which,  in  their  piedness,  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

Pd.  Say  there  be  ; 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean, 
But  nature  makes  that  mean  ;  so  over  that  art 
Which,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock  ; 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature, — change  it  rather  :  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Per.  So  it  is. 

Pol.  Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gillyvors, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards." 

But  she  loves  the  simple  flowers  she  has  watched  since  childhood 
too  well  to  have  them  spoiled  for  her  by  an  artificial  training. 
Do  our  gardens  not  sometimes  make  us  think  she  was  right  when 
she  replies  ? — 

"  I'll  not  put 
The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them  ; 


HERMIONE.  375 

No  more  than,  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 
This  youth  should  say,  'twere  well." 

Camillo,  like  Polixenes,  has  come  under  her  "strong  toil  of 
grace  " — a  grace  that  wakens  a  haunting  memory  of  the  much- 
wronged  queen.  She  offers  flowers  to  him  also,  with  words  so 
winning  that  he  says — 

"  I  should  leave  grazing,  were  I  of  your  flock, 
And  only  live  by  gazing. " 

How  pretty  is  her  answer ! — 

"  Out,  alas ! 

You'd  be  so  lean  that  blasts  of  January 
Would  blow  you  through  and  through. " 

She  has  now  to  think  of  her  friends  the  shepherdesses,  and  of 
Florizel,  who  are  waiting  for  smiles  and  posies  from  their  queen. 
She  longs  for  spring  flowers,  as  more  suited  to  their  youth,  and 
bursts  into  that  exquisite  enumeration  of  the  gems  of  an  old 
English  garden,  Avhich  can  never  be  too  often  read : — 

' '  Oh,  Proserpina, 

For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  lett'st  fall 
From  Dis's  waggon  !     Daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  ;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath  ;  pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength  ;     .     .     . 

bold  oxlips,  and 

The  crown  imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 

The  flower-de-luce  being  one  !     Oh,  these  I  lack, 

To  make  you  garlands  of  ! " 

This  is  spoken  to  the  young  girls  about  her — then,  turning  to 
Florizel — 

"  And,  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er.     .     .     ." 

Surprised  at  her  own  vivacity,  which  she  fears  may  perhaps  have 
made  her  too  liberal  in  her  speech,  she  adds — 

"  Methinks  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do 
In  Whitsun'  pastorals  ;  sure  this  robe  of  mine 
Does  change  my  disposition." 


376  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHAEACTEES: 

This  draws  from  Florizel  words  even  more  beautiful  than  her 
own: — 

' '  What  you  do 

Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak,  sweet, 

I'd  have  you  do  it  ever  ;  when  you  sing, 

I'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so ;  so  give  alms, 

Pray  so,  and  for  the  ordering  of  your  affairs, 

To  sing  them,  too.     When  you  do  dance, 

I  wish  you  a  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 

Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so, 

And  own  no  other  function.     Each  your  doing, 

So  singular  in  each  particular, 

Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 

That  all  your  acts  are  queens." 

From  her  reply  we  learn  that  Florizel  has  called  himself 
Doricles, — although  neither  his  rank  nor  name  were  withheld 
from  Perdita, — lest  his  own  name  might  raise  suspicion  among 
her  rustic  friends  that  the  handsome  stranger  was  the  king's  son, 
whose  uncommon  name  would  naturally  be  known  to  them. 
What  answer  could  maiden  make  to  such  eloquence  as  Florizel's  1 
"0  Doricles,"  she  says,  "your  praises  are  too  large,"  and  but 
for  her  faith  in  his  honour,  she  might  fear  he  "woo'd  her  the 
false  way."  For  that  fear,  he  smilingly  answers,  she  has  no 
cause,  and  leads  her  away  to  the  dance,  where  they  are  waited 
for.  Polixenes  has  from  a  distance  been  watching  them.  "  This," 
he  says  to  Camillo, 

"  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Ean  on  the  green-sward  :  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself, 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Cam.  He  tells  her  something 

That  makes  her  blood  look  out :  good  sooth,  she  is 
The  queen  of  curds  and  cream." 

While  the  dancing  is  going  on,  Polixenes  sounds  the  shepherd 
as  to  the  swain  that  dances  with  his  daughter,  but  only  learns 
that  he  calls  himself  Doricles,  "  boasts  himself  to  have  a  worthy 
feeding,"  that  he  loves  the  maid,  is  beloved  by  her,  and  that 
"  if  young  Doricles  do  light  upon  her,  she  shall  bring  him  that 
which  he  not  dreams  of."  After  this  Polixenes  could  have  been 
in  no  doubt  as  to  his  son's  intentions.  "  Is  it  not  too  far  gone  1 " 


HERMIONE.  377 

lie  says  to  Camillo.  "  'Tis  time  to  part  them."  But  when 
Florizel  and  Perdita  approach  him,  he  seems  to  have  desired  to 
learn  from  his  son's  own  lips  how  matters  stood.  "  How  now," 
he  says,  "fair  shepherd? "- 

"  Your  heart  is  full  of  something  that  does  take 
Your  mind  from  feasting  ;  " 

then  telling  him,  that  when  he  himself  was  young,  and  "  handled 
love  as  you  do,"  he  was  wont  "to  load  his  she  with  knacks,"  he 
asks  how  it  is  that  Florizel  has  let  the  pedlar,  Autolycus,  go, 
without  buying  anything  for  his  mistress? 

"  If  your  lass 

Interpretation  should  abuse,  and  call  this 
Your  lack  of  love  or  bounty,  you  were  straited 
For  a  reply ,  at  least,  if  you  make  a  care 
Of  happy  holding  her. 

Fl&r.  Old  sir,  I  know 

She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are. 
The  gifts  she  looks  from  me  are  pack'd  and  lock'd 
Up  in  my  heart,  which  I  have  given  already, 
But  not  deliver'd." 

Turning  to  Perdita,  he  continues — 

"  Oh,  hear  me  breathe  my  life 
Before  this  ancient  sir,  who,  it  would  seem, 
Has  sometime  lov'd  :  I  take  thy  hand  ;  this  hand 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it, 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow, 
That's  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 
Pol.  What  follows  this?" 

Florizel  makes  no  answer.  He  is  lost  in  the  delight  of  holding 
in  his  the  fair  white  hand,  which  from  the  first  had  spoken  to 
him,  even  more  plainly  than  aught  else  about  Perdita's  person, 
of  her  refined,  gentle,  sensitive  nature,  as  he  watched  its  move- 
ments,— always  with  delighted  surprise.  Polixenes  mutters  to 
himself — 

"  How  prettily  the  young  swain  seems  to  wash 
The  hand  was  fair  before  !     (Aloud)  I  have  put  you  out. 
But  to  your  protestation  !     Let  me  hear 
What  you  profess. 


378      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Flor.  That,  were  I  crown'd  the  most  imperial  monarch, 
Thereof  most  worthy  ;  were  I  the  fairest  youth 
That  ever  made  eye  swerve, — had  force,  and  knowledge, 
More  than  was  ever  man's,  I  would  not  prize  them, 
Without  her  love, — for  her  employ  them  all, — 
Commend  them,  and  command  them,  to  her  service, 
Or  to  their  own  perdition." 

At  this  avowal  Polixenes  might  have  been  expected  to  interfere, 
but  he  refrains.  In  answer  to  the  old  shepherd's  question,  "  But, 
my  daughter,  say  you  the  like  to  him  1 "  Perdita  replies — 

"  I  cannot  speak 

So  well,  nothing  so  well  ;  no,  nor  mean  better  : 
By  the  pattern  of  my  own  thoughts  I  cut  out 
The  purity  of  his. 

Shep.  Take  hands,  a  bargain  ! 

And,  friends  unknown,  you  shall  bear  witness  to't. " 

He  is  about  to  join  the  lovers'  hands,  when  Polixenes  interrupts 
him,  and  asks  Florizel  if  his  father  is  alive,  and  knows  of  this 
purposed  marriage,  urging,  that  in  a  matter  of  such  grave  import- 
ance, his  counsel  should  be  taken.  Florizel  admits  the  force  of 
his  reasons.  There  are  others,  however,  why  he  cannot  make  a 
confidant  of  his  father.  In  vain  Polixenes  and  the  shepherd  en- 
treat him  to  let  his  father  know.  "  Come,  come,  he  must  not," 
Florizel  impatiently  rejoins ;  "  mark  our  contract."  "  Mark  your 
divorce,  young  sir  !  "  exclaims  Polixenes,  throwing  off  his  disguise, 
and  pouring  out  a  vehement  invective  upon  the  lovers,  and  also 
upon  the  shepherd,  who  now  learns  to  his  dismay  that  the  king's 
son  is  his  daughter's  lover.  Of  Perdita  Polixenes  is  especially 
unsparing.  "  Thou  piece  of  excellent  witchcraft,"  as  he  calls  her, 

"  I'll  have  thy  beauty  scratch'd  with  briars,  and  made 
More  homely  than  thy  state  !     ...     If  ever,  henceforth,  thou 
These  rural  latches  to  his  entrance  open, 
Or  hoop  his  body  more  with  thy  embraces, 
I  will  devise  a  death  as  cruel  for  thee 
As  thou  art  tender  to't. " 

With  these  words  he  goes  away,  commanding  Florizel  to  follow 
him  to  the  Court.  Meanwhile  his  son  has  maintained  a  dutiful 
silence.  He  does  not  interrupt  his  father,  and  indeed  does  not 
speak  for  some  time  after  he  lias  gone,  fully  recognising  the 


HERMIONE.  379 

difficulty  of  his  position,  but  resolved  to  remain  true  to  his  troth- 
plight.  Perdita,  however,  resigns  herself  to  lose  him.  His 
father's  words  have  stung  her,  and  her  princely  spirit  has  nearly 
made  her  meet  his  menaces  with  the  rebuke  they  merited.  She 
is  the  first  to  speak  : 

"  I  was  not  much  afeard  ;  for  once  or  twice, 
I  was  about  to  speak,  and  tell  him  plainly, 
The  self -same  sun  that  shines  upon  his  court 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike.     (To  Florizel.}  Will't  please  you,  sir,  begone ! 
I  told  you  what  would  come  of  this.     Beseech  you, 
Of  your  own  state  take  care.     This  dream  of  mine, 
Being  now  awake,  I'll  queen  it  no  inch  farther, 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep." 

Florizel  now  shows  what  has  occupied  his  thoughts — "Why 
look  you  so  upon  me?"  he  says  to  Camillo,  who  has  remained 
behind  the  king : 

"  I  am  but  sorry,  not  afeard  ;  delay'd 
But  nothing  alter'd.     What  I  was,  I  am." 

Camillo,  who  has  not  thrown  off  his  disguise,  but  whom  Florizel 
now  recognises,  urges  him  not  to  come  before  his  father  until 
"the  fury  of  his  highness  settle."  This  Florizel  has  already 
resolved.  The  vow  he  has  given  to  Perdita  shall  not  be  broken. 
Without  her,  life  would  not  be  life.  He  tells  Camillo — 

"  Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 
Be  thereat  glean'd, — for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 
The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  sea  hides 
In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oath 
To  this  my  fair  beloved.     Therefore,  I  pray  you, 
As  you  have  ever  been  my  father's  honour'd  friend, 
When  he  shall  miss  me, — as,  in  faith,  I  mean  not 
To  see  him  any  more, — cast  your  good  counsels 
Upon  his  passion.     Let  myself  and  fortune 
Tug  for  the  life  to  come. " 

He  has  a  vessel  hard  by,  and  he  means  to  put  to  sea  "  with  her, 
whom  here  he  cannot  hold  on  shore."  This  design,  it  occurs  to 
Camillo,  may  also  serve  his  own  turn,  while  saving  the  prince 
from  danger,  by  enabling  him  to  see  his  loved  Sicilia  again, 


380     SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"And  that  unhappy  king,  my  master,  whom 
I  so  much  thirst  to  see." 

Let  Florizel  then  make  for  Sicily,  and  present  himself  and  his 
"  fair  princess,  for  so,  I  see,  she  must  be,"  to  Leontes,  who  will 
welcome  them  with  open  arms.  He  is  to  say,  that  he  is  sent  by 
his  father  to  greet  Leontes,  "  and  to  give  him  comforts."  Camillo 
will  give  him  written  instructions  what  he  is  to  report  as  from  his 
father,  "things  known  betwixt  us  three,"  so 

"  He  shall  not  perceive, 

But  that  you  have  your  father's  bosom  there, 
And  speak  his  very  heart." 

Other  reasons  personal  to  the  lovers  he  urges,  concluding  with — 

"  Besides,  you  know, 
Prosperity's  the  very  bond  of  love  ; 
Whose  fresh  complexion  and  whose  heart  together 
Affliction  alters." 

Perdita  has  hitherto  been  silent.  Now  she  speaks  in  words  that, 
in  their  grave  sincerity,  remind  us  of  Hermione, 

"  One  of  these  is  true  : 
I  think  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek, 
But  not  take  in  the  mind." 

How  beautiful  is  what  follows  ! — 

"  Cam,.  Yea,  say  you  so  ? 

There  shall  not,  at  your  father's  house,  these  seven  years 
Be  born  another  such. 

Flo.  My  good  Camillo, 

She  is  as  forward  of  her  breeding,  as 
She  is  *i  the  rear  of  our  birth. 

Cam.  I  cannot  say,  'tis  pity 

She  lacks  instructions,  for  she  seems  a  mistress 
To  most  that  teach. 

Per.  Your  pardon,  sir  ; 

For  this  I'll  blush  you  thanks." 

There  is  still  the  difficulty  as  to  the  attire  in  which  the  fugi- 
tives are  to  appear  at  the  Sicilian  Court.  But  Camillo  assures 
them  that,  as  his  fortunes  all  lie  in  Sicily,  he  will  take  care  they 
are  "royally  appointed."  His  letters  will  be  there,  too,  when 


HERMIONE.  381 

they  arrive,  and  "  shall  clear  all  doubt,"  while  his  influence  will 
also  be  used  to  procure  letters  from  Leontes  which  shall  secure 
their  pardon  from  Polixenes.  He  aids  them  to  get  aboard  so 
disguised  as  to  escape  observation.  For  this  purpose  he  makes 
Florizel  exchange  garments  with  Autolycus,  who  has  opportunely 
come  that  way.  This  quick-witted  gentleman's  first  thought  is, 
how  he  may  turn  to  his  own  profit  his  suspicions  of  "  the  piece  of 
iniquity"  which  his  former  young  master  Florizel  "is  about." 
But  he  argues  himself  into  a  resolution  most  appropriate  to  such 
an  engrained  rogue.  "  If  I  thought  it  were  a  piece  of  honesty  to 
acquaint  the  king  withal,  I  would  not  do't ;  I  hold  it  the  more 
knavery  to  conceal  it ;  and  therein  am  I  constant  to  my  profes- 
sion." At  this  point  the  shepherd  and  his  son  are  seen  approach- 
ing. "  Aside,  aside  ;  here  is  more  matter  for  a  hot  brain.  Every 
lane's  end,  every  shop,  church,  session,  hanging,  yields  a  careful 
man  work." 

And  work  he  quickly  finds  in  the  simplicity  of  the  new-comers. 
They  are  talking  of  going  to  the  king  and  turning  aside  his  wrath 
against  themselves  by  telling  him  that  Perdita  is  none  of  their 
flesh  and  blood,  and  producing  the  things  which  were  found  with 
her.  "  There  is  that  in  this  fardel  will  make  him  scratch  his 
beard."  Autolycus  at  this  pricks  up  his  ears.  "  I  know  not,"  he 
says,  "  what  impediment  this  complaint  may  be  to  the  flight  of 
my  master.  Though  I  am  not  naturally  honest,  I  am  so  some- 
times by  chance."  And  then  in  a  scene  of  the  rarest  humour  he 
frightens  the  rustics  into  placing  themselves  in  his  hands.  He 
promises  to  take  them  to  the  king,  but  carries  them  instead  to  the 
prince's  ship,  where  what  they  have  to  tell  will,  he  hopes,  "  do 
the  prince  his  master  good,"  and  at  the  same  time  minister  to  his 
own  advancement. 

The  scene  now  returns  to  the  palace  of  Leontes,  where  we  find 
him  with  Cleomenes,  Dion,  Paulina,  and  others.  Such  expiation 
as  sixteen  years  of  suffering  could  make  for  wrong  he  has  made. 
In  vain  his  courtiers  urge  him  to  forget  the  evil  he  had  wrought. 
His  remembrance  of  his  chief  victim  is  too  vivid  for  that — his  loss 
too  terrible  in  having 

"  Destroy'd  the  sweet' st  companion  that  e'er  man 
Bred  his  hopes  out  of." 


382  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

The  thought  of  Mamillius,  also,  haunts  him,  and  when  Paulina 
makes  an  allusion  to  the  boy,  he  implores  her  to  spare  him. 
"  Thou  know'st,"  he  tells  her,  "  he  dies  to  me  again  when  talked 
of,"  and  warns  her,  that  her  words  may  "  bring  him  to  consider 
that,  which  may  unfumish  him  of  reason."  Paulina,  his  sharpest 
monitress  in  his  hours  of  frenzy,  has  stood  loyally  by  him  in  his 
affliction.  "  Oh  grave  and  good  Paulina,  the  comfort  I  have  had 
of  thee  !  "  he  exclaims  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  at  a  time  when, 
unknown  to  him,  she  is  preparing  for  him  a  solace  beyond  all  he 
could  have  dreamed  of ;  and  we  can  see  that,  while  she  has  sus- 
tained him  by  her  sympathy,  she  has  strengthened  him  by  her 
vigorous  judgment,  on  which  he  has  wisely  been  fain  to  lean. 

When  he  is  importuned  by  his  courtiers  to  make  a  second  mar- 
riage and  give  an  heir  to  the  throne,  Paulina  stands  alone  in 
maintaining  that  this  must  not  be,  reminding  them  that  the 
oracle  had  declared  that  he  should  have  no  heir  till  his  lost  child 
was  found.  Her  argument  prevails.  "  Oh,"  says  Leontes, 

"  that  ever  I 

Had  squar'd  me  to  thy  counsel !     Then,  even  now 
I  might  have  look'd  upon  my  queen's  full  eyes, 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips — 

Paul.  And  left  them 

More  rich  for  what  they  yielded. 

Leon.  Thou  speak'st  truth. 

No  more  such  wives  ;  therefore  no  wife. 

My  true  Paulina. 

We  shall  not  marry  till  thou  bidd'st  us. 

Paul.  That 

Shall  be  when  your  first  queen's  again  in  breath  ; 
Never  till  then." 

It  is  here  the  first  hint  is  given  that  Hermione  is  still  alive. 
How  this  could  be,  and  how  the  secret  could  have  been  so  well 
kept,  Shakespeare  gives  no  hint.  One  is  thus  driven  to  work 
out  the  problem  for  one's  self.  My  view  has  been  always  this. 
The  death-like  trance  into  which  Hermione  fell  on  hearing  of  her 
son's  death  lasted  so  long,  and  had  so  completely  the  semblance 
of  death,  that  it  was  so  regarded  by  her  husband,  her  attendants, 
and  even  by  Paulina.  The  suspicion  that  animation  was  only 
suspended  may  have  dawned  upon  Paulina,  when,  after  the  boy 


HERMIONE.  383 

Mamillius  had  been  laid  by  his  mother's  side,  the  inevitable 
change  began  to  appear  in  him  and  not  in  Hermione.  She  would 
not  give  voice  to  her  suspicion  for  fear  of  creating  a  false  hope, 
but  had  the  queen  conveyed  secretly  to  her  own  home,  making 
arrangements,  which  her  high  position  and  then  paramount  power 
would  enable  her  to  make,  that  only  the  boy,  and  his  mother's 
empty  coffin,  should  be  carried  to  the  tomb.  When  after  many 
days  the  trance  gave  way,  Paulina  would  be  near  to  perceive  the 
first  nickering  of  the  eyelids,  the  first  faint  flush  of  blood  return- 
ing to  the  cheek.  Who  can  say  how  long  the  fearful  shock  to 
nerves  and  brain  may  have  left  Hermione  in  a  state  of  torpor, 
hardly  half  alive,  unconscious  of  everything  that  was  passing 
around  her,  with  a  piteous  look  in  those  full  eyes,  so  dear  to 
Paulina,  of  a  wounded,  stricken,  voiceless  animal1?  And  so  the 
uneventful  years  would  pass  away,  as  such  years  do  somehow  pass 
with  those  whose  lives  are  blanks.  Gradually,  as  time  wore  on, 
Hermione  would  recognise  her  faithful  Paulina,  and  such  of  her 
other  ladies  as  were  in  the  secret.  Their  tender  care  would 
move  her  in  time  to  wish  to  live,  because  they  wished  it,  and 
because  Paulina  could  comfort  her  with  the  hope  the  oracle  had 
given,  that  her  lost  daughter  might  one  day  be  found.  Upon 
this  slender  hope — the  words  are  her  own — she  "  preserved  her- 
self to  see  the  issue."  The  name  of  Leontes  is  not  mentioned. 
For  a  while  he  appears  to  be  mercifully  swept  from  her  remem- 
brance. She  is  not  unforgiving,  but  her  heart  is  dead  towards 
him.  Paulina  feels  that  she  dares  not  speak  his  name.  It  might 
awake  too  terribly  the  recollection  of  the  misery  he  had  brought 
upon  her  mistress,  and  in  her  enfeebled  state  prove  fatal.  The 
secret  that  then1  queen  was  still  alive  had  been  marvellously  kept ; 
although  it  had  not  escaped  notice  that  Paulina  had  "  privately, 
twice  or  thrice  a-day,  ever  since  the  death  of  Hermione,  visited 
the  removed  house,"  to  which  she  had  been  secretly  conveyed. 
Seeing  the  genuine  contrition  of  Leontes,  Paulina  would  not 
abandon  the  hope  that  Hermione  might  in  time  be  reconciled  to 
him.  She  had  therefore  the  strongest  reason  to  protest  against 
the  projects  of  marriage  which  were  pressed  upon  him  by  his 
ministers. 

And  an  event  was  now  at  hand,  which  could  not  fail  to  bring 


384  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

about  this  reconciliation, — the  arrival  at  the  palace  of  the  fugitive 
lovers.  The  impression  produced  by  Perdita  upon  the  gentlemen 
of  the  Court  makes  him  who  speaks  for  them  too  eloquent  in  her 
praise  to  please  Paulina.  Loyal  to  her  love  for  Hermione,  she 
rebukes  him  by  reminding  him,  when  he  calls  this  new  beauty 
"  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth  that  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright 
on,"  that  he  had  said  and  written  more  than  this  of  his  lost 
queen.  Manfully  he  adheres  to  what  he  has  said,  in  words  that 
show  how  well  Shakespeare  knew  the  feeling  of  all  true  women 
towards  those  of  their  own  sex  who  do  honour  to  it. 

"  Women  will  love  her,  that  she  is  a  woman, 
More  worth  than  any  man  ;  men,  that  she  is 
The  rarest  of  all  women." 

The  arrival  of  Florizel  with  Perdita  is  quickly  followed  by  that 
of  his  father  in  pursuit,  and  Leontes  learns  from  one  of  his  lords 
that  there  is  no  truth  in  the  tale  Florael  had  told  of  bearing 
messages  to  him  from  Polixenes,  and  of  Perdita's  royal  birth, — 
the  tale  which  Camillo  had  directed  him  to  tell.  But  the  fugi- 
tives have  so  won  upon  his  heart, — Perdita  especially,  who  by 
her  looks  has  reminded  him  of  his  lost  queen, — that  he  deter- 
mines to  plead  their  cause  with  Polixenes. 

This  is  soon  after  made  an  easy  task  by  the  confession  of  the 
shepherd  and  his  son  as  to  the  finding  of  Perdita,  and  by  the 
production  of  the  mantle  of  Hermione,  the  letter  of  Antigonus, 
and  the  gold  and  other  things  which  were  found  with  her. 
These  proofs,  as  we  are  told  by  one  of  the  lords  who  was  present, 
together  with  "the  majesty  of  the  creature  in  resemblance  of  the 
mother; — the  affection  of  nobleness  which  nature  shows  above 
her  breeding, — and  many  other  evidences,  proclaimed  her  with 
all  certainty  to  be  the  king's  daughter."  The  whole  of  this 
scene,  which  is  of  necessity  omitted  in  the  acted  play,  is  of  rare 
beauty.  The  meeting  of  the  two  kings  is  depicted  with  remark- 
able power.  How  exquisite  is  the  stroke  of  pathos  when,  speak- 
ing of  Leontes,  "  ready  to  leap  out  of  himself  for  joy  of  his  found 
daughter,"  he  is  described  as  crying  out,  as  if  that  joy  were  now 
become  a  loss,  "  Oh,  thy  mother  !  thy  mother ! "  Not  less  graphic 
is  the  picture  of  Paulina. 


HEEMIONE.  385 

"  But  oh,  the  noble  combat  that,  'twixt  joy  and  sorrow,  was  fought  in 
Paulina  !  She  had  one  eye  declined  for  the  loss  of  her  husband,  another 
elevated  that  the  oracle  was  fulfilled  ;  she  lifted  the  princess  from  the  earth, 
and  so  locks  her  in  embracing  as  if  she  would  pin  her  to  her  heart,  that  she 
might  no  more  be  in  danger  of  losing." 

Paulina  now  has  no  longer  any  reason  for  withholding  from  Le- 
ontes  the  secret  of  his  wife's  existence.  She  ingeniously  prepares 
a  mode  of  revealing  it  by  presenting  Hermione  to  him  in  the 
semblance  of  a  statue,  on  which  she  tells  him  a  rare  artist  has 
been  for  years  at  work,  and  which  he  has  slightly  coloured  to  give 
it  a  more  lifelike  look.  It  was  necessary  to  lay  emphasis  on  this 
colouring,  as  the  living  Hermione,  however  skilfully  arranged, 
must  of  necessity  be  very  different  from  an  ordinary  statue.  My 
dress  in  acting  this  scene  was  arranged  to  carry  out  this  effect. 
It  was  composed  of  soft  white  cashmere,  the  draperies  and  edges 
bordered  with  the  royal  purple  enriched  with  a  tracery  in  gold, 
and  thus  harmonising  with  the  colouring  of  the  lips,  eyes,  hair, 
&c.,  of  the  statue. 

To  see  this  peerless  work  of  art  Leontes  comes  to  what  Shake- 
speare describes  as  "  a  chapel  in  Paulina's  house,"  accompanied  by 
Polixenes,  their  children,  Camillo,  and  other  members  of  the 
Court.  They  have  passed  through  a  gallery  of  works  of  art,  but, 
says  Leontes — 

"  We  saw  not 

That  which  my  daughter  came  to  look  upon, 
The  statue  of  her  mother. 

Paul.  As  she  liv'd  peerless, 

So  her  dead  likeness,  I  do  well  believe, 
Excels  whatever  yet  you  look'd  upon, 
Or  hand  of  man  hath  done.     Therefore,  I  keep  it 
Lonely,  apart.     But  here  it  is.     Prepare  to  see 
The  life  as  lively  mock'd  as  ever 
Still  sleep  mock'd  death.     Behold,  and  say,  'tis  well." 

At  the  back  of  the  stage,  when  I  acted  in  this  play,  was  a  dais 
which  was  led  up  to  by  a  flight  of  six  or  eight  steps,  covered  with 
rich  cloth  of  the  same  material  and  crimson  colour  as  the  closed 
curtains.  The  curtains  when  gradually  opened  by  Paulina  dis- 
closed, at  a  little  distance  behind  them,  the  statue  of  Hermione, 
with  a  pedestal  of  marble  by  her  side. 
2  B 


386      SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

Here  let  me  say,  that  I  never  approached  this  scene  without 
much  inward  trepidation.  You  may  imagine  how  difficult  it  must 
be  to  stand  in  one  position,  with  a  full  light  thrown  upon  you, 
without  moving  an  eyelid  for  so  long  a  time.  I  never  thought  to 
have  the  time  measured,  but  I  should  say  that  it  must  be  more 
than  ten  minutes — it  seemed  like  ten  times  ten.  I  prepared  my- 
self by  picturing  what  Hermione's  feelings  would  be  when  she 
heard  Leontes'  voice,  silent  to  her  for  so  many  years,  and  listened 
to  the  remorseful  tender  words  addressed  to  what  he  believed  to 
be  her  sculptured  semblance.  Her  heart  hitherto  has  been  full 
only  of  her  lost  children.  She  has  thought  every  other  feeling 
dead,  but  she  finds  herself  forgetting  all  but  the  tones  of  the 
voice,  once  so  loved,  now  broken  with  the  accents  of  repentance 
and  woe- stricken  desolation.  To  her  own  surprise  her  heart, 
so  long  empty,  loveless,  and  cold,  begins  to  throb  again,  as  she 
listens  to  the  outpourings  of  a  devotion  she  had  believed  to  be 
extinct.  She  would  remember  her  own  words  to  him,  when  the 
familiar  loving  tones  were  turned  to  anger  and  almost  impreca- 
tion, "  I  never  wished  to  see  you  sorry  ;  now  I  trust  I  shall." 

Of  the  sorrow  she  had  thus  wished  for  him  she  is  now  a  witness, 
and  it  all  but  unnerves  her.  Paulina  had,  it  seemed  to  me,  be- 
sought Hermione  to  play  the  part  of  her  own  statue,  in  order  that 
she  might  hear  herself  apostrophised,  and  be  a  silent  witness  of 
the  remorse  and  unabated  love  of  Leontes  before  her  existence 
became  known  to  him,  and  so  be  moved  to  that  forgiveness 
which,  without  such  proof,  she  might  possibly  be  slow  to  yield. 
She  is  so  moved ;  but  for  the  sake  of  the  loving  friend  to  whom 
she  has  owed  so  much  she  must  restrain  herself,  and  carry  through 
her  appointed  task. 

But,  even  although  I  had  fully  thought  out  all  this,  it  was 
impossible  for  me  ever  to  hear  unmoved  what  passes  in  this 
wonderful  scene.  My  first  Leontes  was  Mr  Macready,  and,  as 
the  scene  was  played  by  him,  the  difficulty  of  wearing  an  air  of 
statuesque  calm  became  almost  insuperable.  As  I  think  over  the 
scene  now,  his  appearance,  his  action,  the  tones  of  his  voice,  the 
emotions  of  that  time,  come  back.  There  was  a  dead  awe-struck 
silence,  when  the  curtains  were  gradually  drawn  aside  by  Paulina. 
She  has  to  encourage  Leontes  to  speak. 


HERMIONE.  387 

"  I  like  your  silence,  it  the  more  shows  off 
Your  wonder.     But  yet  speak — first  you,  my  liege, 
Conies  it  not  something  near  ?  " 

Then  with  what  wonderful  tenderness  of  tone  Mr  Macready  an- 
swered— 

"  Her  natural  posture  ! 

Chide  me,  dear  stone  ;  that  I  may  say,  indeed, 

Thou  art  Hermione  ;  or,  rather,  thou  art  she 

In  thy  not  chiding  ;  for  she  was  as  tender 

As  infancy  and  grace." 

His  eyes  seemed  to  devour  the  figure  before  him,  as  the  scene 

proceeded,  and  he  said — 

"  Oh,  thus  she  stood, 

Even  with  such  life  of  majesty, — warm  life, 
As  now  it  coldly  stands,  when  first  I  woo'd  her  ! 
I  am  ashamed.     Does  not  the  stone  rebuke  me, 
For  being  more  stone  than  it  ?     Oh,  royal  piece, 
There's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
My  evils  conjured  to  remembrance,  and 
From  thy  admiring  daughter  took  the  spirits, 
Standing  like  stone  with  thee. 

Per.  And  give  me  leave 

And  do  not  say,  'tis  superstition,  that 
I  kneel,  and  then  implore  her  blessing.     Lady 
Dear  queen,  that  ended  when  I  but  began, 
Give  me  that  hand  of  yours  to  kiss." 

But  the  time  for  this  has  not  arrived,  and  Paulina  prevents  her, 
saying,  the  colour  on  the  statue  is  not  yet  dry.  Leontes  stands 
so  broken  down  with  the  bitter  remembrances  the  statue  calls  up, 
that  he  is  urged  by  Polixenes  and  Camillo  to  subdue  his  grief. 
Paulina,  also  deeply  moved,  exclaims — 

"  Indeed,  my  lord, 

If  I  had  thought  the  sight  of  my  poor  image 
Would  thus  have  wrought  you, — for  the  stone  is  mine, — 
I'd  not  have  show'd  it ; " — 

and  is  about  to  close  the  curtain.  Never  can  I  forget  the  manner 
in  which  Mr  Macready  here  cried  out,  "  Do  not  draw  the  curtain  !  " 
and,  afterwards",  when  Paulina  says — 

"  No  longer  shall  you  gaze  on't,  lest  your  fancy 
May  think  anon  it  moves  " — 


388  SHAKESPEAKE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

"  Let  be,  let  be  !  "  in  tones  irritable,  commanding,  and  impossible 
to  resist.  "Would  I  were  dead,"  he  continues,  "but  that,  me- 

thinks  already "     Has  he  seen  something  that  makes  him 

think  the  statue  lives?  Mr  Macready  indicated  this,  and  hur- 
riedly went  on — 

"  What  was  he  that  did  make  it  ?     See,  my  lord, 
Would  you  not  deem  it  breathed  ?     And  that  those  veins 

Did  verily  bear  blood 

The  fixture  of  her  eye  has  motion  in't, 
As  we  are  mocked  with  art. 

Paul.  I'll  draw  the  curtain. 

My  lord's  almost  so  far  transported,  that 
He'll  think  anon  it  lives. 

Leon.  Oh  sweet  Paulina, 

Make  me  to  think  so  twenty  years  together  ; 
No  settled  senses  of  the  world  can  match 
The  pleasure  of  that  madness.     Let  it  alone  ! 

Paul.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  I  have  thus  far  stirr'd  you  :  but 
I  could  afflict  you  further. 

Leon.  Do,  Paulina, 

For  this  affliction  has  a  taste  as  sweet 
As  any  cordial  comfort. " 

His  eyes  have  been  so  riveted  upon  the  figure,  that  he  sees,  what 
the  others  have  not  seen,  that  there  is  something  about  it  beyond 
the  reach  of  art.  He  continues — 

"  Still,  methinks, 

There  is  an  air  comes  from  her  :  What  fine  chisel 
Could  ever  yet  cut  breath  ?     Let  no  man  mock  me, 
For  I  will  kiss  her." 

Paulina  again  interposes  with  the  same  suggestion  as  before,  that 
"the  ruddiness  on  the  lip  being  wet,"  "he  would  mar  the  work," 
adding,  "  Shall  I  draw  the  curtain  1 " 

"  Leon.  No,  not  these  twenty  years. 

Per.  So  long  could  I 

Stand  by  a  looker  on." 

Paulina  sees  that  the  strain  upon  Hermione  and  all  present  must 
not  be  prolonged ;  and  she  tells  them — 

"  If  you  can  behold  it, 
I'll  make  the  statue  move  indeed.     .     .     . 


HERMIONE.  389 

It  is  required 

You  do  awake  your  faith.     Then,  all  stand  still. 
.     .     .     Music  awake  her,  strike !     (Music.) 
'Tis  time,  descend,  be  stone  no  more  :  approach  ! 
Strike  all  that  look  upon  with  marvel ;  come." 

You  may  conceive  the  relief  I  felt,  when  the  first  strain  of 
solemn  music  set  me  free  to  breathe  !  There  was  a  pedestal 
by  my  side  on  which  I  leant.  It  was  a  slight  help  during  the 
long  strain  upon  the  nerves  and  muscles,  besides  allowing  me 
to  stand  in  that  "natural  posture"  which  first  strikes  Leontes, 
and  which  therefore  could  not  have  been  rigidly  statuesque. 
By  imperceptibly  altering  the  poise  of  the  body,  the  weight 
of  it  being  on  the  forward  foot,  I  could  drop  into  the  easiest 
position  from  which  to  move.  The  hand  and  arm  still  resting 
quietly  on  the  pedestal  materially  helped  me.  Towards  the 
close  of  the  strain  the  head  slowly  turned,  the  "full  eyes" 
moved,  and  at  the  last  note  rested  on  Leontes. 

This  movement,  together  with  the  expression  of  the  face, 
transfigured  as  we  may  imagine  it  to  have  been  by  years  of 
sorrow  and  devout  meditation, — speechless,  yet  saying  things 
unutterable, — always  produced  a  startling,  magnetic  effect  upon 
all — the  audience  upon  the  stage  as  well  as  in  front  of  it. 
After  the  burst  of  amazement  had  hushed  down,  at  a  sign 
from  Paulina  the  solemn  sweet  strain  recommenced.  The  arm 
and  hand  were  gently  lifted  from  the  pedestal ;  then,  rhyth- 
mically following  the  music,  the  figure  descended  the  steps 
that  led  up  to  the  dais,  and  advancing  slowly,  paused  at  a 
short  distance  from  Leontes.  Oh,  can  I  ever  forget  Mr  Mac- 
ready  at  this  point !  At  first  he  stood  speechless,  as  if  turned 
to  stone ;  his  face  with  an  awe-struck  look  upon  it.  Could  this, 
the  very  counterpart  of  his  queen,  be  a  wondrous  piece  of  mech- 
anism 1  Could  art  so  mock  the  life  ?  He  had  seen  her  laid  out 
as  dead,  the  funeral  obsequies  performed  over  her,  with  her  dear 
son  beside  her.  Thus  absorbed  in  wonder,  he  remained  until 
Paulina  said,  "  Nay,  present  your  hand."  Tremblingly  he  ad- 
vanced, and  touched  gently  the  hand  held  out  to  him.  Then, 
what  a  cry  came  with,  "  0,  she's  warm  ! "  It  is  impossible 
to  describe  Mr  Macready  here.  He  was  Leontes'  very  self ! 


390  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

His  passionate  joy  at  finding  Hermione  really  alive  seemed 
beyond  control.  Now  he  was  prostrate  at  her  feet,  then  en- 
folding her  in  his  arms.  I  had  a  slight  veil  or  covering  over 
my  head  and  neck,  supposed  to  make  the  statue  look  older. 
This  fell  off  in  an  instant.  The  hair,  which  came  unbound, 
and  fell  on  my  shoulders,  was  reverently  kissed  and  caressed. 
The  whole  change  was  so  sudden,  so  overwhelming,  that  I 
suppose  I  cried  out  hysterically,  for  he  whispered  to  me, 
"  Don't  be  frightened,  my  child !  don't  be  frightened !  Con- 
trol yourself ! "  All  this  went  on  during  a  tumult  of  applause 
that  sounded  like  a  storm  of  hail.  Oh,  how  glad  I  was  to  be 
released,  when,  as  soon  as  a  lull  came,  Paulina,  advancing 
with  Perdita,  said,  "Turn,  good  lady,  our  Perdita  is  found." 
A  broken  trembling  voice,  I  am  very  sure,  was  mine,  as  I  said — 

"You  gods,  look  down, 
And  from  your  sacred  vials  pour  your  graces 
Upon  my  daughter's  head  !     Tell  me,  mine  own, 
Where  hast  thou  been  preserved  ?     Where  lived  ?     How  found 
Thy  father's  court  ?     For  thou  shalt  hear,  that  I,— 
Knowing  by  Paulina,  that  the  oracle 
Gave  hope  thou  wast  in  being, — have  preserved 
Myself  to  see  the  issue. " 

It  was  such  a  comfort  to  me,  as  well  as  true  to  natural  feeling, 
that  Shakespeare  gives  Hermione  no  words  to  say  to  Leontes, 
but  leaves  her  to  assure  him  of  her  joy  and  forgiveness  by  look 
and  manner  only,  as  in  his  arms  she  feels  the  old  life,  so  long 
suspended,  come  back  to  her  again. 

I  was  called  upon  to  play  Hermione  very  soon  after  my  debut. 
I  was  still  very  young,  and  by  my  years  and  looks  most  unfit  even 
to  appear  as  the  mother  of  the  young  Mamillius.  Why  Mr  Mac- 
ready  selected  me  for  the  task  I  could  not  imagine,  and  most 
gladly  would  I  have  declined  it.  But  his  will  was  law.  Any 
remonstrance  or  objection  was  met  by  reasons  and  arguments  so 
broad  and  strong, — you  were  so  earnestly  reminded  of  your  duty 
to  sacrifice  yourself  to  the  general  good,  and  the  furtherance  of 
the  effort  he  was  making  to  regenerate  the  drama, — that  there 
was  nothing  left  but  to  give  way.  All  you  could  urge  seemed  so 
small,  so  merely  personal.  Therefore  play  Hermione  I  must,  even 
as  I  had  not  long  after  to  play  Constance  of  Bretagne,  a  still 


HERMIONE.  391 

severer  trial  and  much  greater  strain  upon  my  young  shoulders. 
Hermione  was  a  character  that  had  not  then  come  within  the 
circle  of  my  favourite  Shakespearian  heroines.  It  was,  therefore, 
quite  new  to  me.  Mrs  Warner  had  been  for  years  the  recognised 
Hermione  of  the  London  stage.  On  this  occasion  she  was  cast  for 
Paulina,  a  character  for  which  nature  had  eminently  fitted  her 
by  a  stately  figure,  fine  voice,  and  firm,  earnest  manner.  How 
admirably  she  acted  Emilia  in  Othello  I  must  ever  remember, 
especially  the  way  she  turned  on  Othello  in  the  last  scene,  in 
which  Mr  Macready  was  also  very  grand.  On  the  audience,  who 
could  see  their  looks  and  gestures,  the  impression  they  made  must 
have  been  very  great  indeed.  I,  as  the  smothered  Desdemona, 
could  hear  only. 

My  first  appearance  as  Hermione  is  indelibly  imprinted  on  my 
memory  by  the  acting  of  Mr  Macready  as  I  have  described  it  in 
the  statue  scene.  Mrs  Warner  had  rather  jokingly  told  me,  at 
one  of  the  rehearsals,  to  be  prepared  for  something  extraordinary 
in  his  manner,  when  Hermione  returned  to  life.  But  prepared  I 
was  not,  and  could  not  be,  for  such  a  display  of  uncontrollable 
rapture.  I  have  tried  to  give  some  idea  of  it ;  but  no  words  of 
mine  could  do  it  justice.  It  was  the  finest  burst  of  passionate 
speechless  emotion  I  ever  saw,  or  could  have  conceived.  My 
feelings  being  already  severely  strained,  I  naturally  lost  some- 
thing of  my  self-command,  and  as  Perdita  and  Florizel  knelt  at 
my  feet  I  looked,  as  the  gifted  Sarah  Adams x  afterwards  told  me, 
"  like  Niobe,  all  tears."  Of  course,  I  behaved  better  on  the  repe- 
tition of  the  play,  as  I  knew  what  I  had  to  expect  and  was  some- 
what prepared  for  it ;  but  the  intensity  of  Mr  Macready's  passion 
was  so  real,  that  I  never  could  help  being  moved  by  it,  and  feel- 
ing much  exhausted  afterwards. 

The  Winter's  Tale  makes  heavy  demands  upon  the  resources 
of  a  theatre  both  in  actors  and  mise  en  scene.  It  was  therefore 
only  in  such  cities  as  Dublin,  Glasgow,  and  Edinburgh  that  I  was 

1  This  sweet  accomplished  lady  wrote  many  poems  and  hymns.  Her 
drama  in  blank  verse,  founded  on  the  story  of  "  Vivia  Perpetua,"  one  of  the 
first  Christian  martyrs,  was  greatly  admired  in  a  wide  literary  circle.  Her 
beautiful  hymn  ' '  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  we  all  know,  and  are  moved 
by,  when  sung  in  our  churches  as  it  often  is. 


392  SHAKESPEARE'S  FEMALE  CHARACTERS: 

able  to  have  it  acted.  But  in  all  these  cities,  even  with  such  in- 
adequate resources  as  they  supplied,  the  play  used  to  produce  a 
profound  impression.  The  sympathies  of  my  audience  for  the 
suffering  Hermione  were  reflected  back  upon  me  so  warmly  as  to 
make  me  feel  that  they  entered  into  my  conception  of  her  beauti- 
ful nature,  such  as  I  have  here  endeavoured  to  present  it.  There, 
as  in  London,  the  statue  scene  always  produced  a  remarkable 
effect.  This  I  could  feel  in  the  intense  hush,  as  though  every 
one  present  "held  his  breath  for  the  time."  In  Edinburgh,  upon 
one  occasion,  I  have  been  told  by  a  friend  who  was  present  that, 
as  I  descended  from  the  pedestal  and  advanced  towards  Leontes, 
the  audience  simultaneously  rose  from  their  seats,  as  if  drawn  out 
of  them  by  surprise  and  reverential  awe  at  the  presence  of  one 
who  bore  more  of  heaven  than  of  earth  about  her.  I  can  only 
account  for  this  by  supposing  that  the  soul  of  Hermione  had  for 
the  time  entered  into  mine,  and  "  so  divinely  wrought,  that  one 
might  almost  say,"  with  the  old  poet,  my  "body  thought."  Of 
course  I  did  not  observe  this  movement  of  the  audience,  for 
my  imagination  was  too  full  of  what  I  felt  was  then  in  Her- 
mione's  heart,  to  leave  me  eyes  for  any  but  Leontes.  You  may 
judge  of  the  pleasure  it  was  to  play  to  audiences  of  this  kind. 
As  "  there  is  a  pleasure  in  poetic  pains,  which  only  poets  know," 
so  there  is  a  pleasure  in  the  actor's  pains,  which  only  actors  know, 
who  have  to  deal  with  the  "  high  actions  and  high  passions  "  of 
which  Milton  speaks.  Unless  they  know  these  pains,  and  feel  a 
joy  in  knowing  them,  their  vocation  can  never  rise  to  the  level  of 
an  art. 

I  fear,  my  dear  Lord  Tennyson,  I  have  tried  your  patience  with 
this  long  letter.  But  in  this  fine  play  I  have  had  to  write  of 
three  exquisite  types  of  womanhood — the  mother,  the  maiden, 
and  the  friend.  In  what  other  play  or  story  do  we  find  three  such 
women  1  In  lingering  over  their  excellences  I  may  have  lost  ac- 
count of  time  and  thus  wearied  you.  If  I  have,  pray  forgive  me 
this  once,  and  believe  me  to  be  ever,  with  deep  admiration  and 
gratitude,  very  sincerely  yours, 

HELENA  FAUCIT  MARTIN. 

1st  November  1890, 
BRTNTYSILIO,  LLANGOLLBN. 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX. 


MR  BROWNING'S   "BLOT  ON  THE   SCUTCHEON,"  p.  51. 

rPHE  comparative  non-success  of  this  fine  play  was  probably  quite 
-*•  as  much  due  to  Mr  Macready  not  playing  the  part  of  Lord 
Tresham  as  to  the  circumstances  mentioned  in  the  text.  He  had 
promised  Mr  Browning  conditionally  that  he  would  undertake  it,  but 
in  the  meanwhile  had  given  the  part  to  Mr  Phelps  to  study  and  re- 
hearse. The  drama  was  brought  out  in  a  great  hurry,  and  after 
insufficient  rehearsals.  At  nearly  the  eleventh  hour  Mr  Macready 
proposed  to  assume  the  part  of  Tresham  ;  but  to  this  change  Mr 
Browning  demurred,  as  not  being  fair  to  Mr  Phelps.  Accordingly 
Mr  Phelps  was  left  to  play  it, — a  serious  misfortune,  for  he  was  not 
fitted  for  such  a  character,  whereas  it  was  one  in  which  Mr  Macready 
must  have  excelled.  As  it  was,  the  play,  though  well  received,  was 
only  performed  a  few  times.  Had  it  been  strengthened  by  Mr  Mac- 
ready's  personal  aid,  the  result  would  most  probably  have  been  differ- 
ent. The  incident  caused,  I  believe,  a  serious  estrangement  for  the 
time,  as  Mr  Browning  considered  he  had  not  been  frankly  dealt  with 
by  Mr  Macready.  I  played  Mildred  Tresham,  as  I  had  formerly 
played  Lucy  Percy,  Countess  of  Carlisle,  in  Mr  Browning's  Strafford. 
With  his  wonted  generosity  Mr  Browning  spoke  of  what  I  had  done 
for  his  heroines  in  the  following  lines,  written  in  my  album  soon 
after  the  production  of  The  Blot  on  the  Scutcheon.  On  the  opposite 
page  were  some  verses,  in  which  flowers  played  a  prominent  part. 
This  circumstance,  and  the  particulars  above  given,  will  explain  allu- 
sions in  the  lines,  which  might  otherwise  be  obscure. 


396  APPENDIX. 

"  There's  a  sisterhood  in  words — 
Still  along  with  'flowers'  go  'birds.' 
Is  it  but  three  weeks  to-day 
Since  they  played  a  luckless  play, 
And  '  the  Treshams,'  like  a  band 
Of  full-fledged  nestlings,  left  my  hand 
To  flutter  forth,  the  wide  world  over  ? 
Just  three  weeks  !  yet  see — each  rover 
Here,  with  more  or  less  unsteady 
Winglets,  nearly  reached  already, 
In  the  Past,  so  dim,  so  dim, 
A  place  where  Lucy,  Strafford,  Pym, 
My  elder  brood  of  early  years, 
Wait  peacefully  their  new  compeers. 
Then,  good  voyage  !  shall  it  grieve  me 
Vastly,  that  such  ingrates  leave  me  ? 
Why,  this  March,  this  very  morning 
Hatched  my  latest  brood,  take  warning, 
Each  one  worth  you  put  together  ! 
April  sees  them  full  in  feather — 
And  how  we'll  welcome  May's  glad  weather  ! 

Helen  Faucit,  you  have  twice 

Proved  my  Bird  of  Paradise  ! 

He,  who  would  my  wits  inveigle 

Into  boasting  him  my  eagle, 

Turns  out  very  like  a  Raven  : 

Fly  off,  Blacky,  to  your  haven  ! 

But  you,  softest  dove,  must  never 

Leave  me,  as  he  does,  for  ever — 

I  will  strain  my  eyes  to  blindness, 

Ere  lose  sight  of  you  and  kindness. 

'  Genius '  is  a  common  story  ! 

Few  guess  that  the  spirit's  glory, 

They  hail  nightly,  is  the  sweetest, 

Fairest,  gentlest,  and  completest 

Shakespeare's-Lady's,  ever  poet 

Longed  for  !     Few  guess  this  :  /  know  it." 

"HATCHAM,  SURREY,  March  4,  "43." 
These  lines  were  accompanied  by  the  following  letter  : — 

"My  DEAR  Miss  FAUCIT, — Here  is  your  album,  with  my  best 
thanks  for  the  honour  you  have  done  me  by  asking  some  rhymes 


ANECDOTE   OF  CHARLES  DICKENS.  397 

for  it  :  and  here  are  the  rhymes  themselves — poor  enough,  most 
probably,  but  sincere,  quite  as  certainly.  I  wish  from  my  soul  it  were 
in  my  power  to  find  some  worthier  way  of  proving  the  admiration 
and  gratitude  with  which  I  remain,  my  dear  Miss  Faucit,  yours  ever 
faithfully, 

"ROBERT  BROWNING." 


ANECDOTE   OF  CHARLES   DICKENS,  p.  129. 

THE  words  quoted  in  the  text  bring  back  to  me  an  evening  in  Mr 
Macready's  drawing-room.  The  party  was  a  mixed  one  of  grown-up 
people  and  children.  We  had  gone  through  many  games  and  dances, 
when  some  one  suggested  the  game  of  "Proverbs."  "The  devil  is 
never  so  black  as  he  is  painted  "  was  selected.  The  questioner,  Mr 
Maclise,  the  painter,  challenged  me  for  the  second  word,  and  I  had  to 
get  it  into  my  answer.  Imagine  my  confusion,  which,  alas  !  every  one 
seemed  to  enjoy.  I  was  on  the  point  of  giving  up,  as  I  could  think  of 
no  suitable  reply  to  bring  in  the  word.  But  when  the  general  merri- 
ment and  my  nervousness  were  at  their  height,  some  one  behind  my 
chair  whispered,  "  What  did  you  say  to  the  nurse  last  night,  when 
she  was  keeping  you  in  that  cruel  suspense  ? "  In  an  instant  I  sprung 
up  and  said,  "  What  devil  art  thou,  that  dost  torment  me  thus  ? "  I 
suppose  quotations  were  allowed,  for  I  was  applauded,  and  a  great 
deal  of  merriment  followed.  I  looked  round  for  my  friendly  helper, 
and  saw  Mr  Charles  Dickens  stealing  away  unsuspected  by  any  one, 
and  looking  as  though  he  had  casually  left  his  seat  for  no  especial 
purpose.  When  I  thanked  him  afterwards  for  his  help,  he  turned  it 
off,  saying,  "  Oh,  the  words  must  have  come  into  your  own  head, — 
how  should  I  have  thought  of  them  ? "  This  was  the  way  he  did  his 
kindnesses — never  so  happy  as  when  doing  them. 


ACTING  OF   "ANTIGONE"   IN   DUBLIN.     Note  p.  158. 

I  POSSESS  a  very  delightful  souvenir  of  my  performances  of  Antigone 
in  Dublin.  It  is  a  gold  fibula  presented  by  the  heads  of  the  Univer- 
sity, the  leading  men  of  science,  physicians,  lawyers,  painters,  and 
literary  men  of  that  city  ;  and  it  was  accompanied  by  the  following 
Address,  to  which  their  signatures,  thirty -five  in  number,  were 
attached  :— 


398  APPENDIX. 

"To  Miss  HELEN  FAUCIT. 

"  MADAM, — We  beg  to  give  expression  to  the  unalloyed  and  sus- 
tained satisfaction  which  we  have  derived  from  your  late  performances 
at  our  national  theatre. 

"  We  have  each  and  all  endeavoured  to  promote  the  cultivation  of 
classic  literature  and  the  study  of  ancient  art  in  this  our  city  ;  and 
we  feel  that  your  noble  representation  of  Antigone  has  greatly  ad- 
vanced these  important  objects,  by  creating  a  love  and  admiration  of 
the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  ancient  Greece. 

"  With  the  writings  of  the  Grecian  dramatists,  it  is  true,  we  have 
long  been  familiar  ;  but  their  power  and  their  beauty  have  come 
down  to  us  through  books  alone.  '  Mute  and  motionless '  that  drama 
has  heretofore  stood  before  us ;  you,  Madam,  have  given  it  voice, 
gesture,  life  ;  you  have  realised  the  genius,  and  embodied  the  inspi- 
rations, of  the  authors  and  of  the  artists  of  early  Greece  ;  and  have 
thus  encouraged  and  instructed  the  youth  of  Ireland  in  the  study  of 
their  immortal  works. 

"  We  offer  the  accompanying  testimonial  to  the  virtues  and  talents 
of  one,  whose  tastes,  education,  and  surpassing  powers  have  justly 
placed  her  at  the  summit  of  her  profession. 

"GEORGE  PETRIE,  V.P.R.I.A.,  Chairman. 
JOHN  ANSTER,  LL.D.,  M.R.I.A.,     )  ~ 
JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER,  lULLA*/ 
"DUBLIN,  1845." 

The  fibula,  in  itself  an  exquisite  specimen  of  the  goldsmith's  art, 
was  designed  by  Sir  Frederic  Burton.1  Within  an  outer  chaplet  of 
olive-leaves,  it  presents  the  Cadmean  serpent,  which  includes  within 
its  folds  masks  of  Creon  and  Antigone,  wrought  in  gold,  and  within 
the  central  coil,  upon  a  white  enamel  ground,  the  figure  of  Antigone 
kneeling  over  a  cinerary  urn.  Three  large  pear-shaped  emeralds, 
skilfully  disposed,  relieve  the  chasing  of  the  groundwork.  The  gold, 
I  was  told,  was  Irish  ;  the  workmanship,  like  the  design,  Irish  ;  and 
nothing,  I  am  sure,  was  wanting  to  satisfy  the  enthusiastic  spirit  of 
the  donors,  but  that  the  emeralds  should  also  have  been  native  to 
the  Emerald  Isle.  On  the  reverse  side  is  the  Theban  shield,  with  the 
inscription — 

EAENH 

MOTSOAHIITn 

TH2    ANTITONHS 

EHA0AA. 


1  It  has  now  been  deposited,  by  Lady  Martin's  desire,  along  with  the  Address, 
in  the  Dublin  Museum. 


"LADY   OF  LYONS."  399 


"THE   LADY  OF   LYONS,"  p.  165. 

IT  would  be  difficult  to  overstate  the  enthusiasm  which  this  play 
excited,  when  once  it  came  to  be  known.  As  in  all  such  cases, 
there  was  no  lack  of  tributes  from  friends,  unknown  as  well  as 
known,  to  the  actress,  who  had  been  the  first  to  introduce  the  heroine 
to  their  notice.  The  only  one  of  these  which  I  seem  to  have  pre- 
served was  from  Mr  Laman  Blanchard,  who,  unknown  to  me,  having 
borrowed  my  album  from  a  friend,  sent  it  back  with  the  addition  of 
the  following  lines  : — 

"TO    HELEN    FAUCIT. 
(THE   LADY  OF   LYONS.) 

"  What  need  I,  oh  Helen,  comparisons  draw 

'Twixt  thee  and  the  belles  of  Circassia  and  Cadiz  ? 
Since  first  the  sweet  Lady  of  Lyons  I  saw, 
I  swear  I  have  deemed  thee  the  Lion  of  Ladies. 

Start  not !  I  would  give  thee  no  terrible  shape — 
A  lion — dove- voiced — like  the  poet's,  I  mean  ; 

Though  such  are  my  chains,  I  might  sooner  escape 
From  the  leonine  paw,  than  from  you  as  Pauline. 

Oh  Lady  of  Lyons — what  lions  of  his, 

Van  Amburgh's,  could  move  us  like  thee  to  applaud  ? 
While  he  is  avoiding  a  scratch  on  the  phiz, 

We,  seeing  you,  wish — yes,  we  wish  to  be  Claude. 

Yes,  lady,  the  pride  and  the  rapture  of  Claude, 

Though  at  first  his  love-garden  was  wofully  weedy, 

In  winning  by  faith  what  he'd  captured  by  fraud, 
Oh,  it  does  make  one  long  to  be  Mr  Macready  ! 

Whilst  hearing  from  your  lips  the  truths  he  has  written, 
Whilst  watching  the  thoughts  your  deep  eyes  are  revealing, 

I:m  sure  there  must  often  steal  over  Sir  Lytton 
A  pleasant  Pygmalionish  sort  of  a  feeling. 

Oh  Helen  of  Lyons  !    Not  she  of  old  Troy, 

The  Helen  of  Paris,  is  Helen  to  me, 
Nor  Helen  the  brave-minded  rib  of  Rob  Roy, 

Nor  Helen — Miss  Edgeworth's — the  best  of  the  three  ! 


400  APPENDIX. 

Nor  Shakespeare's  fond  Helen,  who  felt  'twas  affliction 
To  love,  and  not  wed,  some  '  particular  star '  ; 

Though  stars  they  may  be,  shining  sweetly, — in  fiction, — 
You  glisten — in  fact — more  enchantingly  far  ! 

"  LAMAN  BLANCHAKD." 


On  another  page  of  my  album,  not  long  afterwards,  the  author  of 
The  Lady  of  Lyons  inscribed  to  me  the  following  lines  : — 

"  Thou  canst  not  slight  the  wreath  I  lay  before  thee, 
Since  thou  hast  given  wreaths,  not  mine,  to  me  ; — 
Sweet  Violet,1  passionate  Juliet,  bright  Pauline, 
Lending  a  Helen's  shape  to  words  of  air, 
As  Faustus  called  from  air  the  shape  of  Helen  : — 
So  ever  thus  art  has  exchanged  with  art, 
Each  still  by  each  inspiring  and  inspired  ; 
As  thou  hast  given  thine  own  fair  form  and  voice 
To  many  a  dream  by  poet's  heart  conceived, 
So  from  that  form  and  voice  may  poets  yet 
Take  dreams  for  future  Helens  to  embody. 

"E.  L.  B." 


LADY  MACBETH,  p.  233. 

MANY  friends  have  made  requests  to  me  to  write  of  Lady  Macbeth 
in  a  separate  letter,  treating  her  character  with  the  same  fulness  of 
analysis  and  exposition  which  I  have  bestowed  on  the  other  heroines 
of  Shakespeare  included  in  this  volume.  It  has  reached  me  in  many 
ways  that  the  view  I  presented  of  Lady  Macbeth  in  my  impersonation 
of  her  has  been  welcomed  by  Shakespearian  scholars  of  eminence,  not 
only  here  but  on  the  Continent,  as  having  a  special  value  in  bringing 
back  people's  minds  to  a  careful  study  of  the  character,  and  removing 
the  mistaken  impressions  of  it  which  had  been  produced  by  the  genius 
of  great  actresses  of  a  former  period.  Were  I  to  yield  to  the  wishes 
thus  expressed,  I  could  do  little  more  than  expand  the  brief  sugges- 
tions which  I  have  made  in  the  text.  From  what  is  there  said,  it 
will  be  seen  that  such  a  critical  examination  of  the  play  as  would  be 
required,  in  order  to  explain  fully  my  conception  of  Lady  Macbeth, 
would  be  a  task  of  great  labour,  because  it  would  not  be  prompted  by 

1  The  heroine  of  Lord  Lytton's  play  of  The  Sea  Captain. 


LADY  MACBETH.  401 

the  love  for  my  subject  which  has  made  the  writing  about  my  favour- 
ite heroines  comparatively  easy.  I  am  content  to  be  judged  by  the 
recorded  impressions  produced  by  Lady  Macbeth,  as  I  acted  her,  upon 
the  minds  of  men  of  high  authority.  The  character  I  intended  to 
portray  has  been  so  well  described  by  the  late  William  Carleton,  the 
author  of  Traits  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry,  in  a  letter  to  my 
much-valued  friend,  the  late  Dr  William  Stokes  of  Dublin,  that  I 
trust  I  may  be  forgiven,  if,  notwithstanding  the  too  warm  eulogium 
upon  myself,  I  quote  it  in  further  explanation  of  what  I  have  said  of 
Lady  Macbeth  in  the  text. 

"2  CRESCENT,  CLONTARF,  November  11 ,  1846. 

"  MY  DEAR  DOCTOR,— When  I  saw  you  yesterday,  I  inadvertently 
proposed  a  task  to  myself  during  our  conversation  about  Miss  Faucit, 
which  I  now  feel  to  be  one  of  great  difficulty,  and,  I  may  add,  of 
humiliation.  In  accordance  with  my  promise  to  you,  I  went  last 
night  and  witnessed  for  the  first  time  her  performance  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth. I  went,  certainly,  without  any  prejudices  existing  against  her 
powers  as  an  accomplished  representative  of  those  brilliant  creations 
of  female  heroism  and  tenderness  which  have  emanated  from  the  im- 
aginations of  our  great  dramatists,  but,  in  this  particular  instance, 
with  a  very  different  theory  upon  the  subject  of  that  histrionic  im- 
personation which  I  have  hitherto  conceived  best  calculated  to  por- 
tray those  elements  which  constitute  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth. 
You,  from  our  conversation  of  yesterday,  understand  what  I  mean. 
In  plain  terms,  I  thought  Miss  Faucit's  reading  of  Lady  Macbeth's 
character,  as  detailed  by  you,  and  as  I  had  heard  before,  at  variance 
with  the  terrible  inhumanities  which  are  bodied  forth  in  it.  ... 

"  Be  this  as  it  may,  I  promised  to  give  you  a  true  account  of  the 
impression  which  her  delineation  of  the  character  might  make  upon 
me,  and  I  proceed  now  to  keep  my  word  as  well  as  I  can,  premising 
that  I  fear  I  may  still  be  too  much  under  the  influence  of  the  impres- 
sions she  produced,  to  take  what  I  say  as  the  result  of  cool  and  purely 
judicial  opinion.  It  is  not  an  easy  thing  to  call  in  philosophy  to  our 
aid  when  we  are  glowing  with  the  emotions  of  enthusiasm  and  natural 
partiality,  which  the  genius  of  such  a  woman  is  certain  to  excite. 
Philosophy  is  a  very  good  old  fellow  in  his  way,  but  I  have  always 
found  that  whenever  I  stood  most  in  need  of  his  guardianship  and 
aid,—  whenever  my  feelings  or  my  heart  were  likely  to  run  away  with 
my  judgment,  the  faithless  old  villain  has  uniformly  neglected  his 
post  and  abandoned  me.  But  seriously,  whether  Miss  Faucit's  con- 
ception of  the  character  be  right  or  wrong,  she  has,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, most  signally  triumphed  by  the  impression  which  I  carried 
home  from  her  impersonation  of  it.  I  know  it  has  been  said  that  the 
2  C 


402  APPENDIX. 

heart  does  not  reason  ;  but  although  this  may  be  true  in  a  general 
sense,  I  am  conscious  that  there  is  in  the  operation  or  exercise  of  our 
feelings  some  nameless  principle  of  truth  which  instinctively  teaches 
us  what  is  right,  and  upon  which  it  is  a  thousand  times  safer  to  rely 
than  upon  the  cooler  codes  of  conventional  opinion,  by  which  we  are 
too  often  unwittingly  influenced.  After  all,  this  is  no  more  than 
Nature  simply  recognising  herself  in  the  human  heart  through  the 
medium  of  her  own  sympathies. 

"  The  first  thing  that  began  gradually  to  creep  upon  me  last  night 
was  an  unaccountable  yet  irresistible  sense  of  propriety  in  Miss 
Fauci t's  management  of  the  character.  This  argued,  you  will  tell 
me,  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  force  of  truth.  Perhaps  it  is 
so ;  but,  be  it  what  it  may,  it  soon  gained  upon  me  so  powerfully, 
that  I  began  to  feel  as  if  I  had  never  seen  Lady  Macbeth's  true 
character  before.  I  said  to  myself :  this  woman,  it  seems  to  me, 
is  simply  urging  her  husband  forward  through  her  love  for  him, 
which  prompts  her  to  wish  for  the  gratification  of  his  ambition,  to 
commit  a  murder.  This,  it  would  appear,  is  her  sole  object,  and  in 
working  it  out,  she  is  naturally  pursuing  a  terrible  course,  and  one  of 
singular  difficulty.  She  perceives  that  he  has  scruples  ;  and  it  is 
necessary  that  she  should  work  upon  him  so  far  as  that  he  should 
commit  the  crime,  but  at  the  same  time  prevent  him  from  feeling 
revolted  at  the  contemplation  of  it ;  and  this  she  effects  by  a  san- 
guinary sophistry  that  altogether  hardens  his  heart.  But  this  closes 
her  lessons  of  cruelty  to  him.  In  such  a  case  it  is  not  necessary  that 
she  should  label  herself  as  a  murderess,  and  wantonly  parade  that 
inhuman  ferocity  by  which  she  has  hitherto  been  distinguished.  Her 
office  of  temptress  ceases  with  the  murder,  and  the  gratification  of 
what  she  had  considered  her  husband's  ambition.  This,  as  I  felt  it, 
is  the  distinction  which  Miss  Faucit  draws, — the  great  discovery  she 
has  made.  It  unquestionably  adds  new  elements  to  the  character, 
and  not  only  rescues  it  from  the  terrible  and  revolting  monotony  in 
which  it  has  heretofore  appeared,  but  keeps  it  within  the  category  of 
humanity,  and  gives  a  beautiful  and  significant  moral  to  the  closing 
scenes  of  the  queen's  life. 

"  Indeed  the  character  from  this  forward  is  represented  by  Miss 
Faucit  with  wonderful  discrimination  and  truth.  I  felt  this  strongly, 
for  I  had  never  before  observed  the  harmony  between  her  acting  and 
the  language  of  Shakespeare.  In  this,  however,  I  have  only  laboured, 
with  the  public,  under  the  disadvantage  of  being  misled  by  the  au- 
thority of  Mrs  Siddons  as  to  the  true  estimate  of  Lady  Macbeth's 
character  ;  and  I  do  not  know  a  greater  triumph  than  that  achieved 
by  the  fair  and  great  reformer  of  bringing  us  back  to  Shakespeare  and 
to  truth. 


LADY   MACBETH.  403 

"  In  another  point  of  view,  it  appears  to  me  that  Miss  Faucit  stands 
alone,  proving  that  she  possesses  the  grand  and  original  simplicity 
which  belongs  to  true  genius.  She  has  dared  to  cast  aside  all  the 
antiquated  forms  of  the  stage— all  those  traditionary  appendages  to 
character,  which  in  acting  were  common  property,  and  are  still  too 
much  so.  It  is  evident  that  all  her  motions  on  the  stage  result,  nat- 
urally and  without  effort,  from  such  a  full  and  glowing  conception 
of  the  character  as  occasions,  without  any  such  traditionary  mem- 
ories, the  spontaneous  and  appropriate  action  only.  It  naturally 
follows,  therefore,  that  she  never  moves  nor  looks  upon  the  stage 
without  conveying  some  truth  or  sentiment,  or  expressing  some 
passion. 

"  This  faculty  is  almost  peculiar  to  herself.  For  instance,  in  fol- 
lowing her  husband  after  the  supper  scene  :  simple  and  without  sig- 
nificance as  this  act  has  been  in  others,  she  exhibited  in  it  an  aston- 
ishing manifestation  of  genius,  for  in  that  act  all  might  read  the  awful 
agonies  that  were  at  work  in  her  heart.  Her  conduct  in  this  scene 
was  different  from  anything  I  have  witnessed  before.  In  others  there 
was  displayed  the  predominant  passion  or  passions,  now  without  a 
motive— namely,  a  hardened  and  bloodthirsty  ferocity,  mingled  with 
a  wish  to  conceal  her  husband's  crime.  In  Miss  Faucit's  acting,  there 
was  visible  the  latter  motive,  which  was  indeed  natural,  together  with 
the  ill-suppressed  anguish  of  a  gentle  spirit,  and  a  perceptible  struggle 
to  subdue  the  manifestations  of  that  guilt,  whilst  attempting  to  encour- 
age and  sustain  her  husband.  All  this  I  felt  again  to  be  the  triumph 
of  Shakespeare  and  of  truth,  and,  let  me  add,  of  Helen  Faucit. 

"  In  the  sleep-walking  scene  she  crowned  the  performance  of  the 
night.  To  witness  it  is  worth  a  thousand  homilies  against  murder. 
There  is  in  it  such  a  frightful  reality  of  horror — such  terrible  revela- 
tions of  remorse — such  struggles  to  wash  away,  not  the  blood  from 
the  hand,  but  the  blood  from  the  soul,  as  made  me  shudder  from  head 
to  foot,  and  the  very  hair  to  stand  upon  my  head.  How  the  deadly 
agonies  of  crime  were  portrayed  by  the  parched  mouth,  that  told  of 
the  burning  tortures  within  !  And  when  you  looked  on  those  eyes,  or 
those  corpse-like  hands,  now  telling  their  unconscious  tale  of  crime, 
and  thought  of  their  previous  energy  in  urging  on  its  perpetration, 
you  could  not  help  looking  fearfully  for  a  moment  into  your  own 
heart,  and  thanking  God  you  were  free  from  the  remorse  of  murder-. 
This  scene  is,  indeed,  beyond  criticism— it  is  above  it." 


404  APPENDIX. 


NOTE  TO   LETTER  ON   ROSALIND,  p.  234. 

I  AM  happy  to  learn  from  my  valued  friend,  M.  Regnier,  that  I  was 
right  in  thinking  the  Parisian  actors  had  neither  the  desire  nor  the 
power  to  stop  the  English  performances  at  the  Salle  Ventadour.  He 
writes  (15th  October  1884)  to  Sir  Theodore  Martin — "  Je  ne  veux  pas 
laisser  un  doute  dans  1'esprit  de  Lady  Martin  sur  ce  fait,  que  les 
acteurs  parisiens  auraient  en  1845  fait  appel  aux  autorites  '  to  pre- 
vent the  prolongation  of  the  English  performances.'  Le  fait  est  im- 
possible. Les  autorites  auraient  envoye  promener  les  acteurs  rnal- 
avise"s  qui  auraient  fait  une  telle  demande  ;  les  autorites  n'avaient 
aucun  droit  pour  y  satisfaire,  et  tous  les  come"diens  fran9ais  dont  je 
faisais  partie  alors,  suivaient  avec  trop  de  curiosite  les  repr6sentations 
anglaises  pour  desirer  qu'on  les  discontinuat." 

May  I  be  forgiven  if  I  quote  with  natural  pride  the  opinion  of  one 
whose  words  carry  so  much  weight,  from  a  letter  of  M.  Regnier's  to 
the  same  correspondent  about  my  performances  in  Paris  : — 

"  Je  n'ai  jamais  revu  ou  relu  Othello  ou  Hamlet  sans  me  rappeler  ce 
que  Lady  Martin  fut  dans  Desdemona  et  dans  Ophelia ;  et  tou jours 
j'ai  conserve  dans  mon  esprit,  comme  un  de  mes  plus  frappants 
souvenirs  dramatiques,  la  representation  ou,  pour  la  premiere  fois 
(a  Paris  du  moins),  elle  joua  le  role  de  Lady  Macbeth.  Elle  sut  y 
montrer  une  autorite,  une  maturity  de  talent,  qui  cadrait  peu  avec 
ses  jeunes  ann6es,  et  je  fus  heureux  alors,  comme  il  me  semble  qu'elle 
en  dut  etre  flatte'e,  de  lui  voir  recueillir  des  eloges  si  justes  et  si 
eclatants,  tant  de  la  part  du  public  qui  sent,  que  de  la  part  du 
public  qui  juge."1 


The  warmth  with  which  the  Paris  public  received  me,  and  to  which 
allusion  has  been  made  more  than  once  in  the  text,  was  the  more  gratify- 
ing, that  I  had  come  among  them  as  a  complete  stranger,  with  no  pre- 
liminary intimation  of  the  position  which  I  had  held  since  my  first 
appearance  upon  the  English  stage.  Of  the  numerous  criticisms  which 
appeared  in  the  journals  at  the  time,  none  gave  me  greater  satisfac- 
tion and  encouragement  than  a  paper  by  M.  Edouard  Thierry,  after- 
wards for  many  years  the  Director  of  the  Come'die  Franfaise,  in  the 
Messager  of  20th  January  1845.  That  my  estimate  of  its  value  was 
well  grounded  has  been  confirmed  by  M.  Regnier  in  a  recent  letter 
(2  March  1885).  "  Parmi  les  dloges,"  he  writes,  "  que  la  Presse  fran- 
9aise  a  faits  de  vous,  vous  devez  faire  un  cas  particulier  de  ceux  de  M. 

1  I  learn  to-day  (29th  April  1885),  with  great  regret,  the  death  of  this  fine 
artist  and  accomplished  and  amiable  gentleman. 


PARISIAN   DRAMATIC  CRITICISMS.  405 

Ed.  Thierry,  qui  est  comptd  dans  notre  literature  comme  un  critique 
de  premier  ordre,  d'un  jugement  tres  sur,  et  d'un  gout  difficile  ;  sa 
louange  n'a  jamais  etc  banale,  et  est  d'un  grand  prix." 

As  a  specimen  of  what  dramatic  criticism  in  Paris  used  to  be,  and 
of  the  spirit  and  knowledge  which  made  it  precious  to  artists,  as  it 
was  instructive  to  tlie  public,  the  following  extracts  may  not  be  un- 
interesting : — 

"  Lorsque  1'on  annonca  les  representations  des  artistes  anglais  sur 
la  scene  au  Theatre  Italien,  nous  ne  connaissions  ici  que  deux  noms 
de  la  troupe  nouvelle,  celui  de  Macready,  celui  de  Bennett ;  car  on  se 
rappelait  aussi  avoir  vu  M.  Bennett  durant  le  premier  sdjour  que 
firent  k  Paris  les  acteurs  venus  de  Londres.  Quant  a  Miss  Helen 
Faucit,  le  bruit  de  son  talent  n'avait  jamais  ete  assez  loin  pour  passer 
le  detroit,  et  lorsque  la  troupe  de"buta  par  Othello,  des  premieres 
scenes  de  1'ouvrage,  a  voir  manoeuvrer  1'entourage  du  celebre  comedien, 
on  pensa,  c'etait  presque  raison,  qu'il  serait  seul  1'interet  et  la  curi- 
osite  du  nouveau  theatre  ;  je  n'ai  pas  besoin  d'ajouter,  apres  Shake- 
speare. 

"  Miss  Helen,  en  effet,  n'a  pas  ces  dehors,  ces  enseignes,  si  1'on  veut, 
de  1'actrice,  que  attirent  des  1'abord  les  regards  du  spectateur,  prepar- 
ent  sa  bienveillance,  et  quelque  chose  de  plus  que  sa  bienveillance, 
lui  font  ddsirer  enfin  de  trouver  le  talent  ou  ils  aiment  la  beaute. 
Miss  Helen,  pour  qui  la  voit  en  passant,  est  une  jeune  femme  de 
formes  greles,  mais  non  pas  dedicates,  grande,  et  a  laquelle  manque 
la  fleur  de  la  chair.1  Cependant,  aussi  tot  qu'elle  marche,  aussi  tot 
qu'elle  fait  un  geste,  qu'elle  prend  une  attitude,  une  grace  charmante 
se  revele.  Cette  jeune  femme,  qui  ne  semblait  pas  avoir  la  adduction 
necessaire  de  1'actrice,  a  tout  1'attrait  mais  1'attrait  irresistible  de  la 
femme.  Elle  est  femme,  en  un  mot ;  sa  grace  particuliere  ne  saurait 
s'expliquer  par  aucune  autre  expression  ;  et  quand  elle  parle,  c'est  en- 
core la  voix  qui  convient  a  cette  grace,  c'est  la  douceur  d'organe  qui 
sied  bien  a  cette  harmonie  de  la  demarche  et  de  toute  la  personne, 
c'est  le  son  caressant  qui  accompagne  a  souhait  cette  caresse,  pour 
ainsi  parler,  du  regard  et  des  manieres  decentes. 

"  Aussi,  avant  la  fin  de  la  soir6e,  le  public  partageait  deja  son  atten- 
tion entre  Othello  et  Desdemona.  II  savait  que  Londres  lui  avait 
envoye"  plus  qu'un  grand  tragedien,  qu'il  avait  envoye  aussi  une  grande 
tragedienne. 

1  An  unintended  compliment.  It  surprised  a  French  critic  to  see  an  actress 
trust  mainly  to  her  natural  complexion.  The  abuse  of  cosmetics  on  the  French 
stage,  which  was  then  habitual,  has  since  been  carried,  in  many  instances,  to 
an  excess  upon  our  own.  When  the  skin  is  covered  with  what  is  in  effect  a 
painted  mask,  the  natural  colour,  which  under  strong  emotion  would  come  and 
go,  is  hidden  under  it,  and  the  expression  of  the  countenance  destroyed. 


406  APPENDIX. 

"  Ce  n'est  pas  la  un  succks  de  surprise.  Kien  n'avait  pu  prevenir 
les  esprits.  La  petite  industrie  de  la  reclame  n'avait  pas  re"pandu 
a  propos  1'eloge  officieux,  aucune  anecdote  n'avait  ete  inventee,  pas  la 
moindre  historiette  mise  en  circulation,  pas  le  moindre  commence- 
ment de  biographic.  L'affiche  m§me,  si  fleurie  en  6pithetes  et  en 
amenites  oratoires,  n'avait  pas  ajoute  au  nom  de  Miss  Helen  Faucit 
la  plus  simple  de  ses  insinuations,  et  la  caractere  avait  et6  scrupu- 
leusement  mesure'  de  maniere  a  ce  que  la  seconde  vedette  n'affectat  pas 
la  prevention  de  rivaliser  avec  la  premiere  ;  mais  le  talent  veritable 
n'a  pas  besoin  de  ces  habilites  d'editeur  ou  de  directeur  de  spectacle  : 
inconnue  avant  la  representation,  Miss  Faucit  ne  1'etait  plus  des  le 
quatrieme  acte.  Apres  le  cinquieme,  elle  fut  rappelee  avec  Macready. 
.  .  .  Miss  Faucit  devenait  comme  une  de  nos  actrices,  comme  une 
actrice  fran§aise. 

"  II  est  vrai  que  son  talent  avait  dej'a  pour  nous  quelque  chose  de 
raoins  Stranger  et  de  plus  ami.  II  etait  nouveau,  et  pourtant  nous  lui 
trouvions  je  ne  sais  quelle  ressemblance  avec  nos  souvenirs.  Cette 
grace  si  fine,  si  spirituelle  et  si  na'ive,  c'etait  de  la  grace  anglaise 
assurement,  c'etait  aussi  de  la  grace  allemande.  Mais  ou  avions 
nous  vu  cette  grace  allemande  ?  Nous  Pavions  vue  sur  la  scene  de 
1'Opera,  nous  1'avions  vue  dans  nos  ballets,  dans  la  Gipsy,  dans  le 
Liable  Boiteux,  dans  la  Tarentule;  elle  s'appelait  alors  Fanny  Elsler, 
et  qu'y  a-t-il  d'dtonnant  que  nous  ayons  aime  Miss  Faucit,  que  nous 
1'ayons  reconnue,  que  le  public  francais  1'ait  adopted  pour  cette 
ressemblance  ? 

"  Ajoutez  une  voix  comme  celle  de  Mile.  Mars,  et  une  maniere  de 
reciter  qui  se  rapproche  surtout  de  notre  maniere.  En  ge"ne"ral,  les 
artistes  anglais  ont  retenu  1'emphase  de  la  tragedie,  telle  que  la  jouait 
Lafont,  telle  qu'on  la  de"clamait  a  c6te"  de  Talma.  Macready  lui- 
m£me  a  conserve  par  momens  ce  de"bit  pompeux,  qu'il  accentue  d'ail- 
leurs  a  la  fagon  anglaise  en  appuyant  sur  toutes  les  syllabes.  Miss 
Helen  Faucit  parle  simplement,  naturellement ;  la  phrase  coule 
limpide  de  ses  levres,  et  s'echappe  d'une  seule  6mission,  comme  dans 
notre  recitation  frangaise.  .  .  . 

"  Apres  Othello,  sont  venus  successivement  Hamlet,  Virginius,  Mac- 
beth, Eome'o  et  Juliette.  A  chacun  de  ces  drames,  le  succes  de  Miss 
Faucit  s'est  accru  sans  autres  artifices.  L'actrice  jouait,  et  la  public 
applaudissait." 

OPHELIA. 

"  On  n'avait  imagine  Ophelia  ni  plus  touchante,  ni  plus  gracieuse. 
Notre  parterre  fran§ais  est  demeure  surpris  devant  cette  pantomime 
pleine  de  sens,  pleine  d'idees,  pleine  de  bonte,  pleine  de  tendresses, 


PARISIAN   DRAMATIC   CRITICISMS.  407 

pleine  de  passion  meme,  mais  surtout  pleine  de  mesure  et  pleine  de 
modestie.  Car  c'est  la  une  qualite  rare  ;  aussi  je  reviens  sur  cet  eloge ; 
il  y  a  dans  Miss  Faucit,  et  a  un  degre  eminent,  ce  que  j'appelle  la 
modestie  de  1'artiste,  ce  dcsinteressement  precieux  par  lequel  1'artiste 
prefere  Fart  a  lui-merne,  et  le  succes  du  drame  a  son  propre  succes. 
Quel  que  soit  le  role,  quelle  que  soit  la  scene,  Miss  Faucit  prend  sa 
place  dans  la  perspective  du  tableau,  dans  1 'ensemble  de  1'oeuvre,  et 
cette  place  elle  la  garde  jusqu'a  la  fin,  sans  chercher  a  sortir  de  la 
demi-teinte  necessaire ;  disparaissant  m6me  au  besoin  dans  1'ombre 
que  le  poete  a  menage'e." 

VIRGINIA. 

"Dans  Virginius  le  role  de  Virginie  n'est  pour  ainsi  dire  que  le 
fond  oblige"  du  drame.  Toute  Faction  repose  sur  ce  role,  mais  en  y 
pesant  de  son  poids  et  en  1'ecrasant.  Le  drame  ne  saurait  etre  qu'a 
cette  condition.  Timide,  elevee  dans  le  secret  du  foyer  domestique, 
Virginie  aime  Icilius,  et  son  amour  est  celui  d'une  jeune  fille,  un 
amour  qui  se  trahit,  sans  parler,  qui  se  decele  en  se  cachant.  Lorsque 
le  client  d'Appius  entraine  Virginie  sur  le  Forum,  Virginie  se  couvre 
de  son  voile,  et  le  peuple  dispute  au  Decemvir  une  victime  sans  de- 
fense. Lorsque  Virginius  a  son  tour  revient  de  Farmee  en  tout  hate, 
se  presente  au  tribunal  d'Appius,  et  reconnait  avec  dcsespoir  que  sa 
fille  n'est  deja  plus  a  lui,  lorsqu'il  en  appelle  au  peuple,  lorsqu'il 
prend  les  dieux  a  temoin,  lorsque  de  la  priere  il  passe  a  la  menace, 
lorsqu'il  rugit  comme  un  lion  blesse,  lorsqu'  eufin  il  se  jette  sur  le 
couteau  qui  fera  de  la  fille  une  morte,  et  de  cette  morte  une  vierge 
inviolee,  Virginie  n'appartient  deja  plus  a  la  vie,  ses  forces  Font 
abandonnee  ;  elle  ne  voit  rien,  n'entend  rien,  ne  se  soutient  qu'en 
s'appuyant  sur  la  poitrine  de  son  pere,  et  lorsque  ce  malheureux  pere 
oublie  un  moment  sa  fille  pour  se  de"tourner  vers  le  peuple  ou  le 
Decemvir,  Virginie  se  laisse  aller  a  terre,  et  se  rattache  a  peine  au 
bord  du  manteau  paternel. 

"  C'est  la  un  de  ces  roles  que  nos  artistes  n'accepteraient  pas  volon- 
tiers.  Ecrit,  il  contient  a  peine  soixante  lignes.  Joue,  il  assiste  a  la 
duree  des  quatre  premiers  actes,  pour  disparattre  au  cinquieme,  et 
lorsqu'il  est  present  a  Faction,  il  n'y  sert  encore  qu'a,  fournir  aux  autres 
roles  leurs  effets  dramatiques.  Miss  Faucit  le  remplit  avec  ce  devoue- 
nient  dont  je  parlais  tout  a  Fheure ;  elle  s'abandonne  au  talent  de 
Macready,  comme  si  ce  talent  dtait  sa  propre  gloire.  Macready  est 
Fame  de  ce  corps  qui  n'a  plus  d'autre  volonte  que  la  volonte  du 
tragedien,  d'autres  intentions  que  ses  intentions,  d'autre  ambition  que 
la  faiblesse,  que  la  passivite",  que  Finertie.  Faiblesse,  passivite,  inertie 
intelligente  toutefois,  car  Factrice  trouve  dans  cette  sorte  d'abndgation 


408  APPENDIX. 

d'elle-mSme  un  de  ses  plus  16gitimes  triomphes,  et  le  public  aait  bien 
1'applaudir  en  voyant  Virginie  si  douce,  si  malheureuse,  si  digne  de 
pitie." 

LADY  MACBETH. 

"  Entre  Virginie  et  Lady  Macbeth  il  y  a  toute  la  gamme  de  1'art  a 
parcourir.  Ce  sont  la  deux  figures  si  diverges,  qu'une  m6me  nature 
ne  semble  pas  devoir  suffire  a  representer  1'une  et  1'autre ;  mais  le 
sentiment  du  vrai  supple'e  dans  un  artiste  a  bien  des  conditions  phy- 
siques, et  Miss  Faucit,  dans  la  scene  du  sommeil,  s'est  elevde  jusqu'aux 
effets  les  plus  saississants  de  la  terreur.  On  se  rappellera  toujours  le 
geste  impatient  et  inquiet  avec  lequel  Lady  Macbeth  appelle  son  mari 
absent,  et  se  retire  elle-meTne  en  lui  disant,  '  Au  lit  !  au  lit ! ' " 


JULIET. 

"  Mais  enfin  nous  avons  vu  le  r61e  de  Juliette,  et  comment  avons- 
nous  vu  ?  Comment  nous  a-t-il  ete  donne  1  A  coup  sur  la  direction 
de  la  troupe  anglaise  n'avait  pas  songe  des  1'abord  a  garder  un  frag- 
ment de  Shakespeare,  et  Miss  Faucit  seule,  dans  ce  fragment  du  poete, 
pour  sa  representation  d'adieux.  C'est  le  succes  qui  a  valu  cet  hon- 
neur  a  la  tragedienne,  et  a  nous  la  bonne  fortune  d'une  semblable 
soiree.  Je  regrette  profonde"ment  que  Rome'o  de  Juliette  ne  soit  pas 
joud  une  seconde  fois.  ...  II  n'est  pas  possible  que  M.  Mitchell 
n'essaie  pas  de  nouveau  une  representation  qui  a  si  vivement  e"mu 
toute  la  Salle.  .  .  ." 

After  describing  the  entrance  of  Romeo  in  the  balcony  scene,  and 
the  first  words  of  Juliet's  reverie,  M.  Edouard  Thierry  continues  : — 

"  C'est  le  malheur  de  nos  tragediennes  que  toute  notre  theatre  ne 
contienne  pas  une  scene  de  ce  charme  et  de  cette  po^sie.  Est-ce  la 
Conservatoire  ?  Est-ce  Corneille  ?  Est-ce  Racine  Im-m^me  qui  leur 
apprendrait  a  jouer  de  telles  choses  ?  Plus  heureuse,  par  la  du  moins, 
Miss  Faucit  a  trouve  dans  le  poete  classique  de  1'Angleterre  des  situa- 
tions comme  le  cceur  les  reve,  ou  la  grande  science  de  1'acteur  est  de 
savoir  sentir  et  de  savoir  aimer.  Miss  Faucit  a-t-elle  jamais  regu 
d'autres  legons  1  Elle  est  femme  ;  je  ne  suppose  pas  que  Shakespeare 
ait  demande"  autre  chose  a  sa  Juliette. 

"  Quel  maltre,  si  ce  n'est  le  coeur,  enseignera  le  bonheur  de  confier 
le  secret  d'un  premier  amour  a  la  nuit  silencieuse,  et  ces  e"lans  ou 
1'ame  se  sent  assez  grande  pour  remplir  1'espace  infini,  et  cette  pudeur 
d'amante  de  qui  1'amant  inapercu  a  surpris  la  delicieuse  confidence,  et 
cette  rougeur  voilde  par  1'ombre,  et  cette  honte  qui  n'est  ni  de  la  honte 


PARISIAN   DRAMATIC   CRITICISMS.  409 

ni  meme  du  regret,  et  ce  regret,  s'il  en  est  un,  qui  ne  sait  lui-rafime 
s'il  ne  s'appelle  pas  du  bonheur,  et  cette  f^licite*  de  deux  ames  qui 
echangent  le  serment  d'amour,  et  cette  promptitude  d'enfant  a  donner 
toutes  ses  pensees,  toute  sa  vie,  et  ce  desir  d'enfant  qui  veut  les  re- 
prendre,  et  ces  naivetes  d'enfant  qui  se  hatent  de  rendre  plus  encore 
qu'on  n'a  repris,  plus  qu'on  n'avait  donnd  ;  et  ces  adieux  sans  fin,  et  ce 
courage  nouveau  qui  se  sent  plus  fort  que  la  mort,  mais  non  pas  que 
la  separation  et  que  1'absence  ?  .  .  .  Oui,  il  y  a  tout  cela  dans  cette 
scene  de  Shakespeare,  qui  est  presque  un  poeme,  et  il  n'y  a  rien  de 
moins  dans  le  jeu  de  Miss  Helen  Faucit.  On  ecoutait  et  on  admirait. 
En  ce  moment  tout  le  monde  comprenait  Shakespeare,  comme  tout  le 
monde  comprend  1'amour.  Et  puis,  c'est  un  des  caracteres  du  talent 
de  Miss  Faucit,  sa  physionomie  explique  tout,  raconte  tout,  apprend 
tout ;  c'est  un  livre  ouvert,  un  livre  merveilleux,  si  vous  voulez,  ou 
chacun  peut  lire  dans  sa  langue.  J'en  appelle  aux  souvenirs  de  ceux 
qui  assistaient  a  la  representation  de  Romtfo,  aux  souvenirs  de  notre 
public  qui  ne  sait  pas  1'anglais  :  Est-il  un  seul  mot  de  cet  admirable 
dialogue,  un  seul  mot  de  ce  charmant  aveu  de  Juliette,  qui  n'ait  e'te' 
entendu,  comme  s'il  eut  e'te  dit  dans  une  langue  universelle,  au  sortir 
des  levres  de  Miss  Helen  ? 

"  II  en  a  e'te  de  m&ne  de  la  scene  entre  Juliette  et  sa  nourrice, 
lorsque  la  bonne  vieille  revient  lui  rendre  la  re*ponse  de  Romeo,  et 
que,  soit  malice,  soit  faiblesse  de  1'age,  1'un  et  1'autre  peut-etre,  elle  ne 
veut  pas  cesser  de  se  plaindre  et  de  s'interrompre,  en  se  recriant  sur  sa 
fatigue,  sur  ses  douleurs  de  te"te,  sur  ses  douleurs  de  reins.  Je  le 
repete,  notre  theatre  ne  nous  habitue  pas  a  ces  inge'nuite's  charmantes  ; 
a  ces  bouderies,  a  ces  impatiences,  a  ces  calineries  ;  et  le  public  battait 
les  mains  a  voir  Miss  Faucit  appuyer  si  doucement  sa  joue  centre  la 
joue  de  sa  nourrice,  se  mettre  a  genoux  aupres  d'elle,  lui  prendre  le 
menton  dans  ses  deux  mains,  la  plaindre  avec  sa  gentilesse  enfantine, 
la  bercer  sur  son  fauteuil,  la  cajoler,  la  flatter,  la  dorloter,  impatiente 
cependant,  et  avide  d'entendre  parler  de  Borneo,  mais  patiente  a  force 
d'impatience  et  de  de"sir. 

"Miss  Faucit  a  encore  eu  une  scene  admirable,  celle-ci  d'un  autre 
genre,  la  scene  tragique  ou  elle  prend  le  breuvage  qui  doit  lui  donner 
les  apparences  de  la  mort.  Ainsi  composed,  une  scene  se  deVeloppe 
comme  un  drame  complet.  Rien  n'y  est  omis.  A  partir  du  moment 
ou  la  Signora  Capulet  se  retire,  et  ou  sa  fille  lui  baise  la  main  a 
genoux,  avec  la  tendresse  passionne"e  d'un  dernier  adieu,  Juliette  passe 
par  tous  les  degrds  de  la  terreur  !  Elle  est  seule,  elle  s'effraie  de  la 
solitude,  et  elle  songe  a  rappeler  sa  nourrice,  puis  elle  essaie  a  se 
rassurer  elle-meme  et  a  sourire  a  son  effroi.  Elle  s'excite  au  courage 
par  1'aversion  qu'elle  6prouve  pour  le  Comte,  et,  si  le  breuvage  ne 
produit  pas  son  effet,  elle  se  dit,  qu'elle  a  toujours  un  poignard  pour 

2  D 


410  APPENDIX, 

se  soustraire  a  la  contrainte.  Si  pourtant  ce  breuvage  etait  re"ellement 
un  poison  1  ...  Crainte  singuliere  de  la  mort  par  le  poison,  pour  une 
femme  qui  vient  de  regarder  son  poignard  comme  une  consolation  et 
comme  une  force.  Crainte  naturelle  toutefois,  car  le  poignard  c'est 
la  mort  volontaire,  le  poison  c'est  la  mort  involontaire,  et  la  mort 
mysterieuse,  inconnue. 

"  Apres  un  moment  de  reverie,  tous  ces  secrets  de  la  mort  viennent 
epouvanter  la  jeune  fille.  Place"e  vivante  dans  le  tombeau,  elle  s'y 
reveillera  ;  mais  que  Borneo  tarde  a  venir,  et  1'air  doit  manquer  sous 
les  voutes  de  ces  caveaux  funebres.  Et  la  poussiere  des  tre'passe's  que 
1'on  respire  comme  la  cendre,  et  les  ombres  de  ceux  qui  ne  sont  plus 
qui  voltigent  sans  cesse  dans  les  tenebres,  et  Tybalt  frappe  par  Rome'o, 
Tybalt  sanglant,  mort  de  la  veille,  que  ne  manquera  pas  de  se  reunir  a 
cette  assemble  invisible  de  spectres  seculaires  !  .  .  .  A  ce  moment 
Miss  Faucit  a  e'te'  reellement  sublime.  Le  public  partageait  son  6pou- 
vante,  et  cette  e"pouvante  s'est  prolonged  jusqu'a  la  fin  du  monologue, 
tant  1'actrice  a  su  varier,  par  sa  pantomime,  par  1'expression  de  ses 
traits,  ces  tableaux,  cette  suite  d'horribles  et  e"tranges  visions. 

"Apres  cette  scene,  le  dernier  acte  ne  pouvait  plus  rien  aj outer 
a  1'emotion  du  spectateur.  .  .  .  Miss  Faucit  a  e'vite'  les  eclats  trop 
violens,  et  de  la  joie  de  Juliette  en  revoyant  Rome'o,  et  de  son  de"sespoir 
en  le  revoyant  avec  la  mort  dans  ses  yeux.  Elle  a  conserve"  jusqu'a 
la  fin  l'e"tonnement  vague  de  la  lethargic.  Peut-gtre,  en  effet,  y  a-t-il 
la  un  sentiment  plus  vrai  de  la  situation ;  mais  au  theatre  il  faut  que 
les  effets  s'ajoutent  les  uns  aux  autres  dans  une  progression  mathe'- 
matique,  et  le  cinquieme  acte  doit  frapper  le  spectateur  d'une  impres- 
sion plus  vive  que  le  quatrieme. 

"Quoi  qu'il  en  soit,  Miss  Faucit  a  e'te'  rappele"e  par  d'unanimes 
acclamations,  et,  quand  elle  a  reparu,  les  bouquets  pleuvaient  a  ses 
pieds." 


PRINTBD   BT   WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD   AND   SONft 


Catalogue 
of 

Messrs    Black  wood    &   Sons 
Publications 


PERIODS  OF   EUROPEAN   LITERATURE:   A  Complete  and 

CONTINUOUS  HISTORY  OF  THB  SUBJECT.    Edited  by  PBOMSSOB  SAINTS- 
BURY.     In  12  crown  8vo  vols.,  each  6s.  net. 

I.  THE  DARK  AGES.    By  Professor  W.  P.  Km. 
II.  THE   FLOURISHING   OF   ROMANCE   AND  THE  RISE  OF 
ALLEGORY.    (12-ra  AND  13TH  CENTURIES.)    By  GEORGE  SAINTS- 
BURY,   M.A.,  Hon.   LL.D.,  Aberdeen,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and 
English  Literature  in  Edinburgh  University. 

III.  THE  FOURTEENTH  CENTURY.     By  F.  J.  S»liX. 

IV.  THE  TRANSITION  PERIOD.    By  Prof.  G.  GBKOOBY  SMITH. 
V.  THE  EARLIER  RENAISSANCE.    By  THK  EDITOR. 

VI.  THE  LATER  RENAISSANCE.     By  DAVID  HANNAT. 
VII.  THE   FIRST  HALF    OF  THE    SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 

By  Prof.  H.  J.  C.  GRIERSON. 

VEIL  THE   AUGUSTAN  AGES.    By  OLIVER  ELTON. 
IX.  THE  MID- EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.    By  J.  H.  MILLAB. 
X.  THE  ROMANTIC  REVOLT.     By  Prof.  C.  E.  VAUQHAN. 
XI.  THE  ROMANTIC  TRIUMPH,     By  T.  S.  OMOND, 
XII.  THE  LATER  NINETEENTH  CENTURY.    By  THK  EDITOR. 


PHILOSOPHICAL    CLASSICS     FOR     ENGLISH     READERS, 

LL.D.,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy 
Re-issue  in  Shilling  Volumes  net. 


Edited  by  WILLIAM  KNIGHT, 
in  the  University  of  St  Andrews. 


DESCARTES Prof.  M  hafTy. 

BUTLKB       ....  Rev.  W.  L.  C  Uins. 
BERKELEY,  .    .      Prof.  Campbell  F    eer. 

FICHTE, Prof.  Adaik  on. 

KANT Prof.  Wallace. 

HAMILTON Prof.  Veitch. 

HEOBL,  ....   The  Master  of  Balliol. 
LEIBNII,     .    .    .    John  Theodore  Men. 


Vico,          Prof.  Flint. 

HOBBKS,      .    .    .    Prof.  Groom  Robertson. 

HUME, Prof.  Knight. 

SPINOXA, Principal  Caird. 

BACON  :  Part  I..  .    .    .    .     .  Prof.  Nichol. 

BACON  :  Part  II.,     ....  Prof.  Nichol. 

LOCKX,  ....     Prof.  Campbell  Fraser. 


FOREIGN  CLASSICS  FOR  ENGLISH  READERS,    Edited  by 

Mrs  OLIPHANT.    CH»AP  RE-ISSUB.     In  limp  cloth,  fcap.  8vo,  price  IB, 
each  net. 


DANTE,  by  tho  Editor.  —  VOLTAIRE, 
by  General  Sir  E.  B.  Hamley,  K.C.B. 
—  PASCAL,  by  Principal  Tulloch.  —  PE- 
TRARCH, by  Henry  Reeve,  C.B.— GOETHE, 
by  A.  Hayward,  Q.C.— MOLIERK,  by  the 
Editor  and  F.  Tarver,  M.A.— MONTAIGNE. 
by  Rev.  W.  L.  Collins. — RABELAIS,  by  Sir 
Walter  Besant.  —  CALDERON,  by  E.  J. 
lasell.—  SAINT  BIMON:  by  G.  W.  Collins, 


OEBVANTES,  by  the  Editor.  —  CORNEILLB 
AND  RACINE,  by  Henry  M.  Trollope. — 
MADAME  DE  SEVIGNE,  by  Miss  Thackeray. 

—  LA    FONTAINE,    AND    OTHER    FRENCH 
FABULISTS,    by    Rev.   W.    Lucas   Collins, 
M. A.  —  SCHILLER,   by  James  Sime,   M. A. 

—  TASSO,   by   E.    J.    Hasell.  —  ROUSSEAU, 
by    Henry    Grey    Graham.  —  ALFRED    DE 
MUSSET,  by  0.  F.  OUphant 


4NCIENT  CLASSICS  FOR  ENGLISH  READERS.    Edited  by 

the  Rsv.  W.  LUCAS  COLLINS,  M.A.    CHEAP  RS-ISSUE.     In  limp  cloth, 

foap.  8vo,  price  Is.  each  net. 
Uontentt  of  fke  Seritt. — HOMER  :  ILIAD, 
by  the  Editor. — HOMER  :  ODYSSEY,  by  the 
Editor. — HERODOTUS,  by  G.  C.  Swayno.— 
C«SAR,  by  Anthony  TroHope. — VIRGIL,  by 
the  Editor.  —  HORACE,  by  Sir  Theodore 
«artin.— .fiscHYLUS,  by  Bishop  Copleston. 
--XENOPHON,  by  Sir  Alex.  Grant. — CICERO, 
by  the  Editor.— SOPHOCLJB,  by  0.  W.  Col- 
lins. — PLJNY,  by  Rev.  A.  Church  and  W.  J. 
Brodribb.— EURIPIDES,  by  W.  B.  Donne.— 
."•JVENAL,  by  E.  Walford.  —  ARISTOPHANES, 
by  *he  Editor.— HESIOD  AND  THEOONM,  bv 


J.  Davies.--  PLAUTUB  AND  TERENCE,  by  the 
Editor.  —  TACITUS,  by  W.  B.  Donne. — 
LUCIAN,  by  the  Editor.— PLATO,  by  C.  W. 
Collins.  —  GRKEJ  ANTHOLOGY,  by  Lord 
Neaves.— LIVY,  by  the  Editor.— OVID,  by 
Rev.  A.  Church.  —  CATULLUS,  TIBULLUS, 
AND  PROPERTIUS,  by  J.  Da  vies. —DEMOS- 
THENES, by  W.  J.  Brodribb.— ARISTOTLE, 


by  Sir  Alex.  Grant.  -TEUCYDIDES,  by  the 
Editor.— LUCRETIUS,  by        ~ 
?isn>A»,  by  H*v.  F.  D.  tt 


W.  H.  MaUoek.- 
nrj'1*' 


OATALOGDE 

01 

MESSES   BLACFWOOD   &   SONS' 
PUBLICATIONS, 


Nnnc  primnm  Integra  edits  opera  UAROLI  DK  SMKDT  et  JOSEPHI  DE  BACKER,  e 
8oc.  Jean,  Hagiographcram  Bollandianorum ;  Anctore  et  Sumptus  Largiente 
JOANNK  FATBICIO  MABCHIONK  BOTHAE.  In  One  handsome  4to  Volume,  bound  ID 


ACTA  SANCTORUM  HIBERNLE  ;  Ex  Codice  Salmanticensi, 

BMEDT  et  JOSEPHI  DE  BACKER,  e 
Auctore  et_  Sumptus  Largiente 

half  roxburghe,  £2,  2s.;  In  paper  cover,  81s.  6d. 

ADAMSON. 

The  Development  of  Modern  Philosophy.  With  other  Lec- 
tures and  Essays.  By  ROBERT  ADAMSON,  LL.D.,  late  Professor  of  Logic  in 
the  University  of  Glasgow.  Edited  by  Professor  W.  R.  SORLEY,  University  of 
Cambridge.  In  2  vols.  demy  8vo,  18s.  net. 

The  Development  of  Modern  Philosophy.    Edited  by  Professor 

W.  R.  SORLEY,  University  of  Cambridge.    Demy  8vo,  10s.  6d.  net. 

The  Development  of  Greek  Philosophy.    Edited  by  Professor 

SORLEY  and  R.  P.  HARDIE,  M.A.    Demy  8vo,  10s.  6d.  net. 

AIRMAN, 

Manures  and  the  Principles  of  Manuring.    By  C.  M.  AIKMAN, 

D.Sc.,  F.R.8.B.,  Ac.,  formerly  Professor  of  Chemistry,  Glasgow  Veterinary 
Oollesre,  and  Examiner  in  Chemistry,  University  of  Glasgow,  &c  Second 
Impression.  Crown  8vo,  6s.  6d. 

Farmyard  Manure  :  Its  Nature,  Composition,  and  Treatment. 

Crown  8vo,  Is.  6d. 

ALISON. 

History  of  Europe.    By  Sir  ARCHIBALD  ALISON,  Bart..  D.C.L. 

1.  From  the  Commencement  of  the  French  Revolution  tc 

the  Battle  of  Waterloo. 

LIBRARY  EDITION,  14  vols.,  with  Portraits.    Demy  8vo,  £16,  10s. 
ANOTHER  EDITION,  in  20  vols.  crown  8vo,  £6. 
PEOPLE'S  EDITION.  13  vols.  crown  8vo,  £2,  11s. 

2.  Continuation  to  the  Accession  of  Louis  Napoleon. 

LIBRARY  EDITION,  8  vols.  8vo,  £6,  7s.  6d. 
PEOPLE'S  EDITION,  8  vols.  crown  8vo  84s. 

Epitome  of  Alison's  Historv  of  Europe      Thirtieth   Thou- 
sand, 7s.  6d. 
Atlas  to  Alison's  History  of  Europe.    By  A.  Keith  Johnston. 

LIBRARY  EDITION,  demy  4to,  £3,  3e. 
PEOPLE'S  EDITION,  Sis.  6d. 

ALLEN.    The  Place  of  History  in  Education.    By  J.  W.  ALLEN. 

Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

ANCIENT  CLASSICS  FOR  ENGLISH   READERS.     Edited 

by  Rev.  W.  LUCAS  COLLINS,  M.A.     Price  Is.  each  net.    7<?r  Litt  of  Volt,  tet  p.  2. 

ANDERSON.    The  Lighter  Side  of  my  Official  Life.    By  Sir 

ROBERT  ANDERSON,  K.C.B.    Demy  8vo.  [In  the  press. 

ARMYTAGE.    Maids  of  Honour.    By  A.  J.  GREEN-ARMYTAGE. 

Crown  8vo,  5s. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


ATKINSON.      Local    Government    in    Scotland.      By  MABEL 

ATKINSON,  M.A.    In  1  vol.  demy  8vo,  5s.  net. 

AYTOUN. 

Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers,  and  other  Poems.    By  W. 

EDMONDSTOUNE  AYTOUN,  D.C.L.,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  Belles-Lettres  In  th« 
University  of  Edinburgh.    New  Edition.    Fcap.  8vo,  8s.  M. 
CHEAP  EDITION,    la.    Cloth,  Is.  3d. 

An  Illustrated  Edition  of  the  Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers 

From  designs  by  Sir  NOEL  PATCH.    Cheaper  Edition.    Small  4to,  10s.  «d. 

BADEN -POWELL.      Ballooning  as  a  Sport.      By  Major  B. 

BADEN-POWELL.    With  Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

BARBOUK.    Thoughts  from  the  Writings  of  R.  W.  BARBOUB. 

Pott  8vo,  limp  leather,  2s.  6d.  net. 

"  BARFLEUR."    Naval  Policy.    A  Plea  for  the  Study  of  War. 

v  By  "Barfleur."    Demy  8vo,  2s.  6d.  net. 

BARRINGTON. 

The  King's  Fool.    By  MICHAEL  BARRINGTON.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
The    Reminiscences    of    Sir    Barrington    Beaumont,    Bart. 

A  Novel.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

BARTLETT. 

Richard  Langhorne  :  The  Story  of  a  Socialist.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
The  Passing  of  the  Shereefian  Empire.    Illustrated.     Demy 

8vo,  10s.  6d.  net. 

BELLESHEIM      History  of  the  Catholic  Church  of  Scotland. 

From  the  Introduction  of  Christianity  to  the  Present  Day.  By  ALPHONS  BEL- 
LESHKIM,  D.D.,  Canon  of  Ali-la-Chapelle.  Translated,  with  Notes  and  Additions, 
by  D.  OSWALD  HUNTER  BLAIR,  O.8.B.,  Monk  of  Fort  Augustus  Cheap  Edition. 
Complete  in  4  vols.  dnroy  8vo,  with  Map?.  Price  Sis.  net. 

BLACK.      The    Scots    Churches    in    England.      By    KENNETH 

MACLEOD  BLACK.      Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

BLACKBURN. 

A  Burgher  Quixote.    By  DOUGLAS   BLACKBURN,  Author  of 

'  Prinsloo  of  Prinsloosdorp.'  Second  Impression.  With  Frontispiece.  Crown 
8vo,  6s. 

Richard  Hartley :  Prospector.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

BLACKWOOD. 

Annals  of  a  Publishing  House.     William  Blackwood  and  his 

Sons ;  Their  Magazine  and  Friends.  By  Mrs  OLIPHANT.  With  Four  Portraits. 
Third  Edition.  Demy  8yo.  Vols.  I.  and  II.  £2,  2s. 

Annals  of  a  Publishing  House.     Vol.  III.     John  Blackwood. 

By  his  Daughter  Mrs  BLACKWOOD  PORTHR.  With  2  Portraits  andView  of  Strath- 
tyrum.  Demy  8vo,  21s. 

Blackwood's   Magazine,   from    Commencement    in    1817    to 

December  1909.     Nos.  1  to  1130,  forming  186  Volumes. 

Tales  from  Blackwood.   First  Series.   Price  One  Shilling  each 

in  Paper  Cover.    Sold  separately  at  all  Railway  Bookstalls. 

They  may  also  be  had  bound  in  12  vols.,  cloth,  18s.    Half  calf,  richly  gilt,  SO*. 
Or  the  12  vols.  in  6,  rn-rbTirs'he.  91s.     Half  red  morocco,  28s. 

Tales  from  Blackwood.    Second  Series.    Complete  in  Twenty  • 

four  Shilling  Parts.  Handsomely  bound  in  12  vols. ,  cloth,  80s.  In  leather  back 
roxburgbe  style,  3Ts.  6d.  Half  calf,  gilt,  52s.  6d.  Half  morocco,  55s. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


BLACKWOOD. 

Tales  from  Blackwood.    Third  Series,    Complete  in  Twelve 

Shilling  Parts.    Handsomely  bound  in  6  vols.,  cloth,  15s.;  and  in  12  vols.   cloth, 
18s.    The  8  vols.  in  roiburghe  21s.    Half  calf,  25s.    Half  morocco,  28s. 

Travel,  Adventure,  and  Sport.     From  '  Biackwood's  Magazine. 

Uniform  with  'Tales  from  Blackwood.'    In  Twelve  Parts,  aach  price  Is.     Hand- 
somely bound  in  6  vole,   cioth,  15s.     And  in  half  calf,  i&a 

New  Educational  Series.     See  separate  Educational  Catalogue. 
New  Uniform  Series  of  Novels  (Copyright). 

Crown  8vo,  cloth.    Price  SB.  6d.  each.    Now  ready  :— 
WENDBRHOLME.    By  P.  G.  Hamerton.  j  MARMORNE.    By  P.  0.  Haniortoa 


THE  STORY  OF  MARGREDEI. 
Meldruni. 


MABJOBIBAWK*.    By  Mrs  Ollphant 

THE  PERPETUAL  OURATE,  and  THE  REOTOF. 

By  the  Same. 
SALEM  OHAPEL,  and  THE  DOCTOR  8  FAMILY, 

By  the  Same. 

A  SENSITIVE  PLAKI'.     By  B.  D.  Gerard. 
LADY  LEE'S  WIDOWHOOD.     By  General  81: 

B.  B.  Hamley. 
KATIE  STEWART,  and  other  Stonoi.     'Uy  Mrs 

Ollph&nt. 

VALENTINE  A&D  ais  Uaojuca..    By  the  batae. 
SONS  AN»  DAUGHTERS.     By  the  Sains. 


By  D.  Storifc:     KBATA.    By  K.  D.  Oierard. 

BEGGAR  MY  NEIGHBOUR.    By  Che  a» 


THE  WATERS  or  HERCULES.    By  the  Sam*. 
PAIR  TO  SEE.    By  L.  W.  M.  Lockhart 
MINK  is  THINE.    By  the  Same. 
DODBLES  AND  QUITS.    By  the  Same. 
ALTIOBA  PETO.    By  Laurence  Oliphaat. 
PICCADILM      By  the  Same.    With  Illustrb 

bions. 
LADY  BAEC.     By  D.  (ierard. 


THE  BLACKSMITH  os  Vo«.  By  Paul  Oushi 


MY  TRIVIAL  LIFE  AND  MIKSTOBTUNB. 

Plain  Woman. 
POOK,  NKLI.IB.     By  the  S»a; 


By  A 


Standard   Novels.      Uniform    in    aize    and    binding.      Each 

complete  in  one  Volume. 

fLORlK  SERIES,  illustrated  Boards.    Bound  in  Cloth,  is.  fio. 
TOM  CRINGLE'S  Loo.    By  Michael  Scott.          PEN  OWEH.    By  Dean  Hdok 


THE  CRUISE  OF  THE  MIDOK.    By  the  Same. 
OYRIL  THORNTON.    By  Captain  Hamilton, 
ANNALS  OF  THE  F  IRISH.    By  Jobti  Salt. 
THE  PROVOST,  &c.    By  the  Same. 
SIR  ANDREW  WYLIE.    By  the  Same. 
THE  BNTAIL.    By  the  Same. 
Miss  MOLLY.    By  Beatrice  May  Bate. 
BKOINALD  DALTON.    By  J.  G.  Lockhsri. 


ADAM  BLAIR.    By  J.  G.  Lockhart,. 

LADY  LEE'S  WIDOWHOOD.    By  General  Sir  B. 

B.  Hamley. 

SALEM  CHAPEL.    By  Mrs  Ohphaiit. 
THE  PERPETUAL  CURATE.    By  the  Same. 
Miss  MARJOKIBANKS.    By  the  Same. 
JOHN  :  A  Leva  Stct?.     By  the  Same 


SHILLING  SERIES,  Illustrated  Cover.    Bound  in  Cloth,  Is.  Ofi. 
THE  RECTOR,  and  THE  DOCTOR'S  FAMILY.    SIK  FRIMLB  PUMPKIN,  NIGHTS  AT  MESS 

By  Mrs  Oliphant. 
THE  LIFE  OF  MANBIK  WAUCB       By  D.  M. 

Moir. 
PENINSULAR   SCENES   AN»  HKETCHZS.      By 

F.  Hardman. 


.. 

LIFE  IN  THE  FAR  WEST.    By  OK  F.  Auxtou. 
VALERIUS:   A    Roman   Story.      By  J.  G. 
Lockhart. 


BON  GAULT1EB;S  BOOK  OF  BALLADS.  Eighteenth  Edi- 
tion, with  Autobiographical  Introduction  by  Sir  THEODORE  MARTIN,  K.O.B.  With 
Illustrations  by  Doyle,  Leech,  and  Crowqnill.  Small  quarto,  5s.  net. 

BOWHILL.    Questions  and  Answers  in  the  Theory  and  Practice 

of  Military  Topography.     By  Major  J.  H.  BOWHILL.     Crown  8vo,  4*.  6d.  net. 
Portfolio  containing  34  working  plans  and  diagrams,  3s.  6d.  net. 

BRACKENBURY.    Some  Memories  of  My  Spare  Time,  1856- 

1885.      By  General  the  Right  Hon.  Sir  HENRY  BRACKKNBBRY,  G.C.B.     With 
Portrait.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

BREADALBANE.    The  High  Tops  of  Black  Mount.    By  THE 

MABCHIONESS    OF    BREADALBANE.      Second    Impression.      With    Illustrations 
from  Photographs  by  Olive  Mackenzie.    Short,  demy,  6s.  net. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


BRUCE.    In  the  Footsteps  of  Marco  Polo.    Being  the  Account  of 

a  Journey  Overland  from  Simla  to  Pekin.  By  Major  CLARENCE  DALEYMPLE 
BRUCE.  With  Illustrations.  Demy  8vo,  21s.  net. 

BUCHAN. 

The  Watcher  by  the  Threshold,  and  other  Tales.    By  JOHN 

BUCHAN.    Second  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

A  Lodge  in  the  Wilderness.     Second  Impression.    Short  demy 

8vo,  6s. 

Some  Eighteenth  Century  By -Ways,  and  other  Essays.  Demy 

8vo,  7s.  6d.  net. 

BURBIDGE. 

Domestic  Floriculture,  Window  Gardening,  and  Floral  Decora- 
tions. Being  Practical  Directions  for  the  Propagation,  Culture,  and  Arrangement 
of  Plants  and  Flowers  as  Domestic  Ornaments.  By  F.  W.  BURBIDGE.  Second 
Edition.  Crown  8vo,  with  numerous  Illustrations,  7s.  6d. 

BURTON. 

The  History  ot  Scotland :   From  Agricola's  Invasion  to  the 

Extinction  of  the  last  Jacobite  Insurrection.  By  JOHN  HILL  BURTON,  D.C.L., 
Historiographer- Royal  for  Scotland.  Cheaper  Edition.  In  8  Tola.  Crown  8vo, 
2s.  od.  net  each. 

The  Book-Hunter.     A  New  Edition,  with  specially  designed 

Title-page  and  Cover  by  JOSEPH  BROWN.  Printed  on  antique  laid  paper.  Post 
8vo,  3s.  6d. 

BUTE. 

The    Roman    Breviary :    Reformed  by   Order  of    the  Holy 

(Ecumenical  Council  of  Trent ;  Published  by  Order  of  Pope  8t  Pins  V. ;  and 
Revised  by  Clement  VIIL  and  Urban  VIII. ;  together  with  the  Offices  since 
granted.  Translated  out  of  Latin  into  English  by  JOHN,  MARQUESS  OF  BUTE, 
K..T.  New  Edition,  Revised  and  Enlarged.  In  4  vols.  crown  8vo,  42s.  net. 
In  1  vol.  crown  4to,  63s.  net. 

The  Altus  of  St  Columba.   With  a  Prose  Paraphrase  and  Notes. 

By  JOHN,  MARQUESS  OP  BUTE,  K.T.     In  paper  cover,  2a.  6d. 

Sermones,     Fratris    Adse,     Ordinis     Praemonstratensis,     <fec. 

Twenty-eight  Discourses  of  Adam  Scotus  of  Whithorn,  hitherto  unpublished; 
to  which  is  added  a  Collection  of  Notes  by  the  same,  illustrative  of  the  rule  of 
St  Augustine.  Edited,  at  the  desire  of  the  late  .MARQUESS  OF  BUTE,  K.T.,  LL.D., 
&c.,  by  WALTER  DB  GRAY  BIRCH,  LL.D.,  F.S.A.,  of  the  British  Museum,  &c. 
Royal  8vo,  25s.  net. 

Catalogue  of  a  Collection  of  Original  MSS.  formerly  belonging 

to  the  Holy  Office  of  the  Inquisition  in  the  Canary  Islands.  Prepared  under  the 
direction  of  the  late  MARQUESS  OF  BUTE,  K.T.,  LL.D.,  by  WALTER  DB  GRAY 
BIRCH,  LL.D.,  F.8.A.  2  vols.  royal  8vo,  £3,  3s.  net. 

BUTE,    MACPHAIL,    AND    LONSDALE.     The  Arms  of  the 

Royal  and  Parliamentary  Burghs  ol  Scotland.  By  JOHN,  MARQUESS  or  BUTE, 
K.T.,  J.  R.  N.  MACPHAIL,  and  H.  W.  LONSDALK.  With  131  Engravings  on 
wood,  and  11  other  Illustrations.  Crown  4to,  £2,  3s.  net. 

BUTE,  STEVENSON,  AND  LONSDALE.     The  Arms  of  the 

Baronial  and  Police  Burghs  of  Scotland.  By  JOHN,  MARQUESS  OF  BUTE,  K.T., 
J.  H.  STEVENSON,  and  H.  W.  LONSDALE.  With  numerous  Illustrations.  Crown 
4to,  £2,  2s.  net. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


CAIRO.     Sermons.     By  JOHN    CAIBD,  D.D.,  Principal  of  the 

University  of  Glasgow.    Seventeenth  Thousand.    Fcap.  8vo,  5s. 

OALDWELL.  Sohopenhauer's  System  in  its  Philosophical  Sig- 
nificance (the  Shaw  Fellowship  Lectures,  1893).  By  Professor  WILLIAM  CALD- 
WELL,  D.Sc.,  M'Gill  University,  Montreal.  Demy  8vo,  10s.  6d.  net. 

CALL  WELL. 

The  Effect  oi  Maritime  Command  on  Land  Campaigns  since 

Waterloo.     By  Col.  C.  E.  CALLWSLL,  O.B.    With  Plans.    Post  8vo,  6s.  net. 

Tactics  of  To-day.     Second  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d.  net. 

Military  Operations  and  Maritime  Preponderance  :  Their  Re- 
lations and  Interdependence.    Demy  8vo,  15s.  net. 

The  Tactics  of  Home  Defence.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 
CANDLEll.     The  Mantle  of  the  East.     By  EDMUND  CANDLKR. 

Illustrated.    Crown  8vo,  6s.  net. 

CAREY. 

Monsieur  Martin :  A  Romance  of  the  Great  Northern  War. 

By  WYMONL-  CARET.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

"No.  101."    Third  Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s.     Cheap  Edi- 
tion, royal  8vo,  paper  covers,  6d. 

CARLYLE.      A  History  of  Medieval  Political   Theory  in   the 

West.  By  R.  W.  CARLYLK,  C.I.E.,  Balliol  College,  Oxford  ;  and  A.  J.  CARLYLK, 
M.A.,  Chaplain  and  Lecturer  (late  Fellow)  of  University  College,  Oxford.  In  3 
vols.  demy  8vo.  Vol.  I. — A  History  of  Political  Theory  from  the  Roman  Lawyers 
of  the  Second  Century  to  the  Political  Writers  of  the  Ninth.  By  A.  J.  CARLYLK. 
15s.  net.  Vol.  II — Demy  8vo,  15s.  net. 

CHESNEY.    The  Dilemma.     By  General  Sir  GEORGE  CHESNEY, 

K.O.B.    A  New  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  2s. 

CHRISTIE.  The  Influence  of  Letters  on  the  Scottish  Reforma- 
tion. By  Rev.  GEORGE  CHRISTIE,  B.D.  Crown  Svo,  6s.  net. 

CHURCH  SERVICE  SOCIETY. 

A  Book  of  Common  Order  :  being  Forms  of  Worship  issued 

by  the  Church  Service  Society.  Seventh  Edition,  carefully  revised.  In  1  vol. 
crown  8vo,  cloth,  8s.  fid. ;  French  morocco,  5s.  Also  in  8  yols.  crown  Svo, 
cloth,  4s. ;  French  morocco,  Ss.  6d. 

Daily  Offices  for  Morning  and  Evening  Prayer  throughout 

the  Week.     Orowii  Svo,  3s.  6d. 

Order  of  Divine  Service  for  Children.     Issued  by  the  Church 

Uervicti  Society.     With  Scottish  Hymnal.     Cloth,  3d. 

CLIFFORD. 

Sally :  A  Study  ;  and  other  Tales  of  the  Outskirts.     By  Sir 

HUGH  CLIFFORD,  K.O.M.G.    Crown  Svo,  6s. 

Bush  -  Whacking,  and    other   Sketches.      Second  Impression. 

Crown  Svo.  6s. 

Saleh  :  A  Sequel.     Crown  Svo,  6s. 
CLODD.    Thomas  Henry  Huxley.    "Modern  English  Writers." 

By  EDWARD  GLODD.    Grown  Svo,  2s.  6d. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


CLOUSTON. 

The  Lunatic  at  Large.      By  J.  STORER  ULOUSTON.      Ninth 

Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s.      CHEAP  EDITION,  Is.  net.      PEOPLE'S  EDITION, 
paper  covers,  6d. 

Count  Bunker:  Being  a  Sequel  to  'The  Lunatic  at  Large. 

Third  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s.    CHEAP  EDITION,  royal  8vo,  paper  covers,  6d. 

The  Adventures  of  M.  D'Haricot.     Third  Impression.    Crown 

8vo,  6s.    CHEAP  EDITION,  royal  8vo  paper  cover,  6d. 

Our  Lady's  Inn.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
Garmiscath.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

COLEBROOKE.     Winged    Dreams.     By   HELEN   COLEBROOKE. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 

COLLINS.    Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  a  Country  Cricketer.    By 

W.  E.  W.  COLLINS.    Crown  8vo.  6s. 

COMBE.     Celia   Kirkham's    Son.     By   Mrs   KENNETH  COMBK. 

Second  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

CONRAD. 

Lord  Jim.     A  Tale.     By  JOSEPH  CONRAD,  Author  of  'The 

Nigger  of  the  Narcissus,'  'An  Outcast  of  the  Islands,'  'Tales  of  Unrest,'  &c. 
Fourth  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Youth  :   A  Narrative ;  and  Two  other  Stories.     Third  Im- 
pression.   Crown  8vo,  6s. 

COOPER.     Liturgy  of  1637,  commonly  called  Laud's  Liturgy. 

Edited  by  the  Rev.  Professor  COOPER,  D.D.,  Glasgow.     Crown  8vo,  7s.  6d.  net. 

CORNFORD.     R.  L.  Stevenson.     "Modern  English  Writers." 

By  L.  COPE  CORNFOHD.    Second  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d. 

COUNTY   HISTORIES  OF   SCOTLAND.     In  demy  8vo  vol- 
umes of  about  350  pp.  each.    With  Maps.    Price  7s.  8d.  net. 

Fife  and  Kinross.     By  AENEAS  J.  Q.  MAOKAY,  LL.D.,  Sheriff 

of  these  Counties. 

Dumfries  and  Galloway.     By  Sir  HERBERT  MAXWELL,  Bart., 

M.P.    Second  Edition. 

Moray  and    Nairn.     By  CHARLES  RAMPTNI,  LL.D.,  Sheriff 

of  Dumfries  and  Galloway. 

Inverness.    By  J.  CAMERON  LEES,  D.D. 

Roxburgh,  Selkirk,  and  Peebles.    By  Sir  GEORGE  DOUGLAS, 

Bart. 

Aberdeen  and  Banff.    By  WILLIAM  WATT,  Editor  of  Aberdeen 

1  Daily  Free  Press.' 

COUTTS.    Famous  Duels  of  the  Fleet.    By  H.  B.  MONEY  COUTTS. 

With  Coloured  Frontispiece  and  Illustrations  by  N.  WILKINSON.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

CRAIK.    A  Century  of  Scottish  History.    From  the  Days  before 

the  '45  to  those  within  living  Memory.    By  Sir  HENRY  CRAIK,  K.C.B.,  M.A. 
(Oxon.),  Hon.  LL.D.  (Glasgow).    2  vols.  demy  8vo,  80s.  net. 

CRAWFORD.    Saracinesca.    By  F.  MARION  ORA  ^FORD,  Author 

rf '  Mr  Isaacs.'  Ac.,  &R.    Orown  8vo,  3«.  6d.    CHEAP  EDITION,  Is.  net.    PEOPLE'S 
EDITION,  paper  covers,  6d. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


CKOSS. 

Impressions  of  Dante  and  of  the  New  World.    By  J.  W.  CROSS. 

Post  8vo,  6s. 

The  Rake's  Progress  in  Finance.    Crown  8vo,  2s.  net. 
CUMMING. 

Memories.    By  C.  F.  GORDON  CUMMING     Demy  8vo.    Illus- 
trated, 20s  net. 

At  Home  in  Fiji.    Post  8vo.    Illustrated.    Cheap  Edition,  6s. 
A  Lady's  Cruise  in  a  French  Man-of-War     Post  8vo.    Illus- 
trated.   Cheap  Edition.    6s. 

Fire-Fonntains.     2  vols.  post  8vo.     Illustrated,  25s. 
Granite  Crags.    Post  8vo.    Illustrated.    Cheap  Edition.    6s. 
Wanderings  in  China.     Small  post  8vo.    Cheap  Edition.    6s. 

CURTIS. 

The  Bias.    By  MARGUERITE  CURTIS.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
Marcia  :  A  Transcript  from  Life.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

DAVIS.    "  When  Half -Gods  Go."    By  JESSIE  AINSWORTH  DAVIS. 

Second  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

DE   HAVEN.      The  Scarlet  Cloak.      By  AUDREY  DE  HAVEN. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 

DESCARTES.      The   Method,   Meditations,   and   Principles   of 

Philosophy  of  Descartes.  Translated  from  the  original  French  and  Latin 
With  a  new  Introductory  Essay,  Historical  and  Critical,  on  the  Cartesian  Phil- 
osophy. By  Professor  VEITCH,  LL.D.  Fourteenth  Edition.  Crown  8vo,  6s.  6d. 

DIVER. 

Captain  Desmond,  V.C.    By  MAUD  DIVER.     Ninth  Impression. 

Crown  8vo,  6s.     Cheap  edition,  Is.  net. 

The    Great    Amulet.      Sixth    Impression.      Crown    8vo,    6s. 

Cheap  Edition,  Is.  net. 

Candles  in  the  Wind.    Fourth  Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 
The  Englishwoman  in  India.     Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

DODDS  AND  MACPHERSON.    The  Licensing  Acts  (Scotland) 

Consolidation  and  Amendment  Act,  1903.  Annotated  by  Mr  J.  M.  DODDS,  C.B., 
of  the  Scottish  Office;  Joint-Editor  of  the  '  Parish  Council  Guide  for  Scotland,' 
and  Mr  EWAN  MACPHERSON,  Advocate,  Legal  Secretary  to  the  Lord  Advocate. 
In  1  vol.  crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

DOUGLAS. 

The  Ethics  of  John  Stuart  Mill.      By  CHARLES   DOUGLAS, 

M.A.,  D.Sc.,  late  Lecturer  in  Moral  Philosophy,  and  Assistant  to  the  Pro- 
fessor of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  Post  8vo,  6s.  net. 

John  Stuart  Mill :  A  Study  of  his  Philosophy.    Crown  8vo. 

4ft.  fid.  net 

ECCOTT. 

Fortune's  Castaway.    By  W.  J.  ECCOTT.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
His  Indolence  of  Arras.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
Hearth  of  Hutton.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
The  Red  Neighbour.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
The  Background.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 


IO  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


ELIOT. 

The  New  Popular  Edition  of   George  Eliot's  Works,  with 

Photogravure  Frontispiece  to  each  Volume,  from  Drawings  by  William 
Hatherell,  R.I.,  Edgar  Bundy,  R.I.,  Byam  Shaw,  R.I.,  A.  A.  Van  Anrooy, 
Maurice  Greiffenhagen,  Claude  A.  Shepperson,  R.I.,  E.  J.  Sullivan,  and  Max 
Cowper.  Each  Work  complete  in  Cue  Volume.  Handsomely  bound,  gilt  top. 
3s.  6d.  net.  Ten  Volumes  in  all. 

SILAS   MARNER;    BROTHER   JACOB;    THE 


ADAM  BKDK. 

SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 
THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 
FELIX  HOLT,  THE  RADICAL. 

MlDDLEMARCH. 


LIFTED  VEIL. 

ROMOLA. 

DANIEL  DERONDA. 

THE  SPANISH  GYPSY  ;  JUBAL. 


ESSAYS  ;  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 

George  Eliot's  Life.     With  Portrait  and  other  Illustrations. 

New  Edition,  in  one  volume.    Crown  8vo,  7s.  6d. 

Life  and  Works  of  George  Eliot  (Warwick  Edition).  14  vol- 
umes, cloth,  limp,  gilt  top,  2s.  net  per  volume  ;  leather,  limp,  gilt  top,  2s.  6d.  net 
per  volume ;  leather  gilt  top,  with  book-marker.  8s.  net  per  volume. 


ADAM  BEDE.    826  p 
THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS.    828  pp. 
FELIX  HOLT,  THE  RADICAL.    718  pp. 
ROMOLA.     900  pp. 

SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE.    624  pp. 
SILAS    MARNER;    BROTHER   JACOB;    THE 
LIFTED  VEIL.    560  pp. 


MIDDLEMARCH.     2  vols.     664  and  630  pp. 
DANIEL    DERONDA.      2    vols.      616    and 

636  pp. 

THE  SPANISH  GYPSY  ;  JUBAL 
ESSAYS;  THEOPHRASTUS  SUCH. 
LIFK.    2  vols.,  626  and  580  pp. 


Works  of  George  Eliot  (Standard  Edition).      21    volumes, 

crown  8vo.     In  buckram  cloth,  gilt  top,  2s.  6d,  per  vol. ;   or  In  roxburghe 
binding,  3s.  6d.  per  vol. 

ADAM  BEDE.    2  vols.— THS  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS.    2  vols.— FELIX  HOLT,  THE 

RADICAL.    2  vols. — ROMOLA.    2  vols. — SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE.    2  vols.— 

MIDDLEMARCH.    3  vote.— DANIEL  DERONDA.    3  vols.— SILAS  MARNER.    1  vol. 

— JUBAL.    i  vol.— THE  SPANISH  GYPSY.    1  vol.— ESSAYS.    1  vol.— THBOPHRAB- 

TUB  SUCH.    1  vol. 

Life  and   Works   of  George    Eliot    (Cabinet    Edition).      24 

volumes,  crown  8vo,  price  £6.    Also  to  be  had  handsomely  bound  In  half  and  full 
calf.    The  Volumes  are  sold  separately,  bound  la  cloth,  price  5s.  each. 

Novels  by  George  Eliot.    Popular  Copyright  Edition.    In  new 

uniform  binding,  price  3s.  6d.  each. 


ADAM  BEDE. 

THE  MILL  ON  THE  FLOSS. 

SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE. 

ROMOLA. 


SILAS  MARNER  ;  THE  LIFTED  VEIL  ; 

BROTHER  JACOB. 
MIDDLEMARCH. 
DANIEL  DERONDA. 


FELIX  HOLT,  THB  RADICAL. 

Essays.    New  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Impressions  of  Theophrastus  Such.     New  Edition.     Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

The  Spanish  Gypsy.    New  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

The   Legend   of   Jubal,  and    ether    Poems,   Old    and    New. 

New  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  5s. 

Silas  Marner.     New  Edition,  with  Illustrations  by  Reginald 

Birch.     Crown   8vo,    Is.   6d.   net.     Cheap    Edition,  2s.  6d.     Cheap   Edition, 
royal  8vo,  paper  cover,  price  6d. 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.  Cheap  Edition,  3s.  Illustrated  Edi- 
tion, with  20  Illustrations  by  H.  R.  Millar,  crown  8vo.  2s. ;  paper  covers,  IB. 
Cheap  Edition,  royal  8vo,  in  paper  cover,  price  6d 

Felix  Holt.    Cheap  Edition.    Royal  8vo,  in  paper  cover,  6d. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  n 


ELIOT. 

Adam  Bede.     Cheap  Edition,  royal  8vo,  in  paper  cover,  price 

6d.  New  Edition,  crown  8vo,  paper  cover,  Is.;  crown  8vo,  with  Illustrations 
clotb,  2f. 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss.     Cheap  Edition,  royal  8vo,  in  paper 

cover,  price  6d.    New  Edition,  paper  covers,  Is. ;  cloth,  2s. 

Wise,  Witty,  and  Tender  Sayings,  in  Prose  and  Verse.    Selected 

from  the  Works  of  GKOBQE  ELIOT.    New  Edition.    Fcap.  8vo,  SB.  M. 

ELLIS. 

Barbara  Winslow,  Rebel.      By  BETH  ELLIS.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Madame,  Will  You  Walk  ?    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Blind  Mouths.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

The  Moon  of  Bath.     Fourth  Impression.      Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Cheap  Edition,  Is.  net. 

The  King's  Spy.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

ELTON.  The  Augustan  Ages.  "  Periods-  of  European  Litera- 
ture." By  OLIVER  ELTON,  M.A.,  Professor  of  English  Literature,  University 
College,  Liverpool.  Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

EVERARD.     History  of  the  Royal  and  Ancient  Golf  Club,  St 

Andrews.  By  H.  S.  C.  EVERARD.  With  Eight  Coloured  Portraits,  and  many 
other  Unique  Illustrations.  Crown  4to,  21s.  net. 

F.  Stories  of  the  English.  Told  to  a  Child.  By  F.  With  numer- 
ous Illustrations.  Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

FAHIE.      A  History  of   Wireless  Telegraphy.     Including  some 

Bare-wire  Proposals  for  Subaqueous  Telegraphs.  By  J.  J.  FAHIE,  Member  of  the 
Institution  of  Electrical  Engineers,  London,  and  of  the  Societe  Internationale 
des  Electriciens,  Paris;  Author  of  'A  History  of  Electric  Telegraphy  to  the 
Year  1837,'  &c.  With  Illustrations.  Third  Edition,  Revised.  Crown  8vo,  6s. 

FERRIER.      Philosophical  Remains.     Crown  8vo,  14s. 
FLINT. 

Philosophy  as  Scientia  Scientiarum.  A  History  of  Classifica- 
tions of  the  Sciences.  By  ROBERT  FLINT,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  Coi'respondiag  Member 
of  the  Institute  of  France,  Hon.  Member  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Palermo.  Pro- 
fessor in  She  University  of  Edinburgh,  &c.  12s.  6d.  net. 

Studies  on  Theological,  Biblical,  and  other  Subjects.   7s.  6d.  net. 
Historical  Philosophy  in  France  and  French  Belgium  and 

Switzerland.    8vo,  21s. 

Theism.     Being  the  Baird  Lecture  tor  1876.    Tenth  Edition, 

Revised.    Crown  8vo,  7s.  6d 

Anti-Theistic  Theories.    Being  the  Baird  Lecture  for  1877. 

Fifth  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  10a  6d. 

Sermons  and  Addresses.     Demy  8vo,  7s.  6d 
FOREIGN  CLASSICS  FOR  ENGLISH   READERS.     Edited 

by  Mrs  OLIPHANT.    Frice  Is.  each  net.    for  Lii«  o/  Poiwwei,  ttt  pagt «. 

FORREST. 

History  of  the  Indian  Mutiny.     By  G.  W.  FORREST,  C.I.E. 

Ex-Director  of  Records.  Government  of  India.    2  vols.  demy  8vo,  38s.  net 

Life  of  Field -Marshal  Sir  Neville  B.  Chamberlain,  G.C.B., 

G. C.S.I.     With  two  Photogravure  Portraits.    Demy  8vo,  18s.  net. 

FORSTER. 

Where  Angels  Fear  to  Tread.     By  E.  M.  FORSTER.     Crown 

The  Longest  Journey.    Second  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 


12  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


FOULIS. 

Erchie :  My  Droll  Friend.    By  HUGH  FOULIS.     Cloth  Is.  6d. 

net. 

The  Vital  Spark.    Illustrated.    Is.  net 
FRANKLIN.     Some   Everyday   Folk   and   Dawn.      By   MILES 

FRANKLIN.    Crown  Svo,  6s. 

FRASER. 

Phiiooopny  of  Theism.     Being  fehe  Gifiord  Lecture*  delivered 

before  the  Oniversity  of  Edinburgh  in  1894-96.  By  ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL 
PHASER,  D.C.L.  Oxford;  Emeritas  Professor  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics  in 
the  University  rt'.  Edinburgh.  Second  Edition,  Revised.  Post  Svo,  6s.  6d.  net. 

Biographia  Philosophies*     In  1  vol.  demy  Svo,  6s.  net. 

FRASER. 

The   Marches  of  Hindustan :   The  Record  of  a  Journey  in 

Thibet,  Trans-Himalayan  India,  Chinese  Turkestan,  Russian  Turkestan,  and 
Persia.  By  DAVID  FRASEB.  With  Illustrations,  Maps,  and  Sketches.  Demy 
Svo,  £1,  Is.  net. 

The  Short  Cut  to  India.    The  Record  of  a  Journey  along  the 

Route  of  the  Baghdad  Railway.  With  83  Illustrations.  Second  Impression. 
Demy  Svo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

FRENCH  COOKERY   FOR  ENGLISH  HOMES.     Third  Im- 

pression.    Crown  Svo,  limp  cloth,  2s.  6d.     Also  in  limp  leather,  3s. 

FULTON.    The  Sovereignty  of  the  Sea.    An  Historical  Account 

of  the  Claims  to  the  exclusive  Dominion  of  the  British  Seas  and  of  the  Evolu- 
tion of  the  Territorial  Waters,  with  special  reference  to  the  Rights  of  Fishing. 
By  T.  WEMYSS  FULTON,  M.D.,  F.R.S.E.  With  numerous  Illustrations  and  Maps. 
Demy  Svo.  [In  the  press. 

GENERAL  ASSEMBLY  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  SCOTLAND. 

Scottish  Hymnal,  With  Appendix  Incorporated.    Published 

for  use  in  Churches  by  Authority  of  the  General  Assembly.  1.  Large  type, 
cloth,  red  edges,  2s.  6d.;  French  morocco,  4s.  2.  Bourgeois  type,  limp  cloth,  Is.; 
French  morocco,  2s.  3.  Nonpareil  type,  cloth,  red  edges,  6d.;  French  morocco, 
Is.  44.  4.  Paper  covers,  3d.  5.  Sunday-School  Edition,  paper  covers,  Id, 
cloth,  2d.  No.  1,  bound  with  the  Psalms  and  Paraphrases,  French  morocco,  St. 
No.  2,  bound  with  the  Psalms  and  Parap  rases,  cloth,  3s.;  French  morocco,  3s. 

Services  of  Prayer  for  Social  and  Family  Worship.    Prepared 

by  a  Special  Committee  of  the  General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of  Scotland. 
New  Edition.  Revised  and  Enlarged.  Fcap.  Svo,  red  edges,  Is.  6d.  net. 

Prayers  for  Family  Worship.     A  Selection  of  Four  Weeks' 

Prayers.  New  Edition.  Authorised  by  the  General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of 
Scotland.  Fcap.  Svo,  red  edges,  Is.  net. 

One  Hundred  Prayers.    Prepared  by  the  Committee  on  Aids 

to  Devotion.    16mo,  cloth  limp,  6d. 

Morning  and  Evening  Prayers  for  Affixing  to  Bibles.    Prepared 

by  the  Committee  on  Aids  to  Devotion.    Id.  for  6,  or  Is.  per  100. 

Prayers  for  Soldiers.    Prepared  by  the  Committee  on  Aids  to 

Devotion.    Seventieth  Thousand.     18mo,  cloth  limp.     2d.  net. 

Prayers  for  Sailors  and  Fisher-Folk.    Prepared  and  Published 

by  Instruction  of  the  General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of  Scotland.    Fcap.  Svo,  Is. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  13 

GERARD. 

Reata:    What's  in  a  Name.      By  E.    D.    GKBABD.      Cheap 

Edition.    Crown  8vo,  8a.  8d. 

Beggar  my  Neighbour.    Cheap  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

The  Waters  of  Hercules.    Cheap  Edition,     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

A  Sensitive  Plant.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d 
GERARD. 

Honour's  Glassy  Bubble.    By  E.  GERARD.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

A  Foreigner.    An  Anglo-German  Study.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
GERARD 

One  Year.      By   DOROTHEA    GERARD  (Madame  Longard   de 

Longgarde).     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

The  Impediment.     Crown  8vo,  6s, 

A  Spotless  Reputation     Third  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  (5s 

TbP  Wrong  Mar..     Second  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

rj:,iiv  Bfthv      Cheap  Edition.     Crown  8vo,  So.  6d 

Recha.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

A  Forgotten  Sin.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

GIBBON. 

Souls  in  Bondage.    By  PERCEVAL  GIBBON.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

The  Vrouw  Grobelaar's  Leading  Cases.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Salvator.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 
GILL.    The  CHC13- Problem.    By  RICHARD  GILL.    2  vols.  crown 

8vo,  5s.  net  each. 

GILLANDERS.     Forest  Entomology.     By  A.  T.  GILLANDERS, 

F.B.S.    With  Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  15s.  net. 

GLASGOW  BALLAD  CLUB.    Ballads  and  Poems.     By  MEM- 

BKRS  OF  THE  GLASGOW  BALLAD  CLUB.    Third  Series.    Crown  8vo.,  7s.  6d. 

GLEIG.     The  Subaltern.     By  Rev.  G.  R.  GLEIO.     Fcap.  8vo, 

Is.  net. 

GRAHAM. 

Manual  of  the  Elections  (Scot.)  (Corrupt  and  Illegal  Practices) 

Act,  1890.  With  Analysis,  Relative  Act  of  Sederunt.  Appendix  containing  the 
Cormpt  Practices  Acts  of  1883  and  1885,  and  Oopions  tnd«r  By  3.  EDWARB 
GRAHAM,  \dvocaf">.  ?vo,  <s.  8d. 

A  Manual  of  the  Acts  relating  to  Education  in  Scotland. 

(Founded  on  that  of  the  late  Mr  Craig  Sellar.)     Hernv  8vo,  18s 

The  New  Education  (Scotland)  Act.    With  Notes.     Demy  8vo, 

7s.  6d.  net. 

GRAHAM  AND  PATERSON.    True  Romances  of  Scotland.     By 

E.  MAXTONE  GKAUAM  and  E.  PATERSON.  Illustrations.  Second  Impression. 
Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

GRAND. 

A  Domestic   Experiment       By  SARAH   GRAND,    Author  of 

'The  Heavenly  Twins,1  '  Ideala :  A  Stndy  from  Life.'    Crown  8vo,  8§. 
Singularly  Deluded.     Cro^n  8vo.  6s 

GREY.  Poems.  By  DULCIBELLA  ETHEL  GREY.  With  a  Prefa- 
tory Note  by  H.  Cholmondeley  Pennell.  Demy  8vo.  Vellum,  12s.  6d.  net;  half 
vellum,  7s.  6d.  net 


14  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 

GRIER. 

In  Furthest  Ind.    The  Narrative  of  Mr  EDWARD  CABLYON  of 

Ellswether,  in  the  County  of  Northampton,  and  late  ol  the  Honourable  East  India 
Company's  Service,  Gentleman.  Wrote  by  his  own  hand  in  the  year  of  grace  1697 
Edited,  with  a  row  Explanatory  Notes.  By  SYDNEY  0.  GRIEB.  Second  Im- 
pression. Post  SvO)  6s. 

His  Excellency's  English  Governess.    Third  Impression.     Cr. 

8vo,  68, 

An  Uncrowned  King :  A  Romance  of  High  Politics.    Third 

Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Peace  with  Honour.    Third  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

A  Crowned  Queen:   The  Romance  of  a  Minister  of  State. 

__  Third  Impression.    Grown  8vo,  6s. 

Like  Another  Helen.    Second  Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 
The  Kings  of  the  East :   A  Romance  of  the  near  Future. 

Fourth  Impression.    Crown  Svo,  6s. 

The  Warden  of  the  Marches.      Third  Impression.       Crown 

8vo,  6s.    Cheap  Edition,  paper  cover,  6d. 

The  Prince  of  the  Captivity.     Second  Impression.     Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

The  Advanced-Guard.    Third  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
The  Great  Proconsul:  The  Memoirs  of  Mrs  Hester  Ward, 

formerly  in  the  family  of  the  Hon.  Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  late  Governor- 
General  of  India.  Grown  8vo.  6s. 

The  Heir.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

The  Power  of  the  Keys.    With  Illustrations  by  A.  PEARCE. 

Fourth  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

The  Heritage.    Fourth  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
,  The  Path  to  Honour.    Third  Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 
The  Letters  of  Warren  Hastings  to  his  Wife.    Demy  8vo, 


GRIERSON.      The  First   Half  of   the    Seventeenth    Century. 

(Periods  of  European  Literature.)    By  Professor  H.  J.  0.  GRIEBSON.    Crown 
8vo,  5s.  net. 

GRIERSON.    Records  of  the  Scottish  Volunteer  Force  1859-1908. 

By  Major-General  J.  M.  GRIERSON,  C.V.O.,  C.B.,  C.M.G.    With  47  Coloured 
Plates.    Crown  4to,  25s.  net. 

GRIFFIN. 

Lady  Sarah's  Deed  of  Gift.    By  E.  ACEITTJNA  GRIFFIN.    Crown 


A  Servant  of  the  King.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
GROOT.    The  Affair  on  the  Bridge.    By  J.  MORGAN  DE  GROOT. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 

HAMLEY. 

The    Operations  of    War    Explained    and    Illustrated.      By 

General  Sir  EDWARD  BRDCB  HAMLBY,  K.C.B.,  K.O.M.G.  Second  Edition  of 
Fifth  Edition.  With  Maps  and  Plans.  4to,  80s.  Also  in  2  parts:  Part  I., 
10s.  6d.;  Part  II.,  21s. 

A  New  Edition,  brought  up  to  the  latest  requirements.    By 

Brigadier-General  L.  E.  KIOQELL,  C.B.    4to,  with  Maps  and  Plans,  30s. 

Thomas  Carlyle:  <6n  Essay.    Second   Edition.     Crown   8vo, 

3«.  8d. 

On  Outposts.     Second  Edition     Svo,  2s. 

Lady  Lee's  Widowhood.    New  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  2s. 

Our  Poor  Relations.     A  Philozoic  Essay.     With  Illustrations, 

Chiefly  by  Ernest  Grtaet.    Crown  Svo,  cloth  gilt,  8s.  6d. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  15 


HANNAY.     The   Later   Renaissance.     "Periods  of  European 

Literature."    By  DAVID  HANNAY.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

HARRADEN. 

Ships  that  Pass  in  the  Night.     By    BEATRICE  HABBADEN. 

Illustrated  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

The  Fowler.    Illustrated  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.    Cheap 

Edition,  paper  cover,  6d. 

Untold  Tales  of  the  Past.  With  40  Illustrations  by  H.  R.  Millar. 

Square  crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  5s.  net. 

Katharine  Frensham.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 
HARTLEY.    Wild  Sport  with  Gun,  Rifle,  and  Salmon-Rod.    By 

GILFRID  W.  HARTLEY.  With  numerous  Illustrations  in  photogravure  and  half- 
tone from  drawings  by  G.  E.  LODGE  and  others.  Demy  8vo,  6s.  net. 

HAY. 

"  Pip."    By  IAN  HAY.    Third  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
"The  Right  Stuff."    Some  Episodes  in  the  Career  of  a  North 

Briton.     Fourth  Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

A  Man's  Man.     Second  Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 
HAYLLAR.      Nepenthes.      By    FLORENCE    HAYLLAR.     Second 

Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

HEMANS. 

Select  Poems  of  Mrs  Hemans.     Fcap.,  cloth,  gilt  edges,  Se 

HENDERSON-      The    Young    Estate    Manager's    Guide.      By 

RICHARD  HENDERSON,  Member  (by  Examination)  of  the  Royal  Agricultural 
Society  of  England,  the  Highland  and  Agricultural  Society  of  Scotland,  and 
the  Surveyors'  Institution.  With  an  Introduction  by  R.  Patrick  Wright, 
F.R.S.E.,  Professor  of  Agriculture,  Glasgow  and  West  of  Scotland  Technical 
Oollegc.  With  Plans  ami  Diagrams,  Orowii  8vo,  .^a. 

HERFORD.    Browning  (Modern  English  Writers).    By  Professor 

HERFORD.    Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d. 

HERKLESS  AND  HANNAY. 

The  College  of  St  Leonard's.     By  Professor  HERKLESS  and 

ROBERT  KEBR  HANNAY.    Post  Svo,  7s.  6d.  net. 

The  Archbishops  of  St  Andrews.     Vols.  I.  and  II.     Demy  Svo, 

each  7s.  6d.  net. 

HINTS  ON  HOCKEY.    With  Plans  and  Rules.    New  Edition. 

Fcap.  Svo,  Is. 

HOME  PRAYERS.     By  Ministers  of  the  Church   of  Scotland 

and  Members  of  the  oWrch  Service  Society.    Second  Edition.     Pcap.  Svo,  8s. 

HOPE.    A  History  of  the  1900  Parliament.    By  JAMES  F.  HOPE. 

In  two  volumes.    Vol.  I.  ready.    Crown  Svo,  7s.  (id.  net. 

HUME.      Dialogues  concerning   Natural   Religion.      By  DAVID 

HUME.  Reprinted,  with  an  Introduction  by  BRUCE  M'EwKN,  D.Phil.  Crown 
Svo,  3s.  60.  net. 


16  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


HUTCHINSON.    Hints  on  the  Game  of  Golf.    By  HORACE  G. 

HUTCHINSON.    Twelfth  Edition,  Revised.    Fcap.  8vo,  cloth,  lg. 

HUTTON.    Italy  and  the  Italians.   By  EDWARD  BUTTON.    With 

Illustrations.    Second  Edition.    Large  crown  8vo,  6s. 

INNES. 

Free  Church  Union  Case.    Judgment  of  the  House  of  Lords. 

With  Introduction  by  A.  TAYLOR  INNKS,  LL.D.    Demy  8vo,  Is.  net. 

The  Law  of  Creeds  in  Scotland.  A  Treatise  on  the  Rela- 
tions of  Churches  in  Scotland,  Established  and  not  Established,  to  the  Civil  Law. 
Demy  8vo,  10s.  net 

INTELLIGENCE  OFFICER. 

On  the  Heels  of  De  Wet.    By  THE  INTELLIGENCE  OFFICER. 

Sixth  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s.    Cheap  Edition,  royal  8vo,  paper  cover,  6d. 

The  Boy  Galloper.    With  Illustrations.    In  1  vol.  cr.  8vo,  6s. 

The  Yellow  War.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

A  Subaltern  of  Horse.  ,  Second  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

IRONS.     The  Psychology  of  Ethics.     By  DAVID  IRONS,  M.A., 

Ph.D.  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  Bryn  Mawr  College,  Penn.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 


JAMES.      William    Wetmore    Story    and    his    Friends.      From 

Letters,  Diaries,  and  Recollections.  By  HENRY  JAMES.  With  2  Portraits.  In 
two  vols.  post  8vo,  24s.  net. 

JAMES. 

Modern  Strategy.    By  Lieut.-Col.  WALTER  H.  JAMES,  P.S.C., 

late  R.E.  With  6  Maps.  Third  Edition,  thoroughly  revised  and  brought 
up  to  date.  Royal  8vo,  16s.  net. 

The    Campaign   of  1815,  chiefly  in    Flanders.      With  Maps 

and  Plans.    Demy  8vo,  16s.  net. 

The  Development  of  Tactics  from  1740  to  the  Present  Day. 

Demy  8vo.  [In  the  press. 

JAMES.      Side -Tracks  and  Bridal -Paths.     By   LIONEL  JAMES 

(Intelligence  Officer).    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

JOHNSTON. 

Elements    of    Agricultural    Chemistry.      An    entirely   Nev 

Edition  from  the  Edition  by  Sir  CHARLES  A.  GAMMON,  M.D.  Revised  and  in 
great  part  rewritten  by  0.  M.  AIKMAN,  M.A.,  D.Sc..  F.R.8.E.  F.I.C.,  Pro- 
fessor of  Chemistry,  Glasgow  Veterinary  Cnllee<>..  20th  Edition.  Crown  8vo, 
Us.  M. 

Catechism  of  Agricultural  Chemistry.  An  entirely  New  Edi- 
tion from  the  Edition  by  Sir  CHARLKS  A.  CAMERON.  Revised  and  Enlarged 
by  C.  M.  A«MA*,  M..*.,  *«.  95th  Thousand  With  numerous  Illustrations. 
Grown  8vo»  1* 

JOHNSTON. 

Agricultural  Holdings  (Scotland)  Acts,  1883  to  1900 ;  and  the 

Ground  Game  Act,  1880.  With  Notes,  and  Summary  of  Procedure,  Ac.  By 
CHTUBTOPHS  N.  JOHNSTOH.  K.C.,  LL.D.  Sixth  Edition.  Demy  8vo,  6s.  net, 

Major  Owen,  and  other  Tales.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  17 


JOKAI,    Timar's  Two  Worlds.    By  MAUBUS  JOKAI.    Authorised 

Translation  by  Mrs  H«o<}»  KENNARD.    Cheap  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  60, 

KENNION.      Sport  and  Life  in  the  Further  Himalaya.     By 

Major  R.  L.  KENNION.    With  Illustrations.    Demy  8vo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

KER.     The  Dark  Ages.     "  Periods  of  European  Literature."    By 

Professor  W.  P.  KER.    In  1  vol.  crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

KERR. 

Memories :    Grave  and  Gay.    By  JOHN  KERR,  LL.D.    With 

Portrait  and  other  Illustrations.  Cheaper  Edition,  Enlarged.  Crown  8vo, 
2s.  6d.  net. 

Other  Memories  :  Old  and  New.    Crown  8vo.     3s.  6d.  net. 
KINGLAKE. 

History  of  the  Invasion  of  the  Crimea.    By  A.  W.  KINGLAKB. 

Complete  in  9  vols.,  crown  8vo.    Cheap  reissue  at  3s.  6d.  each. 

— -  Abridged  Edition  for  Military  Students.     Revised  by 

Lient.-Col.  Sir  GCOROK  STTDENHAM  CLARKE,  K.C.M.G.,  R.E.   Demy  Svo,  15s.  net. 

Atlas  to  accompany  above.    Folio,  9s.  net. 

Eothen.    A  New  Edition,  uniform  with  the  Cabinet  Edition 

of  the  '  History  of  the  Invasion  of  the  Crimea.'    6s. 

CHEAPER  EDITION.    With  Portrait  and  Biographical  Sketch  of  the  Author. 
Crown  Svo,  2s.  fid.  net. 

KINGSBURGH.     Fifty   Years    of    It:    The   Experiences    and 

Struggles  of  a  Volunteer  of  1859.  By  The  Right  Hon.  LORD  KINQSBURGH 
K.C.B.  Demy  Svo,  10s.  6d.  net. 

8LNEIPP.      My    Wawr-Cure.      As  Tested   through  more   than 

Thirty  Tears,  and  Described  for  the  Healing  of  Diseases  and  the  Preservation  of 
Health.  By  SEBASTIAN  KNEIPP.  With  a  Portrait  and  other  Illustrations. 
Authorised  English  Translation  from  the  Thirtieth  German  Edition,  by  A.  de  F. 
With  an  Appendix,  containing  the  Latest  Developments  of  Pfarrer  Knelpp'g 
System,  «nd  «  Prefaco  by  E.  Gerard.  Crown  Svo.  88.  (Jd. 

LANCE.     The  Crowning  Hour.     By  RUPERT  LANCE.     Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

LANG. 

A  History  of  Scotland  from  the    Roman   Occupation.     By 

ANDREW  LANG.    Complete  in  Four  Volumes.    Demy  Svo,  £3,  3s.  net. 
VoL  I.    With  a  Photogravure  Frontispiece.     15s.  net. 
Vol.  II.    With  a  Photogravure  Frontispiece.    15s.  net 
Vol.  III.    With  a  Photogravure  Frontispiece.     15s.  net. 
Vol.  IV.    With  a  Photogravure  Frontispiece.    20s.  net. 

Tennyson.   "Modern  English  Writers."  2nd  Ed.   Cr.  Svo,  2s.  6d. 
LAWSON. 

British   Economics.     By  W.   R.  LAWSON.     Second   Edition. 

Crown  Svo,  6s.  net. 

American  Finance.     Second  Edition.     Crown  Svo,  6s.  net. 
John  Bull  and  His  Schools.     Crown  Svo,  5s.  net. 
LEHMANN. 

Crumbs  of  Pity,  and  other  Verses ;  to  which  are  added    Six 

Lives  of  Great  Men.  By  R.  0.  LEHMANN,  author  of  '  Anni  Fugaces,'  Ac. 
Crown  Svo,  5s.  net. 

Light  and  Shade  :  And  other  Poems.     Crown  Svo,  5s.  net. 


1 8  William,  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


LEIGHTON.     The  Life  History  of  British  Serpents,  and  their 

Local  Distribution  in  the  British  Isles.  By  GERALD  B.  LKIQHTON,  M.D.  With 
50  Illustrations.  Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

LEISHMAN.  The  Westminster  Directory.  Edited,  with  an  Intro- 
duction and  Notes,  by  the  Very  Eev.  T.  LEISHMAN,  D.D.    Crown  8vo,  4s.  net. 

LINDSAY. 

Recent  Advances  in  Theistic  Philosophy  of  Religion.    By  Rev. 

JAMIS  LINDSAY.  M.A.,  D.D.,  B.Sc.,  F.R.8.B.,  P.Q.8.,  Minister  of  the  Parish  of 
St  Andrew's,  Kilmarnock.  Demy  8vo,  12s  6d.  net. 

The  Progressiveneas  of  Modern  Christian  Thought.    Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

Essays,  Literary  and  Philosophical.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

The  Significance  of  the  Old  Testament  for  Modern  Theology. 

Grown  8vo,  Is.  net. 

The  Teaching  Function  of  the  Modern  Pa  l  pit.    Crown  8vo 

Is.  net. 

Studies  in  European  Philosophy.     Demy  8vo,  10s.  6d.  net. 
LITURGIES     AND     ORDERS     OF     DIVINE     SERVICE 

(CHURCH    SERVICE    SOCIETY). 

The  Second  Prayer  Book  of  King  Edward  the  Sixth  (1552). 

With  Historical  Introduction  and  Notes  by  the  Rev.  H.  J.  WOTHEBSPOON,  M.A., 
of  St  Oswald's  Edinburgh;  and  THE  LITURGY  OF  COMPROMISE.  Used  in  the 
English  Congregation  at  Frankfort.  From  an  Unpublished  MS.  Edited  by  the 
Rev.  G.  W.  SPROTT,  D.D.  4s.  net. 

Book  of  Common  Order.    Commonly  called  Knox's  Liturgy. 

Edited  by  Rev.  G.  W.  SPROTT,  D.D.    4s.  6d.  net. 

Scottish  Liturgies  of  the  Reign  of  James  VI.    Edited  by  Rev. 

G.  W.  SPROTT,  D.D.    4s.  net. 

Liturgy  of  1637.    Commonly  called  Laud's  Liturgy.    Edited 

by  the  Rev.  Professor  COOPER,  D.D.    7s.  6d.  net. 

The  Westminster  Directory.     Edited  by  Very  Rev.  T.  LEISH- 
MAN, D.D.    4s.  net. 

Euchologion.    A  Book  of  Common  Order :   Being  Forms  of 

Prayer,  and  Administration  of  the  Sacraments,  and  other  Ordinances  of  the 
Church.  Edited  by  the  Rev.  G.  W.  SPROTT,  D.D.  4s.  6d.  net. 

LOBBAN.    An  Anthology  of  English  Verse  from  Chaucer  to  the 

Present  Day.    By  J.  H.  LOLBAN,  M.A.    Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  5s. 

LOCKHART. 

Doubles  and  Quits.    By  LAURENCE  W.  M.  LOCKHART.    Crown 

8vo,  3s.  6d. 

Fair  to  See.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

Mine  is  Thine     New  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  3a  6d 

LORIMER.    The  Author's  Progress :   or,  The  Literary  Book  of 

the  Road.     By  ADAM  LORIMER.     Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  19 

LYNDEN-BELL.  A  Primer  of  Tactics,  Fortification,  Topo- 
graphy, and  Military  Law.  By  Lieut.  -  Colonel  C.  P.  LYNDKN-BELL.  With 
Diagrams,  Crown  8vo,  8s.  net. 

MABIE. 

Essays  on  Nature  and  Culture.    By  HAMILTON  WEIGHT  MABIF  . 

With  Portrait.    Fcap.  8vo,  8s.  6d. 

Books  and  Culture.    Fcap.  8vo,  3s.  6d. 
M'AULAY.    The  Safety  of  the  Honours.     By  ALLAN  M'AULAY. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 

M'CONACHIE.    Close  to  Nature's  Heart.    By  WILLIAM  M'CoN- 

ACHIE,  B.D.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

MAcCUNN.  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Friends.  By  FLORENCE  MACCUNN. 

With  Portraits.    Second  Impression.     Demy  8vo,  10s.  net. 

MACDONALD.  A  Manual  of  the  Criminal  Law  (Scotland)  Pro- 
cedure Act,  1887.  By  NORMAN  DORAN  MACDONALD.  Revised  by  the  LORD 
JUSTICE-CLERK.  Svo,  10s.  6d. 

M'lVER.     An  Imperial  Adventure.     By  IVEK  M'lvER.     With 

Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

MACKAY.    The  Return  of  the  Emigrant.    By  LYDIA  MILLER 

MACKAY.    Tliird  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

MACKENZIE.     Studies  iu   Roman  Law.     With   Comparative 

Views  of  the  Law*  of  France,  England,  and  Scotland.  By  LOKD  MACKENZIE, 
one  ol  the  Judges  of  the  Court  of  Session  in  Scotland.  Seventh  Edition,  Edited 
by  JOHN  KIRKPATRICK,  M.A.,  LL.D.,  Advocate,  Professor  of  History  in  the 
University  of  Edinburgh.  8vo,  21p. 

MACKINLAY.    Garcia  the  Centenarian  :  and  his  Times.    Being 

a  Memoir  of  Don  Manuel  Garcia's  Life  and  Labours  for  the  advancement  of 
Music  and  Science.  By  M.  STERLING  MACKINLAY,  M.A.  Oxon.  With  twenty 
Portraits.  Demy  Svo,  15s.  net. 

MACNAMARA. 

The  Trance.   By  RACHEL  SWETE  MACNAMARA.    Crown  Svo,  6s. 

The  Sibyl  of  Venice.    Crown  Svo,  6s. 
MACPHERSON. 

Books  to  Read  and  How  to  Read  Them.     By  HECTOR  MAC- 
PHERSON.   Second  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

A  Century's  Intellectual  Development.     Crown  Svo,  6s.  net. 
A  Century  of  Political  Development.     3s.  6d.  net. 
MACPHERSON. 

A   Century's    Progress    in   Asti-onomy.      By    HECTOR    MAC- 
PHERSON, Jun.    Short  demy  Svo,  6s.  net. 
Through   the    Depths  of  Space :    A  Primer  of  Astronomy. 

Crown  Svo,  2s.  net. 

;eat  of  Laws  and  Decisions,  Ecclesiastical  and  Civil, 

Ing  to  the  Constitution,  Practice,  and  Affairs  of  the  Church  of  Scotland. 
With  Notes  and  Forma  of  Procedure.  By  the  Rev.  WILLIAM  MAIR,  D.D.,  lately 
Minister  of  the  Parish  of  ICarlston.  New  Edition,  Reviped.  In  1  vol.  crown  8vc, 
12s.  Cd.  net. 

Speaking  ;  or,  From  Voice  Production  to  the  Platform  and 

Pulpit.    Fourth  Edition,  Revised.    Crown  Svo,  Is.  6d.  net. 


2o  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


MARSHMAN.    History  of  India.    From  the  Earliest  Period  to 

the  present  time.  By  JOHN  CLARK  MARBHMAN,  O.B.I.  Third  and  Cheaper 
Edition  Post  8vo,  with  Map,  8s 

MARTIN. 

Poems  of  Giacomo  Leopardi.     Translated  by  Sir  THEODORE 

MARTIN,  K.C.B.     Crown  8vo,  5s.  net 

The  jEneid  of  Virgil.    Books  I.- VI.    Translated  by  Sir  THBO 

DORE  MARTIN,  K.O.B.    Post  8vo,  7s.  «d. 

Goethe's  Faust.      Part  I.      Translated  into   English   Verse. 

Second  Edition,  crown  8vo,  6s.    Ninth  Edition,  fcap.  8vo,  8s.  6d. 

Goethe's  Faust.     Part  II.     Translated   into  English  Verse. 

Second  Edition,  Revised.    Fcap.  8vo,  6s. 

The  Works  of  Horace.    Translated  into  English  Verse,  with 

Life  and  Notes.    2  Tola.    New  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  21s. 

Poems  and  Ballads  of  Heinrich  Heine.    Done  into  English 

Verse.    Third  Edition.    Small  crown  8vo,  5s. 

The  Song  of  the  Bell,  and  other  Translations  from  Schiller, 

Goethe,  Uhland,  and  Others.    Grown  8vo,  7s.  6d. 

Madonna  Pia  :  A  Tragedy  :  and  Three  Other  Dramas.    Crown 

8vo,  7s.  6d. 

The  '  Vita  Nuova '  of  Dante.    Translated  with  an  Introduction 

and  Notes.    Fourth  Edition.    Small  crown  8vo,  5g. 

Aladdin:   A  Dramatic  Poem.     By  ADAM  OEHLENSCHLAEGER, 

Fcap.  8vo,  5s. 

Correggio :  A  Tragedy.     By  OEHLENSCHLABGBR.    With  Notes. 

Fcap.  8vo,  3s. 

Helena  Faucit  (Lady  Martin).     By  Sir  THEODORE  MARTIN, 

K.C.B.,  K.C.V.O.  With  Five  Photogravure  Plates.  Second  Edition.  Demy  8vo, 
10s.  6d.  net. 

Poems  and  Ballads  of  Goethe.      By  Sir  THEODORE  MARTIN 

and  Professor  AYTOUN.  Third  Edition.  With  Introduction  by  Sir  THEODORE 
MARTIN.  Small  crown  8vo,  6s.  net 

Queen  Victoria  as  I  Knew  Her.    Square  crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 
MARTIN.    On  some  of  Shakespeare's  F*emale  Characters.    By 

HBLBNA  FAUCIT,  Lady  MARTIN.  Dedicated  by  permission  to  Her  Mott  Qracwvt 
Majesty  the  Queen.  With  a  Portrait  by  Lehmann.  Seventh  Edition,  with  a  new 
Preface.  Demy  8vo,  7s.  6d. 

MASEFIELD.      Gilbert   Hermer.      By    CHARLES    MASEFIELD. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  21 

MASSON.     Memories  of  London  in  the    Forties.     By  DAVID 

MASSON.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 

MATHESON. 

Can  the  Old  Faith  Live  with  the  New  i  or,  The  Problem  of 

Evolution  and  Revelation.    By  the  Rev.  GEORGJE  MATHESON,  D.D.    Third  Edi- 
tion.   Crown  8vo,  7s.  6d. 

The  Psalmist  and  the  Scientist ;  or,  Modern  Value  of  the  Reli- 
gious Sentiment.    Third  Edition.    Crown  Svo,  5s. 

Spiritual  Development  of  St  Paul.  Fourth  Edition.  Cr.  Svo,  6s. 

The  Distinctive  Messages  of  the  Old  Religions.    Second  Edi- 
tion.   Crown  8vo,  5s. 

Sacred  Songs.     Third  Edition.    Crown  Svo,  2s.  6d. 

MAXWELL. 

Dumfries    and    Galloway.      By    Right    Hon.    Sir   HEEBERT 

MAXWELL,  Bart.    Being  one  of  the  Volumes  of  the  County  Histories  of  Scotland. 
With  Four  Maps.     Second  Edition.    Demy  8vo,  7s.  6d.  not. 

Holyrood,  Abbey  Church,  Palace,  and  Environs.    Crown  Svo. 

Paper  cover,  6d.  net ;  cloth,  2s.  Gd.  net. 

MAXWELL.    The  Fear  of  Life.    By  GERARD  MAXWELL.    Crown 

Svo,  6s. 

MELDRUM. 

The  Conquest  of  Charlotte.    By  DAVID  S.  MELDRUM.    Third 

Impression.    Crown  Svo,  6s. 

The  Story  of  Margre"del :  Being  a  Fireside  History  of  a  Fife- 
shire  Family.    Cheap  Edition    Crown  Svo,  3s.  6d. 
Grey  Mantle  and  Gold  Fringe.    Crown  Svo,  6s. 

MELLONE. 

Studies  in  Philosophical  Criticism  and  Construction.     By 

SYDNEY  HERBERT  MELLONE,  M.A.  Lond.,  D.Sc.  Bdin.     Post  Svo,  10s.  Gd.  net. 

Leaders  of  Religious  Thought  in  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

Crown  Svo,  8s.  net. 

An  Introductory  Text-Book  of  Logic.      Third  Edition,  Re- 
vised.   Crown  Svo,  5s. 
Elements  of  Psychology.     Crown  8vo,  5s. 

MERZ.    A  History  of  European  Thought  in  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury.    By  JOHN  THEODORE  MBRI.     Vol.  I.     Third  Impression.     Post  Svo, 
108.  fid.  net. 
Vol.  II.,  15s.  net. 

MEYNELL.    John  Ruskin.    "  Modern  English  Writers."    By  Mrs 

MEYNKLL.    Third  Impression.    Crown  Svo,  2s.  6d. 

MICKLETHWAIT.     The  Licensing  Act,   1904.      By  St  J.  G. 

MICKLETHWAIT,  M.A.,  B.C.L.,  Barrister-at-Law.    Crown  Svo,  2s.  6d.  net. 


24  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


NOBLE. 
;•  The  Edge  of  Circumstance.    By  EDWAED  NOBLE.    Crown  8vo, 

Waves  of  Fate.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Fisherman's  Gat :  A  Story  of  the  Thames  Estuary.    Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

The  Grain  Carriers.    Third  Impression.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

NOYES. 

Poems  by  ALFRED  NOYES.    7s.  6d.  net. 

The  Forest  of  Wild  Thyme  :  A  Tale  for  Children  under  Ninety. 

Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

Drake  :  An  English  Epic.    Books  I. -III.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 
Drake  :  An  English  Epic.    Books  IV.-XII.    Crown  8vo,  6s.  net. 

The  Complete  Work  in  1  vol.    Crown  8vo,  7s.  6d.  net. 

Forty    Singing    Seamen.     Second  Impression.     Crown   8vo, 

5s.  net. 

The  Enchanted  Island,  and  other  Poems.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 
Collected  Poems.    Demy  8vo.    2  vols.  [in  the  press. 

"  OLE  LUK  -  OIE."     The  Green  Curve.    By  "  OLE  LUK  -  OIE." 

Second  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

OLIPHANT. 

Piccadilly.    With  Illustrations  by  Richard  Doyle.    New  Edi- 
tion, 3s.  6d.    Cheap  Edition,  boards,  2s.  6d. 

Episodes  in  a  Life  of  Adventure;  or,  Moss  from  a  Rolling 

Stone.    Cheaper  Edition.    Post  8vo,  8s.  6d. 

OLIPHANT. 

Annals  of  a  Publishing  House.    William  Blackwood  and  his 

Sons ;  Their  Magazine  and  Friends.    By  Mrs  OLIPHANT.    With  Pour  Portrait*. 
Third  Edition.     Demy  8vo     Vols.  I.  and  II.    £2,  2s. 

A  Widow's  Tale,  and  other  Stories.    With  an  Introductory 

Note  by  J.  .M.  BARRIC.    Second  Edition.    Grown  8vo,  08. 

Katie  Stewart,  and  other  Stories.     New  Edition.    Crown  8vo, 

Cloth,  3s.  6d, 

Katie  Stewart.    Illustrated  boards,  2s.  6d. 

Valentine  and  his  Brother.     New  Edition.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

Sons  and  Daughters.     Crown  8vo.  3s.  6d. 

OMOND.     The    Romantic    Triumph.      "Periods   of   European 

Literature."    By  T.  8.  OMOND.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

O'NEILL.    Songs  of  the  Glens  of  Antrim.     By  MOIKA  O'NEILL. 

Thirteenth  Impression.     Orown  8vo,  3s.  fid. 

OXENDEN.    The  Story  of  Esther.    By  MAUD  OXENDEN.    Crown 

8vo,  6s. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  25 


PAGE. 

Intermediate  Text-Book  of  Geology.    By  Professor  LAPWORTH. 

Founded  on  Dr  Pago's  '  Introductory  Text- Book  of  Geology.'    Crown  8vo,  5s. 

Advanced  Text-Book  of  Geology.    New  Edition.     Revised  and 

enlarged  by  Professor  LAPWORTH.    Crown  8vo.  [In  the  press. 

Introductory  Text  -  Book  of   Physical   Geography.      Crown 

8vo,  2s.  6d. 

Advanced  Text- Book  of  Physical  Geography.     Crown  8vo,  5s. 
Physical  Geography  Exaruinator.     Crown  8vo,  sewed,  9d. 

PARKER.      Miss    Lomax :    Millionaire.      By   BESSIE    PARKER. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 

PATERSON.     Peggotts ;  or,  The  Indian  Contingent.     By  MAR- 
GARET PATERSON.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Reality.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
PAUL.    History  of  the  Royal  Company  of  Archers,  the  Queen's 

Body-Guard  for  Scotland.  By  Sir  JAMBS  BALFOUB  PAUL,  Advocate  of  the  Scottish 
Bar.  Crown  4to,  with  Portraits  and  other  Illustrations.  £2,  2s. 

PEARSE.    Memoir  of  the  Life  and  Military  Services  of  Viscount 

Lake,  Baron  Lake  of  Delhi  and  Laswaree,  1744-1808.  With  Portraits,  &c.  Demy 
8vo,  15s.  net. 

PEILE. 

Clanbrae :   A  Golfing  Idyll.     By  PENTLAND  PEILE.     Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

The  Bluffshire  Courier.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 

PERIODS  OF  EUROPEAN  LITERATURE.    Edited  by  Pro- 
fessor SAINTSBUBY.    For  List  of  Volwmes,  see  page  2. 

PHILOSOPHICAL  CLASSICS  FOR  ENGLISH  READERS. 

Edited  by  WILLIAM  KNIOHT,  LL.D.,  Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy,  University 
of  St  Andrews.  Cheap  Re-issue  in  Shilling  Volumes  net. 

[For  List  of  Volumes,  see  page  2. 

POLLOK.    The  Course  of  Time :  A  Poem.    By  ROBKBT  POLLOK, 

A.M.    New  Edition.    With  Portrait.    Fcap.  8vo,  gilt  top,  Ss.  «d. 

PRESTON-THOMAS.    The  Work  and  Play  of  a  Government 

Inspector.  By  HERBERT  PRESTON-THOMAS,  C.B.  With  a  Preface  by  The  Right 
Hon.  JOHN  BURNS,  M.P.  Demy  Svo,  10s.  6d.  net. 

PRINGLE-PATTISON. 

Scottish  Philosophy.     A  Comparison  of   the  Scottish    and 

German  Answers  to  Hume.  Balfour  Philosophical  Lectures,  University  of 
Edinburgh.  By  A.  SETH  PRINQLB-PATTISON,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.,  Fellow  of  the 
British  Academy,  Professor  of  Logic  and  Metaphysics  in  Edinburgh  University. 
Fourth  Edition.  Crown  Svo,  5s. 

Hegelianism  and  Personality.    Balfour  Philosophical  Lectures. 

Second  Series.    Second  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Man's  Place  in  the  Cosmos,  and  other  Essays.   Second  Edition. 

Enlarged.    Post  Svo,  6s.  net 


26  William  Black-wood  &  Sons. 


PRINGLE-PATTISON. 

Two  Lectures  on  Theism.    Delivered  on  the  occasion  of  the 

Sesquicentennial  Celebration  of  Princeton  University.    Crown  8vo,  2s   8d. 

The    Philosophical    Radicals    and    Other   Essays,    including 

Chapters  reprinted  on  the  Philosophy  of  Religion  in  Kant  and  Hegel.    Crown 
8vo,  6s.  net. 

PUBLIC  GENERAL  STATUTES  AFFECTING  SCOTLAND 

from  1707  to  1847,  with  Chronological  Table  and  Index.     8  vols.  large  8vo,  «8,  8s. 
Also  Published  Annually,  with  General  Index. 

RANJITSINHJI.    The  Jubilee  Book  of  Cricket.    By  PBINOB 

RANJITSINHJI. 
POPULAR  EDITION.  With  107  full-page  Illustrations.  Sixth  Edition.  Large 

crown  8vo,  6s. 
SIXPENNY  EDITION.  With  a  selection  of  the  Illustrations. 

RIVETT-CARNAC.    Many  Memories  of  Life  in  India,  at  Home, 

and  Abroad.     By  J.  H.  RIVETT-CARNAC,  C.I.E.     With  Portraits.     Demy  8vo, 
10s.  6d.  net. 

ROBERTSON. 

Early  Religions  of  Israel.    New  and  Revised  Edition.    Crown 

8vo.  [In  the  press 

The  Poetry  and  the  Religion  of  the  Psalms.    The  Croall 

Lectures,  1893-91.    By  JAMES  ROBERTSON,  D.D.,  Professor  of  Oriental  Languages 
in  the  University  of  Glasgow.    Demy  8vo,  12s. 

ROBERTSON. 

A  History  of  German  Literature.    By  JOHN  G.  ROBERTSON, 

Ph.D.,  Professor  of  German,  University  of  London.    Demy  8vo,  10s.  6d.  net 

Schiller  after  a  Century.    Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d.  net. 

RONALDSHAY. 

On  the  Outskirts  of  Empire  in  Asia.      By  the   EARL  OF 

RONALDSHAY,    M.P.     With   numerous   Illustrations   and    Maps.      Royal  8vo, 
21s.  net. 

Sport  and  Politics  under  an  Eastern  Sky.      With  numerous 

Illustrations  and  Maps.    Royal  8vo,  21s.  net. 

A  Wandering  Student  in  the  Far  East.    With  Maps  and  60 

Illustrations.    2  vols.  short  demy  8vo,  21s.  net. 

RUTLAND. 

Notes  of  an  Irish  Tour  in  1846.    By  the  DUKE  OF  RUTLAND, 

G.C.B.  (LORD  JOHN  MANNERS).    New  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d. 

The  Collected  Writings  of  Janetta,  Duchess  of  Rutland.    With 

Portrait  and  Illustrations.    2  vols.  post  8vo,  15s.  net 

Impressions  of  Bad-Homburg.    Comprising  a  Short  Account 

of  the  Women's  Associations  of  Germany  under  the  Red  Cross.    By  the  DUCHESS 
OF  RUTLAND  (LADY  JOHN  MANNKRR).    Crown  8vo,  Is.  6d. 

Some  Personal  Recollections  of  the  Later  Years  of  the  Earl 

of  Beaconsfleld,  E.G.    Sixth  Edition,    (id. 

Employment  of  Women  in  the  Public  Service.    6d. 

Some  of  the  Advantages  of  Easily  Accessible  Reading  and 

Recreation  Rooms  and  Free  Libraries.    Witb  Remark?  «"  Starting  and  Main- 
taining them.     Second  Edition,    drown  8vo,  Is. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  27 

RUTLAND. 

A  Sequel  to  Rich  Men's  Dwellings,  and  other  Occasional 

Papers.    Crown  8vo,  SB.  6d. 

Encouraging  Experiences  of  Reading  and  Recreation  Rooms, 

Alms  of  Guilds,  Nottingham  Social  Guide.  Existing  Institutions,  &o  ,  Ac 
drown  8vo,  Is. 

SAINTSBURT. 

A  History  of  Criticism  and  Literary  Taste  in  Europe.    From 

the  Earliest  Texts  to  the  Present  Day.  By  GEOROB  SAINTSBURY,  M.A.  (Oxon.) 
Hon.  LL.D.  (At>erd.),  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Literature  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh.  In  3  vols.  demy  8vo.  VoL  I.— Classical  and  Mediaeval  Criti- 
cism. 16s.  net. 

Vol.  II.— From  the  Renaissance  to  the  Decline  of  Eighteenth  Century  Ortho- 
doxy.   20s.  net. 
Vol.  III.— Nineteenth  Century.    20s.  net. 

Matthew  Arnold.     "Modern  English  Writers."    Second  Edi- 
tion.   Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d 
The  Flourishing  of  Romance  and  the  Rise  of  Allegory  (12tb 

and  13th  Centuries).     "Periods  of  European  Literature."    Crown  8vo,  5s.  not 

The  Earlier  Renaissance.     "  Periods  of  European  Literature." 

Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

The    Later    Nineteenth    Century.       "Periods    of    European 

Literature."    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

"SCOLOPAX."       A    Book    of    the    Snipe.       By    SCOLOPAX. 

Illustrated.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

SCOTT.    Cursed    Luck.     By   Sir   J.    GEORGE   SCOTT,    K.C.I.E. 

Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

SCOTT.    An  Olive  Leaf.    By  JAMES  SCOTT.    Crown  8vo,  Is.  net. 
SCOTT.    Tom  Cringle's  Log.    By  MICHAEL  SCOTT.    New  Edition. 

With  19  Full-page  Illustrations.    Crown  Svo,  3s.  6d. 

SCUDAMORE.    Belgium  and  the  Belgians.    By  CYRIL  SCTTDA- 

MOEK.    With  Illustrations.    Square  crown  8vo,  6s. 

SELLAR.    Recollections  and  Impressions.     By  E.  M.  SELLAR. 

With  Eight  Portraits.    Fourth  Impression.    Demy  Svo,  10s.  6d.  net. 

SELLAR. 

Muggins  of  the  Modern  Side.    By  EDMUND  SELLAR.    Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

Glentyre.    Crown  Svo,  6s. 

Where  Every  Prospect  Pleases.     Crown  Svo,  6s. 

SETH.    A  Study  of  Ethical  Principles.    BY  JAMES  SKTH,  M.A., 

Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  Tenth  Edition 
Revised.  Post  Svo,  7s.  6d. 

SHARPLEY.     Aristophanes— Pax.     Edited,  with  Introduction 

and  Notes,  by  H.  SHARPLEY.     Demy  Svo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

SHAW.    Securities  over  Moveables.    Four  Lectures  delivered  at 

the  Request  of  the  Society  of  Accountants  in  Edinburgh,  the  Institute  of  Ac- 
countants and  Actuaries  in  Glasgow,  and  the  Institute  of  Bankers  in  Scotland 
In  1902-8.  Demy  Svo,  8s.  6d.  net. 


28  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


y 

J.  FINNEMORE.  Rendered  into  English  after  the  Chronicle  of  Homer.  By 
RICHARD  SHEEPSHANKS.  Square  Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

SILLERY.    A  Curtain  of  Cloud.    By  Major  C.  SILLERY.    Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

SIMPSON.    Side-Lights  on  Siberia.    Some  account  of  the  Great 

Siberian  Iron  Road:  The  Prisons  and  Exile  System.  By  Professor  J.  T. 
SIMPSON,  D.8c.  With  numerous  Illustrations  and  a  Map.  Demy  8vo,  16s. 

SKELTON.    The  Handbook  of  Public  Health.    A  New  Edition, 

Revised  by  JAMES  PATTEN  MACDOUGALL,  Advocate,  Secretary  to  the  Local 
Government  Board  for  Scotland,  Joint-Author  of  '  The  Parish  Council  Guide  for 
Scotland,'  and  ABIJAH  MURRAY,  Chief  Clerk  of  the  Local  Government  Board  for 
Scotland.  In  Two  Parts.  Crown  8vo.  Part  I.— The  Public  Health  (Scotland) 
Act,  1897,  with  Notes.  3s.  6d.  net. 

SKRINE.    Fontenoy,  and  Great  Britain's  share  in  the  War  of  the 

Austrian  Succession.  By  P.  H.  SKRINE.  With  Map,  Plans,  and  Illustrations. 
Demy  8vo,  21s.  net 

SMITH. 

The  Transition  Period.     "Periods  of  European  Literature." 

By  G.  GREGORY  SMITH.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

Specimens  of  Middle  Scots.    Post  8vo,  7s.  6d.  net. 
SNELL.     The  Fourteenth   Century.     "Periods   of    European 

Literature."    By  F.  J.  SNELL.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

"SON  OF  THE  MARSHES,  A." 

From  Spring  to  Fall:  or,  When  Life  Stirs.    By  " A  SON  OF 

THE  MARSHES."    Cheap  Uniform  Edition.    Grown  8vo,  8s.  8d. 

Within  an  Hour  of  London  Town :  Among  Wild  Birds  and 

their  Haunts.    Edited  by  J.  A.  OWBN.    Oheap  Uniform  Edition.    Cr.  8vo,  8s.  6d. 

With  the  Woodlanders  and  by  the  Tide.     Cheap  Uniform 

Edition.    Crown  8vo,  3s.  Gd. 

On  Surrey  Hills.    Cheap  Uniform  Edition.  Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 
Annals  of  a  Fishing  Village.    Cheap  Uniform  Edition.    Crown 

8vo,  8s.  6d. 

SORLEY. 

The  Ethics  of  Naturalism.     By  W.  R.  SORLEY,  Litt.D.,  LL.D., 

Fellow  of  the  British  Academy,  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  Professor 
of  Moral  Philosophy,  University  of  Cambridge.  Second  Edition.  Crown  8vo, 

Recent  Tendencies  in  Ethics.    Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d.  net. 

SPROTT. 

The  Worship  and  Offices  of  the  Church  of  Scotland.     By 

GEORGE  W.  SPROTT,  D.D.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

The  Book  of  Common  Order  of  the  Church  of  Scotland,  com- 
monly known  as  John  Knox's  Liturgy.  With  Historical  Introduction  and  Illus- 
trative Notes.  Crown  8vo,  4s.  6d.  net. 

Scottish  Liturgies  of  the  Reign  of  James  VI.    Edited,  with 

an  Introduction  and  Notes.    Crown  8vo,  4s.  net. 

Euchologion :    A   Book    of    Common    Order.      Crown    8vo, 

4s.  6d.  net. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  29 


STEEVENS. 

Things  Seen  :  Impressions  of  Men,  Cities,  and  Books.     By  the 

late  Q.  W.  STEEVENS.  Editetl  by  Q.  8.  STREET.  With  a  Memoir  by  W.  E. 
HKNLEY,  and  a  Photogravure  reproduction  of  Collier's  Portrait.  Memorial  Edi- 
tion. Crown  8vo,  6s. 

From  Capetown  to  Ladysmith,  and  Egypt  in  1898.     Memorial 

Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s.       ' 

In  India.     With  Map.    Memorial  Edition.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 
With    Kitchener  to    Khartum.      With   8   Maps  and    Plans. 

Memorial  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

The  Land  of  the  Dollar.    Memorial  Edition.     Crown  8vo,  6s. 
Glimpses  of  Three  Nations.     Memorial  Edition.    Cr.  8vo,  6s. 
Monologues  of  the  Dead.    Memorial  Edition.  Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 
With  the  Conquering  Turk    With  4  Maps.  Ch.  Ed.  Cr.  8vo,  6s. 

STEPHENS. 

The  Book  of  the  Farm  ;  detailing  the  Labours  of  the  Farmer, 

Farm-Steward,  Ploughman,  Shepherd,  Hedger,  Farm-Labourer,  Field-Worker, 
and  Cattle-man.  Illustrated  with  numerous  Portraits  of  Animals  and  Engravings 
of  Implements,  and  Plans  of  Farm  Buildings.  Fifth  Edition.  Revised,  and 
In  great  part  Re-written,  by  JAMES  MACDONALD,  F.R.S.E.,  Secretary  Highland 
and  Agricultural  Society  of  Scotland.  Complete  in  Six  Divisional  Volumes, 
bound  in  cloth,  each  10s.  fid.  net,  or  handsomely  bound,  In  3  volumes  with  leather 
back  and  gil*  top,  £ 3,  3s.  net. 

STEPHENS.      The  Eddy.     By    KICCARDO    STEPHENS.     Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

STEVENSON.    The  Silver  Spoon.    By  G.  H.  STEVENSON.    Crown 

8vo,  6s. 

STEWART.      Baud  Immemor.      Reminiscences   of    Legal    and 

Social  Life  in  Edinburgh  and  London,  1850-1900.  By  CHARLES  STEWART.  With 
10  Photogravure  Plates.  Royal  8vo,  7s.  6d. 

STEWART  AND  CUFF.    Practical  Nursing.    By  ISLA  STEWART, 

Matron  of  8t  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  London ;  and  HERBERT  E.  CUFF,  M.D., 
F.R.C.S.,  Medical  Superintendent  North- Eastern  Fever  Hospital,  Tottenham, 
London.    With  Diagrams.     In  2  vols.   crown  8vo.    Vol.  I.     Second  Edition. 
3s.  6d.  net.    Vol.  II.,  3s.  6d.  net. 
Also  in  1  Volume,  5s.  net. 

STODDART.    Life  and  Letters  of  Hannah  E.  Pipe.    By  ANNA 

M.  STODDART.    With  Portraits  and  Illustrations.    Demy  8vo,  15s.  net. 

3TOBMONTH. 

Dictionary  of  the  English  Language,  Pronouncing,  Etymo- 
logical, and  Explanatory.  By  the  Rev.  JAMES  STORMONTH.  Revised  by  the 
Rev.  P.  H.  PHELP.  Library  Edition.  New  and  Cheaper  Edition,  with  Supple- 
ment. Imperial  8vo,  handsomely  bound  in  half  morocco,  18s.  net. 

Etymological   and   Pronouncing  Dictionary  of   the  English 

Language.  Including  a  very  Copious  Selection  of  Scientific  Terms.  For  use  ID 
Schools  and  Colleges,  and  as  a  Book  of  General  Reference.  The  Pronunciation 
carefully  revised  by  the  Rev.  P.  H.  PHELP,  M.A.  Cantab.  Sixteenth  Edition, 
Revised.  Crown  8vo,  pp.  1000.  5s.  net. 

Handy  Dictionary.     New  Edition,  thoroughly  Revised.     By 

WILLIAM  BATNE.    16mo,  Is. 

STORY.    William  Wetmore  Story  and  his  Friends.  From  Letters. 

Diaries,  and  Recollections.  By  HENRY  JAMES.  With  2  Portraits.  In  2  vols.  post 
8vo,  24s.  net. 


30  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 

STRAIN.    A  Prophet's  Reward.    By  E.  H.  STRAIN.    Crown  8vo 

SYNGE.     The  Story  of  the  World.     By  M.  B.  SYNGE.     With 

Coloured  Frontispieces  and  numerous  Illustrations  by  B.  M.  SYNGE,  A.R.E., 
and  Maps.    2  vols,  3s.  6d.  each  net. 


THEOBALD.    A  Text-Book  of  Agricultural  Zoology.    By  FEED. 

V.  THEOBALD.    With  numerous  Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  8s.  6d. 

THOMSON.     Handy  Book  of  the  Flower- Gar  den.     By  DAVID 

THOMSON.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

THOMSON.    A  Practical  Treatise  on  the  Cultivation  of  the 

Grape  Vine.    By  WILLIAM  THOMSON,  Tweed  Vineyards.    Tenth  Edition.    8vo,  5s. 

THOMSON.     History  of  the  Fife  Light  Horse.     By  Colonel 

ANSTRUTHER  THOMSON.    With  numerous  Portraits.    Small  4to,  21s.  net 

THORBURN. 

The  Punjab  in  Peace  and  War.    By  S.  S.  THORBURN.    Demy 

8vo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

India's  Saint  and  the  Viceroy.    A  Novel.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

THURSTON. 

The  Circle.    By  KATHERINE  CECIL  THURSTON.    Ninth  Impres- 
sion.   Crown  8vo,  6s. 

John   Chilcote,  M.P.     Fifteenth  Impression,  crown  8vo,  6s. 

Cheap  Edition,  Is.  net. 

People's  Edition,  paper  cover,  6d. 

The  Mystics.    With  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 
The  Fly  on  the  Wheel.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 


TTELE.    Elements  of  the  Science  of  Religion.    Part  L— Morpho 

logical  Part  II.— Ontological.  Being  the  Gifford  Lectures  delivered  before  the 
University  of  Edinburgh  in  1896-98.  ByO.  P.  TIKLE,  Theol.  D.,  Litt.D.(Bonon.), 
Hon.  M.R.A.8.,  Ac.,  Professor  of  the  Science  of  Religion,  in  the  University  of 
Leiden.  In  2  vols.  post  8vo,  7s.  6d.  net  each. 

TRANSACTIONS  OF   THE  HIGHLAND  AND  AGRICUL- 

TURAL  SOCIETY  OF  SCOTLAND.    Published  annually,  price  5s. 

TRAVERS. 

The  Way  of  Escape.    A  Novel.    By  GRAHAM  TRAVERS  (Mar- 
garet Todd,  M.D.)    Second  Impression.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

Windyhangh.    Fourth  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
Fellow  Travellers.    Fourth  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  31 


TRUSCOTT.    The  Marriage  of  Aminta.    By  L.  PARRY  TRUSCOTT. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 

TULLOCH. 

Modern    Theories    in   Philosophy   and   Religion.      By  JOHN 

TULLOCH,  D.D.,  Principal  of  St  Mary's  College  in  the  University  of  St 
Andrews,  and  one  of  her  Majesty's  Chaplains  in  Ordinary  in  Scotland. 
8vo,  15s. 

TURNER.      The  History  of  Local  Taxation  in  Scotland.      By 

STANLEY  HOESFALL  TURNER,  M.A.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

TWEEDIE.      The   Arabian    Horse.    His   Country   and    People. 

By  Major-General  W.  TWEKDIE,  C.8.I.,  Bengal  Staff  Corps;  'or  many  years 
H.B.M.'s  Constd-General,  Baghdad,  and  Political  Resident  for  the  Government 
of  India  in  Turkish  Arabia.  In  one  vol.  royal  4to,  with  Soveii  Coloured  Plates 
and  other  Illustrations,  and  a  Map  of  the  Country.  Large  Paper  Edition.  Price 
£6,  6s.  net. 

VAUGHAN".   The  Romantic  Revolt.   By  Professor  C.  E.  VAUGHAN. 

Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  "SCOTIA,"  THE.    Being  the  Record  of 

a  Voyage  of  Exploration  in  Antartic  Seas.  By  THRKE  OF  THE  STAFF.  Demy 
8vo,  21s.  net. 

WADDELL. 

Christianity  as  an  Ideal.    By  Rev.  P.  HATELY  WADDELL,  B.D. 

Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

Essays  on  Faith.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

Thoughts  on  Modern  Mysticism.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

WAKE.    Lady  Wake's  Reminiscences.    By  LUCY  WAKE.    With 

Portraits  and  Illustrations.    Second  Impression.     Demy  8vo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

WALKER.    The  Letters  of  John  Stuart  Blackie  to  his  Wife. 

With  a  few  earlier  ones  to  his  parents.  Selected  and  edited  by  his  nephew, 
A.  STODART  WALKER.  Second  Impression.  Demy  8vo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

WARREN'S  (SAMUEL)  WORKS  :- 

Diary  of  a  Late  Physician.    Cloth,  2s.  6d, ;  boards,  2s. ;  paper 

cover,  Is. 

Now  and  Then.    The  Lily  and  the  Bee.      Intellectual   and 

Moral  Development  of  the  Present  Age     4s.  6d. 

Essays  :  Critical,  Imaginative,  anH  Jnridicw.     g*. 
WATSON.    The  Skipper.    By  GILBERT  WATSON.    Crown  8vo,  8s. 
WATT.      By    Still    Waters.      By    MACLEAN    WATT.      Is.    6d. 

Leather,  2s. 

WEIGALL. 

Travels  in  the  Upper  Egyptian  Deserts.     By  ARTHUR  E.  P. 

WEIOALL.     With  numerous  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  7s.  6d.  net. 

The  Life  and  Times  of  Aklmaton,  Pharaoh  of  Egypt.     Illus- 
trated.   Crown  8vo,  10s.  6d.  net. 


30  William  Blackwood  &  Sons. 


STRAIN.    A  Prophet's  Reward.    By  E.  H.  STRAIN.    Crown  8vo 
SYNGE.     The  Story  of  the  World.     By  M.  B.  SYNGE.     With 

Coloured  Frontispieces  and  numerous  Illustrations  by  B.  M.  SYNQE,  A.R.B., 
and  Maps.    2  vols,  3s.  6d.  each  net. 


THEOBALD.    A  Text-Book  of  Agricultural  Zoology.    By  FEED. 

V.  THEOBALD.    With  numerous  Illustrations.    Crown  8vo,  8s.  6d. 

THOMSON.     Handy  Book  of  the  Flower-Garden.     By  DAVID 

THOMSON.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

THOMSON.    A  Practical  Treatise  on  the  Cultivation  of  the 

Grape  Vine.    By  WILLIAM  THOMSON,  Tweed  Vineyards.    Tenth  Edition.    8vo,  6s. 

THOMSON.     History  of  the  Fife  Light  Horse.     By  Colonel 

ANSTRTJTHBR  THOMSON.    With  numerous  Portraits.    Small  4to,  21s.  net 

THORBURN. 

The  Punjab  in  Peace  and  War.    By  S.  S.  THORBURN.    Demy 

8vo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

India's  Saint  and  the  Viceroy.    A  Novel.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

THURSTON. 

The  Circle.    By  KATHERINE  CECIL  THURSTON.    Ninth  Impres- 
sion.   Crown  8vo,  6s. 

John   Chilcote,  M.P.     Fifteenth  Impression,  crown  8vo,  6s. 

Cheap  Edition,  Is.  net. 

People's  Edition,  paper  cover,  6d. 

The  Mystics.    With  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 
The  Fly  on  the  Wheel.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 


TIELE.    Elements  of  the  Science  of  Religion.    Part  L— Morpho 

logical.  Part  II.—  Ontologieal.  Being  the  Gifford  Lectures  delivered  before  the 
University  of  Edinburgh  in  1896-98.  By  0.  P.  TIKLK,  Theol.  D.,  Litt.D.  (Bonon.), 
Hon.  M.R.A.8.,  &c.,  Professor  of  the  Science  of  Religion,  in  the  University  of 
Leiden.  In  2  vols.  post  8vo,  la.  fid.  net  each. 

TRANSACTIONS  OF   THE  HIGHLAND  AND  AGRICUL- 
TURAL SOCIETY  OF  SCOTLAND.    Published  annually,  price  5s. 

TRAVERS. 

The  Way  of  Escape.    A  Novel.    By  GRAHAM  TRAVERS  (Mar- 
garet Todd,  M.D.)    Second  Impression,    drown  8vo,  6s. 

Windyhaugh.    Fourth  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
Fellow  Travellers.    Fourth  Edition.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 


William  Blackwood  &  Sons.  31 


TEUSCOTT.    The  Marriage  of  Aminta.    By  L.  PARRY  TRUSCOTT. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 

TULLOCH. 

Modern    Theories    in   Philosophy   and   Religion.      By  JOHN 

TULLOCH,  D.D.,  Principal  of  St  Mary's  College  in  the  University  of  St 
Andrews,  and  one  of  her  Majesty's  Chaplains  in  Ordinary  in  Scotland. 
8vo,  15s. 

TURNER.      The  History  of  Local  Taxation  in  Scotland.      By 

STANLEY  HOESFALL  TURNER,  M.A.     Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

TWEEDIE.     The  Arabian   Horse:    His  Country   and   People. 

By  Major  -  General  W.  TWKKDIE,  C.S.I.,  Bengal  Staff  Corps;  for  many  years 
H.B.M.'s  Constd-General,  Baghdad,  and  Politics!  Resident  for  the  Government 
of  India  In  Turkish  Arabia.  In  one  vol.  royal  4to,  with  Seven  Coloured  Plates 
and  other  Illustrations,  and  a  Map  of  the  Country.  Large  Paper  Edition.  Price 
£6,  6s.  net. 

VAUGHAN.   The  Romantic  Revolt.   By  Professor  C.  E.  VAUGHAN. 

Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  "SCOTIA,"  THE.    Being  the  Record  of 

a  Voyage  of  Exploration  in  Antartic  Seas.  By  THREE  OF  THE  STAFF.  Demy 
8vo,  21s.  net. 

WADDELL. 

Christianity  as  an  Ideal.    By  Rev.  P.  HATELY  WADDELL,  B.D. 

Grown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

Essays  on  Faith.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

Thoughts  on  Modern  Mysticism.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d. 

WAKE.    Lady  Wake's  Reminiscences.    By  LUCY  WAKE.    With 

Portraits  and  Illustrations.    Second  Impression.    Demy  8vo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

WALKER.    The  Letters  of  John  Stuart  Blackie  to  his  Wife. 

With  a  few  earlier  ones  to  his  parents.  Selected  and  edited  by  his  nephew, 
A.  STODART  WALKER.  Second  Impression.  Demy  8vo,  12s.  6d.  net. 

WARREN'S  (SAMUEL)  WORKS :- 

Diary  of  a  Late  Physician.    Cloth,  2s.  6d, ;  boards,  2s. ;  paper 

cover,  Is. 
Now  and  Then.    The  Lily  and  the  Bee.      Intellectual  and 

Moral  Development  of  the  Present  Age     4s.  6d. 

Essays  :  Critical,  Imaginative,  »r,H  Jt3ridic.fi/.     6*. 
WATSON.    The  Skipper.    By  GILBERT  WATSON.    Crown  8vo,  8s. 
WATT.      By    Still    Waters.      By    MACLEAN    WATT.      Is.    6d. 

Leather,  2s. 

WFTGALI 

Travels  in  the  Upper  Egyptian  Deserts.    By  ARTHUR  E.  P. 

WEIQALL.     With  numerous  Illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  7s.  6d.  net. 

The  Life  and  Times  of  Akhnaton,  Pharaoh  of  Egypt.    Illus- 
trated.   Crown  8vo,  10s.  6d.  net. 


32  William  Blackzvood  &  Sons. 


WENLEY.     Aspects  of  Pessimism.     By  R  M.  WENLEY,  M.A., 

D.Sc.,  D.Phil.,  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Michigan,  U.S.A. 
Crown  8vo,  6s. 

WHIBLEY. 

Thackeray.       "Modern    English    Writers."       By    CHARLES 

WHIBLEY.     Crown  8vo,  2s.  6d. 

William  Pitt.    With  Portraits  and  Caricatures.    Crown  8vo, 

6s.  net. 

American  Sketches.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 

WHISPER.    Black  Mark.    By  A.  WHISPER.    Crown  8vo,  6s. 
WILSON.    The  Prophets  and  Prophecy  to  the  Close  of  the  Eighth 

Century  B.C.  By  the  Rev.  ALEXANDER  WILSON,  M.  A.,  Minister  of  Tthan  Wells, 
Aberdeenshire.  With  Introductory  Preface  by  the  Rev.  ALLAN  MENZIBS,  D.D., 
Professor  of  Biblical  Criticism  in  the  University  of  St  Andrews.  Pcap.  8vo,  Is. 


WILSON. 

Works  of  Professor  Wilson.      Edited  by  his   Son  -in  -Law, 

Professor  FKBRIML    12  vols.  crown  8vo,  £2,  8s. 

Christopher  in  his  Sporting-Jacket.    2  vole.,  8s. 

Isle  of  Palms,  City  of  the  Plague,  and  other  Poems.    4s. 

Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,  and  other  Tales.   4s. 

Essays,  Critical  and  Imaginative.    4  vols.,  16a. 

The  Noctes  Ambrosianse.    4  vols.,  16s. 

Homer  and  his  Translators,  and  the  Greek  Drama.    Crown 

8vo,  4s. 

WINRAM.    Violin  Playing  and  Violin  Adjustment.ggBy  JAMES 

WINEAM.    Crown  8vo,  5s.  net. 

WORSLEY. 

Homers  Odyssey.      Translated  into  English  Verse  in  the 

Spenserian  Stanza.     By  PHILIP  STANHOPE  WORSLEY,  M.A.    New  and  Cheaper 
Edition.    Post  8vo,  7s.  6d.  net. 

Homer's  Iliad.    Translated  by  P.  S.  Worsley  and  Prof.  Con- 

ington.    S  vols.  crown  8vo,  Sis. 

WOTHERSPOON. 

Kyrie  Eleison  ("Lord,  have  Mercy").    A  Manual  of  Private 

Prayers.    With  Notes  and  Additional  Matter.    By  H.  J.  WOTHERSPOON,  M.A., 
of  8t  Oswald's,  Edinburgh.    Cloth,  red  edges,  Is.  net  ;  limp  leather,  Is.  6d.  net. 

Before  and  After.    Being  Part  I.  of  'Kyrie  Eleison.'    Cloth, 

limp,  6d.  net. 

The  Second  Prayer  Book  of  King  Edward  the  Sixth  (1552)  along 

with  the  Liturgy  of  Compromise,  edited  by  Rev.  G.  W.  SPROTT,  D.D.    Crown 
Svo,  4s.  net. 


2AO 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


RET  16 


;  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  F. 


A    000  030  562     3