Chapter 10

“For I’ll cut my green coat a foot above my knee;Hey nonny, nonny, nonny.”

“For I’ll cut my green coat a foot above my knee;

Hey nonny, nonny, nonny.”

Up to this point the character of the Gaoler’s Daughter is not unworthy of Shakespeare, but Fletcher could not keep at so high a level for long. More than any of his contemporaries he creates mad folk for the purpose of embellishing his comedies; in this play, having developed a situation with many fine capabilities, he proceeds to rush in and spoil his own work in the worst possible way. The luckless girl is introduced into a rustic scene[84:2]and made to sing for the delectation of some peasants, to exchange coarse banter with them, andeven to join in their morris. From this time forward the underplot is hopelessly degraded, both by its being drawn out to an absurd length and by its ending in the coarsest of scenes which leads to what we are asked to believe is the girl’s complete restoration to sanity.

The Wooer first acquaints the Gaoler with his sweetheart’s complaint.[85:1]We learn that it has been preceded by the natural irritation which is common in such cases, and that she has answered her father’s questions:

“So childishly,So sillily, as if she were a fool,An innocent.”

“So childishly,

So sillily, as if she were a fool,

An innocent.”

Since we have last seen her, her senses have quite gone. She constantly repeats phrases which tell of her trouble—“Palamon is gone,” “Palamon, fair Palamon,” and the like. She even plagiarises Desdemona, and sings nothing but “Willow, willow, willow.” She has been playing and garlanding herself with flowers; now she weeps, now smiles, now sings; reckless of danger, she sits by a lake, and attempts to drown herself at the Wooer’s approach. She appears at length[85:2]and carries on the same kind of conversation, fancifully constructing long trains of imagination from the smallest incidents. While ever and anon the theme ofPalamon recurs: he is still in love with her—“a fine young gentleman,” and he “lies longing” for her in the wood.

This her father reports to the Doctor: “She is continually in a harmless distemper, sleeps little; altogether without appetite, save often drinking; dreaming of another world and a better; and what broken piece of matter so e’er she’s about the name Palamon lards it.”[86:1]The Doctor is out of his depth. He understands little of the mind diseased, holding the popular notion that it is “more at some time of the moon than at other some,” and confessing that he “cannot minister” to her “perturbed mind.” The remedy which he proposes is of the crudest. The Wooer is to dress as if he were Palamon, satisfy all the girl’s desires, and wait for her to return to her right mind. Both Wooer and Gaoler protest against the extreme application of this “cure,” but the Doctor is so insistent that they give in, and when in the last scene Palamon enquires after the girl who procured his escape and who, he has heard, has been ill, he is told that she is

“well restor’dAnd to be married shortly.”[86:2]

“well restor’d

And to be married shortly.”[86:2]

It is unnecessary to dwell on the cure, for long before this stage the story has lost all semblance of probability.

The inferiority of the Gaoler’s Daughter to Ophelia is as patent as that of the false to the true Florimel of Spenser’s “Færie Queene.” A little more skill on the part of the author and a great deal more restraint would, no doubt, have effected an enormous improvement, but it is unlikely that Fletcher could ever have made us take the same interest in the Gaoler’s Daughter as we take in Ophelia. She is quite unnecessary to the plot, and would require far greater depth of characterisation before she could appeal with any force to our sympathies. Had this been done, the taint of the comic and the coarseness removed, the ravings lessened and the execrable character of the Doctor changed, we might have had another Ophelia and not an exaggerated and debased imitation.

Whatever the nature of the madness of our last subject, the affliction of Penthea, in Ford’s “Broken Heart” is certainly acute melancholia. She is dealt with here for the sake of contrast with the two preceding characters. “The Broken Heart,” as far as its “mad-scenes” are concerned, has certainly more in common with “Hamlet” than with “The Two Noble Kinsmen.” It is a tragedy of more than usual gloom, and the scenes in question are marked by a subdued restraint quite absent from the “Two Noble Kinsmen.” Penthea talks much more coherently than either Ophelia or her ape; and though thereis a distinct want in her speeches of that colour which so marks the other two plays, she is much nearer Ophelia in spirit and essentials than the girl for whom Ophelia actually stood as a model.

The story, so far as it concerns Penthea, is this: She is in love with Orgilus, son of a counsellor to the King of Laconia, but has been compelled to marry Bassanes, a jealous nobleman whom she detests. Her brother Ithocles’ love for the King’s daughter, Calantha, becomes known to Penthea, who, in spite of her brother’s cruelty to her, tries to bring about their union; when she is dead, however, her lover stabs Ithocles and the Princess dies of a broken heart. Penthea’s situation, when in the second act she has an interview with Orgilus, is this: she is contracted to Bassanes, and though she loathes him and will have no more to do with him than she can help she will not consent to break the bond of marriage. Her loss of reason, which terminates in her death in the fourth act, is one of the main factors of the series of events which leads up to the impressive final situation.

The scenes which portray the melancholy and distraction of Penthea are much superior to the others in which she appears, by reason of the irresistible sympathy which they inspire. We are not greatly enamoured of the unhappy girl in the first scenes; her character is somewhat slightly drawn, and, as one commentatorputs it, there is “a trace of selfishness in her sorrow, which operates against the sympathy excited by her sufferings.”[89:1]This is dispelled in that touching scene (iii., 5), where Penthea pleads with Calantha on behalf of her brother. Her plaintive farewell to life, in the same scene, is not less touching:

“GloriesOf human greatness are but pleasing dreamsAnd shadows soon decaying; on the stageOf my mortality my youth hath actedSome scenes of vanity, drawn out at lengthBy varied pleasures sweetened in the mixture,But tragical in issue . . .. . . You may seeHow weary I am of a lingering life,Who count the best a misery.”

“Glories

Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams

And shadows soon decaying; on the stage

Of my mortality my youth hath acted

Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length

By varied pleasures sweetened in the mixture,

But tragical in issue . . .

. . . You may see

How weary I am of a lingering life,

Who count the best a misery.”

When she next enters “with her hair loose” (iv., 2), Bassanes and Orgilus are engaged in a violent quarrel. She is followed by Ithocles heart-broken like Shakespeare’s Lærtes, begging her to look up and speak to him:

“Your Ithocles, your brother,Speaks t’ ye; why do you weep? Dear, turn not from me.”

“Your Ithocles, your brother,

Speaks t’ ye; why do you weep? Dear, turn not from me.”

The sight moves all to pity or remorse, save only Orgilus, whose bitter sarcasm, when rebuked by Ithocles, turns to a dreadful thirst for revenge. But the afflicted girl recks nothing of this. Loss of sleep and a voluntary fast have combined with her heavy sorrows to produce the inevitableresult; her depression has deprived her of her reason and she is sinking into her grave:

“There’s not a hairSticks on my head, but, like a leaden plummet,It sinks me to my grave: I must creep thither;The journey is not long.”

“There’s not a hair

Sticks on my head, but, like a leaden plummet,

It sinks me to my grave: I must creep thither;

The journey is not long.”

“Her fancies guide her tongue,” but the burden of her talk is the subject of marriage, child bearing, infidelity, and true love. Her resolve to die by starvation is certainly the project of a disordered brain, though Mr. Saintsbury treats it as if it were not, and censures the character as unnatural![90:1]Assuming that

“There is no peace left for a ravished wifeWidowed by lawful marriage,”

“There is no peace left for a ravished wife

Widowed by lawful marriage,”

she declares that her blood shall

“be henceforth never heightenedWith taste of sustenance,”

“be henceforth never heightened

With taste of sustenance,”

and falls fainting into her attendant’s arms. The subsequent account of her death[90:2]is the more pathetic by reason of its brevity:

Philema.“She called for music,And begged some gentle voice to tune a farewellTo life and griefs; Christalla touched the lute;I wept the funeral song.Christalla.Which scarce was endedBut her last breath sealed up these hollow sounds,‘O cruel Ithocles and injured Orgilus’So down she drew her veil, so died.”

Philema.“She called for music,

And begged some gentle voice to tune a farewell

To life and griefs; Christalla touched the lute;

I wept the funeral song.

Christalla.Which scarce was ended

But her last breath sealed up these hollow sounds,

‘O cruel Ithocles and injured Orgilus’

So down she drew her veil, so died.”

The presentation of Penthea’s madness is one of the few examples of a truly artistictreatment of the subject, and “The Broken Heart” is one of the few post-Shakespearean plays which with some touches by the Master-hand might have become a really great romantic tragedy. Penthea is, to tell the truth, about as far inferior to Ophelia as she is superior to the Gaoler’s Daughter. The partly unsympathetic presentation of her character in the first part of the play, the lack of picturesqueness and relief from the gloom of the tragedy, the suspicion of melodrama in the surrounding scenes and the involved nature of the plot—all these combine to place Penthea on a lower level than Ophelia. And, in addition, she is less important and hence less striking from a purely dramatic point of view.

Something has already been said of the plot and the personages of “The Lover’s Melancholy,” but the melancholy of Palador and the madness of Meleander may be briefly considered here as furnishing additional examples of Ford’s treatment of the subject. Palador’s melancholy, which gives the title to the piece, seems to be largely temperamental and scarcely a case for the physician, though Corax, his medical adviser, goes to some pains to “cure” it, and is in consequence, hailed as a “perfect arts-man.”[91:1]The Prince’s melancholy is thus described:

“He’s the same melancholy manHe wasat’sfather’s death; sometimes speaks sense,But seldom mirth; will smile, but seldom laugh;Will lead an ear to business, deal in none;Gaze upon revels, antic fopperies,But is not moved; will sparingly discourse,Hear music; but what most he takes delight inAre handsome pictures.”[92:1]

“He’s the same melancholy man

He wasat’sfather’s death; sometimes speaks sense,

But seldom mirth; will smile, but seldom laugh;

Will lead an ear to business, deal in none;

Gaze upon revels, antic fopperies,

But is not moved; will sparingly discourse,

Hear music; but what most he takes delight in

Are handsome pictures.”[92:1]

His melancholy apparently began at his father’s death and was increased by the disappearance of Eroclea. We need not stay long over him. Corax, who is apparently a man of many theories and much resource, presents the Prince with a Masque,[92:2]—already mentioned—in which madmen of various sorts pass over the stage and make speeches. The last of these persons is Palador’s lost love in disguise who appears as “Love-Melancholy.” How far the Prince’s malady is relieved by this is uncertain; but the form of “Parthenophil” arouses memories and the re-appearance of Eroclea in the next act is the real “potent” which restores the melancholy lover.

The madness of Meleander, Eroclea’s father, is more interesting. He has, so far as we know, no sort of predisposition to insanity, which comes upon him following a cloud of troubles—he has been accused of treason, his lands havebeen seized and his daughter has disappeared. We are informed by our physician that his affliction is not madness; it is

“His sorrows—Close-griping grief and anguish of the soul—That torture him.”[93:1]

“His sorrows—

Close-griping grief and anguish of the soul—

That torture him.”[93:1]

Yet we can find in Meleander all those “signs” which by now we are beginning to associate with insanity. The unfortunate man “sleeps like a hare, with his eyes open,” he groans, “thunders” and “roars,” and his “eyes roll.” He talks wildly, yet at times coherently, knows his daughter Cleophila, enquires “Am I stark mad?” His maniacal excitability displays itself in his laughter, “the usher to a violent extremity.”[93:2]The reaction soon follows; he faces those about him and remarks:

“I am a weak old man; all these are comeTo jeer my ripe calamities.”[93:2]

“I am a weak old man; all these are come

To jeer my ripe calamities.”[93:2]

At times—and this is surely the greatest praise we can give him—his ravings remind us of Lear’s, with their mingled sarcasm, pathos and unconcealed rage. His brother’s son Menaphon approaches him with a “Good uncle!” What, outside Shakespeare, can be more like Lear before his eloquence goes and leaves his rage supreme, than Meleander’s furious reply:[93:3]

“Fools, desperate fools!You’re cheated, grossly cheated; range, range on,And roll about the world to gather moss,The moss of honour, gay reports, gay clothes,Gay wives, huge empty buildings, whose proud roofsShall with their pinnacles even reach the stars,Ye work and work like moles, blind in the pathsThat are bored through the crannies of the earth,To charge your hungry souls with such full surfeitsAs being gorged once, make ye lean with plenty;And when ye’ve skimmed the vomit of your riots,Ye’re fat in no felicity but folly;Then your last sleeps seize on ye; then the troopsOf worms crawl round and feast; good cheer, rich fare,Dainty, delicious!”

“Fools, desperate fools!

You’re cheated, grossly cheated; range, range on,

And roll about the world to gather moss,

The moss of honour, gay reports, gay clothes,

Gay wives, huge empty buildings, whose proud roofs

Shall with their pinnacles even reach the stars,

Ye work and work like moles, blind in the paths

That are bored through the crannies of the earth,

To charge your hungry souls with such full surfeits

As being gorged once, make ye lean with plenty;

And when ye’ve skimmed the vomit of your riots,

Ye’re fat in no felicity but folly;

Then your last sleeps seize on ye; then the troops

Of worms crawl round and feast; good cheer, rich fare,

Dainty, delicious!”

How does Corax propose to cure such a patient as this? Spurred on by the flatteries of Rhetias—“a reduced Courtier”—nothing daunted by the picturesque report that Meleander “chafes hugely, fumes like a stew-pot,”[94:1]he coolly explains his intention of out-Heroding Herod—“We will roar with him, if he roar,”[94:1]—and suiting the action to the word he “produces a frightful mask and headpiece.”[94:1]Meleander enters, armed with a poleaxe and raving in a vein which must have delighted the greediest of the groundlings. A battle of words and mock actions ensues, and the madman is soon reduced to a state of comparative calm. He lays down the poleaxe, and Corax removes the mask. The physician then proceeds to minister to the mind diseased with tales of his own supposed mental sufferings, assuming apparently that like counteracts like in madness as in melancholy. This is to someextent true, and Shakespeare rightly represents Lear as in a state of comparative tranquillity when in the presence of Edgar. But Ford’s play would seem to be inspired rather by a desire to please than by a fidelity to real life. The concluding scene,[95:1]however, so far as it concerns Meleander, is sufficient compensation, for again it recalls “King Lear” in its general nature if not in matters of detail. The madman has been put to sleep, his hair and beard have been trimmed and his gown is changed. Music, as in “King Lear,” is playing, and a song, full of delicate charm, is being sung by a Boy outside. At its close Meleander awakens, confused and half-dreaming. He is inclined to sleep again, but the physician hails him—somewhat boisterously, one would think—and in spite of his patient’s brusque “Away, beast! let me alone,” he succeeds in rousing him. The madness certainly appears to have left him; he is now quite calm, though the burden of his troubles still oppresses him.

“The weight of my disease,”he says,“Sits on my heart so heavy,That all the hands of art cannot removeOne grain, to ease my grief.”

“The weight of my disease,”he says,

“Sits on my heart so heavy,

That all the hands of art cannot remove

One grain, to ease my grief.”

Corax has, indeed, in preparation, a cordial which is to effect this, but it is reserved—not wholly for dramatic reasons,—to a fitting climax. Successive messengers first bring thenews that the Prince, now happy (though the father knows it not) in the possession of his love, has restored to Meleander all the honours he formerly enjoyed, together with new honours and marks of favour undreamed of. Then at last Eroclea is presented to him and his restored reason stands the test of happiness. Explanations ensue; all part friends; and “sorrows are changed to bride-songs.”

It will be seen that Ford’s conception of madness is by no means a low one; he has not debased it by making it a sport for those to whom it is a thing to fleer and jest at; he has introduced it into comedy indeed, but it must be remembered that Ford’s tragi-comedy is a wholly different thing from the gross buffooneries of Fletcher, Dekker and Middleton, and that the madness of Meleander, though resembling that of Lear, is on a far lower scale. It rises now and then to unusual heights, but remains at their exalted level for so short a time that we never look at it seriously for long. The gloom is also lightened by the antics of the whimsical Corax, whose triumphs of psycho-medical skill would, no doubt, in happier times, have induced him to set up a private Bedlam of his own!

In considering Chettles’ “Tragedy of Hoffman”[96:1]we are met by an initial difficulty ofauthorship, for the resemblance between this play and “Hamlet,” as well as between Lucibella and Ophelia, would suggest plagiarism. The question, however, is difficult to decide, and can hardly be discussed here. Whatever be the solution, Lucibella is a most effective character. To a certain degree her madness is merely conventional. But there are numerous touches of real art in her portrayal, and she is not degraded like the Gaoler’s Daughter in “The Two Noble Kinsmen” by being made “a motley to the view.” On the contrary, as one editor points out, Chettle surpasses Shakespeare by making her, unlike Ophelia, directly instrumental in bringing about the dénouement of the play.

The madness of Lucibella is brought about by the murder of her lover, Lodowick, through the agency of Hoffman. In her mad wanderings she discovers the skeletons of Hoffman’s father, and of Prince Otho, for whose death her lover’s murderer is also responsible. Eventually the mischief caused by the first shock is undone by a second; Lucibella recovers her reason. Hear her in her first ravings:

“Oh [Oh] a sword, I pray you, kill me not,For I am going to the river’s side,To fetch white lilies and blue daffodils,To stick in Lod’wick’s bosom, where it bled,And in mine own . . . .‘We must run all away, yet all must die’’Tis so;—I wrought it in a sampler.’Twas heart in hand, and true love’s knots and words,All true stitch, by my troth, the posy thus—‘No flight, dear love, but death shall sever us.’Neither did that! He lies here, does he not?”

“Oh [Oh] a sword, I pray you, kill me not,

For I am going to the river’s side,

To fetch white lilies and blue daffodils,

To stick in Lod’wick’s bosom, where it bled,

And in mine own . . . .

‘We must run all away, yet all must die’

’Tis so;—I wrought it in a sampler.

’Twas heart in hand, and true love’s knots and words,

All true stitch, by my troth, the posy thus—

‘No flight, dear love, but death shall sever us.’

Neither did that! He lies here, does he not?”

She cannot make up her mind whether her lover is really dead or not. Only conscious of a vague calamity, she cries:

“Tell Lod’wick, Lucibell would speak with him!I’ve news from heav’n for him, he must not die;I’ve robb’d Prometheus of his moving fire:—Open the door!—I must come in, and will;I’ll beat myself to air, but I’ll come in!”

“Tell Lod’wick, Lucibell would speak with him!

I’ve news from heav’n for him, he must not die;

I’ve robb’d Prometheus of his moving fire:—

Open the door!—I must come in, and will;

I’ll beat myself to air, but I’ll come in!”

So saying, she knocks violently at the door of the vault; those who surround her fear that she will “do violence upon herself.” She understands:

“Oh, never fear me! there is somewhat criesWithin me, ‘No!’ tells me there’re knaves abroad;Bids me be quiet, lay me down, and sleep.”[98:1]

“Oh, never fear me! there is somewhat cries

Within me, ‘No!’ tells me there’re knaves abroad;

Bids me be quiet, lay me down, and sleep.”[98:1]

Her violence is noteworthy; three or four men attempt to hold her; but she succeeds in freeing herself from them, and wanders abroad.

When we next see her the second shock is at work and Lucibella is returning to sanity. Mathias, Lodowick’s brother, still fears for her life, having seen her “clamb’ring upon the steepness of the rock,” but what she has seen in Hoffman’s cave has saved her mental life. She talks still with the fierce sarcasm of mania.

Shewing the skeletons, she cries:

“Is it not likeI keep a princely house, when I have suchFat porters at my gate.”

“Is it not like

I keep a princely house, when I have such

Fat porters at my gate.”

Still, as before, she lards her speech with scraps of song:

“Here, look here!Here is a way goes down!Down, down, down,Hey down, down!”

“Here, look here!

Here is a way goes down!

Down, down, down,

Hey down, down!”

This ditty is reminiscent of the descent to the cave, but the next moment the memory of that is gone and only the consciousness of her loss remains:

“I sang that song while Lod’wick slept with me:”

But at length, gradually and before our eyes, she recovers her lost reason. Her speech to the Duchess of Luneberg shews what seems to be the wandering of her still distraught mind. She displays the rich clothes of Otho:

“A poor maiden, mistress, has a suit to you,And ’tis a good suit, very good apparel.”

“A poor maiden, mistress, has a suit to you,

And ’tis a good suit, very good apparel.”

And she breaks into song again. But shortly afterwards she recognises the two corpses, and as Lorick unfolds the ghastly story of Hoffman’s crime the princess comes to her right mind again. At the end of the scene she declares her complete sanity:

“Nay I will come; my wits are mine agen,Now faith grows firm to punish faithless men.”[99:1]

“Nay I will come; my wits are mine agen,

Now faith grows firm to punish faithless men.”[99:1]

For a moment now we may look at the madness of Cardenes, which enters into the plotof Massinger’s “A Very Woman.” He is son to the Duke of Messina and a rival of Don John Antonio, the Prince of Tarent, for the hand of Almira, daughter of the Viceroy of Sicily. In a violent quarrel with Antonio, who is enraged at not being the favoured suitor, Cardenes is wounded—it is at first thought mortally, but he recovers, though for a time he loses his senses. Eventually he is restored by a physician named Paulo. We see very little of him in his mad condition. First we learn that his disease is

“MelancholyAnd at the height, too, near akin to madness . . .. . . His senses are distracted,”says Paulo,“Not one, but all; and if I can collect themWith all the various ways inventionOr industry e’er practised, I shall write itMy masterpiece.”[100:1]

“Melancholy

And at the height, too, near akin to madness . . .

. . . His senses are distracted,”says Paulo,

“Not one, but all; and if I can collect them

With all the various ways invention

Or industry e’er practised, I shall write it

My masterpiece.”[100:1]

When Cardenes actually appears,[100:2]any maniacal excitement which may have disturbed him has disappeared, and he appears to be in a state of simple melancholia:

“Farewell, farewell, for ever, name of mistress!Out of my heart I cross thee; love and womenOut of my thoughts.”

“Farewell, farewell, for ever, name of mistress!

Out of my heart I cross thee; love and women

Out of my thoughts.”

This is the burden of his discourse. Paulo encourages him by mild half-contradictions:

“And yet I’ve heard of many virtuous women.”

But Cardenes’ new-learned philosophy remains unchanged:

“Not many, doctor; there your reading fails you:Would there were more, and in their loves less dangers.”

“Not many, doctor; there your reading fails you:

Would there were more, and in their loves less dangers.”

The treatment recommended for this “strange melancholy” by the physician, who is of good reputation and has received many gifts from the Duke of Messina and others, is most noteworthy. He is no friend of prevailing customs: The patient “must take air.” Though, as the surgeons protest, “he hath lost already . . . much blood,”

“To choke up his spirits in a dark room,Is far more dangerous.”

“To choke up his spirits in a dark room,

Is far more dangerous.”

The remainder of the cure is not unlike the prescription of Corax. The physician applies himself to all the patient’s “humours,” “checking the bad and cherishing the good.”

“For these I havePrepared my instruments, fitting his chamberWith trapdoors, and descents; sometimes presentingGood spirits of the air, bad of the earth,To pull down or advance his fair intentions.He’s of a noble nature, yet sometimesThinks that which, by confederacy, I do,Is by some skill in magic.”[101:1]

“For these I have

Prepared my instruments, fitting his chamber

With trapdoors, and descents; sometimes presenting

Good spirits of the air, bad of the earth,

To pull down or advance his fair intentions.

He’s of a noble nature, yet sometimes

Thinks that which, by confederacy, I do,

Is by some skill in magic.”[101:1]

Who can wonder, for “Protean Paulo” with his quaint devices shews a truly super-human versatility. At all events, he succeeds in gathering the “scatter’d sense” of Cardenes, who thanks him profusely for having been

“My friar, soldier (and) philosopher,My poet, architect, physician.”

“My friar, soldier (and) philosopher,

My poet, architect, physician.”

Paulo is indeed a disinterested and enthusiastic doctor, and is really more interesting than Cardenes himself.

The madness of Sir Giles Overreach is worth our notice, as being introduced merely as a stage device, to emphasise the defeat of the cruel extortioner and to serve as a climax to the comedy. The last act of the play, into which he is introduced, shows every sign at the outset of being the usual type of “last act” of a tragi-comedy. Overreach, with “distracted looks,” has learned how he has been tricked both by his creature, Marall, and by his daughter Margaret, who, against his will, has married her lover, and now appears with him, as his wife. The usurer is overcome by the double shock. “My brain turns,” he cries. His rage passes all bounds. He attempts to kill his daughter and threatens to make the house “a heap of ashes.” Flourishing his sword, he raves of his courage; those standing around are, to his disordered mind,

“hangmen,That come to bind my hands, and then to drag meBefore the judgment seat: now they are new shapes,And do appear like Furies, with steel whipsTo scourge my ulcerous soul. Shall I then fallIngloriously and yield? No! spite of Fate,I will be forced to hell like to myself.Though you were legions of accursed spirits,Thus would I fly among you.”[102:1]

“hangmen,

That come to bind my hands, and then to drag me

Before the judgment seat: now they are new shapes,

And do appear like Furies, with steel whips

To scourge my ulcerous soul. Shall I then fall

Ingloriously and yield? No! spite of Fate,

I will be forced to hell like to myself.

Though you were legions of accursed spirits,

Thus would I fly among you.”[102:1]

He flings himself on the ground, foaming and biting the earth, only to be disarmed, bound and carried “to some dark room.” He will betended by physicians from Bedlam, who will try

“What art can do for his recovery.”[103:1]

The climax could hardly be more effective, were it not for Lord Lovell, who, before winding up the business of the play, thinks it necessary to point the moral in the most objectionable manner, only surpassed by Massinger himself elsewhere:

“Here is a precedent to teach wicked men,That when they leave religion, and turn atheists,Their own abilities leave them.”[103:2]

“Here is a precedent to teach wicked men,

That when they leave religion, and turn atheists,

Their own abilities leave them.”[103:2]

With Overreach may be compared Webster’s Ferdinand, who, after causing his sister, the Duchess of Malfi, with her little children, to be murdered, is driven by remorse to self-questionings and fears, and thence to raving madness. Webster’s presentation of insanity is far superior, in these scenes, to that by Massinger just cited. For the ravings of Ferdinand come upon us with the greatest force after the awful tragedy for which he has been responsible—we are spared the comments of Justice Greedy on the situation. Further, the madness of Ferdinand is what we should expect from one of so passionate a nature, and its course, as will now be seen, is depicted with realistic force to its terrible end.

His insanity takes the form, so we are told, of lycanthropia,[103:3]victims of which, we learnimagine themselves transformed into wolves and do deeds of violence to dead bodies; the Duke has already been found at night, has “howled fearfully” and seems in danger of his life. When he enters, he is persecuted by a fear of his shadow, which he tries unreasoningly to kill. The Doctor approaches him, but can do nothing with his patient beyond extracting one expression of fear: “Hide me from him; physicians are like kings, they brook no contradiction.” But the timidity lasts but a moment, and Ferdinand leaves the stage in a fit of insane passion.

When he reappears, it is but for a moment; his words are few but tense, and recall the terrible crime he has committed. “Strangling is a very quiet death . . . So, it must be done in the dark: the Cardinal would not for a thousand pounds the doctor should see it.” In the next scene, he is more violent. Interrupting a struggle between Bosola, his bloody instrument, and his brother the crafty Cardinal, he wounds them both, in spite of the latter’s cry for assistance, and is himself stabbed by Bosola, who stigmatises him as “thou main cause of my undoing.” In his last moments he recovers something of his reason.

“He seems to come to himself,”says Bosola,“Now he’s so near the bottom.”

“He seems to come to himself,”says Bosola,

“Now he’s so near the bottom.”

And in truth the last words which fall fromthe Duke’s lips reiterate the remorse which he feels for his crime.

As concluding examples of the presentation of the madman, in the most usual sense of the word, may be taken two of Fletcher’s characters and one of Jonson’s. Fletcher’s productions shall be considered briefly in succession: they are “The Passionate Madman,” in the play, with that sub-title, usually known as “The Nice Valour,”[105:1]and Shattillion in “The Noble Gentleman.”

“The Passionate Madman,” who has no name besides, is inspired, like many of his fellows, rather by a desire to please the public than by a passion for probability. His peculiar mania takes the form of a succession of “fits,” characterised as the “love fit,” the “merry fit,” the “angry fit” and so on. There is seldom any reason adduced for the change from one state to another, which is probably governed by the dramatic situation. There seems to be no authority for the classification of insanity in so many compartments in this manner; if the author ever thought about this at all, he probably arrived at a generalisation of the most common attribute of mania—the violent and rapid succession of emotions—in much the same way as Jonson generalised traits of character into “humours.”

The madman of this play is a kinsman to the Duke of Genoa. He makes his appearance at the end of the first act,[106:1]coming on with a wooden smile and making “a congee or two to nothing.” He selects a courtier for the object of his affections, makes love to him as if to a lady, and as the object of his choice is quite willing to sustain the delusion, he works himself up to a great state of excitement. In the next scene[106:2]it appears “by his flattering and his fineness” that “he is still in his love-fit,” and his mistress, thinking it well to humour him, disguises herself as Cupid and persuades him that if he comes away she will make all ladies follow him. She really hopes to cure him:

“She keeps this shape. . . .To see if she can draw all his wild passionsTo one point only, and that’s love, the main point.”[106:3]

“She keeps this shape. . . .

To see if she can draw all his wild passions

To one point only, and that’s love, the main point.”[106:3]

She has every opportunity of trying, for at this moment the “love fit” obligingly gives way to the “angry fit.” Galoshio, the clown, has been “almost beaten blind” by the Passionate Madman, “twice thrown down stairs, just before supper,” and “pluck’d and tugg’d by th’ hair o’ th’ head about a gallery half an acre long.”[106:4]The Passionate Lord, after giving this foretaste of his achievements, is not long in appearing, “rudely andcarelessly apparelled, unbraced and untrussed,”[107:1]and followed by the Lady, still in disguise. The fit would seem at first to be one of melancholy, which rejects all the Lady’s blandishments and stigmatises those of her sex as “fair mischiefs.” As Lapet, Galoshio’s master, approaches, the “furious fit” succeeds. Lapet is struck down and discreetly shams death, while the madman accompanies his truncheon-blows with wild snatches of song. We see no more of our madman after this until the fifth act when the “merry fit” has sway. The burden of his speech is “Ha! ha! ha!” and his songs are wildly merry: he begins to be “song-ripe.”[107:2]The Lady once more appears, followed by several others dressed as fools. But a cure is unexpectedly wrought more quickly than she could accomplish it. “The Soldier” (brother to Chamont, the chief character of the play) has been insulted by the madman at an earlier stage in it, and, much to the dismay of the Lady and her attendants, he now stabs the Passionate Lord, and makes his escape. He only re-appears at the end of the play, cured of his wound and at the same time of his madness. La Nove explains this to the Duke:

“Death cannot be more free from passions, sir,Than he is at this instant; he’s so meek now,He makes those seem passionate were never thought of;And, for he fears his moods have oft disturbed you, sir,He’s only hasty now for his forgiveness.”[108:1]

“Death cannot be more free from passions, sir,

Than he is at this instant; he’s so meek now,

He makes those seem passionate were never thought of;

And, for he fears his moods have oft disturbed you, sir,

He’s only hasty now for his forgiveness.”[108:1]

There is little to add to this sketch, which is sufficiently expressive. The Lord is not interesting, still less striking, as a character; no attempt is made to introduce a vestige of reality into the madness, and thus the comedy leaves us unmoved. We cannot even be indignant at it—it is so feeble.

Is it necessary to complete the story by adding that the Passionate Lord marries the Lady?

As a slightly different example of Fletcher’s work, we may consider his “Noble Gentleman” and the madman Shattillion. We can diagnose his case more readily than that of the Passionate Lord. He suffers from a kind of persecutory delusion, being

“strong opinion’d that the wench he lov’dRemains close prisoner by the King’s command,Fearing her title.”[108:2]

“strong opinion’d that the wench he lov’d

Remains close prisoner by the King’s command,

Fearing her title.”[108:2]

At the same time, he believes that certain enemies have designs on his life. Meeting his cousin Cleremont, he enquires of him his “faction,” and being told:

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