Chapter LIII: Section IV: Comedies

Moreover, it was to this that he turned his talent. Nearly all his work consists of comedies, not sentimental and fanciful as Shakespeare's, but imitative and satirical, written to represent and correct follies and vices. He introduced a new model; he had a doctrine; his masters were Terence and Plautus. He observes the unity of time and place, almost exactly. He ridicules the authors who, in the same play,

"Make a child now swaddled, to proceed Man, and then shoot up, in one beard and weed, Past threescore years; or, with three rusty swords, And help of some few foot and half-foot words, Fight over York and Lancaster's long jars.... He rather prays you will be pleas'd to see."[544]

He wishes to represent on the stage

"One such to-day, as other plays shou'd be; Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas, Nor creaking throne comes down the boys to please: Nor nimble squib is seen to' make afeard The gentlewomen.... But deeds, and language, such as men do use.... You, that have so grac'd monsters, may like men."[545]

Men, as we see them in the streets, with their whims and humors--

"When some one peculiar quality Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw All his affects, his spirits, and his powers In their conductions, all to run one way, This may be truly said to be a humor."[546]

It is these humors which he exposes to the light, not with the artist's curiosity, but with the moralist's hate:

"I will scourge those apes, And to these courteous eyes oppose a mirror, As large as is the stage whereon we act; Where they shall see the time's deformity Anatomized in every nerve, and sinew, With constant courage, and contempt of fear.... My strict hand Was made to seize on vice, and with a gripe Squeeze out the humour of such spongy souls, As lick up every idle vanity."[547]

Doubtless a determination so strong and decided does violence to the dramatic spirit. Jonson's comedies are not rarely harsh; his characters are too grotesque, laboriously constructed, mere automatons; the poet thought less of producing living beings than of scotching a vice; the scenes get arranged, or are confused together in a mechanical manner; we see the process, we feel the satirical intention throughout; delicate and easy-flowing imitation is absent, as well as the graceful fancy which abounds in Shakespeare. But if Jonson comes across harsh passions, visibly evil and vile, he will derive from his energy and wrath the talent to render them odious and visible, and will produce a "Volpone," a sublime work, the sharpest picture of the manners of the age, in which is displayed the full brightness of evil lusts, in which lewdness, cruelty, love of gold, shamelessness of vice, display a sinister yet splendid poetry, worthy of one of Titian's bacchanals.[548] All this makes itself apparent in the first scene, when Volpone says:

"Good morning to the day; and next, my gold!---- Open the shrine, that I may see my saint."

This saint is his piles of gold, jewels, precious plate:

"Hail the world's soul, and mine!... O thou son of Sol, But brighter than thy father, let me kiss, With adoration, thee, and every relick Of sacred treasure in this blessed room."[549]

Presently after, the dwarf, the eunuch, and the hermaphrodite of the house sing a sort of pagan and fantastic interlude; they chant in strange verses the metamorphoses of the hermaphrodite, who was first the soul of Pythagoras. We are at Venice, in the palace of the magnifico Volpone. These deformed creatures, the splendor of gold, this strange and poetical buffoonery, carry the thought immediately to the sensual city, queen of vices and of arts.

The rich Volpone lives like an ancient Greek or Roman. Childless and without relatives, playing the invalid, he makes all his flatterers hope to be his heir, receives their gifts,

"Letting the cherry knock against their lips, And draw it by their mouths, and back again."[550]

Glad to have their gold, but still more glad to deceive them, artistic in wickedness as in avarice, and just as pleased to look at a contortion of suffering as at the sparkle of a ruby.

The advocate Voltore arrives, bearing a "huge piece of plate." Volpone throws himself on his bed, wraps himself in furs, heaps up his pillows, and coughs as if at the point of death:

"_Volpone._ I thank you, signior Voltore, Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.... Your love Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswer'd.... I cannot now last long.... I fell me going-- Uh, uh, uh, uh!"[551]

He closes his eyes, as though exhausted:

"_Voltore._ Am I inscrib'd his heir for certain? _Mosca_ (_Volpone's Parasite_). Are you! I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe To write me in your family. All my hopes Depend upon your worship: I am lost, Except the rising sun do shine on me. _Volt._ It shall both shine and warm thee, Mosca. _M._ Sir, I am man, that hath not done your love All the worst offices: here I wear your keys, See all your coffers and your caskets lock'd, Keep the poor inventory of your jewels, Your plate and monies; am your steward, sir, Husband your goods here. _Volt._ But am I sole heir? _M._ Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this morning The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry Upon the parchment. _Volt._ Happy, happy me! By what good chance, sweet Mosca? _M._ Your desert, sir; I know no second cause."[552]

And he details the abundance of the wealth in which Voltore is about to revel, the gold which is to pour upon him, the opulence which is to flow in his house as a river:

"When will you have your inventory brought, sir? Or see a copy of the will?"

The imagination is fed with precise words, precise details. Thus, one after another, the would-be heirs come like beasts of prey. The second who arrives is an old miser, Corbaccio, deaf, "impotent," almost dying, who, nevertheless, hopes to survive Volpone. To make more sure of it, he would fain have Mosca give his master a narcotic. He has it about him, this excellent opiate: he has had it prepared under his own eyes, he suggests it. His joy on finding Volpone more ill than himself is bitterly humorous:

"_Corbaccio._ How does your patron?... _Mosca._ His mouth Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. _C._ Good. _M._ A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, And makes the color of his flesh like lead. _C._ 'Tis good. _M._ His pulse beats slow, and dull. _C._ Good symptoms still. _M._ And from his brain-- _C._ I conceive you; good. _M._ Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum, Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. _C._ Is't possible? Yet I am better, ha! How does he, with the swimming of his head? _M._ O, sir, 'tis past the scotomy; he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes. _C._ Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast him: This makes me young again, a score of years."[553]

If you would be his heir, says Mosca, the moment is favorable, but you must not let yourself be forestalled. Voltore has been here, and presented him with this piece of plate:

"_C._ See, Mosca, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines. Will quite weigh down his plate.... _M._ Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed; There, frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir.... _C._ This plot Did I think on before.... _M._ And you so certain to survive him-- _C._ Ay. _M._ Being so lusty a man-- _C._ 'Tis true."[554]

And the old man hobbles away, not hearing the insults and ridicule thrown at him, he is so deaf.

When he is gone the merchant Corvino arrives, bringing an orient pearl and a splendid diamond:

"_Corvino._ Am I his heir? _Mosca._ Sir, I am sworn, I may not show the will Till he be dead; but here has been Corbaccio, Here has been Voltore, here were others too, I cannot number 'em, they were so many; All gaping here for legacies: but I, Taking the vantage of his naming you, _Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino_, took Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I asked him, Whom he would have his heir? Corvino. Who Should be executor? Corvino. And, To any question he was silent to, I still interpreted the nods he made, Through weakness, for consent: and sent home th' others, Nothing bequeath'd them, but to cry and curse. _Cor._ O my dear Mosca!... Has he children? _M._ Bastards, Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, Gypsies, and Jews, and black-moors, when he was drunk.... Speak out: You may be louder yet.... Faith, I could stifle him rarely with a pillow, As well as any woman that should keep him. _C._ Do as you will; but I'll begone."[555]

Corvino presently departs; for the passions of the time have all the beauty of frankness. And Volpone, casting aside his sick man's garb, cries:

"My divine Mosca! Thou hast to-day out gone thyself.... Prepare Me music, dances, banquets, all delights; The Turk is not more sensual in his pleasures, Than will Volpone."[556]

On this invitation, Mosca draws a most voluptuous portrait of Corvino's wife, Celia. Smitten with a sudden desire, Volpone dresses himself as a mountebank, and goes singing under her windows with all the sprightliness of a quack; for he is naturally a comedian, like a true Italian, of the same family as Scaramouch, as good an actor in the public square as in his house. Having once seen Celia, he resolves to obtain her at any price:

"Mosca, take my keys, Gold, plate, and jewels, all's at thy devotion; Employ them how thou wilt; nay, coin me too: So thou, in this, but crown my longings, Mosca."[557]

Mosca then tells Corvino that some quack's oil has cured his master, and that they are looking for a "young woman, lusty and full of juice," to complete the cure:

"Have you no kinswoman? Odso--Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, sir. One o' the doctors offer'd there his daughter. _Corvino._ How! _Mosca._ Yes, signior Lupo, the physician. _C._ His daughter! _M._ And a virgin, sir.... _C._ Wretch! Covetous wretch."[558]

Though unreasonably jealous, Corvino is gradually induced to offer his wife. He has given too much already, and would not lose his advantage. He is like a half-ruined gamester, who with a shaking hand throws on the green cloth the remainder of his fortune. He brings the poor sweet woman, weeping and resisting. Excited by his own hidden pangs, he becomes furious:

"Be damn'd! Heart, I will drag thee hence, home, by the hair; Cry thee a strumpet through the streets; rip up Thy mouth unto thine ears; and slit thy nose; Like a raw rochet!--Do not tempt me; come, Yield, I am loth--Death! I will buy some slave Whom I will kill, and bind thee to him, alive; And at my window hang you forth, devising Some monstrous crime, which I, in capital letters, Will eat into thy flesh with aquafortis, And burning corsives, on this stubborn breast. Now, by the blood thou hast incensed, I'll do it! _Celia._ Sir, what you please, you may, I am your martyr. _Corvino._ Be not thus obstinate, I have not deserv'd it: Think who it is intreats you. Prithee, sweet;-- Good faith thou shalt have jewels, gowns, attires, What thou wilt think, and ask. Do but go kiss him, Or touch him, but. For my sake.--At my suit.-- This once.--No! not! I shall remember this. Will you disgrace me thus? Do you thirst my undoing?"[559]

Mosca turned a moment before, to Volpone:

"Sir, Signior Corvino... hearing of the consultation had So lately, for your health, is come to offer, Or rather, sir, to prostitute.-- _Corvino._ Thanks, sweet Mosca. _Mosca._ Freely, unask'd, or unintreated. _C._ Well. _Mosca._ As the true fervent instance of his love, His own most fair and proper wife; the beauty Only of price in Venice.-- _C._ 'Tis well urg'd."[560]

Where can we see such blows launched and driven hard, full in the face, by the violent hand of satire? Celia is alone with Volpone, who, throwing off his feigned sickness, comes upon her "as fresh, as hot, as high, and in as jovial plight," as on the gala days of the Republic, when he acted the part of the lovely Antinous. In his transport he sings a love-song; his voluptuousness culminates in poetry; for poetry was then in Italy the blossom of vice. He spreads before her pearls, diamonds, carbuncles. He is in raptures at the sight of the treasures, which he displays and sparkles before her eyes:

"Take these, And wear, and lose them: yet remains an ear-ring To purchase them again, and this whole state. A gem but worth a private patrimony, Is nothing: we will eat such at a meal, The heads of parrots, tongues of nightingales, The brains of peacocks, and of estriches, Shall be our food.... Conscience? 'Tis the beggar's virtue.... Thy baths shall be of the juice of July flowers, Spirit of roses, and of violets, The milk of unicorns, and panthers' breath Gather'd in bags, and mixt with Cretan wines. Our drink shall be prepared gold and amber; Which we will take, until my roof whirl round With the vertigo: and my dwarf shall dance, My eunuch sing, my fool make up the antic, Whilst we, in changed shapes, act Ovid's tales, Thou, like Europa now, and I like Jove, Then I like Mars, and thou like Erycine; So, of the rest, till we have quite run through, And wearied all the fables of the gods."[561]

We recognize Venice in this splendor of debauchery--Venice, the throne of Aretinus, the country of Tintoretto and Giorgione. Volpone seizes Celia: "Yield, or I'll force thee!" But suddenly Bonario, disinherited son of Corbaccio, whom Mosca had concealed there with another design, enters violently, delivers her, wounds Mosca, and accuses Volpone before the tribunal, of imposture and rape.

The three rascals who aim at being his heirs, work together to save Volpone. Corbaccio disavows his son, and accuses him of parricide. Corvino declares his wife an adulteress, the shameless mistress of Bonario. Never on the stage was seen such energy of lying, such open villany. The husband, who knows his wife to be innocent, is the most eager:

"This woman (please your fatherhoods) is a whore, Of most hot exercise, more than a partrich, Upon record. _1st Advocate._ No more. _Corvino._ Neighs like a jennet. _Notary._ Preserve the honor of the court. _C._ I shall, And modesty of your most reverend ears. And yet I hope that I may say, these eyes Have seen her glued unto that piece of cedar, That fine well-timber'd gallant; and that here The letters may be read, thorough the horn, That make the story perfect.... _3d Adv._ His grief hath made him frantic. (_Celia swoons._) _C._ Rare! Prettily feign'd! again!"[562]

They have Volpone brought in, like a dying man; manufacture false "testimony," to which Voltore gives weight with his advocate's tongue, with words worth a sequin apiece. They throw Celia and Bonario into prison, and Volpone is saved. This public imposture is for him only another comedy, a pleasant pastime, and a masterpiece.

"_Mosca._ To gull the court. _Volpone._ And quite divert the torrent Upon the innocent.... _M._ You are not taken with it enough, methinks. _V._ O, more than if I had enjoy'd the wench?"[563]

To conclude, he writes a will in Mosca's favor, has his death reported, hides behind a curtain, and enjoys the looks of the would-be heirs. They had just saved him from being thrown into prison, which makes the fun all the better; the wickedness will be all the greater and more exquisite. "Torture 'em rarely," Volpone says to Mosca. The latter spreads the will on the table, and reads the inventory aloud. "Turkey carpets nine. Two cabinets, one of ebony, the other mother-of-pearl. A perfum'd box, made of an onyx." The heirs are stupefied with disappointment, and Mosca drives them off with insults. He says to Corvino:

"Why should you stay here? with what thought, what promise? Hear you; do you not know, I know you an ass, And that you would most fain have been a wittol, If fortune would have let you? That you are A declar'd cuckold, on good terms? This pearl, You'll say, was yours? Right: this diamond? I'll not deny't, but thank you. Much here else? It may be so. Why, think that these good works May help to hide your bad. [_Exit Corvino._]... _Corbaccio._ I am cozen'd, cheated, by a parasite slave; Harlot, thou hast gull'd me. _Mosca._ Yes, sir. Stop your mouth, Or I shall draw the only tooth is left. Are not you he, that filthy covetous wretch, With the three legs, that here, in hope of prey, Have, any time this three years, snufft about, With your most grov'ling nose, and would have hir'd Me to the pois'ning of my patron, sir? Are not you he that have to-day in court Profess'd the disinheriting of your son? Perjur'd yourself? Go home, and die, and stink."[564]

Volpone goes out disguised, comes to each of them in turn, and succeeds in wringing their hearts. But Mosca, who has the will, acts with a high hand, and demands of Volpone half his fortune. The dispute between the two rascals discovers their impostures, and the master, the servant, with the three would-be heirs, are sent to the galleys, to prison, to the pillory--as Corvino says, to

"Have mine eyes beat out with stinking fish, Bruis'd fruit, and rotten eggs.--'Tis well. I'm glad, I shall not see my shame yet."[565]

No more vengeful comedy has been written, none more persistently athirst to make vice suffer, to unmask, triumph over, and to punish it.

Where can be the gayety of such a theatre? In caricature and farce. There is a rough gayety, a sort of physical, external laughter which suits this combative, drinking, blustering mood. It is thus that this mood relaxes from war-waging and murderous satire; the pastime is appropriate to the manners of the time, excellent to attract men who look upon hanging as a good joke, and laugh to see the Puritan's ears cut. Put yourself for an instant in their place, and you will think like them, that "The Silent Woman" is a masterpiece. Morose is an old monomaniac, who has a horror of noise, but loves to speak. He inhabits a street so narrow that a carriage cannot enter it. He drives off with his stick the bear-leaders and sword-players, who venture to pass under his windows. He has sent away his servant whose shoes creaked; and Mute, the new one, wears slippers "soled with wool," and only speaks in a whisper through a tube. Morose ends by forbidding the whisper, and makes him reply by signs. He is also rich, an uncle, and he ill-treats his nephew Sir Dauphine Eugenie, a man of wit, but who lacks money. We anticipate all the tortures which poor Morose is to suffer. Sir Dauphine finds him a supposed silent woman, the beautiful Epicœne. Morose, enchanted by her brief replies and her voice, which he can hardly hear, marries her, to play his nephew a trick. It is his nephew who has played him a trick. As soon as she is married, Epicœne speaks, scolds, argues as loud and as long as a dozen women: "Why, did you think you had married a statue? or a motion only? one of the French puppets, with the eyes turned with a wire? or some innocent out of the hospital, that would stand with her hands thus, and a plaise mouth, and look upon you?"[566]

She orders the servants to speak louder; she opens the doors wide to her friends. They arrive in shoals, offering their noisy congratulations to Morose. Five or six women's tongues overwhelm him all at once with compliments, questions, advice, remonstrances. A friend of Sir Dauphine comes with a band of music, who play all together, suddenly, with their whole force. Morose says, "O, a plot, a plot, a plot, a plot, upon me! This day I shall be their anvil to work on; they will grate me asunder. 'Tis worse than the noise of a saw."[567] A procession of servants is seen coming, with dishes in their hands; it is the racket of a tavern which Sir Dauphine is bringing to his uncle. The guests clash the glasses, shout, drink healths; they have with them a drum and trumpets which make great noise. Morose flees to the top of the house, puts "a whole nest of night-caps" on his head and stuffs up his ears. Captain Otter cries, "Sound, Tritons o' the Thames! _Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero._ Villains, murderers, sons of the earth and traitors," cries Morose from above, "what do you there?" The racket increases. Then the captain, somewhat "jovial," maligns his wife, who falls upon him and gives him a good beating. Blows, cries, music, laughter, resound like thunder. It is the poetry of uproar. Here is a subject to shake coarse nerves, and to make the mighty chests of the companions of Drake and Essex shake with uncontrollable laughter. "Rogues, hell-hounds, Stentors! ... They have rent my roof, walls, and all my windows asunder, with their brazen throats!" Morose casts himself on his tormentors with his long sword, breaks the instruments, drives away the musicians, disperses the guests amidst an inexpressible uproar, gnashing his teeth, looking haggard. Afterwards they pronounce him mad and discuss his madness before him.[568] The disease in Greek is called _μανία_, in Latin _insania, furor, vel ecstasis melancholica_; that is, _egressio_, when a man _ex melancholico evadit fanaticus._... But he may be but phreneticus yet, mistress; and phrenetis is only delirium, or so. They talk of the books which he must read aloud to cure him. They add, by way of consolation, that his wife talks in her sleep, "and snores like a porpoise. O redeem me, fate; redeem me, fate!" cries the poor man.[569] "For how many causes may a man be divorced, nephew?" Sir Dauphine chooses two knaves, and disguises them, one as a priest, the other as a lawyer, who launch at his head Latin terms of civil and canon law, explain to Morose the twelve cases of nullity, jingle in his ears one after another the most barbarous words in their obscure vocabulary, wrangle, and make between them as much noise as a couple of bells in a belfry. Following their advice, he declares himself impotent. The wedding-guests propose to toss him in a blanket; others demand an immediate inspection. Fall after fall, shame after shame; nothing serves him: his wife declares that she consents to "take him with all his faults." The lawyer proposes another legal method; Morose shall obtain a divorce by proving that his wife is faithless. Two boasting knights, who are present, declare that they have been her lovers. Morose, in raptures, throws himself at their knees, and embraces them. Epicœne weeps, and Morose seems to be delivered. Suddenly the lawyer decides that the plan is of no avail, the infidelity having been committed before the marriage. "O, this is worst of all worst worsts that hell could have devis'd! marry a whore, and so much noise!" There is Morose then, declared impotent and a deceived husband, at his own request, in the eyes of the whole world, and moreover married forever. Sir Dauphine comes in like a clever rascal, and as a succoring deity. "Allow me but five hundred during life, uncle, and I free you." Morose signs the deed of gift with alacrity; and his nephew shows him that Epicœne is a boy in disguise.[570] Add to this enchanting farce the funny parts of the two accomplished and gallant knights, who, after having boasted of their bravery, receive gratefully, and before the ladies, flips and kicks.[571] Never was coarse physical laughter more adroitly produced. In this broad coarse gayety, this excess of noisy transport, you recognize the stout roisterer, the stalwart drinker who swallowed hogsheads of Canary, and made the windows of the Mermaid shake with his bursts of humor.