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Of fife of Cl)nrlc5 Jickrns.
A
biography which represents the many-sidedness of an individual
with any character at all is a performance given to few men to achieve
—a monument seldom erected to any of the great and memorable.
The “ subject ” is to his biographer what he sees him, and there is no
help for the public to whom the biographer tells his tale. It is for
him to choose, among the facts of the subject’s life, which he will put
forward or suppress—which among the feasible impressions of the
subject’s character he will suggest and substantiate. In no branch of
literature are the total failures more numerous—is the average of
imperfection and unsatisfactoriness larger. In certain cases, where
the “ life ” cannot be supposed to possess a widely-extended public
interest—where it is a demand as well as a product of cliqueism—
narrow views and extravagant estimates, foolish exaggerations and
eccentric theories, may be allowed to pass with a smile. They do not
hurt the public, who do not think about them ; they do not injure
their judgment, lower their standard of criticism, or do violence to
their common-sense.
The transports of the Mutual Admiration
Society harm nobody but the persons of talent who have established
it, whether they indulged so as to lead the rational rest of the world
to laugh at the living, or pity the dead. But it is a very different
case when a biography is put forward with such claims to general
importance and public interest as that of Mr. Dickens, written by
his friend Mr. Forster. These claims are more readily and heartily
acknowledged than those of the biographies of many men who were
great in spheres of more elevated influence, work and weight, than
that of any novelist. The interest and curiosity felt about even
such lives are much magnified by their writers, and, at their keenest,
are of brief duration, the books passing rapidly into the category of
mémoires pour servir. But the story of the life of the humourist who
had afforded them so much pleasure by the fanciful creations of his
brain, was eagerly welcomed by the public, coming from the pen of the
friend to whom Mr. Dickens had entrusted the task ; for he had, at a
very early stage of his career, foreseen that he should need a bio
grapher, and had no shrinking from what Mr. Palgrave, pleading the
poet’s right to immunity from it, calls the intrusion of “ biography.”
Regarded from the point of view of that disinterested and impartial
public whose eyes are not shut by the promptings of cliqueism nor
their ears beguiled by its jargon—who know nothing of the fatuous
A
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
flattery of “ sets,” but who hold literary men amenable to the same moral
and social laws as any other class of men who do their work in the
world and are paid for it—the book could hardly be more damaging
to the memory of its subject if it had been written by an enemy
instead of a friend. Without impeaching Mr. Forster’s sincerity in
any respect or degree—without imputing to him a particle of the
treacherous ingratitude and deadly damaging cunning which made
Leigh Hunt’s ‘ Life of Byron ’ notorious—it may be gravely doubted
whether the little poet dealt the great one’s memory a more cruel
blow than Mr. Forster, in the character of a mourning Mentor out of
work, has dealt the memory of Telemachus Dickens. To all un
prejudiced persons, with just notions of the relations of men with
their fellows, he presents the object of his preposterously inflated
praise in an aspect both painful and surprising. Who is to correct
this impression ? We are forced to believe that Mr. Forster, from his
long and close association with him, is the person who can best paint
Mr. Dickens as he was in reality; we are forced to accept the man
whose writings so charmed and delighted us on the evidence of a close
and long-sustained correspondence with Mr. Forster, to whom he
apparently assigned the foremost place in his literary and private life
as guide, friend, companion, and critic. Mr. Dickens might have had
no other intimate associate than his future biographer throughout the
long term of years during which he was constantly appealing to his
judgment, adopting his corrections, yielding to his advice, and gushing
about walks, rides, dinners, and drinks in his company. There are
no people in the book but these two; the rest are merely names, to
which casual reference is made in records of jovial dinners and meet
ings for purposes of unlimited flattery. Even Jeffrey is only occa
sionally permitted to offer a modest criticism in a foot-note. In one
instance Mr. Forster relates how Mr. Dickens pooh-pooh’d the criti
cism, and referred it to him, that he too might pooh-pooh as heartily
the idea of Jeffrey’s having presumed to pronounce an opinion on
Miss Fox and Major Bagstock while only three numbers of ‘ Dombey
and Son’ had yet been issued to the world. By every device of
omission, as well as by open assertion, Mr. Forster claims to represent
Mr. Dickens as he was—to be the only licensed interpreter of the
great novelist to the world. The world grants his claim, and, judging
his book by it, is surprised by the nature of the information which is
the outcome of so many years of close and unreserved intercourse.
Not only is the one-sidedness common to biographies conspicuous in this
one, but the two large volumes published up to the present time are as
scanty in one sense as they are diffuse in another. Did Mr. Dickens
correspond with no one but Mr. Forster ? Has no one preserved
letters from him to which his biographer might have procured access ?
Were there no side-lights to be had ? The most fantastic of his own
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
171
creations is hardly less like a living responsible man than the excited,
restless, hysterical, self-engrossed, quarrelsome, unreasonable egotist
shown to the world as the real Charles Dickens throughout at least
three-fourths of these two volumes; shown, it is true, upon the evi
dence of his own letters — perhaps the most wonderful records of
human vanity which have ever seen the light of print—but shown
also, through the fault of his biographer, in appalling nakedness, by
hisi strict limitation of Mr. Dickens’s “life” to the chronicle of his
relations with Mr. Forster.
It is a property of genius to raise up a high ideal of its possessors
in the minds of men who derive pleasure from its productions: it
seems to be too frequently the main business of its biographers to
pull this ideal down. That Mr. Forster has done so in the case of
Mr, Dickens every reader will admit who is not infected with the
arrogant ideas or carried away by the inflated jargon of the cliqueism
of light literature—an essentially insolent and narrow cliqueism
which, when contemplated from a philosophical or practical stand
point, seems to be the modern rendering of the satirical fable of the
fly upon the wheel. The members of this clique live in an atmosphere
of delusion, in which no sense is preserved of the true proportions
in which various employments of human intellect respectively aid
the development of human progress and social greatness. The people
who form the clique have no notion of the absurd effect they produce
on the big world outside it, which takes account of and puts its trust
in talent and energy of many kinds other than the literary; hence
it is generally a mistake that the life of a man of this kind of letters
should be written at all, and doubly so that it should be written by
one who has done it in the spirit of a clique inside a clique. The
reader’s notions of the life and character of a great humourist, who
was flattered, and who flattered himself, into the belief that he was
also a great moralist, are painfully disconcerted by Mr. Forster, who
leaves the most diverting of jesters, the most strained of sentimentalists,
no loophole of escape, by strongly insisting, in the before-mentioned
jargon, that he lived “ in ” his books and “ with ” his characters.
Thus the reader finds himself obliged to conclude that, if that state
ment be correct, Mr. Dickens was a foolish, and if it be not correct, he
was an affected person. His own letters confirm it; but then all the
letters he ever wrote to everybody were by no means so exclusively
occupied with himself and his sensations as those by which only he
is interpreted to the public, and which, instead of being quite repul
sive, would have been pardonable, and sometimes pleasing, if they had
been episodical—if the reader could believe that their writer had not
unconsciously sat for the portrait, drawn by his own pen, of the
individual who was “ so far down in the school of life, that he was
perpetually making figures of 1 in his copybook, and could not get
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THE LIFE OF CHAKLES DICKENS.
any further. A fair test of the effect of such a posthumous picture
of a man who deservedly gained a vast popularity is to imagine its
being drawn and exhibited in the case of any other man who had
achieved a similar reputation by similar means. Let us take, for
instance, the death of Colonel Newcome, the finest piece of pathos in
all Mr. Thackeray s writings, and try to imagine the author writing
to the closest of his friends, while the end was coming in the strain
of Mr. Dickens’s letters about the death of Nelly Trent: “ I went to
bed last night utterly dispirited and done up. All night I have been
pursued by the old man, and this morning I am unrefreshed and
miserable. I don’t know what to do with myself. I think the close
of the story will bo great. . . . The difficulty has been tremendous,
the anguish unspeakable. I think it will come favourably ; but I am
the wretchedest ol the wretched. It casts the most horrible shadow
upon me, and it is as much as I can do to keep moving at all.” In
the impossible case of Mr. Thackeray’s having written such effusive
rant, he would surely have cautioned his pre-ordained biographer
that it was not intended for publication. It is equally difficult to
imagine Mr. Trollope signing his letters, “ Yours truly, John Eames,”
or “ Ever yours, Phineas Finn.” But Mr. Forster prints letter after
letter in which Mr. Dickens calls himself “the inimitable” (a joke
which really does not bear so much repetition), quotes his own books
in illustration of all such incidents as, seeing that they concern him
self, he thinks worth mentioning, and signs himself “ Pickwick ” and
“Wilkins Micawber.” He is in “Dombeian spirits” or “Chuzzlewit
agonies,” or he is “ devilish sly,” or his wife is thrown from a carriage,
and laid on a sofa, “chock full of groans, like Squeers.” In short, he
is always quoting or suggesting quotations from himself, while his
voluminous letters are remarkable for their silence concerning any
other writer of the day. Then we have an overdone dedication of a
book to Mr. 1< orster, and a letter, accompanying a present of a claret
jug, which for pompousness might have been written in the Augustan
age. It is not wholly inconceivable that humour of this kind may
have had its charm for friends who conducted their relations on the
mutual admiration principle, but it is wholly inconceivable that Mr.
Forster should believe its details to be interesting to the public, and
surprising that he should fail to see that just in proportion as it is
*’ characteristic ” it is injurious to their ideal of Air. Dickens.
Was it also characteristic of Mr. Dickens to act, in all the grave
circumstances of life, with a hard self-assertion, an utter ignoring of
everybody’s rights, feelings, and interests except his own—an assump
tion of the holy and infallible supremacy of his own views’and his
own claims which are direct contradictions of all his finest and most
effusive sentimonts ? If not, then his biographer has to answer for
producing the impression upon the mind of the reader, who looks in
�THR LIFE OF CHABLES DICKENS.
173
vain throughout these volumes for any indication that Mr. Dickens’s
fine writing about human relations has any but a Pecksniffian sense.
In every reference to Mr. Dickens in his filial capacity there is
evident a repulsive hardness, a contemptuous want of feeling. His
parents were poor, in constant difficulties, and their son made capital
of the fact for some of his cleverest and some of his least pleasing
fictions; the Micawbers among the former, the Dorrits among the
latter. Every allusion to his father grates upon the reader’s feel
ings. A very amusing but exaggerated description of the difficulties of
stenography, and of the steam-engine-like strength and perseverance
with which Mr. Dickens worked at the art, is transferred from ‘ David
Copperfield’ to the biography, with such a flourish of trumpets
that readers unversed in the jargon of mutual admiration, might
suppose no man but Mr. Dickens had ever thoroughly mastered such
difficulties, and that he alone had invented and patented the “ golden
rules,” which he promulgates apropos of his becoming a shorthand
writer: “ Whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all
my heart to do well. What I have devoted myself to, I have devoted
myself to completely. Never to put one hand to anything on which
I could not throw my whole self, and never to affect depreciation of my
work, whatever it was.” Of any inclination to depart from the second
of these “ golden rules,” no reader of Mr. Forster will suspect Mr.
Dickens; but of falling on the other side into an outrageous glorifi
cation of his work, whatever it was, he is convicted in countless
instances by his cruel biographer.
Voltaire’s cynical conceit of the chorus who sang incessant praises
of the poor prince until they made him laughable to all mankind
and loathsome to himself, is reflected in Mr. Forster. Pages are
devoted to the energy with which a young man of nineteen, with
a “ Dora ” in view to stimulate him, engaged in the acquisition of
an art which hundreds of quiet, industrious, well-educated gentle
men practised; but the fact that his father, who was not young,
and who had gone through much toil and care, had conquered
the same stubborn art, and was working hard at it, is mentioned
as “ his father having already taken to it, in those later years, in
aid of the family resourcesand again, as “ the elder Dickens having
gone into the gallery.” When Mr. Dickens writes to his friend that
he has been securing a house for his parents, the tone of the letter is
singularly unpleasant; and people who are not literary or gifted, but
merely simple folks, who hold that the God-formed ties of actual ¡life
should rank above the creations of even the brightest fancy, must
condemn the publication of the letter which Mr. Dickens wrote on the
31st of March, 1851, the very day of his fathers death, in which he
points out that he must not let himself be “ distracted by anything,”
though he has “ left a sad sight!”—(he was present when his father
�174
THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
expired)—from “ the scheme on which so much depends,” and “most
part of the proposed ^Iterations,” which he thinks “ good.” He is
going up to Highgate at two, and hopes Mr. Forster will go with him.
The scheme was the Guild of Literature and Art, and the chief matter
under discussion was Bulwer’s comedy, written in aid of it. Mr.
Forster was going to Knebworth, and the son, just come from the
father’s deathbed, and going to buy his father’s grave, would “ like to
have gone that way, if ‘ Bradshaw ’ gave him any hope of doing it.”
There are men of whom this might be published without conveying
the disappointing, disenchanting effect which it conveys in this instance,
though in itself it is hard and shocking; but in the case of Mr. Dickens
the terrible frankness of it is much to be regretted. Such testimony
as this to the practical want of feeling of the man who described him
self as utterly good for nothing, prostrated with anguish, pursued by
phantasmal misery when Little Nell and Paul Dombey were dying,
whose hysterical sensibility about every fancy of his imagination was
so keen, is overwhelming. Mr. Forster ought to have shown us
one side of the medal only—his friend in fantastic agonies over a
fiction—“ knocked over, utterly dejected,” for instance, by “ the Ham
and Steerforth chapter,” or his friend eminently business-like over one
of the most solemn events possible in a human life. When he exhibits
him in both characters to plain people, he, no doubt unintentionally,
paints the portrait of a charlatan.
In another instance the biographer shocks yet more profoundly the
moral sense of persons who believe that genius is not less, but more,
bound by the common law of duty in feeling and in action. There
is a vast amount of sentiment, there are numerous prettinesses about
mothers and babies, and about motherhood and sonhood in the abstract,
in Mr. Dickens’s works; and in this case also, he, for whom it is so
persistently claimed that he lived in and with his books that he must
needs incur the penalty of this praise, is made by Mr. Foster to
produce the effect of falseness and inconsistency. The slight mention
made of Mr. Dickens’s mother by the biographer is contemptuous,
and his own solitary direct allusion to her is unjust and unfilial.
Could not Mr. Forster recall anything, ever so slight, in all that long
intimacy, so close and constant that it seems to have left no room and
no time in the novelist’s life for any other, to counterbalance that
impression ? The temptation, which no doubt strongly beset the
litterateur, to colour as highly as possible the picture of the “ blacking
bottle period,” has been too strong for the biographer, who has failed
to perceive that in making the episode exceedingly interesting, very
alluring to public curiosity, he has made the subject of it con
temptible. The picture is a paintul one, not altogether and only
from the side on which alone it is contemplated by Mr. Dickens and
Mr, Forster ; it is pervaded by the characteristics of all the pictures
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
175
of Mr. Dickens’s earlier years, and of all dealings with everybody on
occasions when they did not turn out to his entire satisfaction.
Neither Mr. Dickens nor his biographer regard this period of the
celebrated novelist’s life justly ; they both look at it from the stand
point of accomplished facts, of mature life, developed genius, and
achieved fame. The truth is, that the poor parents of a large and
helpless family were naturally glad to accept the proposal of a rela
tive who offered to give the means of existence to one of their
children, a boy of weak frame, indifferent health, and odd “ ways,” in
which they were too dull, too troubled, and too busy to suspect arid
look for genius. They were not clever, literary, or fanciful; they
were struggling and common-place. Mrs. Dickens was promised
that the child should be taught something, and given the precedence
of a relative of the master among the boys in the blacking ware
house. Both promises were kept for a time ; when they came to be
disregarded the family turmoil had subsided into the temporary
repose of imprisonment for debt. It is very sad that respectable
decent people should be reduced to being glad to have one child lodged
and fed, ever so meagrely, away from them ; but the man who was that
child, who laid claim afterwards to an exceptional and emotional sym
pathy with poverty, and comprehension of all its straits, could not
sympathise with his parents’ poverty. He could not comprehend that
to them to be spared the lodging and the feeding of one child was an
important boon, and he has been so unfortunate as to find a biographer
who records, as the only utterance of Mr. Dickens concerning his
mother, this, deliberately spoken in his full manhood, when he was
relating how his father and the relative who had given him his
wretched occupation had quarrelled about him : “ My mother set her
self to accommodate the quarrel, and did so next day. She brought
home a request for me to return next morning, and a high character
of me, which I am very sure I deserved. My father said I should go
to school, and should go back no more. I do not write resentfully
or angrily, for I know how all these things have worked together to
make me what I am; but I never afterwards forgot, I never shall
forget, I never can forget, that my mother was warm for my being
sent back. . . . From that hour until this my father and my mother
have been stricken dumb upon it.”
A great deal of public feeling upon this point has been taken for
granted in perfect good faith by a great many people, for want of plain
matter-of-fact comprehension of the case on its real merits. Mr. and
Mrs. Dickens were in deep poverty. “ All our friends were tired
out ”—these are their son’s own words. His sister Fanny, who was
gifted with musical talent, was a pupil in an academy of music,
as a preparation for earning her own livelihood; and when he was
sent to the employment which he so bitterly resented afterwards he
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
describes the family home thus : “ My mother and my brothers and
sisters (excepting Fanny) were still encamped with a young servant
girl from Chatham workhouse in two parlours of the house in Gower
Street. Everything had gone gradually; until at last there was
nothing left but a few chairs, a broken table, and some beds.” The
mother who sent her child to earn seven shillings a week in a
blacking warehouse from such a home—to be exchanged only for
her husband’s prison—was not, we think, quite a monster. What
became of the “brothers and sisters”? Did any one outrage the
family by offering help equally ignoble to another individual in whom
Sam Weller’s “ double million gas-magnifying glasses ” themselves
could hardly then have detected an embryo genius? When Mr. '
Dickens left the prison it was as a bankrupt, and though he imme
diately began the toil which was merely “ praiseworthy industry ” in
him, while it was magnified to heroism m his son, there is nothing
heinous, to our thinking, in the mother’s endeavour to keep those
seven weekly shillings wherewith one child might be fed, and in her
demur to a “ cheap school,” which, however cheap, must be paid for
out of nothing. Stripped of verbiage, this is the literal truth, and
Mr. Forster makes one of his gravest mistakes when he dwells with
would-be pathos upon the effect of this childish expression upon Mr,
Dickens’s mind and manners in after life. The picture, if true, is a
sorry one, for it is full of vanity, self-engrossment, and morbid feeling.
That a man who had achieved such renown, had done such work,
had so employed his God-given genius, should be awkward and ill at
ease in the society of well-bred unpretending people, should go about
under a kind of self-compelled cloud, because, being the child of poor
parents, he had, in his childhood, pursued, for a short time, a lowly
but honest occupation, is, to simple minds, an incomprehensibly foolish
and mean weakness.
If Mr. Dickens were represented as having been proud of the fact
that as a small and feeble child he had worked for his own living
with the approbation of his employers, and thus eased off her shoulders
some of the burthen his 4 mother had to carry, it would be con
sistent with the self-reliance of David Copperfield, the devotion of
Little Nell, the helpfulness of Jenny Wren, in short, with a number
of the virtues of the personages “ with ” and “ in ” whom we are told
his real life was to be found. Mr. Forster looks upon the childhood
and youth of Mr. Dickens with the eyes of his fame and maturity,
and cries out against the ignoring of a prodigy before there had been
anything prodigious about him, just as Mr. Dickens himself complains
of the publishers, to whom he owed the opportunity of making a
reputation, for ill-treating a famous author, and fattening on his
brains. Mr. Foster is emphatic in his blame of every one who was
concerned in the matter-—or indeed who was not, for “ friends ” are
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
177
taken to task—that Charles Dickens was not given a good education,
and eloquent about the education which he afterwards gave himself.
Here, again, the besetting temptation of the biographer to invest his
subject with attributes which do not belong to him, as well as to
exaggerate those which do, assails Mr. Forster. There are no facts
in his narrative to prove that Mr. Dickens ever was an educated man,
and all the testimony of his works is against the supposition. No
trait of his genius is more salient than its entire self-dependence ; no
defects of it are more marked than his intolerance of subjects which
he did not understand, and his high-handed dogmatic treatment of
matters which he regarded with the facile contempt of ignorance.
This unfortunate tendency was fostered by the atmosphere of flattery
in which he lived ; a life which, in the truly educational sense, was
singularly narrow; and though he was not entirely to blame for the
extent, it affected his later works very much to their disadvantage.
As a novelist he is distinguished, as a humourist he is unrivalled in
this age; but when he deals with the larger spheres of morals, with
politics, and with the mechanism of state and official life, he is absurd.
He announces truisms and tritenesses with an air of discovery im
possible to a well-read man, and he propounds with an air of convic
tion, hardly provoking, it is so simply foolish, flourishing solutions of
problems, which have long perplexed the gravest and ablest minds in
the higher ranges of thought.
We hear of his extensive and varied reading. Where is the evidence
that he ever read anything beyond fiction, and some of the essayists ?
Certainly not in his books, which might be the only books in the
world, for any indication of study or book-knowledge in them. Not a
little of their charm, not a little of their wide-spread miscellaneous
popularity, is referable to that very thing. Every one can understand
them; they are not for educated people only ; they do not suggest com
parisons, or require explanations, or imply associations; they stand
alone, self-existent, delightful facts. A slight reference to Fielding
and Smollett, a fine rendering of one chapter in English history—
the Gordon riots—very finely done, and a clever adaptation of
Mr. Carlyle’s ‘ Scarecrows ’ to his own stage, in ‘ A Tale of Two
Cities,’ are positively the only traces of books to be found in the long
series of his works. His ‘ Pictures from Italy ’ is specially curious as
an illustration of the possibility of a man’s living so long in a country
with an old and famous history, without discovering that he might
possibly understand the country better if he knew something about
the history. He always caught the sentimental and humourous
elements in everything; the traditional, spiritual, philosophic, or
¿esthetic not at all. His prejudices were the prejudices, not of one
sided opinion and conviction, but of ignorance “ all round.” His mind
held no clue to the character of the peoples of foreign countries, and
vol. xxxviii.
N
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THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
their tastes, arts, and creed were ludicrous mysteries to him. His
vividness of mind, freshness and fun, constitute the chief charm of his
stories, and their entire originality is the ‘ note ’ which pleases most;
but when he writes “ pictures ” of a land of the great past of poetry,
art, and politics, with as much satisfied flippancy as when he describes
the common objects of the London streets (for which he yearned in
the midst of all the mediaeval glories of Italy), he makes it evident
that he had never been educated, and had not educated himself. If
we are to accept Mr. Forster’s version of his friend’s judgment and
intellectual culture, apart from his own art as a novelist, we get a sorry
notion of them from the following sentence, which has many fellows.
At page 82 of the first volume, Mr. Forster writes : “ His (Mr. Dickens’)
observations, during his career in the gallery, had not led him to form
any high opinion of the House of Commons or its heroes; and of the
Pickwickian sense, which so often takes the place of common sense,
in our legislature, he omitted no opportunity of declaring his contempt
at every part of his life.” This is unkind. We do not like to believe
that the famous novelist was so insolent and so arrogant as his
biographer makes him out to have been, and it is only fair to remark
that it is Mr. Forster who represents his ‘ subject’s ’ contempt for
men and matters entirely out of his social and intellectual sphere as
something serious for those men and those matters. That Mr. Dickens
was rather more than less unfortunate than other people when, like
them, he talked of things he did not understand, is abundantly
proved by his £ Hard Times,’ the silly Doodle business in ‘ Bleak
House,’ the ridiculous picture of an M.P. in ‘ Nickleby,’ and the in
variable association of rank with folly and power with incompetence
in all his works. He knew nothing of official life; he had no com
prehension of authority, of discipline, of any kind of hierarchical
system, and his very humour itself is dull, pointless, laboured, and
essentially vulgar, when directed against the larger order of politics;
it becomes mere flippant buzzing, hardly worth notice or rebuke.
It is not only in the education of books that we perceive Mr.
Dickens to have been defective. Mr. Forster’s account of him makes
it evident that he was deficient in that higher education of the mind, by
which men attain to an habitually nice adjustment of the rights of
others in all mutual dealings, and to that strictly-regulated considera
tion which is a large component of self-respect. If this biography is
true and trustworthy; if the public, to whom the author of books
which supplied them with a whole circle of personal friends was an
abstraction, are to accept this portrait of Mr. Dickens as a living
verity, then they are forced to believe that, though a spasmodically
generous, he was not a just man. According to the narrative before
the world, he had a most exacting, even a grinding estimate, of the
sacredness and inviolability of his own rights. To under-estimate his
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
179
claims was the unpardonable stupidity ; to stand against liis interests
was the inexpiable sin. This deplorable tendency was lamentably
encouraged by Mr. Forster—who in 1837 made his appearance on the
scene which thenceforward he occupied so very conspicuously as a party
to Mr. Dickens’s second quarrel in the course of a literary career then
recently commenced. He had already quarrelled with Mr. Macrone,
the publisher of ‘ Sketches by Boz,’ and his subsequent kindness to
that gentleman’s widow by no means blinds a dispassionate observer
to the fact that the strict right—not the fine feeling, not the genius
recognising disinterestedness, but the mere honest right—was, not
with the author, but with the publisher. His second quarrel was
with Mr. Bentley, his second publisher ; his third quarrel was with
Messrs. Chapman and Hall, his third publishers. His fourth quarrel
is recorded in the second volume ; with the proprietors of the Daily
News, after a very brief endurance of the ineffable stupidity, the
intolerable exaction, and the general unbearableness of everybody con
cerned in the management of that journal—qualities which, by an
extraordinary harmony of accident, invariably distinguished all per
sons who came into collision with Mr. Dickens in any situation of
which he was not absolutely the master. We know that there is a
fifth quarrel—that with Messrs. Bradbury and Evans—yet to be re
corded ; and we submit, that to plain people, who do not accord ex
ceptional privileges to men of genius with regard to their dealings
with their fellows, those facts indicate radical injustice and bad temper.
The pages of Temple Bar are not the place in which the merits of
the indictment of Mr. Bentley at the bar of public opinion by Mr.
Forster ought to be discussed. They form matter for fuller dis
closure and more abundant proof ; but the editor must permit us an
allusion to this case so pompously stated by Mr. Forster, because it
differs in kind from the subsequent instances. In 1836 Mr. Dickens
was what his biographer calls “ self-sold into bondage,” i.e. he was
employed by Mr. Bentley to edit the ‘ Miscellany,’ to supply a serial
story, and to write two others, the first at a specified early date, “ the
expressed remuneration in each case being certainly quite inadequate
to the claims of a writer of any marked popularity.” We have only
to refer to the letter written by Mr. George Bentley, and published
in the Times on the 7th of December, 1871, to perceive the absurdity
of this statement, unless Mr. Forster’s estimate of the claims of rising
young littérateurs be of quite unprecedented liberality, in which case
it is to be hoped he may make numerous converts among the pub
lishers ; while the notion that a man so keenly alive to his own value
would have made a bad bargain, is à priori totally inconsistent with
his whole portrait of Mr. Dickens. But Mr. Dickens never seems to
have understood practically at any time of his life that there were two
sides to any contract to which he was a party. The terms of the first
n 2
�180
THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
agreement which he made, and did not carry out, were as follows:
Mr. Dickens was to write two works of fiction, ‘ Oliver Twist,’ and
another, subsequently entitled ‘ Barnaby Budge,’ for £1000, and toedit the ‘ Miscellany’ for £20 a month; this sum of course not toinclude payment for any of his own contributions. No rational person
can entertain a doubt that these conditions were exceedingly advan
tageous to Mr. Dickens at the then stage of his career. The term»
of the second agreement which he made, and did not carry out, were,
that he should receive £30 a month as editor of the ‘ Miscellany?
The terms of the third agreement which he made, and did not carry
out, were, that he should receive £750 for each of the two novels and
£360 per annum as editor of the ‘ Miscellany.’ The story of the fourth
agreement which he made, and did not carry out, will be told elsewhere.
It suffices here to say that he had his own way in all. Throughout
the whole of this affair, as Mr. Forster relates it, Mr. Dickens was
childishly irritable and ridiculously self-laudatory; and it never seems
to have occurred to either of them that a writer of books, employed
by a publisher, is a man of business executing a commission, by
business rules and under business laws. If Mr. Dickens, writing
‘ Pickwick ’ for Messrs. Chapman and Hall and ‘ Oliver Twist ’ for
Mr. Bentley at the same time, “ was never even a week in advance
with the printer in either,” outsiders will think that neither Messrs?.
Chapman and Hall nor Mr. Bentley were to blame for the circum
stance, that it was no business whatever of theirs, and that it had
nothing to do with Mr. Dickens’s objection to furnish the works he
had contracted to write, at the price for which he had contracted to
write them. The truth is, that Mr. Dickens was not a famous author,,
on whose brains Mr. Bentley designed to fatten, when he made thefirst agreement of that “ network in which he was entangled ” (Mr.
Forster’s astounding description of a series of contracts, each made on
Mr. Dickens’s own terms, and each altered at his own request,) for
he had written nothing but the ‘ Sketches by Boz ’ (‘ Pickwick,’ had
not even been commenced) and he had never edited anything, or
given any indication of the kind of ability requisite in an editor,
while he was evidently not an educated man. In fact, the first bar
gain strikes impartial minds as a rather daring speculation on Mr.
Bentley’s part; and there can be only one opinion that, when the
whole matter was concluded, it was on extraordinarily advantageous
terms to Mr. Dickens. For £2250 Mr. Bentley ceded to him the
copyright of ‘Oliver Twist’ (with the Cruiksliank illustrations,
whose value and importance Mr. Forster vainly endeavours to decry,
but on which public opinion cannot be put down), the stock of an
addition of 1002 copies, and the cancelled agreement for ‘Barnaby
Budge.’ We have the progressive figures which tell us what Mr.
Dickens’ salary as editor of ‘ Bentley’s Miscellany ’ had been. We
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
181
have the records of his early experience, and of his exact position when
Mr. Bentley employed him in that capacity. Taking all these things
into account, the discretion of his biographer in recording his poor
joke when he relinquished the editorship, saying, “it has always
been literally Bentley’s miscellany, and never mine,” may be denied
without impertinence.
From a more general point of view than merely that of this bio
graphy and its subject, the story of Mr. Dickens’s frequent quarrels
with everybody with whom he made contracts is lamentable. Mr.
Forster seems seriously and genuinely to regard the persons who
expected Mr. Dickens to keep his engagements, merely because he
had made them, as heinous offenders. In vol. ii. page 42, we find
a story about Messrs. Chapman & Hall’s having ventured to hint
their expectation of his fulfilment of a contract by which, in the event
■of a certain falling off in a certain sale, which falling off actually did
take place, he was to refund a certain sum, and this conduct is de
scribed with a sort of “ bated breath ” condemnation, as though it were
a dreadful departure from honour and decency, which, having been
atoned for, is merely referred to, pityingly, under extreme pressure of
biographical obligation. And all this because one of the contracting
parties is a novelist, whose fame is built upon the very articles which
he has supplied by the contract! Why do publishers employ authors ?
Is it that they may write successful or unsuccessful books ? Fancy a
man undertaking to write a serial novel—which must be a venture for
his publisher, who purchases it unread, unwritten—for a certain sum of
money, writing it well, so that it succeeds, and that his publisher is a
gainer by it—the writer’s gain being of course, in the nature of things,
a foregone conclusion, and the transaction being described as “ an obli
gation incurred in ignorance of the sacrifices implied by it.” What an
absence of commercial morality and of a sense of fair dealing is implied
by the notion! If we could suppose this line of argument to be
transferred to the productions of other orders of genius than the
literary, its uncandidness would come out with startling distinctness.
Supposing an artist were to contract with a picture dealer to paint a
picture for him within a given time and for a stated sum, and that
during the painting of that picture the artist’s reputation were to rise
considerably, in consequence of his excellent execution of another task,
so that not only would the picture be of greater value to the purchaser
than he had had reason to believe it would be at the date of the com
mission, but the artist would be entitled to ask a larger sum for his
next work. What would be thought of the artist, if he denounced
the dealer as everything that was mean and dastardly, because he
proposed to pay him the price agreed upon, and not a larger price ?
What would be thought of the same artist if, an agreement to paint
a second picture on the same terms as the first having Leen changed
�182
THE LIFE OF CHALLES DICKENS.
at his request and to his advantage, he deliberately instructed a friend
to cancel that agreement also, and bemoaned himself in terms so un
manly and so unbusinesslike as the following: “The consciousness
that I have still the slavery and drudgery of another work on th©
same journeyman terms,” Azs own terms, “ the consciousness that my
work is enriching everybody connected with it but myself, and that i,
with such a popularity as 1 have acquired, am struggling in old toils,
and wasting my energies in the very height and freshness of my fame
in the best part of my life, to fill the pockets of others, while for those
who are nearest and dearest to me I can realise little more than a
genteel subsistence; all this puts me out of heart and spirits............
I do most solemnly declare that morally, before God and man, I hold
> myself released from such hard bargains as these, after I have done
so much for those who drove them.” It is impossible to conceive any
great man in the world of art or any other world, which involves
production and purchase, writing in such a style as this, and no
blame can be too severe for the indiscretion which has given to the
public such a picture of mingled vanity and lack of conscience. If
this view of the business relations of author and publisher were to be
accepted as the just view, the success of the author would be the
misfortune of the publisher, and the grand object of the trade would
be to supply Mr. Mudie with a placid flow of mediocrity, by which
they could count on a certain moderate profit without risk; but they
would shun rising geniuses like the plague. We protest against all
the unworthy, unbusinesslike, and untrue jargon in which this story,
and the others like it are set forth, not only because it gives an
impression of the character of Mr. Dickens extremely disappointing
to the admirers of his genius—of whom the present writer is one of the
most fervent—but also for a much more serious and far-reaching reason.
Everything of the kind which is believed and adopted by the public
as true of literary men, is degrading to their status and demoralising
to their class. Why should a business transaction to which a man of
letters is a party, be in any moral or actual sense different from any
other business transaction whatsoever ? The right divine of genius
is to be better, honester, higher minded, than mediocrity, because it
has truer insight, a nobler, loftier outlook and ideal, and greater aims.
At least this is the common notion of the great privileges of genius,
and to controvert or degrade it is to inflict on the public a misfortune
entailing a loss. No man can claim of himself or be held by his friends
to be outside, above, or released from any common moral law, without
a failure of true dignity, a violation of common sense, and an offence
to the great majority of respectable and reasoning people who make
up that public whose word is reputation. Seldom has a more un
fortunate phrase than “ the eccentricities of genius ” been invented.
It has to answer for many a moral declension, which, if the phrase
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
183
had not existed, would have been avoided, because toleration would not
have been expected—for many a social impertinence, which would have
been too promptly punished for repetition. The “eccentricities of
genius ” are always its blemishes, frequently its vices, and the suffer
ance of them by society is a mistake, the condonation of them is a
fault, the laudation of them is a treacherous sin.
Next to Mr. Dickens’s indignation that his publishers should
presume to make money by his work, Mr. Forster exposes most
mercilessly his disgust at the possibility of his illustrators getting any
credit in connection with his books. It would be unprofitable to reca
pitulate the controversy between Mr. Cruikshank and Mr. Forster
about the artist’s share in the production of ‘ Oliver Twist,’ but in
connection with the subject it may be observed, that if Mr. Cruikshank’s Bill Sykes and Nance did not realise Mr. Dickens’ wish, every
reader of ‘ Oliver Twist ’ thinks of the housebreaker and his victim as
Mr. Cruikshank drew them, and knows that, in the case of Nance, the
author’s was an impossible picture (a fact which no one, as Mr.
Thackeray ably pointed out, knew better than NIr. Dickens), while the
artist’s was the coarse, terrible truth. On which side the balance of
suggestion was most heavily weighted it is not easy or necessary to
determine, but nothing can be clearer than that Mr. Cruiksliank
followed no lead of Mr. Dickens, in his wonderful pictures, but
saw the villainous components of that partly powerful yet partly
feeble romance of crime with a vision entirely his own. Mr. Halbot
Browne is allowed a little credit; but, though Mr. Forster presides
over the production of each book in succession, and all he suggests
and says is received with effusive respect and gushing gratitude,
though he reads and amends sheets hardly dry, and makes alterations
which require separate foot notes to display their importance, and
italics to describe their acceptation, every hint of counsel from any one
else is treated with offensive disdain. To Mr. Forster the world is
indebted for the Marchioness’s saying about the orange-peel and water,
that it would “ bear more seasoning.” Mr. Dickens had made it
“ flavour,” but the censor considered that word out of place in the
“ little creature’s mouth,” though the little creature was a cook, and
so it was changed. What a pity he did not suggest that Dick
Swiveller might have been quite as delightful, and yet considerably
less drunken I To him the world owes Little Nell’s death, but Mr.
Dickens would probably have acknowledged the obligation on his own
part less warmly if he had foreseen the publication of the absurd
rhapsody in which he announced the event as imminent; declaring
that he trembles “ to approach the place more than Kit; a great deal
more than Mr. Garland; a great deal more than the Single Gentle
man.” Then with ingenuous vanity, and forgetting grammar in
gush, he protests: “ Nobody will miss her like I shall. What the
�184
THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
actual doing it will be, God knows. I can’t preach to myself the
schoolmaster’s consolation, though I try.” Only the pachydermatous
insensibility which comes of mutual admiration could have prevented
a biographer’s perception of the inappropriateness of such reve
lations, and of scores of similar ones; only such insensibility can
account for his complacent sacrifice of every one else to the glorifica
tion of that leviathan in whose jaws he could always put a hook.
That Mr. Dickens may be made to praise Mr. Mark Lemon patronisingly, Mr. Forster prints a statement concerning Mrs. Lemon, which
that lady has contradicted in the press; and that Mr. Dickens’s gene
rosity and delicacy may be duly appreciated, Mr. Forster tells how he
deputed Mr. Wills to make Mr. Sala a present of £20. It is neces
sary to keep constantly before one’s mind that it is Mr. Forster who
is speaking for Mr. Dickens, if one would escape from an overwhelm
ing conviction that the great novelist was a very poor creature, and
that it would have been far better for his fame had he been made
known to the public only by his novels. It is especially necessary to
remember this when we find a school of morals imputed to him, when
he is represented as a great teacher who adopted the method of
apologue, and we are gravely assured that “ many an over-suspicious
person will find advantage in remembering what a too liberal applica
tion of Foxey’s principle of suspecting everybody brought Mr. Sampson
Brass to; and many an over-hasty judgment of poor human nature
will unconsciously be checked, when it is remembered that Mr. Chris
topher Nubbles did come back to work out that shilling.”
When we read scores of similar passages, we ask ourselves, Can this
be in earnest ? Can it be possible that this is intended to be serious ?
Or is Mr. Forster, getting occasionally tired of the perpetual swing of
the censor of praise before the image of the friend who, in his lifetime,
never wearied of sniffing the enervating perfume, and swung lustily
for himself, poking ponderous fun at the public ? Even the humour of
the great humourist suffers by the handling of his ardent but undis
criminating worshipper. The rubbish by which the tradition of Mrs.
Gamp is continued, the silly letters in dubious French, which exhibit
Mr. Dickens’s absolute incapacity to comprehend any foreign country,
and the unpardonable nonsense, in which he was encouraged by wiser
men, of his pretended admiration for the Queen, are flagrant examples
of injudiciousness, which heavily punishes the folly it parades. Mr.
Dickens’s letter about her Majesty, written thirty years’ ago, was a
sorry jest. Mr. Forster’s publication of it now is supreme bad taste.
Mr. Dickens’s sentimentalism, always exaggerated and frequently
false, suffers at the hands of his biographer even more severely than
his humour. Mr. Forster as confidant, and Mr. Dickens as Tilburina, in intercommunicated hysterics over the ‘ Christmas Stories,’
‘ Dombey and Son,’ and ‘ David Copperfield,’ become so very weari
�THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS.
185
some, especially when Mr. Forster solemnly declares his belief that the
* Christmas Carol ’ “ for some may have realised the philosopher’s
famous experience, and by a single fortunate thought revised the whole
manner of a life,” that it is a positive relief when they are parted.
Mr. Dickens’s ‘ Letters from America ’ form the least disappointing
portion of this work ; in them his egotism is less persistently offensive
and his humour is displayed to great advantage. The reverse of this
is the case in his ‘ Letters from Italy.’ In them he is in a perpetual
state of ebullition, fussiness, impatience, effervescent vanity, and self
engrossment. It is amusing to observe that the great humourist was
so little accustomed to recognise humour in others, that it never oc
curred to him he could be quizzed. When a witty consul warned him
not to let his children out of doors, because the Jesuits would be on
the watch to lead their innocent feet into popish places, he swallowed
the warning with the docile credulity of a Vansittart.
It must be acknowledged that Mr. Forster’s advice was very sound
and valuable in many instances. Perhaps his consciousness of that
fact has blinded him to the extent to which his exposure of his friend’s
weaknesses has gone. Was it, for instance, worth while, in order to
record that he rejected the proposition, to let the public know that
Mr. Dickens ever proposed as a title for his projected weekly mis
cellany, “ Charles Dickens : A Weekly Journal, designed for the
instruction and amusement of all classes of readers. Conducted by
Himself ” ?
In one more volume this warmly-welcomed, eagerly-read biography
is to be completed. That volume must necessarily be a more difficult
and responsible task than its predecessors. It is to be hoped that it
will fulfil the expectations of the public more satisfactorily, and that
it will do more justice to Mr. Dickens by doing less injustice to all
with whom he was concerned. It is to be hoped that it will put before
the world a more substantial representation of the great novelist who
was so variously gifted; that it will leave its readers able in some
measure to respect and esteem its subject as a man, for real qualities,
while ceasing to urge an imaginary claim to misplaced consideration,
and especially that it will be free from the faint suggestion which
pervades the present volumes, that, essentially, “ Codlin was the friend,
not Short.”
�[
186
]
£ lluire from tlje pusl),
O ! milii prseteritos ....
High noon, and not a cloud in the sky to break this blinding sun!
Well, I’ve half the day before me still, and most of my journey
done.
There’s little enough of shade to be got, but I’ll take what I can get,
For I’m not as hearty as once I was, although I’m a young man yet.
Young ? Well, yes, I suppose so, as far as the seasons go,
Though there’s many a man far older than I down there in the town
below,—
Older, but men to whom, in the pride of their manhood strong,
The hardest work is never too hard, nor the longest day too long.
But I’ve cut my cake, so I can’t complain; and I’ve only myself to
blame.
Ah ! that was always their tale at home, and here it’s just the same.
Of the seed I’ve sown in pleasure, the harvest I’m reaping in pain.
Could I put my life a few years back would I live that life again ?
Would I? Of course I would ! What glorious days they were !
It sometimes seems but the dream of a dream that life could have been
so fair,
So sweet, but a short time back, while now, if one can call
This life, I almost doubt at times if it’s worth the living at all.
One of these poets—which is it ?—somewhere or another sings
That the crown of a sorrows’ sorrow is the remembering happier
things ;
What the crown of a sorrows’ sorrow may be I know not, but this I
know,
It lightens the years that are now, sometimes to think of the years
ago.
Where are they now, I wonder, with whom those years were passed ?
The pace was a little too good, I fear, for many of them to last;
And there’s always plenty to take their place when the leaders begin
to decline.
Still I wish them well, wherever they are, for the sake of ’auld lang
syne!
�A VOICE FROM THE BUSH.
187
L I Jack Villiers—Galloping Jack—what a beggar he was to ride!—
f I Was shot in a gambling row last year on the Californian side;
LI And Byng, the best of the lot, who was broke in the Derby of fifty
eight,
I ’ Is keeping sheep with Harry Lepell, somewhere on the Biver Plate.
Do they ever think of me at all, and the fun we used to share ?
It gives me a pleasant hour or so—and I’ve none too many to spare.
This dull blood runs as it used to run, and the spent flame flickers up,
As I think on the cheers that rung in my ears when I won the
Garrison Cup!
!
■
'
I. And how the regiment roared to a man, while the voice of the fielders
shook,
! As I swung in my stride, six lengths to the good, hard held over
Brixworth Brook;
Instead of the parrots’ screech, I seem to hear the twang of the horn,
As once again from Barkby Holt I set the pick of the Quorn.
Well, those were harmless pleasures enough; for I hold him worse than
an ass
Who shakes his head at a ‘ neck on the post,’ or a quick thing over
the grass.
Go for yourself, and go to win, and you can’t very well go wrong;—
Gad, if I’d only stuck to that I’d be singing a different song!
7
,
As to the one I’m singing, it’s pretty well known to all;
We knew too much, but not quite enough, and so we went to the wall;
While those who cared not, if their work was done, how dirty their
hands might be,
Went up on our shoulders, and kicked us down, when they got to the
top of the tree.
«
But though it relieves one’s mind at times, there’s little good in a
curse.
) I One comfort is, though it’s not very well, it might be a great deal worse.
A id A roof to my head, and a bite to my mouth, and no one likely
to know
In ‘ Bill the Bushman ’ the dandy who went to the dogs long years
ago-
I
Out there on the station, among the lads, I get along pretty well;
It’s only when I get down into town that I feel this life such a hell.
Booted, and bearded, and burned to a brick, I loaf along the street;
, I watch the ladies tripping by and I bless their dainty feet;
�188
A VOICE FROM THE BUSH.
I watch them here and there, with a bitter feeling of pain.
Ah! what wouldn’t I give to feel a lady’s hand again!
They used to be glad to see me once, they might have been so to-day;
But we never know the worth of a thing until we have thrown it away.
I watch them, but from afar, and I pull my old cap over my eyes,
Partly to hide the tears, that, rude and rough as I am, will rise,
And partly because I cannot bear that such as they should see
The man that I am, when I know, though they don’t, the man that I
ought to be.
Puff! With the last whiff of my pipe I blow these fancies away,
For I must be jogging along if I want to get down into town to-day.
As I know I shall reach my journey’s end though I travel not over
fast,
So the end to my longer journey will come in its own good time at
last.
�
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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The life of Charles Dickens
Creator
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Hoey, Frances Sarah Johnston
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 169-188 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Article from Temple Bar magazine, May 1873; attribution from Virginia Clark catalogue. A review of vol. 1-2 of John Forster's biography of Dickens.
Publisher
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[Bentley]
Date
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[1873]
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G5571
Subject
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Literature
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The life of Charles Dickens), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Book Reviews
Charles Dickens
Conway Tracts
English Literature
Fiction in English
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LITTfiRATURE anglaise
PAR ALFRED MEZIERES
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
CHAPITRE III.
Jonson et Balzac. — L’usurier et l’avare dans la comedie anglaise. — Plaute, Moliere
et Jonson. —La comedie de caraclere au seizieme siecle. — La Femme silencieuse- —
L’alchimiste dans la vie reelle et sur la scene.
I
Jonson connait a merveille les defauts de son temps et les ridicules
habituels de la nature humaine. Mais ce n’est pas la le spectacle qui
l’attire et qui l’interesse le plus. Il aime les investigations neuves et
curieuses, il se plait a concevoir des caracteres exceptionnels , il des
cend dans les abimes de la conscience, il scrute les sentiments etranges qui se cachent quelquefois au fond du coeur de l’homme, et il
recherche surtout les analyses qui exigent de la penetration et de la
patience. Tandis que quclques-uns de ses contemporains les plus
celebres, Beaumont et Fletcher, par exemple, glissent rapidement a
la surface des choses, sans rien approfondir, il poursuit, avec perse
verance, le developpement de ses idees, il tire des phenomenes
psychologiques qu’il observe toutes les consequences qui en decoulent, et, quoiqu’il choisisse de preference pour objet de ses etudes
des passions extraordinaires, il s’efforce de conserver aux actions
qu’elles produisent l’apparence rigoureuse de la logique.
�78
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEAW^
Comme beaucoup d’esprits vigoureux, il decouvre
de mal
que de bien dans la nature humaine, il croit surtout que la variety
du mal offre a l’ecrivain des sujets de reflexion plus interessants I et
ce sont les symptomes les plus rares de la depravation sociale qui
attirent le plus son attention. Donnez-lui un scelerat: il l’examinera,
avec le coup d’oeil de 1’anatomiste. Si c’est un homme vulgaire J il
l’abandonnera bientot; mais s’il surprend chez lui des signes de force
et d’intelligence, s’il reconnait dans sa conduite l’indice d’une maladie morale peu connue, il le considere avec joie, comme le naturaliste
qui decouvre une espece nouvelle, il le classe dans sa galerie, et il
observe a la loupe tous les traits de son visage. Les monstres ne lui
deplaisent pas; ils sdnt rares et ils sont forts. C’en est assez pour
piquer sa curiosite : non point qu’il se propose de les rehabiliter
comme on l’a fait si souvent de nos jours; il ne les couronne pas de
fleurs, il ne soutient pas le paradoxe moderne de la superiorite du
crime sur la vertu. On ne trouverait pas, dans tout le theatre anglais du
seizieme siecle, une seule theorie de ce genre. Le mal n’y est jamais
ni deguise sous des couleurs brillantes, ni place au-dessus du bien.
Chaque action y est qualifiee, comme elle merite de l’etre, sans aucune predilection, pour le vice. Jonson n’a done point de sympathie
pour le’s mechants et ne cherche pas a les rendre aimables. Mais il
les peint tels qu’il les a vus ou tels qu’il les conceit, avec une
effrayante vyiteMliait le denombrement exact de tous leurs defauts,
il signale les mobiles caches de leurs actes, et il met en relief]
jusqu’aux inoindres details qui composent I’ensemble de leur physionomie. ■
.
Ges peintures minutieuses de la laideur morale qui rappellent
l’exafflitude des peintres Hamands, sont le triomphe du vieux Ben.
C’est la qu’il excelle. Par la patience., par la puissance de 1’observaJ
tion et par la vigueur du pinceau, il s’eleve quelquefois jusqu’au
genie. S’il vivait aujourd’hui, on le classerait infailliblement parmi
les vealist@s;cax; |n’a peur ni des termes techniques, ni des descrip
tions detaillees, ni. des images ernes, ni des tableaux grossiers. On a
compare recemment, et.pour la premiere fois sans doute, notre
romancier Balzac a Shakspeare. La comparaison manque de justesse. Ce sont au contraire deux esprits tres-difierents. Tandis que.
1’un, quoique doue d’un puissant esprit, se traine peniblement dans
les bas-fonds de la societe, l’autre s’eleve sans cesse, sur des ailes de
flamme, vers des regions plus pures. G’est plutot a Jonson que Balzac
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
7!)
ressemble. Tous deux etudient, avec une egale curiosite, les mala
dies morales de Fame, tous deux s’attachent a F observation des caracteres exceptionnels et pervers, tous deux analysent avec patience et
peignent avec energie ce qu’ils ont vu ou ce qu’ils ont concu. Seulement l’un est un poete qui ecrit fortement sa langue; l’autre un prosateur qui £crit difficilement la sienne.
Balzac a retrouve des types que Jonson avait deja crees. Un des
premiers personnagesque nous rencontrions dans la comedie anglaise
semble appartenir au dix-neuvieme siecle. C’est Fhomme a projets,
theprojector, le fondateur de cent compagnies industrielles qui n’ont
jamais existe, mais qui trouvent des actionnaires, l’inventeur de pro
cedes infaillibles pour s’enrichir qui ne font qu’appauvrir les dupes,
le banquier sans capitaux qui specule sur la sottise et sur la credulite
humaine. De nos jours, il cree la societe des bitumes du Maroc oil il
indique les moyens de faire fortune, en elevant des lapins. Au
seizieme siecle, il se nomme Meercraft; il a la pretention de dessecher tous les marais de FAngleterre, il propose de faire des gants
avec des peaux de chiens, il invente un procede economique pour
fabriquer des bouteilles, il fonde une compagnie pour populariser
dans le royaume l’usage de la fourchette, apportee d’Italie, et il com
pose du vin rouge avec des mures sauvages 1. Les speculateurs des
deux epoques peuvent differer dans leurs inventions. Chacun d’eux
suit le gout du temps et offre au public l’appat qui doit le mieux le
seduire. Mais il y a un principe sur lequel ils sont parfaitement d’ac
cord : c’est que les sots doivent seuls faire les frais de leurs entrepriscs. Leur talent consiste a beaucoup promettre et a ne rien tenir,
a recevoir de l’argent et a ne jamais le rendre.
Meercraft, en habile homme, ne demande jamais rien, mais il se
fait offrir des fonds qu’il acceptc et qu’il garde. Ses dupes lc pressent
de vouloir bien leur faire l’honncur de puiser dans leur bourse. G’est
la le comble de Fart. Obtenir de l’argent, c’est habile. Mais se faire
prier pour en prendre, inspirer assez de confiance pour que le client
vous supplie de vous enrichir, a ses depens, c’est un triomphe. Les
Anglais sont passes maitres dans ce genre de tromperie. G’est chez
eux que la mystification industrielle a du etre inventee. Le pu/f, le
canard sont d’origine britannique. Il parait qu’au seizieme siecle le
mouvement des esprits, l’activite du commerce, la curiosite qui se
I. Tfte Devil is an ass.
�80
LES CONTEMPORAIN’S DE SHAKSPEARE.
portait vers les terres lointaines qu’on venait d’explorer excitaient a
Londres le gout des aventures et provoquaient l’habilete des speculateurs, en allumant les convoitises de la foule. Le theatre signale
plusieurs fois ce travers. Les pieces du Mendiant de cour et des
Antipodes sont dirigees contre les chevaliers d’induslrie. Mais le
Meercraft de Jonson en est le type le plus populaire.
Une des passions que Balzac a le mieux rendues, c’est l’amour de
l’or. Jonson avait concu, avant lui, le caractere de Grandet. Il introduit sur la scene anglaise un vieillard sordide , apre au gain, qui
sacrifie tout, honneur, probite, affections de famille, au desir d’augmenter son revenu. Comme Grandet, ce personnage odieux ne se
nourrit que d’une seule pensee; il n’a qu’un but, c’est de s’enrichir
chaque jour davantage. Il n’y a pas une de ses actions qui soit indifferente ou inutile. Lors meme qu’il cause avec ses voisins ou qu’il
s’assied a la table defamille, son idee fixe le poursuit; il remue des
chiffres dans sa tete, il calcule, il suppute les chances de perte et de
profit, les revenus probables d’une affaire. Il additionne, il multiplie,
il divise; il recommence de memoire et sans relache toutes les opera
tions de l’arithmetique. N’attendez de lui ni un bon mouvement, ni
une parole sortie du coeur,ni une resolution genereuse. Il est sec. La
cupidite a etouffe chez lui tous les sentiments.
Il y a, dans la comedie de Jonson, des situations qui font penser a
des scenes analogues ftEugenie Grandet. Pennyboy, l’usurier
anglais, se fache contre un domestique qui a depense six pence et lui
apprend tout ce que cette petite somme pourrait rapporter dans un
temps determine.
I
I
[
J
- PENNYBOY (au portier de sa maison).
Tu sens le vin, coquin, tu es ivre.
LE PORTIER.
Non, monsieur, nous n’avons bu qu’une pinte, un bonnets voUB
turierlet moi.
PENNYBOY.
Qui l’a payee?
LE PORTIER.
C’est moi qui l’ai offerte.
PENNYBOY.
Comment I et tu as depense six pence! un manant depenser six J
pence, six pence I
�81
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SIIAKSPEARE.
LE PORTIER.
Une fois dans l’annee, monsieur.
PENNYBOY.
Quand ce serait en sept ans, valet! Sais-tu ce que tu as fait, quelle
depense de capital tu as faite? Il pourrait plaire au ciel (car tu es un
jeune et vigoureux drole) de te laisser vivre encore soixante-dix ans,
jusqu’a ce que tu en aies quatre-vingt-dix, peut-etre cent. Supposons soixante-dix ans. Combicn de fois sept en soixante-dix? Sept
fois dix, c’est la meme chose que dix fois sept. Fais bien attention a
ce que je vais te demontrer sur mes doigts. Six pence, au bout
de sept ans, interet sur interet, en produisent douze : au bout de
sept nouvelles annees, deux shellings; la troisieme periode de sept
ans, quatre shellings; la quatrieme, huit shellings; la cinquieme,
seize; la sixieme, trente-deux; la septieme fois, trois livres sterling
et quatre shellings; la huitieme, six livres et huit shellings; la neuvieme, douze livres seize shellings; et enfin la dixieme, vingt-cinq
livres douze shellings. Voila ce que tu as perdu, par ta debauche,
dans le cas oil tu vivrais encore soixante-dix ans, en depensant six
pence une fois en sept ans. Gaspiller tout cela en un seul jour!
c’est une sommc incalculable. Hors de ma maison, fleau de pro
digalite 1!
Comme l’avare de Balzac, l’usurier de la comedie anglaise affecle
une surdite commode qu’il exagere ou qu’ildiminuea volonte. Vienton lui demander de l’argent, il ferme l’oreille a toutes les sollicita
tions, il n’entend pas un scul mot de ce qu’on lui dit, il a l’ouie si
dure qu’on ne peut pas obtenir qu’il reponde. Lui propose-t-on au
contraire un benefice, il ecoute; quoique vous parliez bas, il n’a pas
perdu une syllabe de ce que vous lui disiez. Jonson a rendu tou
tes ces nuances, dans une scene oil un industriel vient, en style
allegorique, demander au vicux Pennyboy la main de sa pupille
Pecunia, c’est-a-dire la clef de sa cassette. Pennyboy qui feint d’etre
mourant, pour mieux tromper ceux qui le visitent, recoit le pretendant, etendu dans son fauteuil sur lequel il fait semblant d’etre cloue.
Un domestique amene Cymbal, le pretendant.
LE DOMESTIQUE.
Voici ce monsieur.
1. The Staple of news.
Tome III. — 9e Livraisou.
i
C
�«2
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEAREi
PENNYBOY.
Je lui demande pardon. Je ne puis me lever, malade comme je
le suis.
CYMBAL.
Point d’excuses! monsieur, menagez votre sante; ne vous genez
pas.
I*.
PENNYBOY.
Ce n’est point deE’orgueil de ma part; c’est de la souffrance,de
la souffrance^Voyons, monsieur. <
CYMBAL.
-
. ‘
J
a
Je suis venu pour vous entretenir.
PENNYBOY.
C’est une souffrance pour moi de parler, une douleur mortelle.
Mais je vous entendrai.
CtMBAL.
Vous avez une dame qui demeure avec vous.
PENNYBo|ff
Hein! J’ail’ouie atissi un peu faible.
f
CYMBAL.
Pecunia.
■ ’
PENNYBOY.
De ce cote, elle est tout a fait insuffisante. Continuez.
CYMBAL^*;
Je voudrais l’attirer plus souvent dans Thumble etablissement
dontje suis possesseur,
PENNYBOY.
Jen’entendsabsolument rien. Parlezplushaut.
CYMBAL jr4
Ou, s’il vous convient de la laisser demeurer avec moi, j’ai moitie
des profits a vous offrir. Nous les partagerons.
PENNYBOY. *
Ah! je vous entends mieux maintenant. -Comment sefont cesprofits? Est-ce un commerce sur ou chanceux? Je ne me soucie pas de
courir apres l’inconnu, de me lancer dans la voie du hasard. J’aime
les chemins directs; je suis un homme exact et droit. Maintenant
tous les trafics periclitent: celui de l’argent a perdu 2 o/o. C’etait un
commerce sur, lorsque le siecle etait econome, lorsque les homines I
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
83
administrant bienleur fortune, veillaient sur les capitaux et bornaient
leurs desirs. Maintenant le desordre public prostitue, dissipe tout en
carrosses, en livrees de gens de pied, en robes de femmes de chambre.
Il faut leur faire des hanches de velours. Que le diable les emporte!
Les moeurs du temps me rendent fou.
(Il prononce ces paroles avec violence et tres-haut.)
CYMBAL.
Vous disiez tout a l’heure que c’etait mortel pour vous de parler.
PENNYBOY.
Oui, mais la colere, une juste colere, comme celle-ci, ranime un
homme qui ne peut supporter de voir la gloutonnerie et l’elegance
des hommes!
(II se leve de son fauteuil.)
Que de feux, que de cuisiniers et de cuisines on pourrait epargner? de combien de velours, de tissus, d’echarpes, de broderies et
de galons on pourrait se passer? Ils convoitent sans cesse des choses
superflues, tandis qu’il y aurait beaucoup plus d’honneur a savoir
se passer du necessaire. Quel besoin a la nature de plats d’argent
ou de vases de nuit d’or? de serviettes parfumees ou d’un nombreux domestique qui la regarde manger? Pauvre et sage, elle n’a
besoin que de manger. La faim n’est pas si ambitieuse. Supposez
que vous soyez l’empereur des plaisirs, le grand dictaleur de la
mode aux yeux de toute l’Europe, que vous etaliez a la vue la
pompe de toutes les cours et de tous les royaumes, pour faire ouvrir
de grands yeux a la foule et vous faire admirer, il n’en faudra pas
moins vous mettre au lit et atteindre le terme que fixe la nature;
alors tout s’evanouit. Votre luxe n’etait que pour la montre, vous
ne le possediez pas. Pendant qu’il se glorifiait lui-meme, il touchait a sa fin.
CYMBAL (4 part).
Cet homme a de vigoureux poumons.
PENNYBOY.
Tout ce superflu semble alors vous appartenir aussi peu que ceux
qui en etaient les spectateurs. Ce qui divertit les homines remplit a
peine l’attente de quelques heures.
CYMBAL (a part).
Il a le monopole du monologue.
,
(Haul-)
Mais, mon cher monsieur, vous parlez toujours.
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARES|
84
PENNYBOY (avec colere).
Et pourquoi pas? Ne suis-je pas sous mon propre toit?
CYMBAL.
Mais je suis venu ici pour causer avec vous.
PENNYBOY.
Et si je ne veux pas, moi, causer avec vous, monsieur. Vous avez
ma reponseA Qui vouS a envoye chelclier?
^YfeBA^J'
Personne.
Mais vous etes venu. Eh bien! alors partez1 comme vous etes venu.
PersonneBflvo^srefient. Voufi voire chemin; vous voyez la porte.
cymba^H
Vous etes un coquin.
pennyboy.
41
En verify j&le croisS monsieu^M
y CYMBAL*. ■ I
Un filou, un usurier. t
U.
PENNYBOY .C
Ce sont.les surnoms qu’on me donne.
CYMBAL.
Un] miserable irmon.
PENNYBOY.
Vous allez faire deborder le vase et tout repandre.
CYMBAL.
Chenille, teigne, grosse sangsue, ver immonde.
PENNYBOY,.
Vous perdez encore une fois votre peine, je suis un vase brise qui
ne garde rien. Adieu, mon^her monsieur. *
Cette scene est excellente. La faiblesse et la surdite qu’affecte
11’usurier, am debut de l’entretien,"font ressortir, d’une maniere
piquante, 1’attention avec laquelle il prete l’oreille, des qu’on lui"
parle de benefices, et la colere ad moyen de laquelle il se debarrasse
du solliciteur, quand il a reconnu qu’il n’y avait aucun profit a
tirer de Ium Un trait comniuii a tbu§ ces hommes avides d’argentj
et Jonson l’a bien saisi, c’est le peu de souci qu’ils ont de leur
reputation et le calmOjavec lequel ils ecoutent les injures qu’on,
leur adresse. Peu leur importe tn effet ce que le monde pense d’eux.
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
85
Les hommes sont leur proie; ils savent bien qu’on ne depouille pas
les victimes sans les faire crier; ils supportent les plaintes, les
reproches, les invectives, commo une des necessites de leur metier;
c’est une consolation qu’ils laissent au public, a la condition de ne
rien rabattre de leurs exigences.
II
Pennyboy est un usurier. L’avare est un type analogue, deja
etudie par la comedie latine; Jonson le reprend, avant Moliere et
apres Plaute, on suivant avec liberte et avec originalite les traces de
l’auteur ancien. Il imite, il traduit meme quelques passages de l'Aitlularia; mais il met en oeuvre des elements nouveaux. C’est a Plaute
qu’il a emprunte le premier monologue de l’avare qui commence
ainsi : « Puisse-je vivre un jour seul avec mon or ! Oh! e’est un
doux compagnon, tendre et fidele. Un homme peut s’y fier, tandis
qu’il est trompe par son pere, par son frere, par ses amis, par sa
femme. 0 tresor merveilleux! ce qui rend tous les hommes trompeurs cst fidele en soi* !» Dans les scenes suivantes, tantot il s’ecarte,
tantot il sc rapproche de son modele. Quelquefois, dans ce qu’il imite
ou dans ce qu’il invente, il devance notre grand comique et provoque
une double comparaison. Son avare est un Francais, du nom de
Jaques1, etabli en Italic. Jaques, autrefois intendant du comte de
2
Chamont, lui a soustrait sa fille, encore enfant, et une somme
d’argent considerable qu’il est venu enfouir dans sa nouvelle resi
dence. Il vit miserablement, il est vetu de hailions; on le croit
reduit a une extreme pauvretc. Mais il possede une cassette remplie
d’or qu’il va contempler plusieurs fois par jour et qui lui tient lieu
de tout autre bonheur. Malgre la misere apparente de l’avare, la
beaute de la jeune Rachel, qu’il a enlevee a son pere et qu’on croit
son enfant, excite l’admiration generale. Plusieurs pretendants aspirent a la main de la jeune fille. Christophero, intendant du comte
Farneze, un grand seigneur du voisinage, la dispute au comte Farneze lui-meme, veuf de sa premiere femme; et, sans le savoir, ils
ont tous deux pour rival, outre un cordonnier, le propre fils de
Farneze.
1. The case is altered.
2. Nous conservons 4 dessein forthographe de Jonson.
�86
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
Chacun des candidats presente a son tour sa requete a Jaques
et leurs visiles donnent lieu aux scenes les plus plaisantes. L’avare
ne pent crorre a un amour desinteresse; il ne pense pas qu’on
puisse reChercher Rachel pour elle-meme; il soupconne qu’on en
veut a son argent. Aussi est-il assailli de terreurs comiques, des qu’il
apercoit le visage d’un pretendant. Comme tous ceux qui possedent un tresor, il craint qu’on ne le lui prenne, et, avant d’etre puni
par les*evenements, il l’est deja par ses propres angoisses. Il ne quitte
jamais sa maison, sans prevoir tout ce qui peut arriver de malheureux
en son absence, et sans adresser. a sa fille de minutieuses recomman?dations : « Rachel, lui dit-il, je m’en vais.. Enferme-toi, mais retire
la clef, afin que, si quelqu’un regarde par la serrure, il croie qu’il
n’y a personne a la maison.. Si quelque voleur vieni, il essayera probablement de briser la porte, en croyant qu’ilm y a personne; metsioi alors a parler tres-haut, comme s’il y avait d’autres personnes
avec toi. Enleve le feu, eteins le foyer qu’il ne souffle pas plus qu’un
homme mort! Plus nous epargnons, mon enfant, et plus nous
gagnons.»
Il ne reste pas longtemps hors de chez lui. Sa frayeur le ramene
hientat. Quelle n’est pas sa surprise et son inquietude en voyant
sortir de sa maison un homme qu’il ne connait pas. C’est Angelo
Farneze qui vient de faire ses adieux a Rachel; il voudrait l’arreter,
il court, il s’ecrie: « Diable et enter! quel est cet homme ? Un esprit?
Est-ce celui de ma maison quilahante? Encore a .ma porte! 11 a ete a
ma porte, il est entre, entre dans ma chere porte. Plaise aDieuque
mon or soil en surete! »
Il tremble encore lorsque survient Christephera. Nouvelle terreur
■ qui ne lui permet meme pas d’entendre ce qu’onlui demandel
JAQUES.
Merci de moil en voici un autre;! Rachel! ho! Rachel!
’i
CHRISTO PHERO.
Dieu vous protege, honnete pere’!
JAQUES.
Rachel f par Ie ciel , viens ici ! Rachel ! Rachel!
(Il sort precipitamment.)
CHRI STOPHERO (seul).
Au nom du ciel, qu’a-t-il? C’est etrange. Il aime tellement sa
�87
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
fille, que je gage ma vie qu’il a peur que je n’aie profite de son
absence pour lui faire une cour illegitime.
JAQUES (rentre).
(A part.)
Il est en surete1 il est en surete! 11s ne m’ont pas vole mon or.
CHRISTOPHERO.
Ne soyez pas offense, monsieur.
JAQUES (a part).
Monsieur! mon Dieu! monsieur! monsieur! Il m’appelle mon
sieur.
CHRISTOPHERO.
Mon bon pere, ecoutez-moi.
JAQUES.
Vous etes tout a fait le bienvenu, monsieur. Votre Seigneurie
voudrait-elle s’abaisser jusqu’a me parler?
CHRISTOPHERO.
Ce n’est pas s’abaisser, mon pere. Mon intention est de vous faire
un honneur plus grand que celui de vous parler : c’est de devenir
votre fils.
JAQUES (a part).
Son nez a senti mon or; il l’a flaire. Il connait mon or, il sait
le secret de mon tresor.
(Haut.)
Comment savez-vous, monsieur, comment avez-vous devine?...
CHRISTOPHERO.
Quoi, monsieur? que voulez-vous dire?
JAQUES.
Je prie Votre aimable Seigneurie de vouloir bien me dire com
ment vous savez... je veux dire comment je pourrais faire savoir
a Votre Seigneurie que je n’ai rien a donner a ma pauvre fille.
Je n’ai rien. Le ciel, qui est si bon pour chaque homme, ne Test
guere pour moi.
CHRISTOPHERO.
Je pense, mon bon pere, que vous etes tout bonnement pauvre.
JAQUES (a part).
11 pense cela! ficoutons! Il ne pense que cela? Non, il ne pense
pas ainsi; il sait tout, il connait mon tresor.
(Il sort.)
�88
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
CHRISTOPHERO (seul).
Pauvre homme! il est si rempli de joie d’entendre dire que sa
fille peut etre mariee bien au dela de ses esperances, que, si j’en
crois le simple bon sens, c’est l’incertfiude entre la crainte et l’espoir
qui le met ainsi hors de dui-meme.
J A Q UE S (rentrant, a part).
Cependant tout est en surete a l’interieur. N’y a-t-il pcrsonnd
au dehors? Ne brise-t-on pas mes murs?
CHMWOPH®RO.
Que dites-vous, mon pere? Aurai-je votre fille?
JAQUES. '
(
Je n’ai aucune dot a lui donner^
CHRISTOPHERO.
Je n’en attends aucune, mon pere.
JAQUES.
pW k*en- Alors je prie Votre Seigrieurie de ne me faire aucune
question sur ce qu’elledesire. C’est une trop grande faveur pour moi.
CHI®TOPHERO (a part).
Je vais le laisser se remettre un peu maintenant. Cela lui causerait
trop d’emotion, si je lui parlais encore en ce moment.
(II sort.)
JAQUES (seul).
Ahl U est parti! Je voudrais que tous les autres fussent aussi
partis ou morts, afin de pouvoir vivre seul avec mon or cheri.
LE COMTE FARNEZE (entrant, a part).
Void le pauvre vieillard.
JAQUES (apart).
Bifij mon ame, encore un autre”! VientMfflde ce cdte?
FARNEZE (haut).
Ne soyez pas effraye, vieillard; je viens vous apporter de la joie.
JAQUES. .
A moi, ciel!
(A part.)
L’un vient pour me tenir id a causer, pendant que l’autre me vole.
(Il sort.)
tJftFARNEZE <seul).
Il m’a oublie, a coup sur. Que signifie cela? Il craint mon pouvoir
et que, n’ayant plus de femme, je ne lui enleve sa fille pour la des-
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
89
honorer. Celui qui n’a rien sur la terre qu’une pauvre fille peut
avoir cotte sollicitude anxieuse pour la garder.
JAQUES (rentrant, a part).
Et cependant il est en surete. Ils ne songent pas a employer la
force, mais la flatterie et la ruse. Je verrai bien, a sa premiere ques
tion, s’il me croit riche.
(Haut.)
Qui vois-je devant moi, mon bon seigneur?
FARNEZE.
Leve-toi, bon pere. Je ne t’appelle pas ainsi a cause de ton age,
mais parce que je desire vivement devenir ton fils, en m’unissant,
par un mariage honorable, a ta charmante fille.
JAQUES (a part).
Oh! c’est cela, c’est cela. C’est pour mon or.
Cette preoccupation constante de l’avare, cette idee fixe qui le
poursuit, ce besoin qu’il eprouve a chaquc instant de revoir son or,
et de s’assurer qu’on ne le lui a point enleve, tout cela est peint
avec naturel et dans le ton vrai de la comedie. Moliere a repiis et
embelli la fameuse scene de Plautc oil Euclio arrete un homme qu’il
soupconne de l’avoir vole, et le fouille des pieds a la tete. Jonson
l’avait imitee le premier avec bonheur. Son imitation merite d’etre
citee, meme a cote de celle de Moliere.
Jaques s’etait eloigne un instant de sa maison, lorsqu’il rencontre
Juniper, le cordonnier amoureux de Rachel, qui avait essaye de
penetrer dans la maison, pour voir la jeune fille, et qui, en reconnaissant le pere, se sauve a toutes jambes. Jaques le prend pour un
voleur et le saisit avec violence.
JAQUES.
Rachel! au voleur! au voleur! Arrete, scelerat, esclave!
(Il saisit Juniper au collet.)
Rachel, lache mon chien ! Oui, brigand, tu ne peux pas echapper.
JUNIPER.
Je vous en supplie, monsieur.
JAQUES.
Eh bien! Rachel, quand je to le dis! Cache mon chien, lache-le
done, te dis-je.
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.'
£0
JUNIPER.
Pour l’amour de Dieu, ecoutez-moi, retenez votre dogue.
’
■*
JAQUES.
Alors rends^moi, Tiens\ rends-moi, esclave.
JUNIPER.
's
Quoi?
l
■;
JAQUES.
Oh! tu voudrais que je te Ie disc, tli le voudrais, n’est-ce pas?
Montre-moi tes mains; qu’as-tu dans-tes mains?
JUNTHER.il
Voici mes mains.
• s'
'
JAQUES.
Arrete. Le bout de tes doiglsesbJl sali par la terre? Non; tu les
as essuyes.
JUNIPER.
Essuyes!
.
JAQUES.
Oui, miserable! Tu es un habile coquin . Ote tes souliers; viens,
que je les voied Donne-moi un couteau, Rachel, que j’ouvre les
semelles!
I ^Juhiper veut s’en- alter.)
Doucemenf, monsieur, vousn’etespas encore parti. Secouez vos
jambes, allons, et vos bras, et faitesvite.
(Il le laehe.)
Demon! pourquoi n’es-tupas^ encore partr? Va-t’en, tourment de
mon ame!J Satan, loin d’icil Pourquoi me ragardes-tu? Pourquoi
restes-tu la? Pourquoi jettes-tu sur la terre des1 regards furtifs? Que
vois-tu la, chien, qu’est-ce qui te faitouvrir de grands yeux? Loin
de ma maison! Rachel, lache le dogue.
Jonson a eu Fheureuse pensee de supprimer le trait de mauvais
gout que Plaute a glisse dans son dialogue, lorsqu’il fait dire a Euclio,
apres avoir visite les deux mains de Strobilu&: Ostende etiam tertiam, montre aussi la troisieme. Mais il ne l’a pas remplace, comme
Moliere, par ce mot charmant: « Les aufresT» qui conserve l’intenlion du poete latin, en sauvant le natural.
Parmi les passages de la piece qui appartiennent en propre a
Jonson et dont Fidee premiere ne lui a point ete fournie par son
modele, il taut citer le poetique monologue de l’avare, lorsque,
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
91
rempli d’inquietude pour son or, il le deterre et le change de place
afin de le micux cacher. Il lui parle alors avec une tendresse amoureuse dont l’expression, tres-belle en anglais, s’affaiblit malheureusement dans une traduction : « Reste la, ma chere ame! Dors doucement, mon cher enfant! Je ne t’ai pas acquis tout a fait legitimement,
mais enfin je t’ai acquis, et c’est assez. Que toutes les mains qui
s’approchent de toi tombent en pourriture, excepte les miennes!
Que tous les yeux qui te voient soient brutes, excepte les miens!
Que tous ceux qui pensent a toi sentent le poison dans leurs coeurs
amoureux, excepte moi! Je ne te dirai pas adieu, aimable prince,
grand empercur, sans te regarder a chaque minute; roi des rois,
je ne serai pas impoli a ton egard, et je ne te tournerai pas le dos
en m’eloignant de toi; mais je m’en irai a reculons, le visage tourne
vers toi, en te saluant humblement. Il n’y a personne dans la mai
son, personne ne regarde au-dessus de mon mur. Avoir de l’or et
l’avoir en surete, tout est la 1! »
Jaques eprouve le meme malheur qu’Euclio et qu’Harpagon. On
lui derobe sa cassette et sa fille. Il regrette tant la premiere qu’il n’a
pas le temps de songer a la seconde. Mais, comme il les a volees l’une
et l’autre, il n’a pas meme le droit de se plainare, et son dcsespoir
est moins comique que celui de l’avare de Moliere.
Jonson revient volontier: a ce type de l’avare qui offre un eternel
aliment a la comedie. 11 le reprend encore dans une de ses dernieres
pieces2, ou il lui fait dire neltement, sans ambages et sans circonlocutions : « Mon argent, c’est mon sang, mes parents, mes allies; celui
qui ne l’aime pas est denature. » 11 suppose meme que l’avare raisonne philosophiquemeat sur ses sentiments et fait la theorie de sa
passion. « Nous savons tous, dit le vieux Sir Moth, que Fame de
l’homme est infinie dans ses desirs. Celui qui desire la science la
desire infiniment; celui qui aspire a l’honneur y aspire infiniment;
ce ne serait pas une chose difficile, pour un homme qui aime Fargent, de demontrer ct d’avouer qu’il tend a une richesse infinie-. »
III
Mais la puissance d’observation de Jonson se montre surtout dans
ses trois meilleures comedies, dans la Femme silencieuse, dans 1\4^»
1. The case is altered, act. in.
2. The magnetic Lady.
�92
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE,
chimiste et dans le Renard. La il dc-ssine avec vigueur des caracteres
exceptionnels dont il accuse tous les traits; il met en relief la bizarl
rerie de certaines infirmites morales; il a la penetration du moraliste
et la patience de l’anatomiste arme du scalpel. Il se complait dans
1’inconnu et dans l’extraordinaire. Les hommes qu’il met en scene
appartiennent sans doute a la realite; lui-meme les a peut-etre ren
contres et vus de pres, mais ils ne se confondent pas avec la foule, ils
ne representent pas une classe generale de la sodete; ils vivent dans la
retraite, ou ils nourrissent des vices solitaires et rares, que la curio
site du poete comique decouvre et nous devoile.
Le premier de ces originaux s’appelle Morose, et vient en droite
ligne de 1’antiquite. Jonson l’a pris dans Libanius, pour le transporter
de la dans la Femme silencieuse. C’est un gentilhomme de bonne
maison, qui connait le monde et la cour, mais qui a pris tout a coup
en horreur 1’agitation d’une grande ville, et qui ne veut laisser penetrer jusqu’a lui aucun bruit exterieur. Il a la passion du silence. Les
sourds-muets lui font envie. Les cris d’une femme qui vend dans la
rue du poisson ou des oranges 1’irritent. Il ne souffre dans son voisinage ni armuriers, ni serruriers, ni ouvriers bruyants d’aucune sorte.
Il demeure, avec intention, dans une ruelie si etroite que ni voitures,
ni chaises a porteurs ne peuvent la traverser. Pour echapper a la sonnerie des cloches qui lui dechirent le tympan, il s’enferme dans un
appartement a doubles fenetres et a doubles portes constamment fermees, ou il vit a la clarte d’une lampe. Si, malgre toutes ces precau
tions, il est derange, malheur a ceux qui le derangent! Il a fait crever
un tambour qu’on s’est permis de battre devant sa porte. Il a renvove
un de ses domestiques, parce qu’il a entendu craquer ses souliers
dans l’escalier.
Jonson, qui excelle a mettre avec naturel les ridicules en scene,
nous introduit tout de suite au coeur du sujet, dans la maison de
Morose. Le maniaque donne ses ordres a un laquais et laisse voir du
premier coup son caractere. Toutes les paroles lui sont odieuses,
excepte les siennes. « N’est-il pas possible, dit-il a son serviteur, que
tu me repondes par signes et que je te comprenne? Ne parle pas,
quoique je t’interroge. (Le domestique repond par signes.) As-tu
enleve la sonnette de la porte exterieure qui donne sur la rue? As-tu
rembourre 1’exterieur de la porte, afin que, si les passants frappent
avec leurs dagues ou avec leurs briquets, ils ne puissent faire aucun
bruit? » A ces questions multipliees, le domestique ne doit repondre
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
93
que par des mouvements de jambes ou de bras. Son maitre lui demande l’heure, il l’indique avec ses doigts. Morose voudrait etre
lure: « Ileureux Tures! s’ecrie-t-il; ils sont servis par des muels; a
la guerre, les ordres leur sont donnes sans bruit par des signaux. »
Le comble de la l'clicite, suivant lui, c’est de ne jamais entendre le
son de la voix humaine.
Mais ses reves ne se realisent point, et ce qu’il y a de plus plaisant
dans cette comedie, ce soul les mesaventures qui viennent a chaque
instant troubler son repos. Morose a un neveu, sir Dauphine, pour
lequel il n’eprouve aucune affection, et qu’il ne serait pas faclie de
desheriter en se mariant; il cherche done une femme. Mais pendant
qu il rumine ce projet, un ami de Dauphine, Trucwit, le personnage le plus spirituel de la piece, juge a propos, pour sauver le
neveu, de faire irruption chez l’oncle et de l’epouvanter sur les suites
probables de son mariage. Avcc l’entree en scene de Trucwit, com
mence le supplice de Morose. Pendant que celui-ci s’entoure des pre
cautions les plus raffinees, pour se preserver du bruit exterieur, tout
a coup il entend retentir a ses oreilles le son du cor et ouvrir avec
fracas la porte de sa chambre. C’est Trucwit qui se presente sur le
seuil.
TKUEWIT ou M. DELESPRIT.
Votre nom n’est-il pas Morose?
(A part.)
Muels comme des poissous, tous Pvthagoriciens! C’est etrangc.
(Haut.)
Que dites-vous, monsieur? Rien ! Est-ce qu’Harpocrate est venu ici,
avec son doigt sur sa bouche? Vous voulez vous marier, monsieur,
vous marier! Vos amis s’en etonnent, monsieur, lorsque vous avez si
pres de vous la Tamise pour vous y noyer si gentiment, ou le pout
de Londres, d’oii un beau saut vous precipiterait dans le courant, ou
un dome comme celui de Saint-Paul, ou, si vous aimez mieux rester
pres de la maison et aller plus vite en besogne, vous avez une excellente fenetre qui donne sur la rue et a cette fenetre une espagnolette :
voici, dans ce cas, un baudrier
(11 montre le baudrier auquel son cor est suspendu.)
quo vos amis vous envoient, et ils vous engagent a passer plutot votre
tete dans ce noeud que dans celui du mariage. Ou bien prencz du
sublime et sortez de ce monde, comme un rat : tout, en un mot,
�94
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
plutot que de suivre ce lutin d’Hymenee. Helas! monsieur, pouvezvous penser que vous trouverez une femme pure dans ce temps,1
maintenant qu’il y a tant de masques, de pieces, de preches puritains et d’autres spectacles etranges.a voir chaque jour, en particulier
et en public?
MOROSE (qui a donne pendant tout le temps des signes d’impatience et de colere).
Qu’ai-je fait, monsieur,pour meriter ce teaitement ?
TRUEWIT (continuant, sans paraitre s’apercevoir de l’interruption).
Si elle est riche et que vous .epousiez sadot st mon pas elle-meme,
elle regnera dans vote® maison aussi imperieusement qu’une veuve.
Si elle est noble, tous ses parents vous tyranniseront. Si elle est
leconde^elle sera aussi orgueilleuse'ique Mai et aussi capricieuse
qu’Avril; elle aurases medecinspses sages-femmes, ses nourrices et
ses envies a chaque instant du jour. Si elle est instruite, on n’aura
jamais vu pareil perroquettout votre patrimoine sera insuffisant,
pour les»h6tes qu’elle invitera, afinde l’entendre parler grec et latin.
Si elle est puritaine, il vous faudra feter tous les freres silencieux,
au mojns une fois tous les trois jours, saluer les sceurs, entretenir
ioute la famille et entendre des exercices ide longue haleine, des
chants et des preches : le tout pour plaire a votre femme, zelee
matrone, qui, pour la sainte cause, vous trompera bel et bien?.
Morose voudrait, a chaque instant, interrompre le discours de
Truewit. Lui, qui ne peut supporter le son d’une voix humaine, il
gemit .d’etre oblige'Id’ecouter un^ si longto et si bruyante tirade.
A la fin de la scene,jsjl colere touche a 1’exasp eration. Il soupconne
Truewit d’etre d’agent secret de son neveu, et, plus on s’oppose a son
mariage, plus il est presse de de conclure. Seulemcnt il cherche une
perle difficile a trouver, une femme sileudouse^ill faut que la compagne.de .sa vie partage ses gouts et sache setaire. Il croit avoir
trouve cette nouvelle merveille du monde, par ibentremise du barbier
Cutbeard (Coupe-barbe^, son confident, un des ancetres de Figaro. On
lui amene en effet une jeune fille timide,- d-un exterieur simple et
modeste, a laquelle il fait subir un interrogatoire minutieux, afin de
s’assurer qu’elle possede bien toutes les qualites qu’il desire. Elle se
tient devant lui rougissant etamuette : « Vous pouvez parler, lui dit-il
d’un ton encourageant, quoique ni mon barbier ni mon domestique ne
1. Le discours de Truewit est imitd de la sixitoe satire de JuviSnal.
�«
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
95
le puissent; car, de tous les sons, il n’y a que la douce voix d’une belle
femme qui convienne a la mesure de mes oreilles.» Epicoene (c’est le
nom de la jeune personne) repond avec modestie, en peu de mots et
d’une voix si basse qu’on entend a peine les paroles qui sortent de ses
levres. Morose est oblige de lui faire repeter ses reponses pour les
comprendre, et il s’en felicite; car, lorsqu’il ne voudra pas les
ecouter, il le pourra facilement.
Apres cet aimable interrogatoire, il fait la le?on a sa future; il lui
donne des instructions detaillees sur le genre de vie qu’elle doit mener
et sur les sacrifices qu’il attend d’elle. Il ne pretend point qu’elle soit
etrangere au monde; il serait fache qu’elle ne connut pas les manieres
de la cour. La femme d’un gentilhomme doit etre digne du rang
qu’occupe son mari. Il est meme convenable qu’elle ait de l’esprit.
Mais ces qualites n’ont pas besoin de se montrer; il suffit qu’elles
existent. C’est assez pour la satisfaction de Morose. Il desire que la
compagne de sa vie ensevelisse dans un profond silence les dons bril
lants qu’elle a refus du ciel, la grace, la finesse et 1’elegance. A toutes
ces propositions, Epicoene ne repond que par un consentement
exprime a demi-voix, en phrases courtes et soumises : « Comme il
vous plaira, dit-elle. Je m’en rapporte a vous. » Cette docilite de bon
augure transporte de joie le vieux celibataire, qui hate les preparatifs
de son mariage. 11 est vrai qu’Epictme est pauvre; mais son silence
vaut une fortune. D’ailleurs, comme elle devra tout a son mari, elle
n’en sera que plus aimablc et plus obeissante. Morose envoie chercher
sur-le-champ un pasteur pour celebrer son union, mais un pasteur bien
choisi, expeditif et muet, un ministre qui ne s’avise pas de precher
pour montrer son eloquence, et qui sache marier les gens en silence.
L’infatigable Figaro lui amene un homme selon son coeur, un honnete
serviteur de Dieu qui, pour gagner son argent, fait semblant d’etre
enrhume et ne prononce pas une seule parole intelligible. Morose est.
si content de lui qu’il le paye genereusement. Mais, dans l’elan de sa
reconnaissance, le ministre oublie son role et se met a parler. Alors le
nouveau marie entre en fureur, veut lui reprendre sa gratification, et
le chasse de sa presence en l’accablant d’injures. Ce trait de moeurs,
si bien amene par le poete, provoque une scene qui continue la serie
des mesaventures de Morose. En entendant chasser l’homme d’eglise, Epicoene, qui jusque-la a garde, avec affectation, un silence
.modeste, laisse eclater son veritable caractere.
�96
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEAREM
EPICCENE.
Fi! monsieur Morose, pouvez-vous user d’une telle violence visa-vis d’un homme d’eglise?
MOROSE.
Comment?
JBPICOEJJ^, .
.
Il ne conviendrait ni a votre gravitemi a ,1’education que vous vous
vantez d’avoir recue a 1a- cour, de faire un tel affront a un porteur
d’eau ou meme a une creature, plus grossiere, encore bien moins a
un homme qui porte cet honnete costume.
MOROSE.
Vous pouvez done parler?
'
jepiccene.
Oui, monsieur.
I
I
-.14 ..WfeO
: , :
rad.4
" E'!
.1*
z>
MOROSE.
Parler haut, j’entends.
r
fWccENE.
Oui, monsieur. Croyez-vous done avoir epouse une statue ou une
simple marionnette, une de ces poupees franchises dont les yeux tourJ
nent avec un fil, ou quelque innoceiite sortie Me l’hopital des fous,
qui se tiendrait, comme cela, les mains croisees et la Louche en
coeu^occupee a vous contempler?
. •
MOROSE.'
awp
0 immodestie Tune femme pour tout de bon!
Morose reste ebahi de cette metamorphose et s’arrache les cheveux
de desespoir. Il voit sa femme,J^i humble tout a l’heure, se trans
former tout a coup en une maitresse de maison defeidee et imperieuse,
donner partour des ordres et faire retentir Tappartement des eclats
bruyants de’sa voW. « Elle me regente deja, s’ecrie-t-il. J’ai epouse
une Penthesdee, une Semiramis, vendu ma liberte a une quenouille. Pour comble de malheur, survient Truewit qui a appris
jle mariage et qui yeut feliciter le nouvel epoux du choix qu’il a fait.
(Ses felicitations ironiques retournent le poignard dans le cceur de
Morose : « J ’admire, lui dit-ilf Votre resolution. Malgre les dangers
que j’enumerais devant vous, comme un oisea'u de nuit, vous avez
voulu poursuivre et rester vous-meme. Cela montre que vous etes un
homme constant dans vos projets et invariable dans vos decisions,
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
97
que des cris de mauvais augure no peuvent ebranler. » L’ironie est
excellente et la situation vraiment comique.
Les malheurs de Morose se succedent sans interruption. Depuis
qu’il est marie, il n’a plus un instant de repos. Tantot ce sont des
precieuses ridicules qui viennent complimenter sa femme, tantot
des courtisans qui penetrent chez lui sous pretexte de le feliciter,
mais pour faire la cour a Epicoene. On finit meme par lui amener des musiciens, pour faire danser la compagnie. « La mer fond
sur moi, s’ecrie-t-il; c’est un nouveau flot, une veritable inondation. Je sens comme un tremblement de terre dans mon for interieur. »
Au milieu de ses lamentations, Truewit le poursuit partout,
comme son mauvais genie, en ayant l’air de compatir a son malheur
pour mieux se moquer de lui. « Patience, lui dit-il, ce n’est qu’un
jour a passer. » On sait que ccttc reflexion a la propriety de mettre
en fureur les gens qui s’impatientcnt. Morose s’emporte contre le
barbier qui lui a procure une femme; Truewit abondc dans son sens,
se fait lecho de sa colere et se facbe encore plus que lui. Dans son
emportement ironique, il finit meme par crier si haut que Morose en
est tout etourdi. « J’aimerais mieux lui pardonner, s’ecrie le malheureux mari a bout de patience, que d’en entendre davantage. »
De quelque cote que le vieillard se tourne, il ne voit que des sujets
de chagrin, et, pour echapper a tout le bruit qui se fait autour de lui,
il en est reduit a s’enveloppcr la tete de bonnets de nuit et a se refugier au sommet de la maison, aussi haut qu’il peut monter. Cette
retraite forcee ne le soulage neanmoinsque pendant quclques heures.
Ce n’est pas la un remede definitif. Tant que sa femme restera aupresde lui, il sera expose aux memes desagrements. Il songe alors, en
dernierc analyse, a invoquer la loi pour se separer d’elle; un divorce
le mettra a l’abri de tous les inconvcnients qui resultent pour lui da
mariage. Il s’adresse pour cela aux juges ordinaires. Mais il n’a pas
prevu le nouveau malheur qui l’attendait. A peine a-t-il mis le pied
dans le tribunal qu’il est etourdi par les cris des avocats, par les
interpellations du president, par le glapissement des huissiers et par
' les discussions tumultueuses qui s’elevent entre les plaideurs. Scs
oreilles sont dechirees par des sons discordants. Il ne peut y resister
et il prend la fuite. En comparaison de ce tapage, sa maison, meme
avec sa femme, lui parait un asile aussi calme, aussi silencieux que
l’heure de minuit. Il ne renonce ccpendant point a son idee; il pourTome III. —9e Livraison.
7
�98
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
suit sa demande en nullite de manage, et il accepte avec empressement la proposition qu’on lui fait d’amener chez lui deux theologiens
qui lui donneront sur le divorce un avis motive.
Cette pretendue consultation n’est qu’une nouvelle mystification
preparee par I’infatigable Truewit. Celui-ci deguise le capitaine
Otter et le Barbier Cutbeard, Pun en pastcur, l’autre en docteur en
droit canon, leur donne a chacun des instructions precises et les pre
sente a Morose comme deux oracles de la science. Leur conference n’a
d’autre but que d’infliger an vieillard un supplice d’un nouveau
genre et de le mettre a la merci de son neveu.
. u... ,
MOROSE.
Sbnt-ce la les deux savants ?
,'G
:: r
TRUEWIT.
Oui, monsieur. Vous plait-il de lbs saluer?
MOROSE.
Les saluer! J’aimerais mieux faire n’importe quoi que de perdte
ainsi mon-temps sans profit. Je.m’etonne que ces formules banales:
« Dieu soit avec vous, » « Vous etcs le bienvenu,)) soient entrees
dans nos moeurs, ou bien encore qu’on dise : « Je suis heureux de
vous voir. » Je ne vois pasTavantage qu’on peut tirer de ces paroles.
Celui dont les affaires sont tristes et penibles se trouve-t-il mieux,
lorsqu’il entend ces salutations ?
TRUEWIT.
Cela est vrai, monsieur. Allons done au fait, monsieur le docteur
et monsieur le ministre, je vous ai suffisamment instruits de l’affaire
pour laquelle vpus etes venus ici et vous n’avez pas besoin, je le sais,
de nouveaux renseignements sur l’etat de la question. Voici le gentilhomme qui attend votre decision et, par consequent, quand il vous
plaira-, commence/.
OTTER.
A vous, docteur.
CUTBEARD.
A vous, mon bon ministre.
OTTER.
Je voudrais entendre le droit canon parler le premier.
CUTBEARD.
Il doit ceder la place a la theologie positive.
•' »
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
99
MOROSE.
Mes chers messieurs, ne me jetez pas dans les details. Que vos
secours m’arrivent rapidement, quels qu’ils soient! Soyez prompts a
m’apporter la paix, si je puis l’esperer. Je n’aime ni vos disputes, ni
vos tumultes judiciaires et, pour que cola ne vous paraisse pas etrange,
je vais vous dire : Mon pere, en m’elevant, avait l’habitude de m’engager a concentrer les forces de mon esprit, a ne pas les laisser se
disperser lachement. Il me recommandait d’examiner les choses qui
etaient necessaires a ma conduite dans la vie et celles qui ne l’etaient
pas, d’embrasser les unes et d’eviter les autres, en un mot, de rechercher le repos et de fuir l'agitation : ce qui est devenu pour moi une
seconde nature. Aussi ne vais-je ni a vos debats publics, ni dans les
lieux oil vous faites du bruit; non que je neglige ce qui se fait pour
la dignite de l’Etat, mais simplement afin d’eviter les clameurs et les
impertinences des orateurs qui ne savent pas garder le silence *.
TRUEWIT.
Bien. Mon bon docteur, voulez-vous rompre la glace? Monsieur
le ministre suivra.
CUTBEARD.
Monsieur, quoique indigne et plus faible que mon confrere, j’aurai
la presomption...
OTTER.
Ce n’est pas une presomption, domine doctor.
MOROSE.
Encore I
CUTBEARD.
Vous demandez pour combien de motifs un homme peut obtenir
divortium legitimum, un divorce legal. D’abord, il faut que je vous
fasse comprendre le sens du mot divorce, a divertendo.
MOROSE.
Pas de discussions sur les mots, bon docteur. A la question et
brievement!
CUTBEARD.
Je reponds alors que la loi canonique n’accorde le divorce que
dans un petit nombre de cas et que le principal cst le cas commun,
le cas d’adultere. Mais il y a duodecim impedimenta, douze empe1. Passage traduit de Libanius.
�100
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
chements, comme nous les appelons, qui tous peuvent, non pas Jmmere contractum, mais irritum reddere matrimonium, comme
nous disons en droit canon, non pas briser le lien, mais le rendre nul.
MOROSE.
Je vous avais compris, mon bon monsieur. Epargnez-moi l’impertinence de la traduction.
OTTER.
Il ne peut pas trop eclaircir ce point, monsieur, avec votre per
mission.
MOROSE.
Encore!
•
’
TRUEWIT.
'
Oh! vous devez, monsieur, accorder cette liberte a des savants.
Voyons vos empechements, docteur.
CUTBEARD.
Le premier est impedimentum moris.
OTTER.
Dont il y a plusieurs especes.
-
CUTBEARD.
Oui, comme, par exemple, error personae,
OTTER.
Si vous vous mariez a une personne, en la prenant pour une
autre.
CUTBEARD.
Puis, error fortunes,
OTTER.
Si c’est une mendiante et que vous la croyiez riche.
CUTBEARD.
Puis, error qualitatis.
OTTER.
Si vous decouvrez qu’elle est opiniatre et entetee, apres avoir cru
qu’elle etait docile.
MOROSE.
Comment ? Est-ce la un empechement legal ?
OTTER.
Oui, ante copulam, mais non pas post copulam, monsieur.
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
<01
CUTBEARD.
Monsieur le ministre a raison. Necpost nuptiarum benedictionem.
Celanepeut cpiirrita reddere sponsalia, qu’annuler les fiancailles.
Apres le mariage, ce n’est plus un obstacle.
TRUEWIT.
Helas! monsieur, quelle chute tout d’un coup dans nos esperances!
CUTBEARD.
Apres cola, vient la conditio : si vous la croyiez libre et qu’elle
soit rcconnue esclave; voila un empechement d’etat et de condition.
OTTER.
Oui. Mais, docteur, ces servitudes sont maintenant sublatce, parmi
nous autres chretiens.
CUTBEARD.
Avec votre permission, monsieur le ministre.
OTTER.
Permcttez, monsieur le doctcur.
MOROSE.
Ah! messieurs, ne vous querellez pas surce sujet. Ce cas ne me
concerne point. Passons au troisieme empechement.
CUTBEARD.
Bien; le troisieme est le votum : si l’un des deux conjoints a fait
voeu de chastete. Mais cette coutume, comme monsieur le ministre
l’a dit de I’autre, a maintenant disparu parmi nous, grace a la disci
pline. Le quatrieme est la cognatio : lorsque les personnes sont
parentes au degre defendu.
OTTER.
Oui. Connaissez-vous les degres dcfcndus, monsieur?
MOROSE.
Non, et je ne m’en inquiete guere. Ils ne me sont d’aucun secours
dans la question, j’en suis sur.
CUTBEARD.
Mais il y a une partie de cet empechement qui peut vous servir:
c’est la cognatio spirituals. Si vous etes son parrain, monsieur,
alors ce mariage est incestueux.
OTTER.
Ce commentaire est absurde et superstitieux, monsieur le docteur.
Je ne puis le supporter. Ne sommes-nous pas tous freres et soeurs
�102
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE,
et bien plus parents, par consequent, que les parrains et les filleuls?
MOROSE.
Malheur a moi! Pour terminer la controverse, je n’ai jamais ete
parrain, je n’ai jamais ete .parrain de-ma vie. Passons a l’empqchement suivant.
CUTBEARD.
Le cinquieme, c’est crimen gaulterii, le cas que nous connaissons J
Le sixieme,*, c’est cultus dispuritas,, difference de religion. L’avezvous examinee, pour savoir de quelle religion elle est?
-MOROSE.
Non. J’aimerais mieux qu’elle ne fut d’aucune que de m’imposer
cet ennui.
OTTER.
.
Mais vous pouvezle faire faire pour vous.
’
;
1
x
MOROSE.
Du tout, monsieur. Passons au reste. Arriverez-vous jamais a la
fin, croyez-vous?
TRUEWIT.
Oui, il en a fait la moitie, monsieur. Voyons le reste. Soyez patient
et attendez, monsieur.
.
‘
CUTBEARD.
Le septieme, 'c’^t l’emp^chemeirt pour cause de
: s’il y a eu
Miitrftiffte etviolence?'- *
MOROSE.
Oh! non, cela est trop volontairede ma part, trop volontaire.^
CUTBEARD.
Le huitieme, c’est l’empechement pour cause ft ordo : si jamais
elle a repu tes ordres-sacres.
OTTERl
Ceci est trop superstitieux.
MOROSE.
Ce n’est pas notte affaire/monsieur le ministre. Je voudrais qu’elle
voulut encore alter dans un convent.
CUTbEArd.
Le neuvieme e^t le ligamensi vouS etiez engage, monsieur, a
quelque autre auparatant.
�103
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
MOROSE.
Je me suis fourre trop tot dans ces chaines.
CUTBEARD.
Le dixieme, c’est lc cas Aepublica honestas, c’est-a-dire inchoata
qucedam affinitas.
OTTER.
Oui, ou affinitas orta ex sponsalibus, et ce n’est qu’un leve impedimentum.
MOROSE.
Dans tout cela je ne sens pas le moindre souffle d’air bienfaisant
pour moi.
CUTBEARD.
Le onzieme, c’est affinitas ex fornicatione.
OTTER.
Qui n’est pas moins vera affinitas que l’autre, monsieur le
docteur.
CUTBEARD.
C’est vrai, quae oritur ex legit imo matrimonio.
OTTER.
Vous avez raison, venerable docteur, et nascitur ex eo quod per
conjugium dual personae efficiuntur una caro.
TRUEWIT.
lie! les voila maintenant qui commencent.
CUTBEARD.
Je vous comprends, monsieur le ministre; itaper fornicationem
deque est verus pater, qui sic generat... .
OTTER.
Et vere filius qui sic generatur.
MOROSE.
•
Que me fait tout cela?
CLERIMONT.
Maintenant cela s’echauffe.
CUTBEARD.
Le douzieme et dernier, c’est si forte nequibis...
OTTER.
Oui, c’est la un zmpezZz’men/wm gravissimum. Celui-la annule et
efface tout. Si vous avez une manifestam frigiditatem, cela va bien,
monsieur.
�■104
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
TRUEWIT.
Eh bien! voila un secours qui vous arrive a la fin, monsieur. Confessez seulement que vous etes impuissant et elle demandera ellememe le divorce, la premiere.
OTTER.
Oui, ou bien s’il y a un cas de morbus perpetuus et insanabilis\
de paralysis, d’elephantiasis ow quelque chose de semblable.
DAUPHINE.
Oh! mais la frigiditas est le meilleur moyen, messieurs.
OTTER.
Vous dites vrai, monsieur, et comme le dit le droit canon, i
docteur...
CUTBEARD.
Je vous comprends, monsieur.
CL^RIMONT.
Avant qu’il ait parle.
OTTER.
De meme qu’un garcon ou’ un enfant qui n’a pas l’age n’est pas
propre au mariage, parce qu’il ne peut reddere debitum, ainsi vous
autres omnipotentes...
TRUEWIT (bas a Otter).
Vous autres impotentes, animal!
OTTER.
Impotentes, je voulais dire, sont minima apti ad contrahenda
jmatrimonium.
TRUEWIT (bas a Otter).
Matrimonium! Tu vas nous donner du latin bien peu matrimo
nial. Matrimonia, et va te faire pendre.
DAUPHINE (bas a Truewit).
1 „
Vous troublez leurs idees, mon cher.
•
CUTBEARD.
Mais il y a un doute a elever sur le cas dont il s’agit, monsieur 9
ministre; post matrimonium, celui qui est frigiditate prc/editus,
me comprenez-vous, monsieur?
OTTER.
Tres-bien, monsieur.
CUTBEARD.
U Celui qui ne peut uti uxore pro uxore peut habere earn pro
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
105
OTTER.
Absurde, absurde, absurde et propos de pur apostat!
CUTBEARD.
Vous me pardonnerez, monsieur le ministre, je puis le prouver.
OTTER.
Vous pouvez prouver le desir que cela soit, monsieur le docteur,
mais rien de plus. Est-ce que le vers de votre propre droit canon ne
dit pas :
Haec socianda vetant connubia, facta retractant.
CUTBEARD.
Je vous l’accorde; mais comment peuvent-ils retractare, monsieur
le ministre?
MOROSE.
Oh! c’est la ce que je craignais!
OTTER.
In (sternum, monsieur.
CUTBEARD.
C’est faux, au point de vue divin, avec votre permission.
OTTER.
Ce qui est faux, au point de vue humain, c’est de parler ainsi.
N’est-il pas prorsus inutilis ad thorum? Peut-il preestere fidem
datum ? Je voudrais bien le savoir.
CUTBEARD.
Oui, s’il peut convalere.
OTTER.
Il ne peut convalere. C’est impossible.
TRUEWIT (a Morose, qui donne des signes d'impatience et de distraction).
Monsieur, faites attention a ce que disent ces savants hommes.
Autrement ils croiraient que vous les negligez.
CUTBEARD.
Ou bien s’il lui arrive de se slmulare lui-meme frigidum, odio
uxoris, ou par quelque motif analogue.
OTTER.
Je dis qu’en ce cas il cst adulter manifestus.
DAUPHINE.
Par ma foi, ils disculent vraiment avec beaucoup de science.
�106
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
OTTER.
Et prostitutor uxoris : cela est positif.
MOROSE (bas a Truewit).
Mon bon monsieur, laissez-moi m’esquiver.
TRUEWIT.
Vous ne voudriez pas me faire cet affront, monsieur.
OTTER,
Et, par consequent, s’il est manifeste frigidus...
CUTBEARD.
Oui, s’il esl manifeste frigidus, je vous accorde.....
OTTER.
Eh bien! c’etait la ma conclusion.
^UTBEARD.
Et la mienne aussi.
TRUEWIT (a Morose).
£coutez la conclusion, monsieur.
OTTER.
,
s.
Alors, frigiditatis causd.....
CUTBEARD.
Oui, causd frigiditatis......
MOROSE.
0 mes oreilles ■!
OTTER.
Elle peut obtenir libellum divortii coritre vous.'
CUTBEARD.
Oui, elle obtiendra certainement libellum divortii.
MOROSE.
£chos, epargnez-moi!
OTTER?
Si vous avouez que cela est-il’
CUTBEARD.
Ce que je ferais, monsieur..."
MOROSE.
Je ferai tout ce qu’on voudra.
OTTER.
Et si vous levez mes scrupules, in faro conscientiw.,,
CUTBEARD.
Si vous etes reellement depourvu...
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
107
MOROSE.
Encore!
OTTER.
Exercendi potestate.
Dans la suite de la scene, Morose apprend que le dernier expedient
qu’on lui propose n’est meme pas bon, car il devait etre employe
avant le mariage. Apres avoir ete assourdi par cette bruyante confe
rence, sans decouvrir un seul moyen de salut, il ne sait plus que
devenir. Quoi qu’il fasse, il est condamne a garder sa femme. C’est
un grand mal et, ce qui est pis encore, un mal qui parait sans rcmede.
C’est a cette extremite que son neveu Dauphine voulait le reduire.
Quand 1’heritier disgracie voit le vieillard bien convaincu de son impuissance et desole de ne pouvoir rompre son mariage, il se presente
comme le Deus ex machina de la tragedie mythologique; il offre un
remede inespere et infaillible, mais a une condition, c’est que Morose
lui assurera la moitie de sa fortune, de son vivant, et le reste apres
sa mort. Puis, quand I’acte de donation a ete signe, il declare qu’Epicoene est un homme.
La mystification de Morose a ete complete. Tous ses soucis lui sont
venus de cette erreur. Voila une lepon qui ne le guerira peut-etre pas
de sa passion pour le silence, mais qui le guerira a coup sur de ses
velleites matrimoniales. La morale de la comedie n’est pas claire,
car elle donne la victoire au trompeur. Mais, si elle n’a voulu que
mettre en relief, d’une facon plaisante, les travcrs d’un caractere
exceptionnel, elle y reussit. Elie nous apprend a quels ridicules et a
quels mecomptes s’expose un homme, meme intelligent, lorsque, avec
une manie aussi bizarre et aussi prononcee que cclle de Morose, il a
la pretention de rentrer par le mariage dans la loi commune et de
suivre le voeu de la nature, tout en conservant des gouts qui le contredisent. Sa conduite ne merite pas un chatiment severe; mais il est
juste qu’elle soit livree a la moquerie, et c’est la seule punition que
Jonson lui inflige. Le fond de cette comedie est essentiellement plaisant; elle est surtout remarquable par l’abondance des situations
comiques et par la verve du dialogue.
I
IV
Jonson s’eleve plus haut dans X Alcliimiste et dans le Renard. La
il aborde des peintures de moeurs plus fortes et des caracteres plus
�408
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE; I
puissants. Il sait encore nous faire rire quelquefois, comme dans la
Femme silencieuse; mais il ajoute a la gaiete 1’expression plus
serieuse de l’indignation et du mepris. L’Alchimiste et le Renardl
n’ont pas des ridicules, comme Morose, mais des vices qui, en e^Kffl
tant notre hilarite aux depens de leurs dupes, provoquent aussi de
notre part une protestation morale contre leur sceleratesse.
Le titre de la comedie de I’Alchimiste paraitrait suranne de :nos
jours. En 1610, en Angleterre, il etait plein d’a-propos. L’alchimie
n’etait point, comme aujourd’hui, demasquee par le ridicule; on y
croyait generalement. Le peuple surtout allait consulter ceux qui en
faisaient profession, et leur attribuait sans hesitation un pouvoir surnaturel. Les classes elevees n’echappaient point a cette superstition.
La loi portait des peines contre les sorciers, et les cruelles condamnations dont ils etaient l’objet revelaient toute la terreur qu’inspiraient
a la sddiete leurs pratiques menteuses. Il 'etait defendu de prononcer
certaines expressions cabalistiques auxquelles on accordait une grande
influence sur les evenements de la vie humaine. Celui qui avait
tourrie soil chapeau trois fois et crie buz, avec l’intention d’oter la
vie a un homme, etait puni de mort, comme s’il eut fait une
tentative reelle d’assassinat. La trente-troisieme annee du regne
d’Henri VIII’ l’exercice de l’alchimie avait ete prohibe et assimile
au crime de haute trahison. Jacques Ier, prince superstitieux, ecrivait
unlivre contre les alchimistes, et, pour corroborer sesarguments, il
faisait bruler tous ceux qui tombaient en son pouvoir.
Cette severite etait un acte de faiblesse qui laissait croire a un dan
ger chimerique. Les sorciers ne meritaient ni les honneurs de l’argumentation ni ceux du martyre; en voulant a tout prix les convaincre
ou les punir, on leur attribuait une importance dont ils n’etaient pas
dignes. C’etait le mepris public et non la dialectique ou la loi qui
devait faire justice de leurs machinations. Jonson, dans sa comedie,
leur porta un coup plus terrible que tous les edits royaux sur la sorcellerie'; il les livra au ridicule.
Il s’adresse a tous les bourgeois de Londres qui ont encore la fai
blesse de consulter les charlatans, qui vont lire leurs destinees devant
le miroir magique, et il les introduit dans le laboratoire de cds alchi
mistes qu’ils croient doues d’un pouvoir surnaturel. La il decrit les
secrets du metier, les procedes dont se servent les habiles pour tromper les simples, les artifices qui font tant de dupes et qui ne reussissent que grace a la credulite publique. La conclusion de sa piece
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
109
est claire : « Voyez et instruisez-vous, dit-il au peuple. Voila les
hommes que vous visitez et dont vous achetez les consultations a
prix d’or. Ils n’ont pas d’autre puissance que celle que votre sottise
leur donne. Ils vivent de vous, et le jour oil vous leur retirerez
votre confiance, leur pretendue science s’evanouira comme un
songe. »
Pour rendre la lefon plus frappante, Jonson peint l’alchimiste
d’apres nature, tel qu’on le pouvait voir encore a Londres au com
mencement du dix-scptieme siecle. D’ordinairece personnage mysterieux n’exerfait pas soul sa profession ; il lui fallait des associes et
des comperes qui l’aidassent a jouer son role. La consultation du
miroir magique, la plus repandue et la plus a la mode alors, exigeait
d’abord la presence d’une femme; car ce n’etait pas l’alchimiste luimeme qui voyait les esprits a travers le cristal. Il se bornait a prononcer les formulcs magiques et a murmurer quelques paroles
inintelligibles. C’est a une vierge pure, qu’on appelait speculatrix,
qu’il etait reserve de regarderle miroir et d’y voir les figures celestes
des anges. Ceux-ci ne se montraient, disait-on, qu’aux jeunes filles
d’une purete au-dessus du soupcon. Outre la femme dont il ne pou
vait se passer, l’alchimiste trainait en general a sa suite un second,
un aide de camp charge d’amorcer les clients et de repandre parmi
les badauds tous les contes qui pouvaient exciter leur curiosite et
leur confiance. La maison d’un alchimiste se composait done d’une
sorte de triumvirat dont chaque membre remplissait des fonctions
distinctes.
A la fin du seizieme siecle, trois imposteurs s’etaient associes ainsi
et avaient parcouru l’Europe, en vivant aux depens des dupes que la
superstition leur amenait. Leurs physionomies etaient tres-connues
du public anglais, et Jonson en reproduit, dans sa piece, les traits
caracteristiques. Dee etait le chef de l’association, l’alchimiste habile
que la foule venait consulter et dont le jargon bizarre, parseme de
mots scientifiques empruntes a la medecine et a la chimic, inspirait
un respect superstitieux aux ames faibles. Il avait pour lieutenant
Kelly, ne a Worcester, aventurier de bas etage, souple et intrigant,
qui recrutait des victimes et les conduisait a son maitre. Tous deux
faisaient jouer le role de la femme clairvoyante a un jeune Polonais,
d’une figure imberbe, qui complctait 1c triumvirat. Jonson met aussi
en scene les trois personnages indispcnsables : Subtle (le Ruse),
dans lequel on reconnaissait facilement Dee; Face (l’Effronte), qui
�HO
LES CONTEMPQRAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
rappelait Kelly, et une femme du nom de Doi, qui offrait une. res-'
semblance frappante avec le Polonais Laski.
Au moment ou la scene s’ouvre, l’alchimiste a etabli son quartier
general dans une maison de Londres, dont le proprietaire est absent
et dont Face est le concierge. Face, deguise en capitaine, pa ourt les
lieux frequentes, les marches, les places publiques, les bas >tes de
l’eglise SaintrPaul, ou se tiennent les badauds; il racowe les
prouesses de son maitre, donne son adressje et lui envoie les dupes
qui doivent etre depouillees avec l’aide de Doi.
L’entree en matiere est vive, naturelle, habile, et nous transporte
tout de suite aucoeur du sujet, La piece commence par une querelle
violente qui s’eleve entre les deux associes; ils ont un demele sur la
pari de profit qui revient a chacun d’eux. C’est toujours l’interet per
sonnel qui divise les coquins. DansTemportement de leur colere, ils
se reprochent leurs bassesses, leurs infamies secretes, les ruses avec
lesquelles ils trompent le public, et ils nous devoilent ainsi les cotes
honteux de leurs caracteres. Avant qu’ils n’agissent, nous savons ce
qu’ils pensent, ce qu’ils ont fait et ce qu’ils sont capables de faire
encore. Subtle: et Face en viendraient aux mains, si Doi ne s’interposait entre eux, ne leur rappelait la bonne harmonie dont ils ont
besoin pour vivre^ et ne finissait, pour les convaincre tout a fait, par
leur montrer ses griffes, en les menagant de les devisager.
Des que la paix est retablie entre les imposteurs, on les voit a
1’oeuvre en face de leurs dupes. C’est la diversite des personnages qui
les consultent et la variete des moyens qu’ils emploient pour les
tromper qui forment le principal interet de la piece. Les niais
viennent en grand nombre, de tous les points de Londres, frapper a
la porte de Talchimiste et lui acheter le secret de faire fortune. Dans
cette foule bigarree, toutes les classes de la societe sont representees.
Voici d’abord la petite bourgeoisie, sous les traits d’un clerc de
procureur nomme Dapper (l’Eveille). Dapper voudrait bien devenir
riche, pour acheter la charge de son maitre et il sollicite une consulta
tion du savant magicien. Subtle se fait prier pour lui repondre; il
objeete que la loi defend l’exercice de I’art diyinatoire, et qu’il court
un grand danger s’il parle. C’est une maniere adroite d’extorquer de
I’argent. a la victime. Celle-ci ne peut trop payer le peril auquel elle
expose l’alchimiste, et elle debourse benevolement tout l’or qu’elle
porte sur elle. Quand. Subtle tient le prix de la consultation, il
decouvre chez son client des signes merveilleux, il reconnait en lui
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
Hl
les indices d’une parente etroite avec la Reine des Fees; il lui pro
met meme de lui procurer une entrevue avec cette dame mysterieuse.
Seulement la Reine des Fees ne se montre pas sans difficulte. Il faut,
pour la voir, etre digne de comparaitre en sa presence, et se preparer
a cet honneur par des ceremonies expiatoires. Subtle donne a Dapper
les instructions suivantes : « Tenez-vous pret pour une heure. Jusque-la vous devez observer le jeune. Mettez seulement trois gouttes
de vinaigre dans votre nez, dans votre bouche et une a chaque oreille.
Trempez dans l’eau le bout de vos doigts et baignez vos yeux, afin
d’aiguiser vos cinq sens; criez hum trois fois et buz autant de fois, et
alors venez. »
La maison de Subtle est disposee comme celle de certains medecins de nos jours. Les clients ne doivent pas se rencontrer, pour ne
pas se faire de confidences et garder, s’ils le veulent, l’incognito. On
passe par une porte pour entrer et par une autre pour sortir. Pen
dant que Dapper s’en va, survient un marchand de tabac, Abel
Drugger (le Droguiste), qui va construire une nouvclle boutique et
qui, pour reussir dans son commerce, voudrait savoir quelle doit en
etre, d’apres les regies de l’alchimie, l’orientation et la distribution
interieure. Face, en sa qualite de capitaine recruteur, amene le naif
negotiant et le presente a Subtle qui, sur-le-champ, par un procede
familier aux imposteurs, lui predit, pour l’amadouer, plus de bonheur qu’il n’en espere. Dans la scene suivante, les deux charlatans
jouent leur role a merveille; l’un fait des predictions et l’autre vante
la science de son complice.
SUBTLE.
C’est un heureux garcon, j’en suis sur.
FACE.
Avez-vous deja pu, monsieur, deviner cela? Vois done, Abel I
SUBTLE.
Et en bonne voie pour devenir riche.
FACE.
Monsieur!
SUBTLE.
Cet etc, il portera le costume des notables de sa corporation ct, au
printemps prochain, le vetement ecarlate de sherif.
FACE.
Quoi! et avcc si peu de barbe au menton!
�112
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
SUBTLE.
Monsieur, vous pouvez penser qu’on lui fournira une recette pour
faire pousser ses cheveux. Mais il faut qu’il soit sage et qu’il surveille
sa jeunesse. La fortune indique pour lui une autre route.
FACE.
En verite, docteur, comment peux-tu connaitre cela si vite? J’en
suis tout emerveille.
'
SUBTLE.
Par une regie de metoposcopie, en vertu de laquelle je travaille; par
> une certaine etoile sur le front que vous ne voyez pas. Votre visage
couleur de chataigne ou d’olive ne trompe point et votre longue
oreille promet. J’ai reconnu cela a certaines taches sur ses dents et
sur l’ongle de son doigt mercuriel! ’
FACE.
Quel est ce doigt?
subtle!^
Son petit doigt. Voyez. Vous* devez 'etre ne un mercredi.
DRUGGER.
Oui, monsieur, c’est vrai. .
SUBTLE.
Le pouce, en chiromancie, nous le consacrons a Venus, l’index a
Jupiter6 le doigt du milieu a Salurne, celui qui porte l’anneau au
Soleil, le petit a Mercure qui etait, monsieur, le maitre de son horos
cope ; car il est ne sous la constellation de la Balance, ce qui annongait qu’il serait marchand et qu’il commercerait avec des balances*
(Il regarde le planadgla boutique que lui presente Drugger.) *
Ceci est 1’ouest et ceci le sud. ■
DRUGGER.
Oui; monsieur.
SUBTLE.
Et ce sont les deux cotes.
DRUGGER.
Oui, monsieur.
SUBTLE.
Faites-moi votre porte ici, au sud; votre cote le plus large a
l’ouest; a l’est, au-dessus de votre boutique, ecrivez les noms de
Mathlai, de Tarmiel et de Baraborat; au nord ceux de Rael, de Velel
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
113
et de Thiel : ce sont la les noms de ces esprits mercuriels quichassent
les mouches des boites d’epicerie.
L’aristocralie envoie aussi ses representants dans le laboratoire de
l’alchimiste. Apres le cl ere et le petit marchand, nous voyons entrer
le chevalier, l’homme de cour, sir Epicure Mammon. Celui-ci ne se
contente pas de consulter Subtle; il a la foi, il fait du proselytisme,
il celebre partout les merveilles de la pierre philosophale, il ne supporte ni l’ombre d’un doute ni l’apparence d’une discussion. Il pul
verise les incredulcs. A ses yeux, contester la puissance de l’alchimie,
c’est nier l’evidence. 11 a la passion de For et cello de la luxure; il est
convaincu qu’il pourra satisfaire l’une et l’autre avec le secours de
Subtle, et il se plonge d’avance par la pensee dans toutes les voluptes
qui l’attendent. Ce personnage n’a pas disparu de la scene du monde;
nous le connaissons, nous l’avons vu de nos jours; il appartient a
notre epoque aussi bien qu’a celle de Jonson. Que de fois ne rencontre-t-on pas des gens de qualite qui rompent des lances en faveur
des sciences occultes, qui plaident avec passion la cause du magnetisme, des tables tournantes, des csprits frappeurs, qui_ s’indignent
du moindre signe d’incredulite, et qui entrevoient dans les pretendues communications qu’ils entretiennent avec le monde surnaturel
une source illimitee de jouissances pour 1’esprit et pour les sens 1
Ecoutons sir Epicure Mammon discuter avec un incredule. Cette
scene ne serait pas deplacee dans la comedie moderne.
MAMMON.
Vous etes incredule, monsieur. Cette nuit je changerai en or tout
le metal que j’ai dans ma maison, et demain matin, de bonne
heure, j’enverraiacheter a tous les plombierseta tous les marchands
d’etain leur plomb et leur etain, et je prendrai tout le cuivre de
Lothbury.
SURLY.
Quoi, pour le changer aussi!
MAMMON.
Oui; et j’acheterai le Devonshire et le pays de Cornouailles et j’en
ferai de veritables Indes. Vous admirez maintenant.
SURLY.
Non, par ma foi.
MAMMON.
Mais, lorsque vous verrez les effets du grand oeuvre dont une partie
Tome III. — 9e Livraison.
�I’ll
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
. projetee sur cent de Mercure, de Venus et de la Lune, les change en
autant de parties du Soleil, en un millier meme et jusqu’a l’infinij
vous me croirez.
SURLY.
Oui, lorsque je les verrai
MAMMON.
Quoi! Pensez-vous que je vous contedes fables? Je vous assure que
celui qui possede une fois la fleur du soleil, le rubis parfait que nous
appelons elixir, non-seulement peut faire cela, mais peut aussi, par
la vertu de cet objet, accdrder des honneurs, de l’amour, du respect,
une longue vie; donner a qui il veut surete, valeur et victoire, En
vingt-huit jours, je transformerai un vieillard de quatre-vingts ans
en enfant.
. SURLY.
Sans aucun doute; il Fest deja.
MAMMON.
Non; je veux dire que je lui rendrai la force de ses jeunes annees,
que je le renouvellerai comme un aigle, que je le mettrai en etat
d’avoir des fils et des filles aussi grands que des geants. C’est ainsi
qu’ont fait autrefois nos philosophies, les anciens patriarches, avant
le deluge. En prenant seulement une fois par semaine, sur la pointe
d’un canit, gros comme un grain de moutarde de cet elixir, ils devenaient aussi vigoureux que Mars et donnaient le jour a de jeunes
Amours. C’est le secret de la natura naturata contre toute espece
d’infection; elle guerit toutes les maladies, de quelque cause qu’elles
viennent; une souffrance d’un mois, en un jour, celles d’une annee
en douze, et les autres, quelque anciennes qu’elles soient, en un
mois, et cela bien mieux que toutes les doses de vos docteurs droguistes. Avec cela, je me fais fort de faire fuir la peste du royaume
en trois mois. Mais vous etes incredule.
'
SURLY.
’
En verite, c’est mon humeur. Je n’aimerais pas a etre attrape.
Votre pierre ne peut pas me transformer.
' - ' -
MAMMON.
Entete! Voulez-vous en eroire Fantiquitei les vieilles annates? Je
vous montrerai un livre ou Moise et sa soeur, ainsi que Salomon, ont
ecrit sur l’art, et un traite de la main d’Adam.
SURLY.
■ Comment?
>
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
Ila
MAMMON.
Oui, sur la pierre philosophise, et en haut hollandais.
SURLY.
Est-ce qu’Adam a ecrit on haul hollandais?
MAMMON.
Il l’a fait, monsieur, et c’est ce qui prouve que c’etait la langue
primitive.
SURLY.
Sur quel papier?
MAMMON.
Sur des tablettes de cedre.
SURLY.
Oh! celui-la, a coup sur, doit resister aux vers.
Un des principaux artifices dont se servaient les alchimistes pour
gagner la confiance publique, c’etait l’affectation d’une grande piete.
Ils se vantaient de mener une vie severe, et ils exigeaient de leurs
adeptes une extreme purete de moeurs, sous peine de ne pas
reussir dans leurs consultations. C’etait un appat pour les ames de
votes, et en meme temps une excellente excuse pour expliquer au
besoin l’insucces de leurs operations. Le moindre peche commis par
les personnes presentes pouvait faire echouer tous leurs plans. Les
charlatans d’aujourd’hui exigent de tous ceux qui assistent a leurs
seances qu’ils aient la foi; ceuxdu seizieme siecleexigeaient la vertu.
Aussi le chevalier voluptueux et avide se garde-t-il bien de laisser
percer ses sentiments devant Subtle; il croit a l’austerite de celui-ci,
il le considere comme un saint, et, des qu’il le voit venir, il recommande a son interlocuteur, Surly, de surveiller son langage. « Pas
un mot profane devant lui, dit-il, c’est du poison! — Bonjour,
pere, » ajoute-t-il en s’adressant a l’alchimiste qui entre. Subtle
soutient avec beaucoup de sang-froid, en presence de sa dupe, le role
respectable qu’il s’est attribue. La tirade sentencieuse qu’il prononce
est un chef-d’oeuvre d’hypocrisie :
a Mon fils, je crains que vous ne sovez avide, en vous voyant arriver ainsi, juste au moment fixe, et devancer le jour, des le matin.
Cela semble indiquer les inquietudes d’un appetit charnel et importun. Prenez garde d’eloigner de vous les benedictions du ciel par
une precipitation immoderee. Je serais desole de voir mes travaux,
qui ont maintenant atteint leur perfection, mes travaux, fruits de
�<16
BES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARET^
longues veiiles et d’une grande patience, ne pas prosperer sdT le
terrain oil mon affection et mon zele les ont places. Moi qui
(j’en prends a temoin le ciel et vous-meme, le confident de mes
pensees), moi qui, dans tous mes projets, n’ai pas eu d’autre but
que le bien public, que de pieux offices et que la tendre charite, qui
est maintenant devenue un prodige parmi les hommes. Et si, maintenant, vous, mon fils, vous deviez prevariquer et employer pour vos
plaisirs particuliers une benediction si grande et si orthodoxe, soyez
sur qu’il en resulterait quelque malediction qui frapperait vos desseins artificieux et secrets. »
Il manie a merveille le jargon mystique de sa profession. Il sent
d’ailleurs, dans cette scene, qu’il combat pour un interet serieux et
qu’il a besoin de donner une haute idee de lui-meme. Il parle devant t
un incredule et devant une dupe. S’il faiblissait, il risquerait de
perdrele meilleur de ses clients. Aussi fait-il feu de toutes pieces.
Apres une tirade pretentieuse sur la vertu, il dirige immediatement
contre son adversaire tout l’arsenal de son erudition de contrebande ;
« Il y a d’une part, dit-il, une exhalaison humide que nous appelons fl
materia liquida, ou l’eau onctueuse •; d’autre part, une certaine por
tion de terre epaisse et visqueuse; toutes les deux reunies forment
la matiere elementaire de For; ce n’est pas encore la sa matiere
propre, propria materia; mais elle est commune a tous les metaux
et a toutes les pierres, car, lorsqu’elle est degagee de la partie
humide et qu’elle est plus seche, elle devient pierre; lorsqu’elle
retient au contraire plus d’humidite, elle se change en soufre ou en
vif-argent, d’ou sortent tous les autres metaux. Et cette matiere ele- fl
mentaire ne peut pas tout d’un coup passer d’un extreme a l’autre,
au point de devenir de l’or et de franchir tous les intermediates. La
nature produit d’abord l’imparfait, puis de la elle arrive au parfait. I
C’est Feau aerienne et onctueuse qui forme le mercure, le soufre
vient de la partie grasse et terrestre : l’une, c’est-a-dire la derniere,
; tenant la.place du male, et l’autre de la femelle, dans tous les metaux.
, Il y en a qui les croient hermaphrodites, parce qu’ils sont a la fois
actifs et passifs. Mais ces deux elements pendent le reste ductile,
• malleable, extensible. Ils existent meme dans For, car, au moyen
du feu, nous distinguons ee qui les compose, et nous y trouvons
de For; et nous pouvons produire ainsi chaque espece de metal, I
d’une maniere plus parfaite que la nature ne le fait dans la terre;
d’ailleurs, qui ne voit, par Fexperience de tous les jours, que Fart
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SIIAKSPEARE.
117
peut faire sortir des abeilles, des frelons, des guepes de la carcasse
et des excrements des animaux, voire meme des scorpions, d’une
certaine hcrbe, lorsqu’elle est placee d’une certaine maniere ? et ce
sont cependant la des creatures animees, bien plus parfaites et plus
excellentes que des metaux. »
« Et voila pourquoi votre fille est muette. »
Apres ce discours nebulcux, Subtle triomphe, comme un medecin
de Moliere; il espere avoir terrasse son adversaire sous le poids dp
ses grands mots et de scs arguments inintelligiblcs.
L’austerite dont il fait parade lui servira plus tard a se debarrasser de Mammon, qui devient importun, en demandant sans cesse
a voir le tresor que doit lui procurer la pierre philosophale. Il a soin
de placer sur lc chemin du chevalier la jeune Doi, dont la figure
avenante produit l’impression qu’il avait prevue. A peine Epicure
l’a-t-il aperpue, qu’il essaye de corrompre Face pour obtenir une
entrevue avec elle. Face, dont le role cst trace d’avance, se fait longtemps prier avant de coder; il repond que Doi est la scour de son
maitre, il rappclle la severite des principes de l’alchimiste, et il feint
de redouter sa colere. Mammon ne peut vaincre sa resistance qu’a
force d’argcnt. L’heure si desiree de l’cntrevue qu’on lui menage
avec la jeune fille arrive enfin, le chevalier est au comble de ses
voeux. Mais c’est la que l’attendait Subtle. Pendant que le voluptueux gcntilhomme point sa flamme on traits de feu a celle qu’il
aime, pendant qu’il decouvre on elle toutes les perfections rcunies:
« une levre autrichienne, le nez des Valois et le front des Medicis; »
il oublie les recommandations pressantes de Face, il eleve la voix,
Doi lui repond sur le meme ton et l’alchimiste les surprcnd, comme
s’il avait ete attire par le bruit. Sa colcre delate alors avec une vio
lence calculee. Il leur reproche d’avoir contrarie toutes ses operations
par leur intrigue criminelle; l’oeuvre qu’il avait entreprise exigeait
des coeurs purs; maintenant tout est perdu et le fruit de ses longs
travaux est aneanti, par la fautc d’Epicure. Au meme instant, comme
pour confirmer cette declaration, on entend une detonation epouvantable et Face accourt precipitamment, le visage bouleverse; il.
annonce que les substances reunies dans le laboratoire viennent de
faire explosion, que les cornues, les matieres preparees et les appareils chimiques sontreduits en ccndres. A cotte nouvellc foudroyante,
Subtle feint de s’evanouir, tandis que Mammon s’arrache les cheveux
en voyant toutes ses csperances renversees. L’alchimiste a atteint son
�J18
LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SIIAKSPEARE^
but; il voulait se soustraire a Fobligation de faire de For, s’approprier les sommes avancees par Mammon, et se tirer, sans bourse
delier, d’une situation embarrassante. Non-seulement, apres l’accident, il n’a plus rien a donner, mais il a meme le droit de se plaindre;
il peut reclamer une indemnite pour tout le temps qu’on lui a fait
perdre. C’est lui qui fest F offense et c’est a Mammon a lui offrir des
excuses. Il est difficile de trouvfer un moyen plus ingenieux de se
• - defaire d’une dupe qui reclame de Fargent.
i
‘f
Quant au jeune clerc de procureur, comme il insiste pour voir sa
lante, la Reine des Fees, on lui dit qu’elle veut le regarder, sans etre
vue de lui; on lui bande les yeux et on lui ordonne, de la part de son
illustre parente, de depos® toutFargent qu’il a dans ses poches. II
essaye de sauver quelques debris de sa bourse; mais, chaque fois
qu’il cache fin objet, on le* pincejusqu’au sang et on lui fait croire
que ce sont des genies a'iles qui viettnent le punir de sa dissimula
tion, par Fordre de la Reine.
Les ruses ae ralchimiste sunt innombrables. Il trompe chacune
de ses victimes par des moyens differents. Il excelle aussi a prendre
tous les tonis et a jouer millepersonnages divers. Nous l’avons vu
successivemerit hautam avec le clerc, caressant avec le marchand de
tabac, sentencieux, pedant et meme severe avec Epicure Mammon.
Nous allonsle voir eiicore changer de role etparaitre, sous un nouvel
-aspect, 'avcc deux nouvelles dupes. Il s’agit cette fois de deux de ces
puritains hypocrites que Jonson a si souverit livres au ridicule. L’un
cst un diacre fanatique et obstine, l’autre, un pasteur plus delie et
plus fin ; ils arriverit Fun etTautre d’Amsterdam, le repaire de leur
secte, et ils viennent demander compte a 'Subtle d’une somme d’ar
gent qfrtls lui ont envoyee, pour accoiriplir le grand ceuvro. Le
diacre Ananias se prescnte le premier. « M’apportes-tu des fonds?» I
dit Subtle, qui-ne se donne pas la peine de menager un subalterne.
« Des fonds* repond Ananias, la communaute ne veut plus vous on
envoyer, tant qu’elle n’aura pas dbtenu un resultat satisfaisant. Vous
avez deja recu trente livres. »'‘Subtle attendait cette reponse qu’il
avait provoquee avec intention. Elle lui sort de pretexte pour s’eriiporter et pouf mettre ala porte I’opiniMre sectaire, dont il n’eutpu
se debarrasser autrement. Le diacre repousse retourne piteusement
aupres de sdn chef, qui comprend, a Fattitude de Subtle, qu’il faut
plier devant ses exigences et qu’on obtiendra plus de lui par des pro
messes que par des menaces. La secte a le plus grand interot a mena-
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
119
ger un auxiliaire qu’elle croit puissant et qui peut lui fournir des
armes redoutables. Aussi le pasteur Tribulation explique-t-il a son
diacre qu’un premier echec ne doit pas le decourager. « Il faut savoir,
lui dit-il, supporter les injures et employer au besoin des instru
ments indignes. L’interet de la sainte cause excuse tout. La fin
justifie les moyens. » Tribulation se presente done a son tour devant
Subtle, precede d’Ananias, auquel il a fait la lecon, et il repare,
par son adresse, la faute de son lieutenant. Subtle se laisse, en
apparence, toucher par l’humilite aficctee du puritain et il con
sent a ecouter ses propositions. Mais, quand il voit a ses pieds ces
hypocrites raffines dont il penetre les secretes pensees, dont il connait
toutes les manoeuvres et tous les artifices, comme il sait que tous
deux ont besoin de lui et qu’ils n’oseront pas se revolter sous f ou
trage, il cede au plaisir de les accabler de son mepris, de leur mon
trer qu’il a perce a jour leur conduite equivoque et il aiguise contre
eux les traits les plus aceres de la satire. Chaque fois qu’Ananias
ouvre la bouche, il la lui ferme avec colere, et il oblige Tribulation,
qu’il fascine, a ecouter un langage empreint de la plus sanglante
ironie.
SUBTLE.
Miserable Ananias, est-ce toi qui es de retour?
TRIBULATION.
Monsieur, calmez-vous. Il est venu pour s’humilier lui-meme en
esprit et pour implorer votre patience; un exces de zele l’a entraine
hors de la voie qu’il devait suivre.
SUBTLE.
Ah! cela change l’affaire.
TRIBULATION.
Les freres n’ont en verite nullement le projet de vous causer la
moindre peine; mais ils sont disposes a preter volontiers leurs mains
a tous les projets que l’esprit et vous , vous inspirez.
SUBTLE.
De mieux en mieux!
TRIBULATION.
Tout 1’argent qui est necessaire a l’oeuvre sacree vous sera compte.
Les saints jeltent par ma main leur bourse a vos pieds.
�120
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE’
SUBTLE.
Parfait! Vous comprenez maintenant qu’il le faut. Ne vous ai-je
pas encore assez entretenu de notre pierre philosophale et de tout le
bien qu’elle doit faire a votre cause? Ne vous ai-je pas assez montre,
(sans parler des moyens qu’elle vous donne de payer des forces etrangeres et d’entrainer les Hollandais, vos amis, loin des Indes, pour
vous servir avec toute leur flotte) que meme son emploi medicinal
fera de vous une faction et un parti dans le royaume? Supposez que
quelque grand homme d’Etat ait la goutte; vous lui envoyez seuleJ
ment trois gouttes de votre elixir et vous le soulagez sur-le-champ;
c’est un ami que vous vous etes fait. Un autre souffre de paralysie ou
d’hydropisie, il prend de votre matiere incombustible et le voila
rajeuni: c’est encore un ami. Une dame a passe l’age de la jeunesse
du corps, quoiqu’elle ait encore celle de l’esprit; son visage est trop
maltraite pour pouvoir emprunter le secours de la peinture, vous le
restaurez avec de l’huile de talc; des lors vous avez gagne son amitie
et celle de tous ses amis. Un lord a la lepre, un chevalier a des douleurs dans les os, un squire a l’un et l’autre, vous leur rendez lai
sante, avec une simple friction de votre remede; vous augmentez
encore le nombre de vos amis. Vous pourrez etre alors ce que vousj
voudrez et cesser de vous livrer a vos exercices de longue haleine J
d’aspirer vos ha! et vos hum! dans une trompette. Je ne dis pas que^
ceux qui ne sont point favorises dans un etat ne puissent, pour arriver a leur but, faire de 1’oppositiQn et prendre une trompette pour
reunir leur troupeau; car, pour dire la verite, une trompette fait
beaucoup d’effet sur les femmes et sur toutes les creatures flegmatiques : c’est la votre cloche.
x
ANANIAS.
, Les cloches sont profanes; une trompette peut etre religieuse.
SUBTLE.
Pas d’observations de votre part! Car alors adieu ma patience !
Pardieu, j’en finirai. Je ne veux pas etre ainsi torture.
Tribulation.
Je vous en prie, monsieur.
SUBTLE.
Tout sera rompu. Je l’ai dit.
TRIBULATION.
Laissez-moi trouver grace, monsieur, a vos yeux. Notre homme
�LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
121
est corrige. Son zele ne pcrmettra pas plus que vous l’dsage de la
trompette; maintenant que la pierre philosophale est edifice, nous
n’en aurons plus besoin.
SUBTLE.
Non, vous n’aurez plus besoin non plus de prendre votre masque
sacre, pour obtenir des veuves, qu’elles vous fassent des legs, ou des
femmes zclees, qu’elles volent leurs maris au profit de la cause com
mune. Vous n’aurez plus besoin de faire, pendant la nuit, des repas
abondants, afin de mieux celebrer le jeiine du jour suivant, pendant
que les freres et les scours s’humilient et domptent la rebellion de la
chair. Vous n’etalerez plus, devant vos auditeurs affames, vos scrupules pointilleux; vous ne demanderez plus si un chretien peut chasser
au faucon ou avec des chiens, si les matrones de la sainte assemblee
peuvent laisser leurs cheveux a Fair ou porter des bonnets ou avoir
ce que vous appelcz une idole sur leur linge empese.
ANANIAS.
Mais c’est bien une idole!
TRIBULATION (a Subtle).
Ne faites pas attention a lui.
(A Ananias.)
Je te commando, esprit de zele, mais aussi de discorde, de faire la
paix avec cet homme.
(A Subtle.)
Je vousen prie, monsieur, continucz.
SUBTLE.
Vous n’aurez plus besoin de faire des libelles contre les prelats.
Vous ne serez plus obliges d’attaquer les pieces de theatre, pour plaire
a l’alderman dont vous devorez chaque jour la substance. Vous ne
mentirez plus, avec un zele plein de fureur, jusqu’a ce que vous
soyez enroues. Plus de ces artifices si singuliers! vous ne vous attribuerez pas a vous-memes les noms de Tribulation, de Persecution,
de Contrainte, de Longue patience et d’autres semblables que toute
votre famille ou plutot toute votre tribu affecle de prendre , seule
ment pour 1’effet et pour frapper l’oreille des disciples.
TRIBULATION.
Oui, monsieur, ce sont des moyens que les freres consacres a Dieu
ont inventes, pour propager leur glorieuse cause, moyens remarqua-
�122
LES CONTEMPORAlNS DE SHAKSPEARE.
bles et grace auxquels ils deviennent eux-memes fameux rapidement
et avec profit.
SUBTLE.
Oh! maisla pierre philosophale! Tout est inutile avec elle. Plus
rien a faire. C’est 1’art des anges, le miracle de la nature , le secret
divin qui traverse les nuages de Test a l’ouest, et dont la tradition
vient, non pas des hommes, mais des esprits.
ANANIAS.
-
' ' '
' ■
'
\
Je hais les traditions, je n’y crois pas.
TRIBULATION.
Paix!
ANANIAS.
Tout cela, c’est du papisme! Je ne veux pas me taire, je ne le veux
pas.
TRIBULATION.
Ananias !’
ANANIAS.
Qu’il plaise aux profanes d’affliger les homines consacres a Dieu!
Moi, je ne le puis.
SUBTLE.
Bien, Ananias, tu l’emportes.
Subtle aeu la satisfaction d’humilier a Joisir ces orgueilleux puritains, et, quand il les a cruellement fustiges, il laisse croire qu’il
leur fait une concession, en acceptant leur argent. Le caractere del
l’alchimiste est, comme on le voil, vigoureusement trace et plein de
verve comique. Il appartient a la haute comedie.
La morale voulait cependant que Subtle, tout habile qu’il est, fut
demasque, et Jonson iui reserve au denoumentune juste punition.
Il a recoups pour .cela a une invention tres-simple ; il fait revenir
brusquement de la campagne le proprielaire de la maison dont Face
est le concierge. Face a beau parlem enter a la porle, pour donner a
ses associes le temps de se sauver.et dissimuler leur fuite, leur pre
sence est trahie par la denonciation des voisins et par les cris de Dap-.!
per qu’ils ont laisse, depuis plusieurs heures, les yeux bandes, en
compagnie de la Reine des Fees. Le ruse portier, voyant qu’il ne
peut plus dissimuler, obtient son pardon, au prix d’une confes-
�LES CONTEMPORAINS DE SHAKSPEARE.
123
sion complete, tandis que Doi et Subtle sont honteusement chas
sis, les mains vides et sans avoir pu emporter le prod nit de leurs
vols. La morale est ainsi satisfaite et la punition mesuree a la
faute.
Cette comedie donne le coup de grace a l’alchimie , en la faisant
tomber sous le ridicule. Elle guerit les contemporains de Jonson des
croyances et des terreurs superstitieuses auxquelles ils etaienl encore
en proie. L’imagination populaire qui, depuis le moyen age, avait
grandi le role des alchimistes. se les representa dtsormais sous les
traits de l’imposteur Subtle, de meme qu’apres l’immortel roman
de Cervantes on ne put voir un chevalier sans songer a don Quichotte.
(La suite a la prochaine iivraison.)
�
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Literature Anglaise. Les contemporarins de Shakspeare
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Mezieres, Alfred
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Place of publication: [Paris]
Collation: [77]-123 p. ; 26 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Le Megasin de Librairie: literature, histoire, philosophie, voyages, .... Vol. 3.
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1Z3S6
MS 4-1
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
THE
RELIGION AND MORALITY
OF
SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS;
BEING A LECTURE DELITEBED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
The 16th of November, 1873.
By CHARLES J. PLUMPTRE,
Lecturer at King's College, London.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED
by the
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1873.
Price Threepence.
�ADVERTISEMENT.
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and
to encourage the delivery elsewhere, of Lectures on Science,
—physical, intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature,
and Art; especially in their bearing upon the improve
ment and social well-being of mankind.
THE SOCIETY’S LECTURES
ARE DELIVERED AT
ST GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o'clock precisely.
(Annually— from November to May.)
Twenty-four Lectures (in three series), ending 3rd Mav
1874, will be given.
Members’ £1 subscription entitles them to an annual ticket
transferable and admitting to the reserved seats), and to eight
single reserved-seat tickets available for any lecture.
Tickets for each series (one for each lecture), or for any
eight consecutive lectures, as below :
To the Shilling Reserved Seats—5s- 6dTo the Sixpenny Seats—2s- being at the rate of Three
pence each lecture.
For tickets apply (by letter) to the Hon. Treasurer, Wm.
Henry Domville, Esq., 15 Gloucester Crescent. Hvde
Park, W.
Payment at the door One Penny ;—Sixpence ;_ and
(Reserved Seats) One Shilling.
�PREFACE.
The Author of this Lecture has to acknowledge
the assistance rendered him in its preparation
from three different sources, viz., the Rev. George
Gilfillan’s Lecture on Shakespeare ; a very inter
esting little work entitled ‘ Bible Truths and
Shakespeare Parallels ’ by James Brown ; and a
most learned critique on ‘Gervinus on Shake
speare’which appeared in the Westminster Review
about ten years ago.
A 2
��THE RELIGION AND MORALITY
OF
SHAKESPEARE’S WORKS.
----- *----F any Englishman were asked who is the
greatest Poet that ever adorned his country’s
Literature, he would answer, without any hesi
tation, I imagine, ‘Milton’ or ‘Shakespeare.’
Two great minds indeed, enriched with the
highest powers of that creative faculty which is
the very essence of the Poet’s nature ; and which
the word in its original signification literally
means:—but how different in their natures and
attributes I Milton, it seems to me, might fitly
be compared to some grand Alpine mountain
range, rising majestically above the sunny smiling
plains by which it is surrounded. As we strive,
with adventurous spirit, to ascend to its loftiest
heights, we soon leave the green pastures and
the golden cornfields, the village spires and the
peasants’ chalets, with all their sweet human
associations, far, far away beneath us. We pass
through the thick, dark forests of fir and pine,
which belt the mountains’ side. We emerge from
their gloomy shades to find (it may be), as I have
known it in my wanderings but a few weeks ago,
I
�6
The Religion and Morality
the sunlight gone, the blue sky vanished—and,
in their place, clouds, almost as black as midnight,
riven only by the incessant flashes of the lurid
lightning; while above, around, the roar of the
thunder is heard, echoing and re-echoing in the
seemingly fathomless ravines and gorges on every
side. We seek what shelter we may for awhile ;
and then, when the violence of the storm is past,
and the lightning flashes remotely in the distance,
and the sound of heaven’s artillery is heard only
far away, we continue our ascent. Through dense
clouds, through huge shadowy masses of vapour
and mist, that rise slowly and solemnly like vast
spectral forms from the depths below, we make
our way, until at length we seem to have left
this lower world altogether, and emerge on a scene
which leaves on the minds of those who for the
first time behold it an impression that can never
be forgotten. We are no longer in the regions of
Life—on every side are wide plateaus of snow
and ice—we stand upon a mountain crag, ‘and
on the torrent’s brink beneath, behold the tall
pines dwindled as to shrubs in dizziness of dis
tance;’ we hear, from time to time, the ava
lanches below ‘ crash with a frequent conflict ’—
while still, far up the heights, shoot forth those
monarch peaks crowned with their diadems of
eternal snow, now blushing like the rose, as they
are kissed by the first beams of Day—then,
standing pure and dazzling in their snowy whiteness against the deep, dark blue of noon—anon
glowing in lurid light of crimson, gold and ame
thyst, as they are lit up by the fiery radiance of
the setting sun—then slowly, in the approaching
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
p
twilight and darkness, fading 1 like the unsub
stantial fabric of a vision,’ silently and solemnly
away; until, a few hours later, they gleam forth
again, robed in fresh garments of unearthly
beauty, and shining pale and spectral-like in all
the mysterious loveliness of moonlight on the Alps.
Now, such a scene as this, on which my eyes
so lately rested, seems to me no inapt type of the
genius of Milton; and of the visions of grandeur,
wonder, sublimity, and awe through which ‘ he
bodies forth the forms of things unknown.’
Regions peopled by beings of supernatural origin
and dark malignity, whose dwellings are like the
halls of Eblis in Eastern mythology; realms of
celestial happiness tenanted by angels, archangels,
and all the company of heaven, over whom reigns
as sovereign the Eternal Father, and only inferior
to him in the poet’s description, the Eternal Son ;
the formation of the universe out of chaos : the
creation of the human race; the entrance of evil
in the world; all these, surely, are the very
elements of sublimity and awe, and well may
Milton be compared in the loftiness of his range
of thought to the sky-aspiring monarchs of the
mountains. But I venture to think the analogy
holds further yet. The mountain has its attendant
shadow, and the loftier the mountain the further
does its shadow extend. Dare I then say, with
all the admiration I feel for Milton’s genius, with
all the veneration with which I regard the
purity of his motives, and the sterling inde
pendent worth of his character, that I yet think
a shadow has been cast by the very altitude of
all these, over much of the theological thought of
�8
The Religion and Morality
England, and which has only comparatively of
late years begun to fade away before the advancing
light of a cultured reason—surely man’s noblest,
greatest prerogative, which I, for one, believe to
have been given him by his Creator, to be rightly
used, to discover all the wise laws by which
He rules; to see His power and goodness in all
nature ; and to worship him as the All-Father:
and which right man ought not to put aside, to
bow down in slavish submission before any
unreasonable dogma, however venerable for its
antiquity, or sanctioned by an authoritative
name.
I do not think I go too far, when I say, such a
shadow has been cast by the very height of
Milton’s genius over much of our popular
theology. To take one instance only, I would
ask, Is not the embodiment of Satan as the Prin
ciple of evil, in the Serpent form that persuaded
Eve in Paradise, rather an idea we owe to Milton,
than to anything that is to be found in the
Hebrew Scriptures ? I remember well the late
Frederic Denison Maurice in a remarkable sermon
of his that is published, commenting on this nar
rative, asks why we should presume to be wiser
than the record, whatever it may mean, and
add statements for which that record affords in
itself no foundation. But I venture not further
in this direction.
• Let me turn then to that poet, who is so essen
tially the poet, not of an age, but of all Time —
Shakespeare.
If I likened Milton in his sublimity, to the
Alpine mountain, soaring upwards to the sky, I
�9
Of Shakespeare s Works.
would compare Shakespeare to a majestic river,
on whose vine-clad steeps I was lately standing,
in a foreign land. Springing forth at first, from
its remote birthplace in the rocks, a few scarcely
noticeable threads of water, it slowly gathers
strength and size; flowing through tranquil val
leys, and gently laving the grass and flowers
that fringe its banks, it receives tributary streams
on every side, and begins now to broaden and
deepen rapidly, as it passes onward in its course,
associated in every age with momentous events
in the history of the neighbouring nations. As
it gradually pursues its appointed course, this
mighty river, to which I refer, calls up before our
minds, the memory of Roman conquests and de
feats ; of the chivalrous exploits of feudal times;
of the coronations of Emperors, whose bones re
pose by its side ; of the wars and negotiations in
more recent days. Its scenery becomes as varied
as its history—now it flows through wild and
picturesque rocks and lofty mountain crags,
crowned with castles, fortresses, and ruins, with
which a thousand wild and romantic legends are
connected; then through thick forests and fertile
plains; then through wild ravines and gorges,
with vineyards sloping from their summits to the
water’s edge ; then through populous cities,
flourishing towns, and quiet villages; bringing
to them all, on its broad bosom, the riches of
Trade and Commerce, and all the varied products
of its shores : until at last its magnificent course
is run ; and nearly a thousand miles away from
its secluded birthplace, it is absorbed in the allembracing ocean.
B
�IO
The Religion and Morality
Now, I think, to such a river the course of
Shakespeare’s genius may be well compared, and
the influence of his works likened. But com
paratively little felt at first were ‘the earnest
thought and profound conviction, the homely yet
subtle wisdom, the deep, historical interest, the
poetic truth, the sweet lyrical effusion, the soar
ing imagination, and grand prophetic insight.’
But, as the noble river broadens and deepens, so
does the intellect, the genius, the influence of
Shakespeare. As the ages roll on, and one gene
ration succeeds another, still more deeply, still
more widely, is that influence felt; enriching
men’s minds, exalting their souls, humanising
their affections with all its precious stores, its
boundless wealth of Religion and morality.
‘ Next to the Bible ’ (we are told by a brilliant
critic), ‘ next to the Bible, I believe in Shake
speare ! ’ once exclaimed to him, an intelligent
woman; who, like most of us, had felt something
of the catholic wisdom enshrined in the writings
of the world’s greatest Poet: and, echoes a learned
Professor, ‘ his works have often been called a
secular Bible.’ Common sense and erudition thus
agree in recognising the same broad simplicity
and universal natures, in the splendid utterances
of Hebrew and English intelligence, preserved in
these perennially popular books. Both alike deal
with the greatest problems of Life; both open
those questions which knock for answer at every
human heart; both reflect the humanity which
is common to us all; both delineate the features
which mark and distinguish individual men. (a)
(a) Westminster Review, No. 48—New Series.
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
i i
A true and just comment indeed, for it is in the
highest sense of the word, this catholic spirit
which vivifies Shakespeare’s works, that forms
one of their chief and special characteristics.
And now I proceed to the task I have more
particularly undertaken, to gather from the
broad river of Shakespeare’s genius, some of the
precious wealth of Religion and morality with
which his priceless argosies are so richly laden.
And first, as regards Religion. Nothing strikes
me as more beautiful than the religious element
which marks Shakespeare’s writings. Here is
nothing gloomy, nothing narrow, nothing ascetic.
It is not thrust obtrusively upon us ; but it breaks
forth as naturally and spontaneously as the sun
light which irradiates and warms, which cheers
and comforts this lower world. It is this spirit
of love, of trust, and confidence in an all-wise
and all-merciful Creator which is the Religion
that Shakespeare preaches and inculcates. Hear
how he tells us all that ‘ we are in God’s hand,’
that ‘though our thoughts are ours, their ends are
none of our own;’ that ‘ heaven has an end in all
that ‘ God is the wisdom’s champion and defence ;’
and in one of his noblest passages he bursts forth
in the sublime exclamation :—
God shall be my hope,
My stay, my guide and lantern to my feet!
The last finishing touch, which he gives to the
portraiture of one of his finest historical charac
ters is, when he tells us, that ‘ to add greater
honours to his age, than man could give him, he
died, fearing God.’
B 2
�12
The Religion and Morality
Again, how beautifully does the religious spirit
in reference to God’s highest attributes, as we
conceive them, continually break forth in his
pages,—like a fountain in the golden sunshine.
Take, for instance, one of these divine attributes
and that the loveliest—Mercy. Does he not tell
■us that
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless’d ;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ;
’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown ;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway ;
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s,
When mercy seasons justice.
In another place too, dwelling on the same
theme, how full of pathos is his eloquent
appeal—
How would you be,
If He who is the top of judgment, should
But judge you, as you are ? Oh, think on that,
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new-made !
Then, too, conspicuous, in innumerable places,
is the sense of Shakespeare’s abiding faith in the
over-ruling Providence of God; as when he says—
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our deep plots do fail: and that should teach us,
There’s a Divinity that shapes our ends,
Kough-hew them how we will!
i
�Of Shakespeare s Works.
i 3
What a solemn warning, too, does he give us,
in respect to prayer for mere temporal blessings
and advantages, in the words—
We, ignorant of ourselves,
Beg often our own harm, which the Wise Powers
Deny us for our good ; so we find profit
By losing of our prayers.
But prayer in the highest sense of the com
munion of our souls with God, and trust in his
all-righteous dealings with us, he ever inculcates.
‘ God knows of pure devotion,’ he says, and
counsels us ‘to put our quarrels to the will of
heaven,’ for
God will be avenged for the deed :
Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm ;
He needs no indirect or lawless course,
To cut off those who have offended him.
And in holy exultation raises the cry
Now, God be praised ! that to believing souls
Gives light to darkness—comfort to despair.
Repentance, with mere lip services, repentance,
that would only be manifest in words, but not in
deeds, that would strive to obtain pardon for the
«c£, and yet enjoy all its sensual and worldly ad
vantages, meets ever with the sternest and
severest rebuke. Where was a self-tormented—
a justly tortured soul, in its inmost workings,
ever laid more awfully bare and naked before our
eyes, than in the vainly attempted prayer of the
wicked King in Hamlet ?
Oh, my offence is rank—it smells to heaven,
Itjiath the primal, eldest curse upon’t,
�14
The Religion and Morality
A brother’s murder! Pray, I cannot;
Though inclination be as sharp as will :
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And like a man to double business bound,
1 stand in pause, where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it, white as snow 1 Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence ?
And;what’s in prayer, but this twofold force,
To be forestalled, ere we come to fall;
Or pardon’d, being down. Then 1’11 look up,
My fault is past. But, oh ! what form of prayer
Can serve my turn ? ‘ Forgive me, my foul murder,’—
That cannot be, since I am still possest
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardon’d and retain th’ offence ?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above ;
There is no shuffling ; there the action lies
In its true nature ; and we ourselves compell’d,
Even in the teeth and forehead of our faidts,
To give in evidence. What then ? What rests?
Try what repentance can ? W hat can it not ?
Yet what can it, when one can not repent ?
Oh, wretched state 1 oh, bosom, black as death !
Oh, limed soul that struggling to be free,
Art more engaged ! Help, angels ! make assay !
Bow, stubborn knees, and heart with strings of steel,
Ke soft as sinews of the new-born babe I
My words fly up I my thoughts remain below !
Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go !
If there is any preacher who would deter us
from sin and crime, by the se^-punishment which
they bring, and the tortures which, sooner or
later, they inflict upon the human conscience, it
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
15
is Shakespeare. In this he is not surpassed even
by the greatest of the Greek Dramatists. Truly,
in his scenes, does the man of blood and crime
create, out of his thoughts, his- own Eumenides.
What language can depict more vividly the hor
rors of a self-accusing conscience than passages
such as these ?
I am alone, the villain of the earth,
And feel I am so most !
Oh ! when the last account ’twixt heaven and earth
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal,
Witness against us to damnation.
How oft the sight of meaus to do ill deeds
Makes ill deeds done !
And, again, never surely were so much awe,
dread, and terror at the close of a wicked life,
suggested in three lines, as in those addressed to
the dying Cardinal Beaufort:—
Lord Cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss
Hold up thy hand ! make signal of thy hope !
He dies and makes no sign ! Oh, God, forgive him !
Shakespeare, indeed, is ever warning us that
the hour must come to us all, when our vices and
crimes will rise, like spectres before us, in all
their horror, and stand ‘ bare and naked trem
bling at themselves.’ What a sermon is contained
in this brief text!
Death ! thou art he, that will not flatter princes,
That stoops not to authority ; nor gives
A specious name to tyranny ; but shows
Our actions in their own deformed likeness.
I shall offer but one quotation more in regard
�16
The Religion and Morality
to this solemn lesson which Shakespeare is so
continually enforcing in all his greatest dramas
—the sense of our responsibility to God and our
accountability to him, for all the faculties, gifts,
and talents which he has bestowed upon us ; and
that all the riches, honours and dignities of this
world are but the merest vanities—are as nothing
compared to a well-spent life, and a conscience
void of offence to God and man. No solemn
dirge, pealing forth from some great organ and
rolling in waves of harmony down the ‘ dim,
mysterious aisles ’ of some venerable cathedral,
affects me more, whenever I read them, than the
last words which Shakespeare has put into the
lips of Cardinal Wolsey. I know no music
more touching than the flow of their exquisite
and melancholy rhythm:—
Nay, then, farewell !
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness ;
And from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting I I shall fall,
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
This the state of man : to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him :
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks—good easy man—full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root ;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
(Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders)
These many summers in a sea of glory ;
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke under me ; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world I hate ye !
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
17
I feel my heart new opened. O ! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours !
There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes and his ruin,
More pangs and fears, than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls, like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Oh, Cromwell 1 Cromwell !
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies !
And now Time warns me that I must leave
this first portion of my subject,—the religion con
tained in Shakespeare’s works, and pass on toconsider the morality with which they are im
bued ; although I know well, that I have but
barely opened this part of the mine of religious
wealth with which his writings teem. Well
indeed may Shakespeare be termed a Lay-Bible,
and it is certain that it is to a diligent study of
the English version of the Bible we are indebted
to him for some of his finest thoughts and
language. In his dramas alone I have myself
counted upwards of eighty distinct allusions or
paraphrases of scriptural characters, incidents, or
language. But before I finally quit this division
of my Lecture, I would notice, that what is so
strikingly characteristic of Shakespeare’s religion
is, that it is so pre-eminently coloured with the
Spirit of that religion which was taught by the
Great Master. It has, indeed, been well said that
the peculiarly Christian spirit, in the highest and
most comprehensive sense of the word, leavening
the whole of Shakespeare’s philosophy, is every
where observable in the fondness with which,
�i8
The Religion and Morality
through the medium of his noble characters, he
produces, in endless change of argument and
imagery, illustrations of that wisdom, which is
‘ first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to
be entreated ’ In his allusions to the Deity, he
delights in all those attributes that more par
ticularly represent Him as the God of Love and
Peace ; and as between man and man, would
rather inculcate the humanising doctrine of
forgiveness, and recommend 1 the quality of
mercy ’ than the rugged justice of 'the eye for
eye and tooth for tooth ’ morality of the Hebrew
Code of Ethics. With what tenderness, and yet
with what power, he advocates in innumerable
passages, those virtues which the Christian spirit
more especially enjoins upon us for our guidance.
See how he holds up to our admiration that
gentleness of soul ‘ that seeketh not her own,’
That hath a tear for pity, and a hand,
Open as day, for melting charity.
The true spirit of forgiveness breathes in the
line ‘ I pardon him as God shall pardon me !’
Does he not tell us that
God’s benison goes with us, and with those
That would make good of bad, and friends of foes ;
that ‘ we are born to do benefits,’ that ‘ kindness
is the cool and temperate wind of Grace ’ ‘ nobler
even than revenge,’ and that to help another in
adversity, we should
Strain a little ;
For ’tis a bond in men.
‘ To revenge/ he says, 'is no valour, but to
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
19
bear,’ and that ‘ rarer action is in virtue, than in
vengeance.' With what gems of epithets does he
adorn the idea of Peace—‘ Peace that draws the
sweet infant breath of gentle sleepbut it is
not the inglorious ‘ peace at any price ’ of the
coward or the slave ; not the peace of inaction or
a shameful yielding up of what we hold to be
good and true, at the command of tyrannical
oppression, for he bids us remember also that
Rightly to be great,
Is greatly to find honour in a straw
When honour’s at the stake.
But the Peace that he would commend to us is
that self denying, self restraining, self victorious
Peace which
Is of the nature of a conquest;
For then both parties nobly are subdued,
And neither party, loser.
Again, of Compassion, he does not merely say
that it hates ‘ the cruelty that loads a falling
manbut he bids us remember, too,
That ’tis not enough to hold the feeble up
But to support him after.
Of Contentment, he speaks in passages more
than I can dare quote ; but it is ever an active,
healthy contentment that he praises. He grandly
exclaims:—
My crown is in my heart, not on my head ;
Not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones ;
Nor to be seen ; my crown is called Content ;
A crown it is, that seldom kings enjov.
�20
The Religion and Morality
And he assures us—
’Tis better to be lowly born
And range with virtuous livers, in content,
Than to be perk’d up in a glistening grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
And where can there be found a more beauti
ful picture of a contented mind than in these
exquisite lines : —
Now my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season’s difference ; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites, and blows upon my body
E’en till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
This is no flattery ; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head ;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
But it is not merely as a moralist of the higher
grade that Shakespeare shines so conspicuously
—it is not merely as a Preacher of the loftier
virtues that he is so deserving of our admiration.
View him on a lower level. Regard him as the
exponent of sound practical wisdom in common
life—in every-day experience. Where was ever
more sensible advice given in regard to a young
man’s social intercourse with the world than
in these memorable lines, and what pitfalls
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
21
would be avoided, if they were but borne
in mind 1
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel,
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d unfledg’d comrade.
Beware of entrance to a quarrel; but being in,
Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear; but few thy voice :
Take each man’s censure ; but reserve thy judgment.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be ;
°
For loan oft loses both itself and friend ;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This, above all—to thine own self be true,
And it must follow—as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
I could go on, far beyond the scope to which I
am limited, in my quotations illustrating the
soundness of Shakespeare’s ethical teaching, and
his enforcement of every form of morality. ’ But
let us see how he deals with vice in every form,
no matter under what mask its visage may be
hidden. Injustice, in its broadest sense, ever
meets with his sternest reprobation. He asks,
with all the fire of enthusiasm:
What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted ?
Thrice is he arm’d, that has his quarrel just ;
And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
Hear, too, how he reprobates that assassin of
the soul whose dagger has so often sought to slay
the good and noble character that has at all risen
above, or placed itself in opposition to, the false
�24
The Religion and Morality
grows with such pernicious root‘Deceitfulness,
which to betray doth wear an angel’s face, to
seize with eagle’s talons;’ ‘ Implacability,’ relent
less ; that is, ‘ beastly, savage, devilish ;’ ‘ Dupli
city,’ 1 that can smile and smile and be a villain
and last ‘ Hypocrisy,’ ‘ with devotion’s visage and
pious action,’ can ‘ sugar o’er the Devil himself.’
Surely (as George Gilfillan says) Shakespeare
was the greatest and most humane of all moral
ists. Seeing more clearly than mere man ever
saw into the evils of human nature and the cor
ruptions of society, into the natural weakness
and the acquired vices of man, he can yet love,
pity, forget his anger, and clothe him in the
mellow light of his genius, like the sun, which
in certain days of peculiar balm and beauty,
seems to shed its beams, like an amnesty, on all
created beings.’
I know full well that in the hour’s limit to
which the lectures given before this Society are
properly confined, I have been enabled only to
bring to the surface comparatively a few of the
precious ores of the religious spirit, the wisdom,
and the morality, which lie in such rich profusion
in the golden mine of Shakespeare’s works. But
I think I have said enough, to justify the claim
of Shakespeare to rank foremost amongst the
world’s greatest, wisest, noblest, Preachers of
Religion and Morality; and in conclusion, I know
of no words that could serve me so eloquently
as a peroration, as those of the writer and critic
whom I last named. ‘If force of genius—sympathy
with every form and feeling of humanity—tlie
heart of a man united to the imagination of
�Of Shakespeare's Works.
25
a Poet, and wielding the Briarean hands of
a Demigod — if the writing of thirty-two
Dramas, which are colouring, to this hour, the
literature of the world—if the diffusion of harm
less happiness in immeasurable quantity—if the
stimulation of innumerable minds—if the promo
tion of the spirit of Charity and universal
brotherhood ; if these constitute, for mortal man,
titles to the name of Benefactor, and to that
praise which ceases not with the sun but ex
pands with immortality ; then the name and
the praise must support the throne which
Shakespeare has established over the minds of
the inhabitants of an earth which may be known
in other parts of the Universe as Shakespeare’s
World.’
��WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
Just Published, Price One Shilling.
tfutart of $oicc nnir Ssttcij.
* An Introductory Lecture on Elocution con
sidered in reference to “ Public and Social Life,”
delivered at King’s College, London, at the be
ginning of the Winter Session of the Evening
Classes Department for 1873-4, by Charles
John Plumptre, Lecturer on Public Reading
and Speaking at King’s College, Evening Classes
Department.
London: T. J. Allman, 463 Oxford Street.
------- ♦-------
PRESS NOTICES.
A very interesting discourse.— The Times, October 11.
An excellent address.—Dailt News, October 11.
“ Clergyman’s Sore Throat” would cease to exist, and laryn
geal and bronchial affections generally would be diminished,
if the vocal organs received early and adequate training.—
Lancet, October 18.
�11
Advertisements.
Preparing for Publication a new and greatly enlarged
Edition, cloth 8vo (price Six Shillings), of
JVmtfs {^allege H’tcfiirts dll (tfotufion,
Being the substance of the Introductory Course
of Lectures and Practical Instruction in Publid
Reading and Speaking, annually delivered by
Charles John Plumptre, Lecturer on Public
Reading and Speaking, King’s College, Evening
Classes Department.
Dedicated by permission
to H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.
*#* This volume will contain special courses of
Lectures on the various branches of Elocution,
Public Reading, and Speaking, considered in
reference to the various Professions, the art of
Extempore Speaking, the vocation of Lecturing
generally, Social Speech-making, and the causes
and means of removal of the various kinds of
Impediments of Speech.
London: T. J. Allman, 463, Oxford Street.
�Advertisements.
111
PRESS NOTICES OF LAST EDITION.
------- ♦-------
Mr. Plumptre has now for several years fulfilled with signal
ability the duties devolving upon him as the Lecturer on Pub
lic Reading and Speaking at King’s College, London, in the
Evening Classes Department. Happily he has afforded us,
one and all, the opportunity for judging of him, not merely by
hearsay—of estimating him not simply by the range or scope
of his reputation. He has now given to the outer public the
means of weighing in the balance his various capabilities as
an instructor in Elocution. He has, in the shape of a goodly
volume of 200 pages octavo, presented to every one who lists
a series of fourteen of these famous King’s College Lectures of
his on Elocution—fourteen sub-divisions of a most instructive
and comprehensive theme—the substance of the introductory
Course of Lectures and Practical Instruction he has now for
some time past been annually delivering. The book is Dedi
cated, by Permission, to H.R.II. the Prince of Wales. It is
followed by two very remarkable appendices—one of them
singularly instructive, the other very curiously interesting. So
far as any merely printed book on Elocution could accomplish
its object, this one by Mr. Plumptre is entitled to our
highest commendation. The eye, the face, the voice, the ges
ture are of course all wanting, but the argument throughout
is so lucid in itself, while the illustrations of that argument are
so animated and so singularly felicitous, that reading the
work attentively page by page and lecture by lecture, is the
next best thing to seeing and hearing the gifted Professor him
self, when he is, in his own person, exemplifying the manifold
and ever-varying charms of the all-conquering art of the
Rhetorician and Elocutionist.—Sun, March 5, 1870.
This, although not a law book, is a book for lawyers. Prac
tical treatises on various branches of the law may be essential
to store the mind of the advocate with ideas, but unless he
has the power of expressing them in such a way as to com
mand the attention of the court, his learning will prove of but
little avail. To a barrister the brains are of but little use
without the tongue, and even the tongue, however fluent, may
fail to give due expression to the ideas, unless the voice is
properly regulated so as to pronounce with both clearness and
force the words that are uttered, and the gestures of the body
�IV
Advertisements.
enforce what the language has attempted to impress. Many
are the failures of those who would otherwise have been suc
cessful advocates from want of attention to the principles of
elocution. Their matter has been excellent, but their manner
has been so bad as entirely to destroy the effect that their ad
dress must otherwise have produced. We would point to
instances of this kind in Parliament, at the Bar, and in the
Pulpit. To all such persons the work before us will be found
invaluable ; and indeed there are few, if any, whose duties re
quire them to speak in public, who will fail to derive advan
tage from its perusal. The subject is treated in a thoroughly
practical manner, and is fully investigated with care and
judgment. Mr. Plumptre speaks with the authority of a pro
fessor, and he appears to understand his subject entirely, and
in all its different branches. He is quite aware of all the
difficulties to be encountered, and is ready with advice how
to meet them. His work evinces considerable research, ex
tensive classical and general knowledge, and is moreover full
of interesting matter. We commend it heartily alike to
those who aspire to become orators in Parliament, to the
Clergy, and to the Bar.—Quarterly Law Review, May,
1870.
In these days, when Lectures and “ Penny Readings ” are
patronised by the “upper ten thousand,” and Dukes, Mar
quises, Earls, Viscounts, Barons, Baronets, M.P.’s, and
Esquires take part in them, and when at public dinners no
one is supposed to be “ unaccustomed to public speaking,” it
is highly desirable that those who appear on the platform, or
who rise at public banquets, should be able to go through their
parts satisfactorily. To accomplish this there are only two
ways, one, to take lessons in Elocution, the other to read works
published with a view of imparting as much practical instruc
tion as can possibly be imparted by precept, where practice
cannot be attained. Mr C. J. Plumptre, Lecturer at King’s
College, London, has just published a volume upon the Prin
ciples and Practice of Elocution, which will be found to be of
the highest value to every one who is called on, either con
stantly or at intervals, to speak in public. As a teacher, Mr
Plumptre is most skilful: he is a Master of his Art, and those
who cannot avail themselves of his services will do well
to study his treatise, which is lucid, sound, and practical.
The “King’s College Lectures” of Mr Plumptre have been
honoured by the patronage of the Prince of Wales, to whom
the volume is by permission dedicated.—Court Journal,
Dec. 11, 1869.
�Advertisements.
v
Mr Plumptre has, in this volume, reproduced his lectures on
public reading and speaking, which were delivered at King’s
College. We consider that the chief novelty in the hook is
that it contains instruction for public reading as well as
speaking. The science of public reading is very much neglected,
and we are very glad to see that Mr Plumptre favours the
world with a tolerably comprehensive book, which is partly
devoted to this science. We purposely rank Elocution as a
science, as we agree with Mr Plumptre in thinking that it lies
far above a mere art. We believe that if everyone who wishes
to read and speak well were to read and learn by heart
Lecture V., the benefit would be enormous, and the effect
almost immediately appreciable. We find some practical
directions for the management and preservation of the voice,
and although we are not qualified to give an opinion on the
medical part, yet we have the authority of the Lancet for saying
that the suggestions are very practical and the curative mea
sures recommended excellent. We believe that this is by far
the best volume yet published on the subject, and it must
succeed on account of its own worth, as no man who has to
speak or read in public should be without a copy.—Wilts
Advertiser, March 26, 1870.
Mr Plumptre will be known to most of our readers as a very
scientific and successful Teacher of Elocution ; and in this
volume he has put forth the substance of the course of Lectures
that he delivers at King’s College, with such alterations and
additions as may meet the wants of those who are unable to
avail themselves of oral instruction. It is unnecessary to
enlarge upon the advantage of obtaining complete command
of all the powers of the voice, or to point out how very much
a good manner of delivery may promote the success of a
medical practitioner. These considerations are obvious ; and
if they stood alone we should hardly have thought the lectures
within our province as reviewers. We find, however, that Mr
Plumptre enters at length, and with much ability, into the
curative treatment of impediments of speech. We have
perused this portion of the treatise with great care, and have
much pleasure in bearing testimony to its great merit. The
views advanced rest upon sound physiology, and the practice
advocated is in complete accordance with them. Mr Plumptre
states, and our experience enables us to confirm his opinion,
that all cases of stammering and stuttering are curable, if only
the patient will exercise a certain degree of care and perse
verance. It is common for medical practitioners to be consulted
�VI
Advertisements.
about such impediments; and we feel sure that in Mr
Plumptre’s Lectures they will find not only much valuable
practical information, but also a basis of sound principles, upon
which the details of treatment may be founded. We recom
mend thebookverywarmlytoour readers.—Lancet, February
12, 1870.
Professor Plumptre, who is so well known for his elocution
ary powers, has just published a volume of fourteen of his
Lectures on Elocution, delivered some time since at King’s Col
lege, London. The book is a handsome volume of more than
200 pages, and is dedicated to the Prince of Wales. A more
entertaining work it would be difficult to find, and it is one
which we cordially recommend to the student of divinity, the
barrister, the debater ; in a word, to all who desire to cultivate
the faculty of speech, and to be able to express their ideas
with clearness, force, and elegance.—Irish Gazette, March
19, 1870.
This is a book from which we will not quote, but instead
heartily commend, and advise all our readers to purchase and
study it for themselves.—Victoria Magazine, May, 1870.
&c., &c., &c.
C. W. REYNELL, PRINTER, LITTLE PVLTENEY STREET, HAYMARKET, W,
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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The religion and morality of Shakespeare's works : being a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, the 16th of November, 1873
Creator
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Plumptre, Charles J.
Description
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 25, vi p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. Advertisements for works by Plumptre, lecturer in public reading and speaking at King's College, London, on six pages at the end.
Publisher
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The Sunday Lecture Society
Date
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1873
Identifier
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N541
Subject
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Religion
Literature
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The religion and morality of Shakespeare's works : being a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, the 16th of November, 1873), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Drama
English Literature
NSS
Shakespeare