Chapter IV (2)

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

“Melancholy
And at the height, too, near akin to madness . . .
. . . His senses are distracted,” +says Paulo,+
“Not one, but all; and if I can collect them
With all the various ways invention
Or industry e’er practised, I shall write it
My masterpiece.”[100:1]

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

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

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

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

But Cardenes’ new-learned philosophy remains unchanged:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know no parties nor no factions, sir,”

he commands him:

“Then wear this cross of white,
And where you see the like, they are my friends;
Observe them well, the type is dangerous.”[109:1]

A touch of the pathetic (often mingled with the comic), accompanies the “poor, grieved gentlewoman” who once refused his suit and for love of whom Shattillion’s mind became unhinged, who:

“Follows him much lamenting, and much loving,
In hope to make him well.”[109:2]

But, says Longueville, a courtier,

“he knows her not,
Nor any else that comes to visit him.”[109:2]

Shattillion is plainly created for a dramatic purpose. The main story concerns the gulling of a gentleman named Mount-Marine by his wife, who persuades him that the King has granted him many high honours, and that he is Duke of Burgundy. Shattillion, whose delusions persuade him that he has himself a claim to the crown, is worked into the plot with considerable skill, and his quarrel in the fifth act with the “Duke” and his servant unites the two plots with great effect.

A short study of the “mad scenes” will shew the strength and the weakness of this character. The particular form of his mania is brought out very clearly. The madman is perfectly sure about the plots laid for him; his friends are really enemies disguised to “sift into” his words; _he_ “can see and can beware”; _he_ has his wits about him and thanks Heaven for it! The burst of laughter with which the audience would greet this assertion is at once hushed as the Lady laments the o’erthrow of her lover’s noble mind;

“That was the fairest hope the French court bred,
The worthiest and the sweetest-temper’d spirit,
The truest, and the valiantest, the best of judgment.”[110:1]

She is remorse-stricken at being the cause of it all, and prays Heaven to be merciful; she will do all she can to restore her lover to his senses.

A long interval elapses before Shattillion is again introduced.[110:2] Now he has heard of the “new duke” and he is suspicious and curious, so much so that he is gesticulating and enquiring about it in the open street. The Lady appears and begs Madam Marine to take him into her house “from the broad eyes of people.” She does so. Shattillion, now believing that he is “betray’d” and about to be beheaded, is led away giving his last instructions. Before long, we see him once more, this time in Marine’s house, proving to Marine that he (Shattillion) is of the blood royal, and but for the interference of his friends he would seize Marine as a traitor. In the next act he persuades Jacques, Marine’s old servant, that he too is in danger of his life, and drags him into his house for shelter. As they go in, the Lady appears, and, knocking at Shattillion’s door, is repulsed as another enemy. The madman’s imagination goes so far as to see “some twenty musketeers in ambush,” and he suspects his love of being their captain. Meanwhile Jacques, disguised as a woman, is leaving the house, when his preserver stops him, accuses him of being

“A yeoman of the guard,
Disguised in woman’s clothes, to work on me,
To make love to me and to trap my words
And so ensnare my life.”[111:1]

Jacques at length escapes, and after another adventure returns as servant to the “Duke.” In this capacity he is forced into a fierce quarrel with Shattillion, who, in his furious loyalty, seizes Marine and throws him to the ground. Hereupon the Lady has a remedy to propose:

“A strange conceit hath wrought this malady;
Conceits again must bring him to himself;
My strict denial to his will wrought this,
And if you could but draw his wilder thoughts
To know me, he would, sure, recover sense.”

Longueville undertakes the charge. Assuring Shattillion that the King has rewarded his loyalty, he presents to him the Lady, who, he says, has been released from prison for his sake. Shattillion is overcome, and after a few minutes falls asleep. Longueville knows that this is a good sign:

“His eyes grow very heavy. Not a word,
That his weak senses may come sweetly home.”[111:2]

He wakes, indeed, still “weak and sickly,” but himself again.

The general impression left by this comedy is, on the whole, pleasant, that part of it concerned with Shattillion included. The antics of the madman himself are certainly comic, especially on the stage, and the lighter side of his mania is persistently put forward. The only pathetic touch is, in fact, the genuine sorrow of his Lady. This predominance of the comic may be regretted, though in a play of the farcical nature of “The Noble Gentleman” little else could be expected. However, the sound, realistic basis of the disease, together with the simple and unassuming cure—which, nevertheless, would hardly be successful in real life,—makes the treatment of Shattillion as far superior to the treatment of the Passionate Lord as the one play is to the other. Considered absolutely, the representation of Shattillion is chiefly remarkable for its reality, its skilful weaving into the plot, and its mingling of pathos with broad humour. On the other hand the pathos would not be so artificial if the entrance of the lady were somewhat less mechanical—we could almost certainly predict when she will enter in the last two acts. Fletcher’s almost total blindness to everything but the comic and its possibilities also detracts from the effect of Shattillion, and the very obvious dramatic motive for his introduction does not, on reflection, improve matters.

We have now passed from the heights of tragedy, through its pathos, and the ill-blended pathos and broad humour of inferior tragi-comedy to the pure and simple inanity of “The Nice Valour”—a work which certainly appears to be unfinished. In considering Shattillion, we have risen as high as we can hope to do within the limits of comedy, and before leaving the raving lunatic for another class of madman we must descend slightly as we consider Ben Jonson’s comedy of “Bartholomew Fair,” and his madman, Trouble-all.

The plot has already been outlined, and it will be seen that the place of the madman is an important one. Theoretically, he is of prime importance to the play, since it is foretold that Dame Purecraft, who has already had two suitors, shall “never have happy hour unless she marry within this sen’night; and when it is it must be a madman,” and it is Quarlous, dressed in Trouble-all’s clothes and affecting his malady, who eventually marries her. As a matter of fact, the main portion of the play is concerned with other things, and we only meet our madman in the fourth act. From this point onward, the author shews great ingenuity in his handling of him; the burden of his remarks alone serves as a _point d’appui_ for the spectator (who by this time is probably getting wearied), while the humorous situations which he provokes, culminating in the acuteness of Quarlous and its success, are largely responsible for the undoubted popularity of the comedy with both reader and spectator.

This is, of course, very much to the credit of a comedy which professedly deals with low life; it is more to our purpose to remark that as a picture of madness the character of Trouble-all is exceptionally correct. Gifford’s note to Cunningham’s edition of Ben Jonson remarks that “Even the trifling part of Trouble-all, in any other writer than Jonson, would be thought deserving of praise for its correct delineation of a particular species of insanity, too inoffensive for fear and too slight for commiseration.”[114:1] Gifford is right, both in what he states and in what he implies. We expect correctness from Jonson and we are not disappointed.

A sketch of the madman should make this clear. He was “an officer in the court of pie-poudres last year and put out of his place by Justice Overdo.”[114:2] His affliction is marked by the _idée fixe_; he raves continually about the Justice, and will do nothing—not even the simplest actions of daily life—without satisfying himself that he has Overdo’s warrant for it. How true to life this feature is may be read in any modern book on insanity. He appears first of all in the fair, where Overdo is being put into the stocks: “If you have Justice Overdo’s warrant,” he says, “’tis well; you are safe: that is the warrant of warrants.”[115:1] He is walking to and fro, with all the restless impatience of mania, demanding to be shewn Adam Overdo. In his frantic wanderings he comes upon Dame Purecraft, who apparently thinks him more suitable for her than any madman she has yet seen and cries: “Now heaven increase his madness and bless and thank it.” Trouble-all’s reply does not vary: “Have you a warrant? an you have a warrant, shew it.”[115:1] Person after person presents himself but the madman’s reply is always the same. Every conversation he interrupts with his query, and, when he is ignored, he turns away in disgust. Once he exasperates a watchman, who strikes him. The latent rage of the lunatic shews itself, but the madman’s rationalisation first provides it with an excuse: “Strikest thou without a warrant? take thou that.” When Quarlous personates the lunatic[115:2] our author rightly depicts him as only partially successful, though his end is nevertheless as well reached as if he had been wholly so. He raves occasionally about a warrant, but it is not hard to see his sanity peeping through the veil of assumed madness. Much of his talk is comparatively coherent, and beyond his occasional references to the warrant he makes no attempt to play the madman. To turn his literal phrase into metaphor, he is “mad but from the gown outward.”[116:1] Trouble-all himself, when Quarlous’ purpose is accomplished, makes one furious entry, armed “with a dripping pan,”[116:1] but he does no mischief, and soon disappears.

Trouble-all is a noteworthy character, though a small one; yet, for more than one reason, the character is less praiseworthy than Fletcher’s Shattillion. Considerable care is shewn in the sketch, but little or no sympathy; and, if madness is to be utilised in comedy, the comic element should at least, as has been seen, be mingled with some touches of pathos. As it is, any other character than the madman would have served Jonson equally well, provided that it had supplied him with the same dramatic advantages. When Overdo says: “Alas, poor wretch! how it yearns my heart for him!” we believe him about as readily as if Jonson had made the same remark in an “author’s footnote.”

In one respect, and in one respect only, can any claim be made on behalf of Jonson’s character to rank above Fletcher’s “Noble Gentleman.” Fletcher makes us look at madness from the point of view of the madman, and tries to put us in sympathy with him. We have seen that he is only partially successful. Jonson, on the other hand, treats madness in quite an objective way, uses it frankly for a subsidiary dramatic purpose, and portrays his madman with the utmost conscientiousness and care. It may be just a question—though the writer himself does not think so—whether from the point of view of art Jonson’s production is not the more praiseworthy.

Be that, however, as it may, it is nevertheless absolute Ben Jonson!

FOOTNOTES:

[61:1] From the Alleyn MS.

[62:1] “Spanish Tragedy.”

[63:1] “Spanish Tragedy,” iii., 12a.

[64:1] “Spanish Tragedy,” iii., 12.

[65:1] Ibid., iii., 12a.

[65:2] Ibid., iii., 8.

[65:3] Ibid., iv., 2.

[65:4] Other examples of conventional madness abound. See page 151, Note 1. (Ann Ratcliff, in “The Witch of Edmonton.”) Peele, in the “Old Wives’ Tale,” presents us with a character, Venelia, sent mad by a sorcerer, Sacrapant:

She “runs madding, all enraged, about the woods
All by his cursèd and enchanting spells.”

But, apart from this, she does nothing!

[66:1] “Shakespeare, His Mind and Art,” p. 272.

[67:1] “King Lear,” i., 1, 125-6.

[68:1] “King Lear,” i., 1, 296, etc.

[68:2] Ibid., i., 4, 207-8.

[68:3] Ibid., i., 4, 292-4.

[69:1] “King Lear,” i., 5, 50-1.

[69:2] Ibid., ii., 4, 56-8.

[70:1] “King Lear,” ii., 4, 285-9.

[70:2] “The Mad Folk of Shakespeare,” p. 194.

[70:3] “King Lear,” iii., 2, 67.

[71:1] “King Lear,” iii., 4, 49-50.

[71:2] Ibid., iii., 4 passim.

[71:3] Ibid., iii., 6.

[72:1] “King Lear,” iv., 6, 81, etc.

[72:2] l. 85.

[73:1] ll. 109-10.

[73:2] “King Lear,” iv., 7.

[74:1] “King Lear,” iv., 7, 68-9.

[74:2] l. 70.

[74:3] l. 84.

[74:4] Ibid., v., 3, 272-4.

[75:1] “King Lear,” v., 3, 305, etc.

[77:1] “Hamlet,” iv., 5, 4, etc.

[77:2] Ibid., iv., 5, 23, etc.

[77:3] ll. 29-32.

[78:1] “Hamlet,” iv., 5, 35, etc.

[78:2] ll. 68-70.

[78:3] Ibid., iv., 5, 155, etc.

[78:4] l. 173.

[79:1] ll. 188-9.

[79:2] Ferriar, quoted by Dr. Bucknill, p. 155 (op. cit.)

[80:1] “Hamlet,” iv., 7, 167, etc.

[82:1] “Two Noble Kinsmen,” iv., 3.

[82:2] Ibid., ii., 1.

[83:1] Ibid., iii., 2.

[84:1] Ibid., iii., 4.

[84:2] Ibid., iii., 5.

[85:1] Ibid., iv., 1.

[85:2] Ibid., iv., 1, 104, etc.

[86:1] Ibid., iv., 3.

[86:2] Ibid., v., 2.

[89:1] Ward, Eng. Dram. Lit., ii., 300. The original criticism, as Dr. Ward points out, is Gifford’s. Cf. the latter’s edition of Ford, vol. i., p. 337.

[90:1] “Elizabethan Literature,” p. 408.

[90:2] “The Broken Heart,” iv., 4.

[91:1] “The Lover’s Melancholy,” iii., 3.

[92:1] Ibid., i., 1.

[92:2] A similar device is found in Brome’s play, “The Antipodes,” where, however, the physician uses the fantastic but less morbid device of a “play within a play.” See page 136.

[93:1] Ibid., iv., 2.

[93:2] Ibid., ii., 2.

[93:3] Ibid., ii., 2.

[94:1] Ibid., iv., 2.

[95:1] Ibid., v., 1.

[96:1] Acted in 1602; first printed in 1631.

[98:1] “Hoffman,” iv., 1.

[99:1] Ibid., v., 2.

[100:1] “A Very Woman,” ii., 2.

[100:2] Ibid., iii., 3.

[101:1] Ibid., iv., 2.

[102:1] “A New Way to Pay Old Debts,” v., 1.

[103:1] Ibid., v., 1.

[103:2] Ibid., v., 1.

[103:3] “The Duchess of Malfi,” v., 2.

[105:1] It is referred to, however, in the following pages as “The Passionate Madman.”

[106:1] “The Passionate Madman,” i., 1.

[106:2] Ibid., ii., 1.

[106:3] Ibid., iii., 1.

[106:4] Ibid., iii., 2.

[107:1] Compare “Hamlet,” ii., 1, 77, etc.

_Ophelia_: “My lord, as I was sewing in my closet,
Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d,
No hat upon his head . . he comes before me.”

[107:2] “The Passionate Madman,” v., 1.

[108:1] Ibid., v., 3.

[108:2] “The Noble Gentleman,” i., 2.

[109:1] Ibid., i., 3.

[109:2] Ibid., i., 2.

[110:1] Ibid., i., 3.

[110:2] Act iii., Sc. 2.

[111:1] Ibid., iv., 3.

[111:2] Ibid., v., 1.

[114:1] p. 210.

[114:2] “Bartholomew Fair,” iv., 1.

[115:1] Ibid., iv., 1.

[115:2] Ibid., v., 2.

[116:1] Ibid., v., 3.