SHAKESPEARE'S 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS
 
 degli altri poeti onore e lume, 
 Vagliami il lungo studio e il grande amore, 
 Che m' ha fatto cercar lo tuo volume ! " 
 
 DANTE : Inferno, Canto I. 
 
 thou of bards the glory and the light, 
 Be it not wholly vain, that year on year 
 With a great love I have explored thy book.
 
 
 ,s/ 
 
 . ,: .
 
 ON SOME OF 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS 
 
 OPHELIA IMOGEN 
 
 PORTIA ROSALIND 
 
 DESDEMONA BEATRICE 
 
 JULIET HERMIONE 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT, LADY MARTIN 
 
 SEVENTH EDITION 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 M C M I V 
 
 All Rights rstrvtd
 
 DEDICATED BY PERMISSION 
 
 TO 
 
 HER tMOST GRACIOUS ^MAJESTY 
 
 QUEEN VICTORIA 
 
 January 1885. 
 
 2032326
 
 L ' E N V I. 
 
 TT7HEN the first of these letters was published in 
 Blackwood's Magazine, they were preceded by the 
 following note: 
 
 " These two or three letters were written in the autumn, 
 at the instigation, and for the gratification, of a dear and 
 gifted friend who has since passed away. No thought of 
 their being made public was in my mind, so they naturally 
 ran into many personal details which I knew would make 
 them more interesting to an intimate friend, but which 
 otherwise I should not have thought worth recording. 
 These details, I am told, I could not remove without 
 altering the nature of my slight attempts to illustrate by 
 the pen characters which, with much greater pleasure to 
 myself, I have had to illustrate upon the stage. The few 
 friends who have seen them appear to be of one mind, that 
 my ' thoughts ' may have an interest for a wider circle ; 
 and, indeed, I have been entreated, past all refusing, to 
 give them to the world. But I confess to yielding up my 
 own wish for privacy with great reluctance, all the more 
 because the fear haunts me that I may appear to be dictat- 
 ing, to say, as it were, ' This is Shakespeare's Ophelia ' ; 
 whereas I only mean this is Ophelia as she has appeared
 
 viii I/ENVOI. 
 
 to my mind as she has lived and lives for me. I hope 
 this may be understood." 
 
 Miss Geraldine E. Jewsbury, the valued friend here 
 referred to, had often pressed me to put into writing the 
 substance of what I had said when we talked together of 
 Shakespeare's heroines. She had seen me embody most 
 of them upon the stage, and knowing how much of my 
 inner life had gone into these impersonations, it pleased 
 her to think that I might in writing do something to 
 awaken in the minds of others the impressions which had 
 grown up in my own through the reverent study of the 
 best part of my life, and been tested and confirmed by the, 
 to me at least, vital experience of the stage. I shrank from 
 the task, with the natural diffidence of one who not only 
 had never been accustomed to this mode of expression, but 
 who also felt profoundly that no critical analysis or ex- 
 position can ever do for the illustration of Shakespeare 
 what may be done by the living presentment of the stage. 
 But my friend, I knew, was dying, and how could I resist 
 her kind assurances that I might do good by yielding to 
 her wish? When I consented, this gave her genuine 
 pleasure ; and her pleasure, when she read what I had 
 written, was expressed in words that encouraged me to 
 make it public. 
 
 It was indeed a surprise to me to find how warmly the 
 letters on Ophelia, Portia, and Desdemona were received. 
 I was urged to go on, and to extend them to others of 
 Shakespeare's heroines. This I have done, adding to them 
 studies of Juliet, Imogen, Kosalind, Beatrice, and Hermione. 
 I have resisted the temptation to go still further, and to 
 write of Lady Macbeth, Constance of Bretagne, Miranda, 
 Isabella, and Cordelia, all of whom it has been my happy 
 fortune to illustrate on the stage. I studied them all with
 
 L'ENVOI. ix 
 
 the same devotion that I gave to the heroines of whom 
 I have written. Like them, they became living realities 
 for me, and in impersonating them I learned much, which 
 would not otherwise have been learned, as to the master 
 poet's conception and purpose, as all conscientious imper- 
 sonators of Shakespeare's characters cannot fail to learn. 
 But I fear I have already taxed too greatly the patience of 
 those who have read my studies ; and, if there be any 
 value in them, they will suffice to effect the object with 
 which they were written, which was to show that, over 
 and above natural gifts of temperament, of voice, figure, 
 and deportment, there must go to the impersonation of any 
 of Shakespeare's great characters a thorough study of the 
 entire play, as well as of the particular character to be 
 represented, for only by this study can the actor hope to 
 identify himself so completely with that character that 
 its development will become, as it ought to be, as spon- 
 taneous and harmonious as the growth of a plant from 
 the germ into a perfect flower. 
 
 How it grows thus who may tell ? Not the artist him- 
 self, at any rate. I have often been asked indeed, this 
 kind of questioning began when I had been only a few 
 months on the stage how I did this, how I did that, by 
 what means I produced such and such an effect, how I 
 came to adopt such and such a shade of expression, or 
 make such and such a movement. Questions of this kind 
 irritated me, because they seemed to imply that the actor's 
 art was something wholly mechanical, to which the impulse 
 of the moment was a stranger, and that no part of what 
 it did at its best was to be regarded as the unconscious 
 emanation of one's own very self. To such questions, 
 therefore, I could never reply. How could I reply, when 
 I myself never knew how the result was produced for
 
 X L ENVOI. 
 
 which I was asked to account? Of course, I never went 
 upon the stage in any character until I had carefully con- 
 sidered how I might best convey to others the idea I had 
 formed of what the author intended should be made pal- 
 pable there to "the very faculties of eye and ear." But 
 there is something which no previous study can formulate, 
 something that gives the crowning charm to the actor's 
 impersonation, but of which he is himself at the moment 
 unconscious. When, therefore, such questions were put 
 to me, I could no more answer them than a poet could 
 explain how a noble image or a perfect phrase flashed upon 
 his brain, or a painter say how in painting a face some 
 subtle and suggestive shade of expression found its way 
 into his pigments. 
 
 How true are Mr Euskin's words : 
 
 Art must not be talked about. The fact that there is talk 
 about it at all signifies that it is all done, or cannot 'be done. 
 No true painter ever speaks, or ever has spoken, much of his art. 
 The greatest speak nothing. . . . The moment a man can really 
 do his work he becomes speechless about it. All words become 
 idle to him, and all theories. Does a bird need to tbeorise about 
 building its nest, or boast of it when built? All good work is 
 essentially done that way without hesitation, without difficulty, 
 without boasting ; and in the doers of the best there is an inner 
 and involuntary power, which approximates literally to the in- 
 stinct of an animal nay, I am certain, that in the most perfect 
 human artists, reason does not supersede instinct, but is added 
 to an instinct as much more divine than that of the lower animals 
 as the human body is more beautiful than theirs ; that a great 
 singer sings not with less instinct than tbe nightingale but with 
 more only more various, applicable, and governable ; that a 
 great architect does not build with less instinct than the beaver 
 or the bee, but with more with an innate cunning of proportion 
 that embraces all beauty, and a divine ingenuity of skill that 
 improvises all construction. But be that as it may be the
 
 L ENVOI. XI 
 
 instinct less or more than that of inferior animals like or unlike 
 theirs, still the human art is dependent on that first, and then 
 upon an amount of practice, of science, and of imagination dis- 
 ciplined by thought, which the true possessor of it knows to be 
 incommunicable, and the true critic of it inexplicable, except 
 through long process of laborious years. That journey of life's 
 conquest, in which hills on hills, alps on alps arose and sank, 
 do you think you can make another trace it painlessly by 
 talking? 1 
 
 What is thus beautifully said I believe to be no less true 
 of the actor's art, in the only right sense of that word, than 
 it is of all other arts. No one who does me the honour 
 to read these studies will gather from them what I did 
 upon the stage, or how I did it, for this is more than I 
 myself could tell. This much, however, they may perhaps 
 learn from them that if I succeeded there in moving the 
 hearts or raising the imaginations of my audiences, it was 
 because all that I had assimilated from the study of the 
 best literature and of the best art within my reach, all 
 that I had tried in a humble and devout spirit to learn and 
 to practise of what was pure and unselfish, honourable and 
 worthy in thought and in act, together with all that my 
 own heart and experience of life had taught me, was turned 
 to account in the endeavour to present a living picture of 
 womanhood as divined by Shakespeare, and held up by 
 him as an ideal for woman to aspire to, and for men to 
 revere. 
 
 Whatever gifts I had as an actress were ever regarded 
 by me as a sacred trust to be used for widening and re- 
 fining the sympathies of my audiences, by transporting 
 them into a world larger, purer, brighter, grander than 
 that of their everyday life, and for bringing closer to 
 
 1 Sesame and Lilies, p. 149, ed. 1871.
 
 xii I/ENVOI. 
 
 their minds and hearts the "nobler thoughts and nobler 
 cares," which are the richest blessing that the poets have 
 brought us. Working in this spirit, I had my reward in 
 the bond of sympathy, often bordering on affection, which 
 grew up between myself and the unknown world of those 
 to whom I spoke. It gave me strength and inspiration to 
 vanquish difficulty and fatigue, and to strive ever to give 
 a fuller truth and completeness to my conceptions. In a 
 thousand ways it was brought home to me that I did good, 
 and therefore I honoured and revered my art as well as 
 loved it. With those who, having practised it in its higher 
 walks, and practised it with success, have spoken of it with 
 disparagement, I have no sympathy. I should indeed be 
 ungrateful were it otherwise. I look back upon my life 
 with profound thankfulness, that I was able by the practice 
 of my art, while keeping alive within myself all that in my 
 earliest dreams I had imagined of what was fairest, and 
 best, and highest in thought and character, to awaken a 
 kindred feeling in those to whom it was my privilege to 
 give a living interpretation to the conceptions of the 
 highest dramatic genius. 1 
 
 H. F. M. 
 
 1 When the fifth edition of this book was called for in 1893 the above 
 Preface was written but discarded. It contains, however, so full an expres- 
 sion of the authoress's views of her art, and of the spirit in which she worked 
 in it, that it seems not unworthy of being preserved.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 I. OPHELIA, . . \ 
 
 . I In fetters to Miss Oeraldine E. 
 .11. .rU.ttJ.iA. . . > _ , 
 
 < Jewsbury. 
 
 III. DESDEMONA, . J V 45 
 
 IV. JULIET, . . ) 
 
 } In letters to Mrs S. C. HaU 
 V. JULIET (Concluded], ) ( 105 
 
 VI. IMOGEN, PRINCESS j 
 
 B r/ro a letter to Miss Anna Swcmwick . 155 
 
 VII. ROSALIND, . . In a letter to Robert Browning . 225 
 
 VIII. BEATRICE, . . In a letter to John RusTcin . . 287 
 
 IX. HERMIONE, . In a letter to Lord Tennyson . 335 
 
 APPENDIX- 
 MR BROWNING'S "BLOT ON THE SCUTCHEON," . . 395 
 ANECDOTE OF CHARLES DICKENS, .... 397 
 
 ACTING OF "ANTIGONE" IN DUBLIN, . . . 397 
 
 "THE LADY OF LYONS," ..... 399 
 
 LADY MACBETH, ...... 400 
 
 NOTE TO LETTER ON ROSALIND, .... 404
 
 I. 
 
 OPHELIA
 
 I. 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 BRYNTYSILIO, August 10, 1880. 
 " rose of May ! Sweet Ophelia ! " 
 
 4 ND so you ask me, my friend indeed, I may almost say 
 * that you insist after our late talk over her, that I should 
 put down in writing my idea of Ophelia, so that you may make, 
 as you tell me, a new study of her character. 
 
 You are accustomed to write fluently all your thoughts, and 
 therefore you will hardly believe what a difficult task you have 
 set me. My views of Shakespeare's women have been wont to 
 take their shape in the living portraiture of the stage, and not 
 in words. I have, in imagination, lived their lives from the 
 very beginning to the end ; and Ophelia, as I have pictured 
 her to myself, is so unlike what I hear and read about her, 
 and have seen represented on the stage, that I can scarcely 
 hope to make any one think of her as I do. It hurts me to 
 hear her spoken of, as she often is, as a weak creature, wanting 
 in truthfulness, in purpose, in force of character, and only 
 interesting when she loses the little wits she had. And yet 
 who can wonder that a character so delicately outlined, and 
 shaded in with touches so fine, should be often gravely mis- 
 understood ]
 
 4 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Faint and delicate, however, as these shadowings are, they 
 are yet so true to nature, and at the same time so full of sug- 
 gestion, that I look on Ophelia as one of the strongest proofs 
 our great master has left us of his belief in the actor's art 
 (his own), and of his trust in the power possessed, at least by 
 sympathetic natures, of filling up his outlines, and giving full 
 and vivid life to the creatures of his brain. Without this belief 
 could he have written as he did, when boys and beardless youths 
 were the only representatives of his women on the stage 1 Yes, 
 he must have looked beyond "the ignorant present," and known 
 that a time would come when women, true and worthy, should 
 find it a glory to throw the best part of their natures into these 
 ideal types which he has left to testify to his faith in womanhood, 
 and to make them living realities for thousands to whom they 
 would else have been unknown. Think of a boy as Juliet ! as 
 " heavenly Rosalind " ! as " divine Imogen " ! or the gracious 
 lady of Belmont, " richly left," but still more richly endowed by 
 nature "The poor rude world," says Jessica, "hath not her 
 fellow." Think of a boy as Miranda, Cordelia, Hermione, Des- 
 demona who " was heavenly true " as the bright Beatrice, and 
 so on, through all the wondrous gallery ! How could any youth, 
 however gifted and specially trained, even faintly suggest these 
 fair and noble women to an audience 1 Women's words, women's 
 thoughts, coming from a man's lips, a man's heart it is monstrous 
 to think of ! One quite pities Shakespeare, who had to put up 
 with seeing his brightest creations thus marred, misrepresented, 
 spoiled. 
 
 Ophelia was one of the pet dreams of my girlhood partly, 
 perhaps, from the mystery of her madness. In my childhood 
 I was much alone taken early away from school because of 
 delicate health ; often sent to spend months at the seaside, in 
 the charge of kind but busy people, who, finding me happy 
 with my books on the beach, left me there long hours by myself. 
 I had begged from home the Shakespeare I had been used to 
 read there an acting edition by John Kemble. This and the 
 Arabian Nights how dear these books were to me! Then 
 I had the Pilgrim's Progress and Milton's Paradise Lost. 
 Satan was my great hero. I think I knew him by heart. His
 
 OPHELIA. 5 
 
 address to the council I have often declaimed to the waves, 
 when sure of being unobserved. I had also a translation I 
 do not know by whom (poor enough, but good enough for me 
 then) of Dante's Inferno, some lines of which sank deep into 
 my heart. I have not seen the book for years ; but they are 
 still there : 
 
 " Up ! be bold ! 
 
 Vanquish fatigue by energy of mind ! 
 
 For not on plumes, or canopied in state, 
 
 The soul wins fame ! " 1 
 
 How often since, in life's hard struggles and trials, have these 
 lines helped me ! 
 
 My books were indeed a strange medley, but they were all 
 that were within my reach, and I found them satisfying. They 
 filled my young heart and mind with what fascinated me most 
 the gorgeous, the wonderful, the grand, the heroic, the self- 
 denying, the self-devoting. 
 
 Like all children, I kept, as a rule, my greatest delight to 
 myself. I remember on some occasions, after I had returned 
 home to my usual studies, when a doubt arose about some 
 passage which had happened to be in the little storehouse of 
 my memory, being able to repeat whole chapters and scenes of 
 my favourites to the amused ears of those around me. But I 
 never revealed how much my life was wrapped up in them, even 
 
 1 I have lately found among my old school-books this little volume, which 
 first introduced me to Dante. It is entitled, The Inferno of Dante Alighieri, 
 translated into English Blank Verse ^oith Notes by Nathaniel Howard. 
 London : 1807. The passage referred to in the text occurs in canto xxiv. 
 (lines 46 to 54 of the original). It is scored in pencil on the margin with an 
 emphasis, which shows how much it had impressed me. My memory de- 
 ceived me as to the sequence of the lines, which are as follows : 
 
 " ' Up,' cried the sage, ' now needs thy arduous strength, 
 For not on plumes, or canopied in state, 
 The soul wins fame, without whose vital smile 
 Whoe'er consumes away his gift of life, 
 Expires, and leaves such vestige of himself 
 As smoke in air, or unregarded foam 
 Quick-dying in the water. Up ! be bold ! 
 Vanquish fatigue by energy of mind, 
 That conquers every struggle, if uncrushed 
 Beneath the burden of the body's frame.' "
 
 6 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 to my only sister, dear as she was to me. She was many years 
 older than myself, and too fond of fun to share in my day-and- 
 night dreams. I knew I should only be laughed at. 
 
 Thus I had lived again and again through the whole childhood 
 and lives of many of Shakespeare's heroines, long before it was 
 my happy privilege to impersonate and make them, in my 
 fashion, my own. During the few years I acted under Mr 
 Macready's management, almost the first, as you know, in my 
 theatrical life, I was never called upon to act the character of 
 Ophelia I suppose, because the little snatches of song (though 
 merely, one might say, the humming of a tune) kept still alive 
 the tradition that an accomplished singer was required for the 
 part. I had my wish, however, when in Paris, a little later, I 
 was asked, as a favour, to support Mr Macready in Hamlet by 
 acting Ophelia. I need not say how nervous I felt all the 
 more because of this singing tradition. The performances were 
 given in the Salle Ventadour, on the " off-nights " of the Italian 
 Opera. 
 
 Oh how difficult it is, however much you have lived in a 
 thing, to make real your own ideal, and give it an utterance and 
 a form ! To add to my fright, I was told, just before entering 
 on the scene, that Grrisi and many others of the Italian group 
 were sitting in a private box on the stage. But I believe I sang 
 in tune, and I know I soon forgot Grisi and all else. I could not 
 help feeling that I somehow drew my audience with me. And 
 what an audience it was ! Ho obtrusive noisy applause, for there 
 was no organised claque for the English plays ; but what an in- 
 describable atmosphere of sympathy surrounded you ! Every 
 tone was heard, every look was watched, felt, appreciated. I 
 seemed lifted into "an ampler ether, a diviner air." Think, if 
 this were so in Desdemona, in Ophelia, what it must have been 
 to act Juliet to them ! I was in a perfect ecstasy of delight. I 
 remember that, because of the curtailment of some of the scenes 
 in Romeo and Juliet (the brilliant Mercutio was cut out), I had 
 to change my dress very quickly, and came to the side scene 
 breathless. I said something to Mr Serle, the acting manager, 
 about the hot haste of it all no pause to gather oneself up 
 for the great exertion that was to follow. He replied, " Never
 
 OPHELIA. 7 
 
 mind, you will feel no fatigue after this." And he was right. 
 The inspiration of the scene is at all times the best anodyne for 
 pain and bodily fatigue. But who could think of either before an 
 audience so sensitively alive to every touch of the artist's hand ? 
 
 But to return to "sweet Ophelia." I learned afterwards that, 
 among the audience, when I first attempted the part, were many 
 of the finest minds in Paris ; and some of these found " most 
 pretty things " to say of the Ophelia to which I had introduced 
 them. Many came after the play to my dressing-room, in the 
 French fashion, among them Georges Sand to say them, I sup- 
 pose ; but, having had this ordeal to go through before, after 
 acting Desdemona, the character in which I first appeared in 
 Paris, my English shyness took me out of the theatre as soon 
 as I had finished, and before the play ended. All this was, 
 of course, pleasant. But what really gratified me most was, 
 to learn that Mr Macready, sternest of critics, watched me on 
 each night in the scenes of the fourth act ; and among the kind 
 things he said, I cannot forget his telling me that I had thrown 
 a new light on the part, and that he had never seen the mad 
 scenes even approached before. How I treated them, it would 
 be difficult to describe to you in words, because they were the 
 outcome of the whole character and life of Ophelia, as these 
 had shaped themselves in my youthful dream. 
 
 And now to tell you, as nearly as I can, what that dream was. 
 
 I pictured Ophelia to myself as the motherless child of an 
 elderly Polonius. His young wife had first given him a son, 
 Laertes, and had died a few years later, after giving birth to 
 the poor little Ophelia. The son takes much after his father, 
 and, his student-life over, seeks his pleasure in the gayer life 
 of France ; fond of his little sister in a patronising way, in 
 their rare meetings, but neither understanding nor caring to 
 understand her nature. 
 
 The baby Ophelia was left, as I fancy, to the kindly but 
 thoroughly unsympathetic tending of country-folk, who knew 
 little of "inland nurture." Think of her, sweet, fond, sen- 
 sitive, tender-hearted, the offspring of a delicate dead mother, 
 tended only by roughly mannered and uncultured natures ! 
 One can see the sweet child, with no playmates of her kind,
 
 8 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 wandering by the streams, plucking flowers, making wreaths 
 and coronals, learning the names of all the wild -flowers in 
 glade and dingle, having many favourites, listening with eager 
 ears when amused or lulled to sleep at night by the country 
 songs, whose words (in true country fashion, not too refined) 
 come back again vividly to her memory, with the fitting mel- 
 odies, as such things strangely but surely do, only when her 
 wits had flown. Thus it is that, when she has been "blasted 
 with ecstasy," all the country customs return to her mind : the 
 manner of burying the dead, the strewing the grave with 
 flowers, " at his head, a grass green turf ; at his heels, a stone," 
 with all the other country ceremonies. I think it important 
 to keep in view this part of her supposed life, because it puts 
 to flight all the coarse suggestions which unimaginative critics 
 have often made, to explain how Ophelia came to utter snatches 
 of such ballads as never ought to issue from a young and cul- 
 tured woman's lips. 
 
 When we see Ophelia first, this "Kose of May" is just 
 budding ; and, indeed, it is as a bud, never as a full flower, 
 that she lived her brief life. 
 
 " Et, rose elle a vecu, ce que vivent les roses, 
 L'espace d'un matin." 
 
 She was still very young, in her early 'teens, according to what 
 Laertes says, when he last sees her. We can imagine her formal, 
 courtierly father, on one of his rare visits to his country home 
 (ill spared from his loved court duties), noting with surprise his 
 little daughter growing into the promise of a charming woman- 
 hood. The tender beauty of this budding rose must be no longer 
 left to blush unseen ; this shy, gentle nature must be developed, 
 made into something more worthy of her rank. She must imbibe 
 the court culture, and live in its atmosphere. She must become 
 a court lady ; and this hitherto half-forgotten flower must be 
 made to expand, under his own eye and teaching, into the com- 
 pleteness of a full-blown hothouse exotic. 
 
 When we first see her, we may fairly suppose that she has 
 been only a few months at court. It has taken off none of the 
 bloom of her beautiful nature. That remains pure and fresh
 
 OPHELIA. 9 
 
 and simple as she brought it from her country home. One 
 change has taken place, and this a great one. Her heart has 
 been touched, and has found its ideal in the one man about 
 the court who was likely to reach it, both from his rare and 
 attractive qualities, and a certain loneliness in his position not 
 very unlike her own. How could she help feeling flattered 
 drawn towards this romantic, desolate Hamlet, the observed of 
 all observers, whose "music vows" have been early whispered 
 in her ears] On the other hand, what sweet repose it must 
 have been to the tired, moody scholar, soldier, prince, dis- 
 satisfied with the world and all its ways, to open his heart 
 to her, and to hear the shy yet eloquent talk which he would 
 woo from her to watch the look, manner, and movements of 
 this graceful child of nature watch, too, her growing wonder 
 at her new surroundings, the court ceremonies, the strange 
 diversities of character, and to note the impressions made 
 upon her by them, what delight to trace and analyse the 
 workings of this pure, impressionable mind, all the more in- 
 teresting and wonderful to him because of the contrast she 
 presented to the parent stem ! In all this there was for him 
 the subtle charm which the deep, philosophical intellect must 
 ever find in the pure unconscious innocence and wisdom of a 
 guileless heart. 
 
 One can see how the tiresome officiousness and the plati- 
 tudes of Polonius irritate Hamlet beyond endurance. What 
 a contrast the daughter presents to him ! Restful, intelligent, 
 unobtrusive, altogether charming, and whom he loves "best, 
 O most best, believe it. ... Thine evermore, most dear lady, 
 while this machine is to him, Hamlet." And to Ophelia, how 
 great must have been the attraction of an intercourse with a 
 mind like Hamlet's, when first she saw him, and had been 
 sought by his " solicitings " ! How alluring, how subtlely sweet 
 to one hitherto so lonely, so tender-hearted, shy, and diffident 
 of her power to please ; yet, though she knew it not, so well 
 fitted to understand and to appreciate all the finest qualities 
 of the young Lord Hamlet ! We see how often and often 
 they had met, by Polonius's own telling. Nor could he pos- 
 sibly have been ignorant that they did so meet. He says
 
 10 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " But what might you think, 
 When I had seen this hot love on the wing, 
 (As I perceived it, I must tell you that, 
 Before my daughter told me)." 
 
 Then, all that her brother says to her shows complete indif- 
 ference to her feelings. I never could get over the shock of 
 his lecturing her "touching the lord Hamlet," when we first 
 see them together as he is starting for France. Poor maiden ! 
 to have this treasured secret of her inner life, her very life, her 
 very soul, a secret so sweet, so sacred, so covered over, as she 
 thinks, from all eyes thus dragged rudely to the light; dis- 
 cussed in the most commonplace tone, and her very maidenly 
 modesty questioned ! Who will say she is not truthful, when, 
 on being asked, as she is soon after, by her father, " What is't, 
 Ophelia, he hath said to you?" she replies at once, notwith- 
 standing all her pain, "So please you, something touching the 
 lord Hamlet " ? Think how her whole nature must again have 
 shrunk and quivered, while listening to the cautious and worldly 
 platitudes of her father, which follow ! Then, to be commanded 
 to deny herself to the one being dear to her, and with whom 
 she had sympathy : what a feeling of degradation as well as 
 anguish must have been behind the few words she utters ! " I 
 shall obey, my lord." 
 
 Ophelia naturally had her attendants, whose duty it was to 
 tell her father of these meetings, and who evidently did so. 
 They were clearly not objected to by him, and he let the inter- 
 views go on, till he thought it might be as well, by interfering, 
 to find out if Hamlet were in earnest in his attachment, and if 
 it would be sanctioned by the king and queen. By this inter- 
 ference his worldly wisdom overreached itself. It came at the 
 wrong, the worst time. He bids Ophelia deny Hamlet access 
 to her, trusting that this will make the Prince openly avow his 
 love ; and was, of course, in entire ignorance of the fearful 
 scene, the dread revelation, which had meanwhile taken place, 
 and which was destined to cut Hamlet's life in twain, obliterate 
 from it all "trivial fond records," and shake to its foundations 
 all faith in womanhood, hitherto most sacred to him in the 
 name and person of his mother, the mother whom from his boy-
 
 OPHELIA. 1 1 
 
 hood he had fondly loved, and whom he had seen so cherished 
 and adored by his dead father. 
 
 Pause a moment with me, and think of the extraordinary 
 attractions of this mother. Another Helen of Troy she seems 
 to me, in the wonderful fascination which she exercises on all 
 who come within her influence ; not perhaps designedly, but, 
 like the Helena of the second part of Goethe's Faust, by an un- 
 toward fate which drew on all insensibly to love her : 
 
 " Wehe mir ! Welch streng Geschick 
 Verfolgt mich, uberall der Manner Busen 
 So zu bethbren, dass sie weder sich 
 Noch sonst ein Wiirdiges verschonten." 
 
 " Woe's me, what ruthless fate 
 Pursues me, that, where'er I go, I thus 
 Befool men's senses, so they not respect 
 Themselves, nor aught that's worthy ! " 
 
 What a picture is presented of the depth of her husband's love, in 
 Hamlet's words that he would not " beteem the winds of heaven 
 visit her cheek too roughly " ! And this spell still exercises 
 itself upon his spirit after his death. Observe how tenderly 
 he calls Hamlet's attention to the queen in the closet scene : 
 
 " But look, amazement on thy mother sits ! 
 Oh, step between her and her fighting soul ! " 
 
 Claudius, his successor, perils his very soul for her. See what 
 he says of her: 
 
 " She's so conjunctive to my life and soul, 
 That, as the star moves not but in his sphere 
 I could not but by her." 
 
 She is tenderness itself to her son. "The queen his mother," 
 says Claudius, "lives almost by his looks." 
 
 I cannot believe that Gertrude knew of the murder of her 
 husband. His spirit does not even hint that she was privy to 
 it ; if she had been, could he have spoken of her so tenderly as 
 he does? Hamlet, in the height of his passion, does indeed 
 charge her with this guilty knowledge in the words 
 
 " Almost as bad, good mother, 
 As kill a king, and marry with his brother. "
 
 12 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Again, he calls Claudius in her hearing "a murderer and a 
 villain"; but in both cases the imputation clearly wakens no 
 echo in her soul, and she puts it down, with much else that he 
 says, to "the heat and flame of his distemper." "The black 
 and grained spots" in her soul, of which she speaks, are the 
 stings of her awakened conscience, to which her husband's spirit 
 had warned Hamlet to leave her remorse for her too speedy 
 forgetfulness of her noble husband, and almost immediate mar- 
 riage with his brother, towards whom she must have previously 
 shown some preference, the shame of which Hamlet's passionate 
 words have brought home to her so unexpectedly and so irre- 
 sistibly. 
 
 Gertrude evidently sees with satisfaction the growing love 
 between Hamlet and Ophelia. She loves the " sweet maid," and 
 hopes to see their betrothal, and to strew her bridal bed. On her 
 side, Ophelia has felt fully the gracious kindness of the queen ; 
 has gratefully returned the affection shown to her ; and, like the 
 rest, has been drawn closely towards her by her beauty and win- 
 ning graciousness. A proof of this attachment breaks out in her 
 madness, when she clamours for, and will not be denied, the 
 presence of "the beauteous majesty of Denmark." 
 
 Ophelia's conduct in reference to the meeting with Hamlet, 
 concerted by her father and the king, has drawn upon her head 
 a world of, I think, most unjust censure and indignation. 
 "When the poor girl is brought, half willingly, half unwillingly, 
 to that (for her) fatal interview, we must not forget the pre- 
 vious one, described by her to her father, when she rushes in 
 affrighted, and recounts Hamlet's sudden and forbidden intru- 
 sion upon her in her closet, where she was sewing ; exhibiting 
 a garb and plight in which no sane gentleman would venture 
 to approach a lady slovenly, "his stockings foul'd, ungarter'd, 
 and down-gyved to his ankle," the woe-worn look, the sigh so 
 piteous and profound, the eyes, as he went backward out of 
 the chamber, bending to the last their light upon herself. Her 
 father's interpretation is, that " he is mad for her love " ; and 
 he assigns as the cause for this outbreak, that she "did repel 
 his letters, and denied his access." Here his worldly wisdom is 
 again at fault.
 
 OPHELIA. 1 3 
 
 " I am sorry that with better heed and judgment 
 I had not quoted him : I feared he did but trifle, 
 And meant to wreck thee." 
 
 All this is startling and sad enough, but not entirely hopeless or 
 remediless. Ophelia has, at least, the solace of hoping, believing, 
 that she is beloved by her "soul's idol." Could she, then, but 
 see him once again, she might learn whether Hamlet's strange 
 agitation were really what was represented, whether, as her 
 father had said, he were indeed " mad for her love " ! In this 
 state of mind, surely she is not to be much blamed, or judged 
 very harshly, if she consented to lend herself to the arrangement 
 proposed by her father; acutely painful though it must have 
 been to her sensitive nature, after denying him access to her 
 repeatedly, thus seemingly to thrust herself upon her lover's 
 notice, and become, as it were, the partner in a trick. She has, 
 also, the sanction of his mother, the queen, who says : 
 
 "And, for your part, Ophelia, I do wish, 
 That your good beauties be the happy cause 
 Of Hamlet's wildness ; so shall I hope your virtues 
 Will bring him to his wonted way again, 
 To both your honours." 
 
 Her fault, if fault it were, was cruelly expiated. She will 
 test his affection by offering to return his love-tokens, his gifts 
 and letters anything to end this torturing suspense. We can 
 believe how cautiously, how tenderly her approaches are made 
 to her so deeply loved, and, as she fears, so sadly afflicted Prince. 
 That Ophelia should, after repeatedly denying her presence to 
 him, thus place herself in his path, and challenge his notice, at 
 once excites in Hamlet's mind a suspicion of some device to cir- 
 cumvent him. Saluting her at first gently, his tone alters, as 
 he sees in the offer of the return of his " remembrances " a repe- 
 tition, he believes, of the plot laid for him before in the persons 
 of Eosencrantz and Guildenstern. That he is again to be thus 
 played with, and that this innocent girl, as he had thought her, 
 should lend herself to entrap him, drives him past his patience ; 
 and without mercy he begins to pour down upon her the full 
 vials of his wrath. In their last interview he has been touchingly 
 gentle and sad : voiceless showing a pathos beyond words : like
 
 14 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 the reluctant parting of the soul from the body. Now, his rude, 
 meaningless words, his violent manner, his shrill voice, "out of 
 tune and harsh," the absence of all courtesy, convince her that he 
 is mad indeed. 
 
 How can it be otherwise ? In all their former intercourse he 
 had appeared to her as 
 
 ' ' The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 
 The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, 
 The observed of all observers ! " 
 
 His gifts were offered to her with "words of so sweet breath 
 composed as made the things more rich." Now he could not 
 be more pitiless if the worst of her sex stood before him, and 
 not this young creature, this tender willow, swaying, bending 
 before the storm-bursts of his wrath, the cutting winds of his 
 fierce words. Many of these words, these reproaches, must have 
 passed harmless over the innocent head which did not know 
 their meaning. 1 But what a picture (who could paint it 1 ?) is 
 that of the stunned, bewildered, heart-stricken lamb, thus stand- 
 ing alone to hear the sins of all her sex thrown at her ! She 
 can only whisper a prayer or two for him no thought of her 
 _nwn desolation comes to her. "Oh, help him, you sweet 
 Heavens ! ... Oh Heavenly powers, restore him ! " When 
 suddenly challenged, "Where's your father?" the question re- 
 calls to her remembrance, what she has for the time forgotten 
 in deeper matter, that he is at this very moment acting the de- 
 grading part of an eavesdropper. What can she do but stammer 
 out in reply, "At home, my lord"? Shall she expose the old 
 man, when thus called to answer for him, to the insults, the 
 violence of Hamlet's mad anger, which she fears would have 
 fallen upon his head had she told the truth ? No ; like Desde- 
 mona she faces the falsehood, and, to screen her father, takes 
 it upon her own soul: "Oh, who has done this deed? . . . 
 
 1 "I have heard of your paintings too, well enough ; God has given you 
 one face, and you make yourselves another : you jig, you amble, and you 
 lisp, and nick-name God's creatures, and make your wantonness your ignor- 
 ance. Go to, I'll no more on't ; it hath made me mad. ... To a nunnery, 
 go!"
 
 OPHELIA. 15 
 
 Nobody ; I myself. Farewell ; commend me to my kind lord." 
 Who thinks of condemning Desdemona ? As Emilia says, " Oh, 
 she was heavenly true." And yet I have seen Ophelia's answef 
 brought forward as a proof of her weakness of character; and 
 this weakness asserted to be the cause of Hamlet's failure, or, at ; 
 least, to play an important part in the tragedy of his character. ' 
 Such weakness I call strength, in the highest, most noble, because ; 
 most self-forgetting, sense of the word. 
 
 And so Ophelia, in her "weakness," fears to tell the truth, 
 lest, in this too terrible paroxysm of madness which now pos- 
 sesses him, Hamlet might possibly kill her father. But this 
 catastrophe, alas ! is soon to follow, and proves to be the drop 
 too much in her cup of lonely anguish. When Hamlet has left 
 the scene, even then, I think, no sob is heard, no tears are shed : 
 there is no time yet for self-pity. Her soul's agony is too deep 
 for tears beyond all utterance of the common kind. First in 
 her thoughts is the " noble mind o'erthrown," and " most sove- 
 reign reason, like sweet bells jangled." At last, when she has 
 gone through the catalogue of his rare virtues, his princely qual- 
 ities, his noble attributes all "quite, quite down"! at the 
 end she looks at herself she who had " suck'd the honey of his 
 music vows." What is left for her ? for her, " of ladies most 
 deject and wretched " 1 " Oh, woe is me ! To have seen what 
 I have seen, see what I see ! " This is all she says, " still harp- 
 ing on " Hamlet. 
 
 In the usual stage arrangement Ophelia leaves the scene with 
 these words. Shakespeare makes her remain; and how greatly 
 does this heighten the pathos of her position ! Her heartless 
 father, knowing nothing, seeing nothing of the tragedy that is 
 going on before his eyes, unconscious from first to last how 
 deeply she has been wounded, and still treating her merely as 
 a tool, says 
 
 " How now, Ophelia ! 
 
 You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said ; 
 
 We heard it all." 
 
 He and the king had only eyes and ears for Hamlet ; and so she 
 drifts away from them into a shoreless "sea of troubles," un- 
 heeded and unmissed.
 
 16 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 "We see her once again, playing a sort of automaton part in 
 the play-scene sitting patiently, watchfully, with eyes only for 
 the poor stricken one who asks to lay his head upon her lap. 
 You notice, in the little that passes between them, how gently 
 she treats her wayward, smitten lover. And then, having no 
 clue to his trouble, no thread by which to link it with the past, 
 she is scared away, with the rest, on the poisoning of Gonzago, 
 at what appears to be a fresh outbreak of Hamlet's malady. By 
 this tune her own misery and desolation will have come home 
 to her fully her wounded heart, her wrecked happiness must 
 be more than the young, unaccustomed spirit can stand up 
 against. She is not likely, after her previous experience, to 
 seek solace in her father's sympathy : nor is hers a nature to 
 seek it anywhere. If found, it must come to her by the way. 
 The queen is, by this time, wrapped up in her own griefs in- 
 clined to confess herself to Heaven, repent what's past. "0 
 Hamlet ! thou hast cleft my heart in twain. . . . What shall 
 I do?" She is grieved enough for Ophelia when she sees her 
 " distract," but has had no time to waste a thought upon her 
 amid her own numerous fast-growing cares not even, as it 
 seems, to break to her the news of her father's death. There 
 might have been some drop of comfort, if the queen had spoken 
 to her of Hamlet, and told her, as she told the king, " He weeps 
 for what is done ! " As it was, most likely, in the usual marvel- 
 loving way of common people, the news of Polonius's death by 
 Hamlet's hand was conveyed to Ophelia's ears by her attendants 
 hurriedly, without any preparation. Shock upon shock ! The 
 heart already stricken, the young brain undisciplined in life's 
 storms, and in close and subtle sympathy with him who was 
 her very life, she catches insensibly the infection of his mind's 
 disease, her wits go wandering after his, and, like him, she falls 
 down " quite, quite down." One feels the mercifulness of this. 
 The " sweet Heavens," to which she had appealed to help Ham- 
 let, had helped her ! Her mind, in losing memory, loses the 
 remembrance of all the woful past, and goes back to her child- 
 hood, with its simple folk-lore and nursery -rhymes. Still, 
 through all this, we have the indication of dimly remembered 
 wrongs and griefs. She says she hears "there's tricks i' the
 
 OPHELIA. 17 
 
 world, and hems, and beats her heart ; . . . speaks things in 
 doubt, that carry but half sense : . . . would make one think 
 there might be thought, though nothing sure, yet much unhap- 
 pily." But the deeper suffering the love and grief together 
 cannot (perhaps never could) find expression in words. The 
 soul's wreck, the broken heart, are seen only by Him who knows 
 all. Happily, there is no vulgar comment made upon the deep 
 affection which she had so silently cherished no commonplace, 
 pitying words. " Oh ! this," says the king, " is the poison of 
 deep grief; it springs all from her father's death." Laertes 
 says 
 
 " rose of May ! 
 
 Heavens ! is't possible, a young maid's wits 
 Should be as mortal as an old man's life ? " 
 
 He comes a little nearer the truth in what follows 
 
 " Nature is fine in love : and, where 'tis fine, 
 It sends some precious instance of itself 
 After the thing it loves." 
 
 But one sees he has not the faintest insight into the real cause 
 of her loss of wits. The revenge he seeks upon Hamlet is for 
 his father 
 
 " His means of death, his obscure funeral 
 No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones, 
 No noble rite, nor formal ostentation 
 Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth, 
 That I must call't in question. " 
 
 A matter of family pride in Laertes, as well as grief for his 
 father's loss. Then at her grave, he says 
 
 "Oh, treble woe 
 
 Fall ten times treble on that cursed head, 
 Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense 
 Deprived thee of ! " 
 
 Only " when they shall meet at compt " will Hamlet even know 
 the grief he has brought upon, the wrong he has done to, this
 
 18 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHAEACTERS: 
 
 deep and guileless spirit. So far as we see, he has indeed 
 blotted her from his mind as a " trivial fond record." He is so 
 self-centred, so enwrapped in his own suffering, that he has no 
 thought to waste on the delicate girl whom he had wooed with 
 such a "fire of love," and had taught to listen to his most 
 honeyed vows. He casts her from him like a worthless weed, 
 without a word of explanation or a quiver of remorse. Let us 
 hope that when he sees her grave, his conscience stings him ; but 
 beyond ranting louder than Laertes about what he would do for 
 her sake and she dead! there is not much sign of his love 
 being at any time worthy of the sweet life lost for it. 
 
 Perhaps you will think that, in the fulness of my sympathy 
 for Ophelia, I feel too little for Hamlet. But this is not really 
 so. One cannot judge Hamlet's actions by ordinary rules. He 
 is involved in the meshes of a ruthless destiny, from which by 
 nature and temperament he is powerless to extricate himself. In 
 the infirmity of a character which expends its force in words 
 and shrinks from resolute action, he unconsciously drags down 
 Ophelia with him. They are the victims of the same inexorable 
 fate. I could find much to say in explanation and in extenua- 
 tion of the shortcomings of one upon whom a task was laid, 
 which he of all men, by the essential elements of his character, 
 was least fitted to accomplish. 
 
 But you see I only touch upon his character so far as it bears 
 upon Ophelia, on what he has been to her and what he is. Be- 
 fore the story begins, he has offered her his love " in honourable 
 fashion." Then we hear from her of the silent interview which 
 so affrights her. After this, when for the first time we see them 
 together, he treats her as only a madman could, and in a way 
 which not even his affectation of madness can excuse. Again, in 
 the play-scene which follows, the same wilfulness, even insolence, 
 of manner is shown to her. Now, whatever his own troubles, per- 
 plexities, heart-breaks, might be, it is hard to find an apology for 
 such usage of one whose heart he could not but know that he 
 had won. He is even tenderer, more considerate, to his mother, 
 whom he thinks so wanton and so guilty, than to this young 
 girl, whom he has "importuned with love," and "given counte- 
 nance to his speech with almost all the holy vows of heaven."
 
 OPHELIA. 1 9 
 
 I cannot, therefore, think that Hamlet comes out well in his 
 relations with Ophelia. I do not forget what he soyp at her 
 grave : 
 
 " I loved Ophelia ; forty thousand brothers 
 Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
 Make up my sum ! " 
 
 But I weigh his actions against his words, and find them here of 
 little worth. The very language of his letter to Ophelia, which 
 Polonius reads to the king and queen, has not the true ring in 
 it. It comes from the head, and not from the heart it is a 
 string of euphuisms, which almost justifies Laertes' warning to 
 his sister, that the "trifling of Hamlet's favour" is but "the 
 perfume and suppliance of a minute." Hamlet loves, I have 
 always felt, only in a dreamy imaginative way, with a love as 
 deep, perhaps, as can be known by a nature fuller of thought 
 and contemplation than of sympathy and passion. Ophelia does 
 not sway his whole being, perhaps no woman could, as he sways 
 hers. Had she done so, not even the task imposed upon him by 
 his father's spirit could have made him blot her love from his 
 mind as a " trivial fond record," for it would have been inter- 
 woven inseparably with his soul, once and for ever. 
 
 When Ophelia comes before us for the last time, with her lap 
 full of flowers, to pay all honour and reverence, as she thinks, in 
 country fashion, to her father's grave, the brother is by her side, 
 of whom she had said before, most significantly, that he should 
 "know of it. ... I cannot choose but weep, to think they 
 should lay him i' the cold ground." Then that brother can 
 lavish in her heedless ears the kind phrases, the words of love, 
 of which, perhaps, in her past days he had been too sparing. 
 " rose of May ! dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia ! " But 
 the smiles are gone which would once have greeted these fond 
 words. He has passed out of her memory, even as she had 
 passed out of his, when he was " treading the primrose path of 
 dalliance" in sunny France. She has no thought but to bury 
 the dead her dead love her old father taking the outward 
 form of it. Even the flowers she has gathered have little beauty 
 or sweetness "rosemary for remembrance; pray you, love, re-
 
 20 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 member : " the lover has said he never gave her aught ! " I 
 loved you not" "rue," for desolation; fennel, and columbines 
 a daisy, the only pleasant flower with pansies for thoughts. 
 Violets she would give, but cannot. " They withered all " with 
 her dead love. 
 
 To Ophelia's treatment of her brother in this scene I ventured 
 to give a character which I cannot well describe to you, but 
 which, as I took care it should not be obtrusive, and only as a 
 part of the business of the scene, I felt sure that my great 
 master, the actor-author, would not have objected. I tried to 
 give not only his words, but, by a sympathetic interpretation, 
 his deeper meaning a meaning to be apprehended only by that 
 sympathy which arises in, and is the imagination of, the heart 
 
 When Laertes approaches Ophelia, something in his voice and 
 look brings back a dim, flitting remembrance ; she gives him of 
 her flowers, and motions him to share in the obsequies she is 
 paying. "When her eyes next fall upon him, she associates him 
 somehow with the " tricks i' the world." A faint remembrance 
 comes over her of his warning words, of the shock they gave 
 her, and of the misery which came so soon afterwards. These 
 she pieces together with her " half sense," and thinks he is the 
 cause of all. She looks upon him with doubt, even aversion; 
 and, when he would approach her, shrinks away with threatening 
 gestures and angry looks. All this was shown only at intervals, 
 and with pauses between mostly by looks and slight action 
 a fitful vagueness being indicated throughout. The soul of 
 sense being gone, the sweet mind had become "such stuff as 
 dreams are made of." The body bore some resemblance to the 
 rose of May ; but it was only as the casket without the jewel. 
 Nothing was left there of the thoughtful, reticent, gentle Ophelia. 
 The unobtrusive calm which had formerly marked her demean- 
 our had changed to waywardness. The forcing her way into 
 the presence of the queen, where she had been used to go only 
 when summoned, clamouring for her will, and with her winks, 
 nods, and gestures, " strewing dangerous conjectures in ill-breed- 
 ing minds," tells with a terrible emphasis how all is changed, 
 and how her reason, too, has become "like sweet bells jangled, 
 out of tune and harsh."
 
 OPHELIA. 21 
 
 Poor rose of May ! Who does not give a sigh, a sob of grief, 
 at miserable Gertrude's beautiful account of the accidental 
 watery death of this fragile bud, cut down by a cold spring 
 storm, before her true midsummer had arrived? She sings her 
 own requiem, and carries the flowers of her innocence along 
 with her to the end. Like the fabled swan, with her death- 
 song on her lips, she floats unconsciously among the water-lilies, 
 till the kindly stream embraces and takes her to itself, and to 
 "that blessed last of deaths, where death is dead." 
 
 Dear friend, these are little better than rough notes. I have 
 written much, yet seem to have said nothing of what I would 
 fain have said. "Piece out my imperfections with your 
 thoughts." 
 
 Yours always affectionately, 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT MARTIN. 
 To Miss GERALDINE E. JEWSBURY.
 
 II. 
 
 PORTIA
 
 II. 
 
 P K T I A. 
 
 BRYNTYSILIO, NEAR LLANGOLLEN, 
 September 1, 1880. 
 
 " In Belmont is a lady richly left." 
 
 TT is such a pleasure to me, dear friend, to do anything to be- 
 - guile your thoughts from the pain and weariness of your 
 sick-bed, that I will try once more to do as you wish, and put 
 on paper some of the ideas which have guided me in represent- 
 ing Portia. Your letter tells me that she is " one of your great 
 heroines," and that you desire to hear about her most of all. I am 
 very glad to know that you hold her to be a " real, typical, great 
 lady and woman." This is my own idea. I have always classed 
 her with Vittoria Colonna, Cassandra Fedele, and women of that 
 stamp; and I have loved her all the more, perhaps, that from 
 the days of Shakespeare to our own the stage has done her but 
 scanty justice. 
 
 But it is of little moment to consider how far away from 
 Shakespeare has been the Portia of the English stage, as we 
 gather from its annals. Eather should we try to form a clear 
 and definite conception of her character, and of her influence 
 upon the main incidents of the play, by a conscientious study of 
 her in the leaves of the great master's " unvalued book." This, 
 then, is how she pictures herself to my mind.
 
 26 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 I have always looked upon her as a perfect piece of Nature's 
 handiwork. Her character combines all the graces of the richest 
 womanhood with the strength of purpose, the wise helpfulness, 
 and sustained power of the noblest manhood. Indeed, in this 
 instance, Shakespeare shows us that it is the woman's keener wit 
 and insight which see into and overcome the difficulty which has 
 perplexed the wisest heads in Venice. For, without a doubt, 
 as it seems to me at least, it is to her cultivated and bright 
 intelligence, and not alone to the learned Dr Bellario, her cousin, 
 that Bassanio is indebted for the release of his friend Antonio. 
 
 She comes before us at a time when, like another sweet Italian 
 lady, she has "seen no age, nor known no sorrow." Alas for 
 the sad fate which awaits poor Desdemona ! But Portia has 
 known no sorrow while she is before us, and we leave her in the 
 gratified joy of having not only given to her husband "her 
 house, her servants, and herself," but of having also, by her fine 
 intelligence, rescued and restored to him his best -loved friend 
 and kinsman. 
 
 To know how she has been able to accomplish this, we must 
 go back to her youth. I think of her then as the cherished 
 child of a noble father a father proud of his child's beauty, and 
 of the promise which he sees in her of rare gifts both of mind 
 and heart. These gifts he spares no pains to foster. He is 
 himself no ordinary man. He anticipates the danger to which 
 his beautiful and wealthy heiress may be exposed ; and it was by 
 one of those "good inspirations " which, as Nerissa says, "holy 
 men have at their death," that he fixed upon the device of the 
 three caskets, " whereof who chooses his meaning, chooses " his 
 beloved daughter. 
 
 From the first his aim has been to train her to succeed him 
 in his high position. With this view he has surrounded her 
 with all that is beautiful in art and ennobling in study, and 
 placed her in the society of scholars, poets, soldiers, statesmen, 
 the picked and noblest minds of her own and other lands. 
 Amid this throng of honoured guests, not the least honoured, 
 we may be sure, was the learned "cousin, Dr Bellario." This 
 cousin of hers we may suppose to have been a constant visitor 
 at princely Belmont, and, indeed, to have been her instructor
 
 PORTIA. 27 
 
 in jurisprudence a not unfitting branch of the future heiress 
 of Belmont's education. One can imagine how the girl Portia 
 would turn to him for help in her youthful perplexities, and how 
 charmed he must have been to see the hopeful dawning of that 
 
 "intuitive decision of a bright 
 And thorough-edged intellect," 
 
 of which she was afterwards to give so signal a proof. It is 
 obvious, at any rate, that she took an interest in his pursuits. 
 Perhaps they have, even in those early days, " turned over many 
 books together," and so she may have in some measure uncon- 
 sciously fitted herself for the great task which awaited her in 
 the future. 
 
 Her father may have seen with pleased surprise the bias of her 
 mind towards such studies ; and this, as well as her affection for 
 her learned teacher, may have led him to take her to some of the 
 famous trials of the day, so that when her own hour of trial 
 comes, when heart and head must alike be strong, and her self- 
 possession is taxed to the uttermost, she knows at least the forms 
 of the court, and through no technical ignorance would be likely 
 to betray herself. If this were not so, how could she, however 
 assured of her power to overcome the Jew, have dared to venture 
 into the presence of such an assembly as that "great court of 
 Venice," where any failure would have been disastrous, not merely 
 to herself, but to Bellario 1 
 
 Thus richly left, richly endowed, we find her, by her wise 
 father's will, not allowed to "choose one or refuse none," but 
 forced to submit to be wooed, and sought by " renowned suitors " 
 " whom the four winds blow in from every coast." She feels 
 this to be hard ; but so deep is her reverence for her father, that 
 she has schooled herself to bow implicitly to his will. "If I 
 live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless 
 I be obtained by the manner of my father's will." She tells us, 
 in her own playful way, how little the various " suitors who are 
 already come " have won upon her the Neapolitan prince who 
 loves, and " does nothing but talk of his horse " ; the young 
 county Palatine who "smiles not," "doth nothing but frown," 
 and is full of "unmannerly sadness"; the French lord, M. Le
 
 28 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Bon, who is " every man in no man," and who, in imitating all, 
 has ended by retaining no individuality. But one thing he must 
 have been amusing ; and we may be sure that in aftertimes he 
 will be not unfrequently a guest at Belmont. Then, after de- 
 scriptions of the English, the Scottish, and the German suitors, 
 with their peculiarities hit off to a nicety, we find her prettily 
 excusing herself by saying, " In truth, I know it is a sin to be a 
 mocker." But there is no malice in her mind. Her descriptions 
 make us see the men as though they were before us : few words, 
 but vivid pictures. 
 
 The next two we are allowed to judge of for ourselves as they 
 come before us with all the pomp of their great retinues. The 
 Prince of Morocco bears himself nobly, and in " choosing wrong " 
 shows at least that he rates Portia highly : " Never so rich a gem 
 was set in worse than gold." And in taking leave he says : "I 
 have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave ; thus losers 
 part." Then arrives the Prince of Aragon, who, after refusing to 
 " choose what many men desire," and " rank him with the bar- 
 barous multitudes," assumes desert, and chooses the silver casket 
 containing the fool's head. 
 
 Portia cannot have been an unmoved spectator of these scenes. 
 How must her heart have throbbed when in danger of having to 
 accept such unwelcome husbands ! For, although heart-whole, 
 yet she is not " fancy free." We learn from her dame d'honneur 
 and friend, Nerissa, that in her father's time there was one 
 visitor, a "Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier," whom Nerissa 
 considered of all men the "best deserving a fair lady." Portia 
 responds very briefly, but suggestively : " I remember him well ; 
 and I remember him worthy of thy praise." Often, no doubt, 
 has she wondered why he has not presented himself among her 
 suitors. Unconsciously, perhaps, the languor of hope deferred 
 speaks in the first words we hear from her lips : " By my troth, 
 Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this great world." The one 
 who she thought might possibly have been among the first comers 
 comes not at all. 
 
 After the departure of the Prince of Aragon arrives a mes- 
 senger to announce the arrival of the "Lord Bassanio." He 
 comes at last ! but at what a cost she guesses not. "We know,
 
 PORTIA. 29 
 
 from his description to Antonio, what he thinks of her : " Oh, 
 she is fair, and fairer than that word, of wondrous virtues." 
 Something stately as well as gracious there must have been in 
 her beauty, for he likens her to " Cato's daughter, Brutus' 
 Portia." We know, in any case, that he is welcome. In the 
 choosing of the caskets, the "soldier and the scholar" also 
 shows himself something of a poet. How charmingly he apos- 
 trophises " fair Portia's counterfeit " ! 
 
 "What demigod 
 Hath come so near creation ? Move these eyes ? 
 
 . . Here are sever'd lips, 
 Parted with sugar breath : so sweet a bar 
 Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs 
 The painter plays the spider, and hath woven 
 A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men 
 Faster than gnats in cobwebs : but her eyes 
 How could he see to do them ? having made one, 
 Methinks it should have power to steal both his, 
 And leave itself unfurnish'd." 
 
 And here, as often in other places, I ask myself Were the 
 painters of Shakespeare's day grateful to him for what he said 
 of their art 1 ? Or was it then, as too often now, that the fol- 
 lower of each art lived only in his own, looking down upon 
 and knowing little of all the others ; forgetting that it is out 
 of the commingling of all arts that perfect work in any direc- 
 tion must come as in nature all the elements, all the seasons, 
 unite to form the exquisite harmonies and ever-varying pictures 
 which we behold and admire in creation 1 
 
 Throughout the early part of the last of the casket scenes, 
 what tortures of suspense must Portia have endured, for by 
 this time her heart has made its choice ! How she must try 
 to rest her faith in her father's love, and in the hope that 
 the "good inspiration" which devised this choice of caskets, 
 may prove itself in the choice of the one " who shall rightly 
 love " ! Hard it is for her to know the right casket and yet 
 to give no hint ; and not only not be herself " forsworn," but 
 by ordering her suite " to stand aloof," far apart from the 
 caskets, to ensure that no accident shall, unintentionally on 
 the part of a bystander, direct Bassanio's choice !
 
 30 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHAKACTERS: 
 
 With what a heart-leap she finds him choose the right casket ! 
 with what excess of happiness ! 
 
 " love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, 
 In measure rein thy joy, scant this excess ; 
 I feel too much thy blessing : make it less, 
 For fear I surfeit ! " 
 
 Then, when Bassanio comes to claim her according to the " gentle 
 scroll," how frankly and nobly she gives him not only all he 
 asks herself but her very all with the desire that she could 
 be " trebled twenty times herself " " in virtues, beauties, livings, 
 friends, exceed account " ! 
 
 And now when congratulations are over, and their happiness 
 appears complete, the evil news arrives, brought by Bassanio's 
 friends Solanio, Lorenzo, and Jessica, of the overthrow of 
 Antonio's fortune that all his ventures had failed that the 
 time has gone by within which the bond might be redeemed, 
 and that nothing now can drive the inexorable Jew " from 
 the envious plea of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond." Thus 
 all at once come^ the test which is to show that the union 
 of Portia with Bassanio is indeed a "marriage of true minds." 
 It is enough that Antonio is the bosom friend of Bassanio 
 "the semblance of his soul" to assure her that he is worthy 
 to be hers also. For, in her own words, 
 
 "In companions 
 
 That do converse and waste the time together, 
 Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 
 There must be needs a like proportion 
 Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit." 
 
 Moreover, what a picture of that friend has Bassanio given ! 
 
 "The dearest friend to me, the kindest man ; 
 
 and one in whom 
 
 The ancient Roman honour more appears, 
 Than any that draws breath in Italy." 
 
 At first, Portia evidently does not realise the extent of the 
 Jew's malignity. She feels that, at any sacrifice, he must be 
 bought over to cancel his bond, and she believes that this is 
 possible. After having read Antonio's letter, she has but one
 
 POKTIA. 31 
 
 thought to hasten Bassanio's departure, with ample means to 
 satisfy the Jew. But first she must give him the right to use 
 her means as his own ; he must indeed be lord of all : 
 
 " First go with me to church, and call me wife : 
 And then away to Venice to your friend. " 
 
 During the time, brief as it can be made, of the preparation 
 for the marriage ceremony, Portia will have heard all the par- 
 ticulars of the "merry bond"; she will have 'discovered that 
 money alone, however squandered, cannot shake the obdurate 
 Jew's determination. Accustomed, as I have before suggested, 
 by her peculiar training, to look with a judicial mind upon 
 serious matters, she, after many questionings about its terms, 
 hits by a happy instinct, as I believe, upon the flaw in the 
 bond. She will say nothing of this to Bassanio before con- 
 sulting her learned cousin ; but hurries him away with her 
 wealth to use as his own, and then herself hastens towards 
 Venice, after despatching a messenger to Bellario, with a letter 
 informing him of her approach, as well as of her belief that she 
 has found a flaw in the bond, and requesting his presence at 
 the trial. 
 
 We find her, before her departure, in the brightest spirits, 
 feeling virtually assured of success, and even jesting in her new 
 happiness with Nerissa as to who shall 
 
 " prove the prettier fellow of the two, 
 And wear her dagger with the braver grace." 
 
 This state of mind, it appears to me, could not have been 
 possible, had Portia known what was before her. She is at 
 ease, because she is sure of the full sympathy of her friend and 
 cousin, Bellario, and counts with confidence on his presence 
 in Venice to take the lead in court ; and so, after giving her 
 house into the care of Lorenzo and Jessica, who are to be 
 treated in their absence as Lord Bassanio and herself, she goes 
 gaily on to Venice with Nerissa. They will have to haste away, 
 for they " must measure twenty miles to-day." 
 
 In the play we see that Portia sends Balthazar, her trusty 
 servant whom she has " ever found honest, true," to Dr Bellario 
 with her letter of instructions, and bids him wait for her at " the
 
 32 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 traject, 1 the common ferry which trades to Venice." But either 
 her mind must have changed, or she must have met messengers 
 from Bellario on the road, who tell her of his illness and inability 
 to help her in person. Consequently, she hurries on to Padua ; 
 but when they meet for that they do meet is certain all her 
 first joyful anticipations receive a woful shock. She finds her 
 dear old friend grievously sick. What is to be done ? There is 
 no help near ; no time to be lost ! The Jew " plies the Duke at 
 morning and at night." Bellario's aid, she learns, has been sum- 
 moned already by the Duke as a last resource. In this extremity, 
 with no other help at hand, Bellario doubtless proposes that 
 Portia shall go in his stead, recommended by him as a "young 
 doctor of Rome," then visiting him. This must be done, or all 
 is lost. Bellario confirms her belief as to the flaw in the bond, 
 and furnishes her with his " own opinions " upon all the points 
 of law most vital to the question. They " turn o'er many books 
 together," and Portia proceeds to Venice, furnished, as Bellario 
 writes to the Duke, with the Doctor's opinion, " which, bettered 
 with his own learning (the greatness whereof I cannot enough 
 commend), goes with him, at my importunity, to fill up your 
 Grace's request in my stead." All this suggests to me that 
 Portia's eye had been the first to see the flaw in the bond, and 
 that her own impression had been confirmed by the great lawyer. 
 Grave and anxious must have been her thoughts as she crossed 
 the lagoons by " the common ferry which trades to Venice." Hers 
 was not a mind, however, to shrink before difficulty ; and, con- 
 firmed as she has been by the opinion of the great doctor of 
 laws, she feels sure of success, if she can but be true to herself, 
 and "forget she is a woman." All the gay light-heartedness 
 with which she started from Belmont has vanished under this 
 unexpected aspect of affairs. With what trepidation, with what 
 anxious sense of responsibility, must she find herself engaged in 
 such a task the mark for every eye, the "observed of all ob- 
 servers " ! Nothing but her deep love, and grateful happy heart, 
 
 1 One of the most persistent errors of the text, carried on from the first 
 folio, is "tranect," when Shakespeare evidently wrote "traject," the equi- 
 valent for "traghetto," the word which may be seen at every ferry in 
 Venice " Traghetto della Salute," &c.
 
 PORTIA. 33 
 
 could sustain her through such a trial To cease to be a woman 
 for the time is not so hard, perhaps, to one who has all her life 
 been accustomed to a position of command and importance ; but, 
 in the peculiar circumstances of this case, the effort must have 
 been one of extreme difficulty. 
 
 How skilfully, firmly, and gently she begins her task ! We 
 may believe that she had some sympathy with Shylock. She 
 has lately made his undutiful daughter welcome, because she is 
 wedded to her husband's friend. She cannot approve of Jessica's 
 uncalled-for accusation of her father : 
 
 ' ' I have heard him swear . . . 
 That he would rather have Antonio's flesh, 
 Than twenty times the value of the sum 
 That he did owe him." 
 
 But with her usual thoughtful kindness she feels for the stranger 
 Jewess, and, during her own absence, puts her in a position in 
 which her servants must show her all respect. 
 
 Jessica must have had, no doubt, a sad enough life after her 
 mother's death. We see that Shylock was not of a nature to 
 win love or respect from those immediately about him. Mean- 
 ness and distrust were in the atmosphere which he made around 
 him in his home life. Jessica says, " Our house is hell." That 
 she can, despite her training, appreciate goodness and virtue, may 
 be inferred from what she says of Portia 
 
 " Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, 
 And on the wager lay two earthly women, 
 And Portia one, there must be something else 
 Pawn'd with the other ; for the poor rude world 
 Hath not her fellow." 
 
 Still, I believe Portia to have more sympathy with the Jew 
 than with his daughter. She feels for the race that has been 
 proscribed, insulted, execrated, from generation to generation. 
 She finds some excuse for the deep hereditary hate which the 
 Jew has for his Christian oppressor, and for his desire of 
 vengeance in the name and for the sake of his persecuted tribe. 
 She would have understood his yearning for the death of the man 
 who had " disgraced and hindered him of half a million " ; but 
 not that he himself should desire to be the cruel executioner. 
 C
 
 34 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHAKACTEES: 
 
 The Duke, in his opening address to Shylock, tells him what 
 it is " thought " he will do : 
 
 " That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
 To the last hour of act ; and then, 'tis thought, 
 Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange 
 Than is thy strange apparent cruelty," &c. 
 
 As if the "stony adversary, the inhuman wretch," had been 
 keeping up the show of enforcing the letter of his bond out of 
 mere wantonness ! The " gentle answer " expected was not likely 
 to be given after such an appeal : a much less merciless adversary 
 would hardly have been moved by it. Who likes it to be taken 
 for granted that he is going to do a good action 1 to be told 
 that it is expected] Such an appeal would be likely to make 
 even a gentle nature perverse. The treatment of the Jew by the 
 friends of Antonio is also little calculated to bend him from his 
 purpose. It would only, if possible, harden his heart still more. 
 
 At this point enters the "young doctor of Eome, his name 
 Balthazar." We may conceive the angry eyes with which the 
 Jew looks at him. But, instead of insulting and taunting him 
 like the rest and as he had expected, the stranger simply asks if 
 he is Shylock, and says, "Of a strange nature is the suit you 
 follow " thus putting him at his ease, and securing Shylock's 
 attention by the assurance "that the Venetian law cannot 
 impugn him " in acting as he did. Antonio is asked if he con- 
 fesses the bond. He does confess it. Then the climax seems 
 to have been reached. The "something else" is kept in the 
 background until every other argument has failed. The Jew 
 must now take the initiative. The young doctor owns that they 
 are in his power. He is in the right confessed by all to be so ; 
 and therefore he can afford to be he "must be merciful." The 
 rude, unmannerly answer of the Jew, "On what compulsion 
 must I? tell me that," is met with grave gentleness. This 
 quality of mercy must not be "strained." There is no com- 
 pulsion in it : of its own sweet will it " droppeth upon the place 
 beneath." The blessing it brings is to the giver as well as to 
 the receiver : its region is beyond and above kingly sceptres ; it 
 is in the hearts of the highest ones of earth, and is an attribute of
 
 PORTIA. 35 
 
 " God himself "his God as well as the Christian's the God of 
 Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob ! 
 
 In Portia we see embodied the spirit of good, which it is her 
 first, her paramount desire, should prevail over the spirit of evil. 
 She would gladly have given largely of her fortune to turn 
 Shylock from his cruel purpose to give him an insight into the 
 happiness, the blessedness, of showing mercy and forgiveness. 
 She who has lately been made so happy in her gratified love, 
 what would she not give, out of her full heart, to prove her 
 gratitude to the All-Giver, and soften for His use, however little 
 that might be, this one human heart ? 
 
 After this sublime appeal, the Jew is again assured of the 
 "justice of his plea," so that his sacrifice in giving it up shall be 
 the nobler. He is only asked to "mitigate " it : at some (perhaps 
 not far-off) time he may himself have to pray to his God for 
 mercy, and the thought of that same needful prayer should surely 
 teach him "to render the deeds of mercy." This, alas! only 
 brings from his stubborn heart the cry 
 
 " My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
 The penalty and forfeit of my bond." 
 
 Then the temptation of money is held out to him. The loan 
 is to be paid thrice nay, " ten times " over. To no avail. 
 Portia, as a last resource, tries to bring before his mind's eye the 
 horror of the deed the gash, the quivering flesh, which is to be 
 " cut off nearest the merchant's heart " the seat of life. She 
 sees in imagination the fainting, dying man, and, with a shudder, 
 turns to Shylock, and bids him at least have by a surgeon to stop 
 the wounds, "lest he do bleed to death." No, not even that. 
 " 'Tis not in the bond." He will not do even " thus much for 
 charity." Now all is clear. 
 
 At this point, I have always felt in the acting that my desire 
 to find extenuations for Shylock's race and for himself leaves me, 
 and my heart grows almost as stony as his own. I see his 
 fiendish nature fully revealed. I have seen in fancy the knife 
 sharpened to cut quickly through the flesh ; the scales brought 
 forward to weigh it; have watched the cruel, eager eyes, all 
 strained and yearning to see the blood welling from the side
 
 36 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 "nearest the heart," and gloating over the fancied agonies and 
 death-pangs of his bitter foe. This man-monster, this pitiless 
 savage nature, is beyond the pale of humanity : it must be made 
 powerless to hurt. I have felt that with him the wrongs of his 
 race are really as nothing compared with his own remorseless hate. 
 He is not longer the wronged and suffering man ; and I longed to 
 pour down on his head the "justice" he has clamoured for, and 
 will exact without pity. 
 
 The Jew has been probed to the uttermost. It is now clear, 
 beyond all question, that it is Antonio's life which this " merry 
 bond " was intended to purchase, and that nothing short of it will 
 satisfy Shylock's "lodged hate." He has by his own confession 
 brought his life within the compass of the law. Then, like a 
 crushing avalanche, slowly but surely sweeps down upon him the 
 avenging, much-forbearing power, the "something else" which 
 has hitherto been held in hand by the young doctor. Then the 
 blood, which " is not in the bond," which has not been bargained 
 for, flows in to wash away the bond (better now had it been torn 
 up, as Portia wished), and to bring on the murderous Jew his 
 just punishment, the forfeiture of life, substance, all. Thus the 
 blood which he had so yearned to shed, but has overlooked in 
 the bond, is ordained to be the Nemesis which shall overwhelm 
 and destroy him, sweep him from his pride of place among his 
 tribe, rob him of half his dearly-gotten wealth, and take away 
 his desire to accumulate more, by forcing him to " render it upon 
 his death to the gentleman who lately stole his daughter." 
 
 Blow upon blow ! For now as a crowning shame the Jew 
 must go through the form of being made a Christian. We may 
 be sure that Portia would not have included this in the judg- 
 ment which she pronounces as the mouthpiece of the court. It 
 is Antonio, who, when asked by her, " What mercy can you 
 render him, Antonio?" after disposing of his substance, and re- 
 questing that the fine should be reduced from the whole to one- 
 half of his goods, closes with the stipulation that " for this favour 
 he presently become a Christian." This looks like a piece of 
 cruelty, unworthy of Antonio's character. Can he believe that 
 the mere name of Christian could "soften that than which 
 what's harder ? his Jewish heart " ? And yet we cannot accuse
 
 PORTIA. 37 
 
 Antonio of malignity. "A kinder gentleman treads not the 
 earth," say his friends and those who know him best. We must 
 not take Shylock's report of him. Shylock speaks out of the 
 hate he bears him, because of his interference with what he calls 
 his "well-won thrift." Antonio "has brought down the rate of 
 usance," helped the poor, wrested from Shylock's grasp despairing 
 wretches whom he would have stripped of their all, then thrown 
 aside to starve or die as they might. 
 
 " He seeks my life ; his reason well I know : 
 I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures 
 Many that have at times made moan to me : 
 Therefore he hates me." 
 
 When Antonio asks that Shylock shall be made a Christian, 
 we must remember that he himself has only just escaped the 
 sharpened knife which, in imagination, had been already tasting 
 his life-blood. Still, even this would not make wilfully cruel 
 this 
 
 " kindest man, 
 
 The best-condition 'd and unwearied spirit 
 In doing courtesies." 
 
 We must take his demand as a proof of the state of feeling 
 which prevailed at the time in which he lived a time when 
 Christians, even the best of them, had inherited the worst pre- 
 judices against the Jews. Their ancient misdemeanours, their 
 exactions, their usurious practices, their oppressions, all were 
 remembered against them, while no voice was raised in extenu- 
 ation or excuse. All agreed in despising and execrating this 
 vindictive and extortionate race. Antonio had seen Shylock 
 exercising his craft and turning it to the vilest uses. Perhaps he 
 thinks, in the spirit of his age, that forcing him to be a Christian 
 may work some miraculous change in his heart. We must at 
 least believe that he did not put this indignity upon him in mere 
 wantonness of spirit. 
 
 After declining the Duke's courtesies, on the plea of the 
 necessity for her immediate return to Padua, Portia, in her haste 
 to be home a day before her husband, is not inclined to linger 
 on the road, even to receive, as the young doctor, the thanks of
 
 38 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Antonio and her husband; but, seeing the ring on Bassanio's 
 linger, the thought passes across her mind of testing how deeply 
 he values it. After the long strain upon her brain, the sense of 
 relief which follows the deliverance of Antonio must find vent in 
 some new channel. The "marriage-bells" which for the first 
 time ring in her heart must not yet be heard by others. She 
 must keep up and carry out her self-imposed character to the 
 end. So, as she cannot take gold, she asks Antonio for his 
 gloves, which she will wear for his sake gloves were dainties 
 in those days and Bassanio for his ring. The latter request 
 being refused, the doctor affects to be slightly indignant, refuses 
 to accept aught else, and takes a hasty leave. The ring is sent 
 after him, as we know, at Antonio's intercession, and the clerk 
 despatched for the Jew's signature to the deed, which is to " be 
 well welcome" to Lorenzo and the journey to Belmont is 
 begun. 
 
 Here messengers must have overtaken Portia on her way back 
 (but not, as on her journey to Venice, messengers bearing ill 
 news), with letters which make her aware of the good fortune of 
 Antonio, in that " three of his argosies have richly come to 
 harbour suddenly." Portia has presumed a little too much on 
 having the start of Bassanio by many hours, and, as we learn 
 from Stephano, she has strayed about by holy crosses on her way 
 home 
 
 " Where ehe kneels and prays 
 For happy wedlock hours." 
 
 Thus it is that, notwithstanding all the means at her disposal, 
 and the help which she could command from her trusty servant 
 Balthazar, Portia arrives only so immediately before her husband, 
 who was not likely to pause by the way, that she has barely time 
 to warn her household to take no notice of her having been absent, 
 when a trumpet proclaims the tidings of the near approach of 
 Bassanio and his suite. At once she welcomes him " home" and 
 bids Antonio welcome to " our house "; and thus graciously makes 
 him feel that it is only as the mistress of his friend's house that 
 she bids him welcome. 
 
 What a scene is before them ! Nature welcomes them in 
 the tranquil moonlight, so congenial to their own thoughts and
 
 PORTIA. 39 
 
 wearied senses ; and even the weight of their excess of happi- 
 ness is lifted from them by the pleasant little embarrassment 
 caused by the parting with the rings, which Portia has happily 
 devised to bring about the discovery that she was the doctor and 
 Nerissa the clerk. 
 
 Think, too, of the exquisite contrast between the opening of 
 the play and its close. It begins in the blaze of garish day, in 
 the bustling streets of Venice. Yet are the first words of the 
 great Venetian merchant tinged with sadness "In truth, I 
 know not why I am so sad " a sadness prophetic of the com- 
 ing storm in which he was so soon to be involved by his devo- 
 tion to his friend. It closes far away from the great city, in a 
 garden faintly lighted by the moon, as she pales before the 
 coming morn, no trace of sadness left in the merchant's heart 
 for have not his devotion, his very danger, led to the happiest 
 issues 1 
 
 And now the newly-made husband, who left Belmont in the 
 deepest dejection and full of anxiety for his best friend, returns 
 to it with that friend, all trouble over, and is welcomed by its 
 mistress as its lord. This friend's safety he owes also to the 
 noble lady, who before had given him so generously her house, 
 her servants, and herself. The deeds of his after-life must speak 
 for him, for she had indeed "bereft him of all words." And 
 so the curtain falls, Portia having strewed blessings upon all 
 around her. 
 
 But I could never part with my characters when the curtain fell 
 and the audience departed. As I had lived with them through 
 their early lives, so I also lived into their future. I saw Bas- 
 sanio and Antonio despatched by Portia the next day to Padua 
 to talk over with her cousin Bellario the critical scene so lately 
 gone through, and bearing with them her injunctions and fond 
 messages to bring the sick man back, if possible, to be nursed 
 into health at Belmont. 
 
 For Portia I have always dreamed out a holier and far more 
 difficult task. I do not believe that such a woman as I conceive 
 her to have been would leave the despised, deserted Jew to his 
 fate. When she finds that even Antonio's " mercy " is not of 
 the kind to satisfy her woman's heart, she vows to herself that,
 
 40 SHAKESPEAKK'S FEMALE CHAKACTERS: 
 
 out of her own great happiness, and in abounding gratitude for 
 it, she will devote herself to the all but impossible task of con- 
 verting this " inexorable Jew." She goes alone to his wretched, 
 lonely home, to which he has been accompanied only by the 
 execrations of the mob. These still ring in his sick ears as he 
 lies there stunned, bewildered, defeated, deserted. But sharper, 
 more harrowing than all, are his self-upbraidings that he should 
 have left a loophole in the bond by which the hated Christian 
 merchant has escaped. In his rage, in his bitter self-accusations, 
 he lashes himself into a state of frenzy. If left alone much 
 longer to these wild, mad moods, he might destroy himself. 
 But, before he has time for this, conies to his door, and will not 
 be denied, this noble lady. He knows her not, roughly enough 
 forbids her entrance ; but with gentle force, and with the charm 
 of her winning manners and noble and gracious presence, she 
 contrives to gain an entrance. It is little she can do in her first 
 visits. Still she repeats them, bringing wine and oil and nourish- 
 ment for the sick body, and sacred ointment for the bruised 
 mind. The reviled, despised Jew finds himself for the first time 
 (for, oh, so long !) tended, thought of, cared for. Why should 
 this be 1 Never has this been since his early days, since his 
 beloved Leah left him, perhaps in his early manhood, when the 
 grief at her loss hardened his heart. Her' gentle presence by 
 his side through life might have softened down his worst pas- 
 sions, which were only aggravated by the blow sustained in her 
 loss. His young daughter may have resembled her mother in 
 feature, but not in character; he has therefore cared little for 
 her put no faith, no trust in her. The Jew would find in 
 Portia a likeness to his beautiful Leah ; would, in his weakness, 
 fancy the tender sympathetic eyes, looking so gently on him, 
 were hers ; would hear her voice when " in accents very low," 
 and with "a most silver flow" 
 
 " Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 
 
 Right to the heart and brain, though undescried, 
 Winning its way with extreme gentleness, 
 
 Through all the outworks of suspicious pride," 
 
 she sought first to draw from him a slow permission for her 
 visits. Then on the Jew's side would come a looking forward
 
 POKTIA. 41 
 
 to their recurrence ; then a hoping, wishing for them, until grad- 
 ually she had drawn from him from time to time the story of his 
 life, of his woes, of his own wrongs, of the wrongs of his race, of 
 his sweet lost wife ; of his ungrateful daughter, who in her flight 
 took not only his ducats, his jewels, but the ring given him by 
 Leah, "when he was a bachelor." We can imagine what a 
 sympathising ear was lent to all his tale ; how she gave him " a 
 world of sighs," this man, who had through life chiefly met 
 with curses and execrations. We can imagine, too, how, little 
 by little, she reminded him of words which somewhere, at some 
 time but little heeded then he had heard tell of that " quality 
 of mercy," " which droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon 
 the place beneath" that place being his poor, withered heart. 
 He would see now " the deeds of mercy." He would not recog- 
 nise the hand which, as the " reverend doctor," had dealt out 
 such uncompromising "justice." But he would begin to feel 
 that, had he gained his cruel will, and his "deeds been on his 
 head " had he been let to use that hungry knife, there would 
 have been " the smell o' the blood " under his nostrils day and 
 night ; and that same blood would have been upon his soul for 
 ever. Not even the solemn rites of his fathers could have washed 
 it away ! 
 
 These are his own reflections ; not forced upon him by Portia. 
 He will recognise her life of self-denial. He will know that 
 with every luxury, every happiness around her, she leaves them 
 all continually to sit with, and comfort, and console his sick 
 body and broken spirit. He cannot understand it. How can 
 he show that he is grateful "? He will do as she wishes ; will see 
 the daughter on whom he has poured his curse; will put his 
 blessing in the place of it; will even look upon her Christian 
 husband. 
 
 But I have imagined both daughter and husband much altered, 
 purified. Lorenzo, on reflection, has been ashamed, not perhaps 
 so much of stealing the Jew's daughter, as of accepting the stolen 
 ducats and jewels which she brought with her, and would be 
 longing, if he dared, to make restitution and confess his mean- 
 ness. Jessica, under the roof of Portia, and within the sphere 
 of her noble influence, could not fail to grow better and purer.
 
 42 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHAKACTEES: 
 
 She early shows herself capable of appreciating Portia's character 
 when Lorenzo asks her, " How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's 
 wife?" 
 
 " Past all expressing. It is very meet 
 The Lord Bassanio live an upright life : 
 For having such a blessing in his lady, 
 He finds the joys of heaven here on earth." 
 
 As her character improves, becoming chastened and ennobled, she 
 will reflect upon the graceless step she took in leaving her old, 
 lonely father, whatever might have been his faults, and in rob- 
 bing him, too. How can she look for happiness in her wedded 
 life, she who has commenced it so unworthily? Oh that she 
 could make reparation ! She must know the sentence passed 
 upon her father in the court at Venice. How, then, can she be 
 happy ? And so some day, permission being obtained by Portia, 
 she may be seen at the feet of the old man, there sobbing out 
 her grief and her contrition ; and he will remember that he made 
 her " home a hell," and look gently upon her. Will this be for 
 him the first taste of the blessedness of mercy ? "It blesseth 
 him that gives and him that takes." 
 
 I think that the Jew will not live long. His body and mind 
 have been too sorely bruised and shaken. But Portia's spell 
 will be upon him to the end. His last looks will be upon the 
 eyes which have opened his, and shown him the " light to lighten 
 his darkness " ; and he who was despised, reviled, and himself at 
 war with all men, will now have felt the happiness of bestowing 
 forgiveness, and the blessed hope of being himself forgiven. 
 
 And so I have thought out Portia. She will have, like other 
 mortals, sorrows, sufferings, troubles. But she will bear them 
 humbly, patiently, bravely. The hand and heart will ever re- 
 main open to help and comfort others. She will retain her gay, 
 bright spirit. She will have always her gracious, attractive 
 manners, and will spread around her in her home an atmosphere 
 which will make Belmont an earthly paradise to those fortunate 
 ones who are welcomed to it. But only her husband will know 
 all her winning goodness : for him will be kept the inner life, 
 the insight into her heart of hearts : to him alone she will be 
 the friend of friends, " the perfect wife."
 
 PORTIA. 43 
 
 Much of what I have written you will perhaps think fanciful. 
 But this is how Portia has pictured herself to my thoughts. Dear 
 friend, does it at all explain to you the secret of what you so 
 kindly call my "wonderful silent acting in the casket scene"? 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 HELENA F. MARTIN. 
 To Miss GERALDINE E. JEWSBURT. 
 
 [One or two of my friends, who have seen this letter when 
 printed only for private circulation, and on whose opinion I 
 place a high value, have objected to my "dream" about Portia's 
 conduct towards Shylock, after the curtain falls, as being con- 
 ceived too much in the feeling of the present century. I have, 
 therefore, reconsidered the matter, but cannot give up my first 
 impression. 
 
 Shakespeare, in the self-defence which he puts into the Jew's 
 mouth, says all he can for him. In his day, with the strong 
 antagonism felt toward the Jews by his audiences, he would not, 
 whatever he felt, have dared to say more in their favour ; and I 
 always maintain that Shakespeare wrote his plays most distinctly 
 for audiences, and not for closet readers merely, although he 
 shows the marvel of his genius in being so fitted for both that 
 each claims him as their own. But I believe that, as he foresaw 
 the woman who was to simulate the doctor, and put into Portia's 
 heart that " most excellent gift of charity," and into her mouth 
 that divine speech of mercy, so he would not blame me if I 
 thought her one of the exceptional beings who have lived in all 
 ages, who have gone out of and beyond the bounded present, and 
 acted the part which, in our own age, though always exciting 
 admiration, would in no way create surprise. 
 
 With the essence of Christianity within her, the Jew, who had 
 by the enforced change of his creed become an outcast even from 
 his tribe, was the nearest to her pity. His merciless nature 
 when outraged could only be appeased by, as it were, dipping 
 his revenge, when opportunity came, in the blood, and watching
 
 44 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 the slow torturing death-throes of his foe. Where, then, could 
 such a creature find a resting-place, when thwarted in the line 
 of action which even the law of his land, he had been assured, 
 could not impugn] Never could despair he deeper than his, 
 and never was help more needed. And who so fit to give help 
 as the one who had unconsciously brought all this misery on his 
 head? 
 
 Shylock's money, as Portia knew, had been borrowed to bring 
 the lover of her choice to woo and win her. His daughter had 
 been induced to leave her home, and take with her his precious 
 gold and jewels, by the friend and with the knowledge of her 
 husband, and by that husband's wish had been made welcome to 
 her home. Portia knows all this if the Jew does not; and, 
 knowing this, would not her heart be the first to think of and 
 turn in pity towards the miserable and forsaken outcast? To 
 her he was as no common Jew. His means as usurer had 
 helped to perfect her life. Could her happiness be unalloyed 
 while another suffered shame and misery, no matter whether 
 deserved or not, because of her ] I still " dream " that it could 
 not, and believe that, quietly and privately, as her high station 
 permitted, she might have done what no other dared, or perhaps 
 cared to do. 
 
 HELENA FATJCIT MARTIN. 
 
 31 ONSLOW SQUARE, LONDON.]
 
 Ill 
 
 DESDEMONA
 
 III. 
 
 DESDEMONA. 
 
 BEYNTYSILIO, NEAR LLANGOLLEN, NORTH WALES, 
 September 10, 1880. 
 
 " My fair warrior." " Oh, she was heavenly true ! " 
 
 T7"ES, my dear friend, I will try to gratify your wish, that I 
 should put before you in words the Desdemona that was 
 in my heart and mind in the days when I was first called to 
 personate her upon the stage. It was among my earliest efforts, 
 and I was then a very young girl ; but she had been long for 
 me a heroine into whose life I had entered with a passionate 
 sympathy which I cannot even now recall without emotion. In 
 the gallery of heroes and heroines which my young imagination 
 had fitted up for my daily and nightly reveries, Desdemona filled 
 a prominent place. How could it be otherwise ? A being so 
 bright, so pure, so unselfish, generous, courageous so devoted 
 in her love, so unconquerable in her allegiance to her "kind 
 lord," even while dying by his hand; and all this beauty of 
 body and mind blasted by the machinations of a soulless villain, 
 who "out of her own goodness" made the net that enmeshed her 
 too credulous husband and her absolutely guileless self ! 
 
 The manner, too, of her death increased her hold upon my 
 imagination. Owing, I suppose, to delicate health and the weak 
 action of my heart, the fear of being smothered haunted me con-
 
 48 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 tinually. The very thought of being in a crowd, of any pressure 
 near me, would fill me with terror. I would give up any pleasure 
 rather than face it. Thus it was, I suppose, that because of this 
 continued terror of my own, the manner of Desdemona's death 
 had a fearful significance for me. That she should, in the midst 
 of this frightful death-agony, be able not only to forgive her tor- 
 turer, but to keep her love for him unchanged, was a height of 
 nobleness surpassing that of all the knights and heroes I had 
 ever heard or read of. Hers, too, was "the pang without the 
 palm." Juliet, Cordelia, Imogen, Hermione, sufferers as they 
 were, had no such trial as this. For hers was the supreme 
 anguish of dying, while the one in whose regard she desired to 
 stand highest believed her tainted and impure ! To a loving, 
 noble woman, what fate could be more terrible ? 
 
 Of course I did not know in those days that Desdemona is 
 usually considered a merely amiable, simple, yielding creature, 
 and that she is generally so represented on the stage. This is 
 the last idea that would have entered my mind. To me she 
 was in all things worthy to be a hero's bride, and deserving the 
 highest love, reverence, and gratitude from the noble Moor. 
 " Gentle " she was, no doubt (the strong are naturally gentle) 
 and Othello in one place calls her so. But he uses the epithet 
 in the Italian and old English sense, implying that union of 
 nobility of person and of disposition which shows itself in an 
 unconscious grace of movement and of outward appearance. This 
 was what I imagine was in Wordsworth's mind when speaking 
 of " the gentle lady married to the Moor " ; and, when he dis- 
 coursed on that favourite theme on which, he says, " right voluble 
 I am," I can fancy that he drew his heroine in much the same 
 lines as those in which she presented herself to my young imag- 
 ination. I cannot think he would have singled her out in his 
 famous sonnet, had he not thought her as brave as she was gen- 
 erous, as high of heart as she was sweet of nature, or had he 
 regarded her as a soft, insipid, plastic creature, ready to do any 
 one's bidding, and submit placidly to any ill-usage from mere 
 weakness and general characterless docility. Oh, no ! Such 
 creatures do not win the love of the purest and noblest, the 
 attachment and admiration of all.
 
 DESDEMONA. 49 
 
 It was well for me that I never saw Desdemona, or indeed any 
 of Shakespeare's heroines, on the stage, before I had to imper- 
 sonate them myself. I was thus hampered by no traditions, 
 and my ideals were not interfered with by recollections of what 
 others had done. I struggled, as best I could, to give expression 
 to the characters as I had thought them out for myself, looking 
 only at the text, and ignoring all commentators and critics, who 
 perplexed but did not help me. Crude and imperfect as my 
 conceptions were and no one found this out sooner than my- 
 self, as time and experience widened and corrected them they 
 yet seemed to make themselves felt by my audiences, who, to my 
 surprise and delight, were always most encouraging and indulg- 
 ent to me. 
 
 Very often I meet people who tell me they saw my first per- 
 formances, and speak of them as though they were great triumphs. 
 (You ask me to talk of myself, so you see I do.) They were 
 better satisfied than I was, because I knew that I could do much 
 better with further study and practice. 
 
 But ah, how my heart ached when sometimes great names 
 were flung at me ! A Siddons, an O'Neill what could I know 
 of them 1 How they thought about my heroines for they were 
 mine, a part of me I could not tell. Did they look at them 
 with the same eyes, think the same thoughts about them, as I 
 did 1 No one could tell me that. I was only told with what 
 grand effect one spoke certain lines, how another looked and 
 sobbed and fainted in a certain situation. Fortunately for me, 
 the critics then, as now, did not all agree. I was not allowed to 
 see the newspapers ; but unkind criticisms are sure to find their 
 way to one somehow, through one channel or another, and to 
 make their sting felt. A critic, to be of use, and give a lesson 
 worth learning, should point out first what is good for no work 
 worth speaking of at all can be without some good then the 
 faults specified can be listened to in a patient and proper spirit. 
 
 Happily, however, there were not a few who did not daunt 
 me with tales of my predecessors, but encouraged me to persevere 
 in my own course, to trust to my own conceptions, and to believe 
 that these would work out a more adequate expression as I gained 
 a greater mastery of my art. Among such, my Desdemona was 
 D
 
 50 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTEKS: 
 
 peculiarly welcomed as rescuing the character, as I was told, out 
 of the commonplace, and lifting her into her true position in the 
 tragedy. This view was especially pressed upon me by Mr Elton, 
 the gentleman who acted Brabantio an excellent actor in Mr 
 Macready's picked company, who, alas ! was drowned in a ship- 
 wreck a year or two later. He told me that my Desdemona was 
 a new creation for him ; that, to use his own phrase and I re- 
 member it well it restored the balance of the play by giving her 
 character its due weight in the action, so that, as he said, he had 
 then seen the tragedy for the first time in its true chiaro-oscuro. 
 Words no less encouraging fell from Mr Macready, my Othello. 
 He told me my brightness and gaiety in the early happy scenes at 
 Cyprus helped him greatly, and that, when sadder, I was not 
 lachrymose ; and, above all, that I added intensity to the last act 
 by "being so difficult to kill." Indeed I felt in that last scene 
 as if it were a very struggle for my own life. I would not die 
 with my honour tarnished, without the chance of disabusing my 
 husband's mind of the vile thoughts that clouded it. I felt for 
 him as well as for myself for I knew what remorse and misery 
 would overwhelm him when he came to know how cruelly he 
 had wronged me ; and therefore I threw into my remonstrances 
 all the power of passionate appeal I could command. 
 
 I recall with gratitude the comfort and instruction for which I 
 was indebted to my good friend Brabantio my " cruel father," 
 as I used to call him. He was the kindest and gentlest of men ; 
 thoroughly well read, of fine tastes, and an accomplished rather 
 than a powerful actor. It seems but yesterday that I sat by his 
 side in the green-room at the reading of Robert Browning's beauti- 
 ful drama, " The Blot in the Scutcheon." As a rule, Mr Mac- 
 ready always read the new plays. But owing, I suppose, to some 
 press of business, the task was intrusted on this occasion to the 
 head prompter a clever man in his way, but wholly unfitted to 
 bring out, or even understand, Mr Browning's conception. Con- 
 sequently, the delicate, subtle lines were twisted, perverted, and 
 sometimes even made ridiculous in his hands. My " cruel father " 
 was a warm admirer of the poet. He sat writhing and indignant, 
 and tried by gentle asides to make me see the real meaning of 
 the verse. Unhappily the mischief proved irreparable ; for some
 
 DESDEMONA. 51 
 
 of the actors during the rehearsals chose to continue to misunder- 
 stand the text, and never took the interest in the play which 
 they must have done had Mr Macready read it first for he had 
 great power as a reader. I have always thought it was in a great 
 measure owing to this contretemps that a play so thoroughly 
 dramatic failed, despite its painful story, to make the great suc- 
 cess which was justly its due. 1 
 
 Kind Mr Elton ! In those cold, cheerless, wintry days, his 
 salutation was always the same : " Well, how does Spring 
 Morning 1 ?" And if my eyes and heart were heavy from hav- 
 ing heard my faults harshly censured at home, he would say 
 noticing, I suppose, my depressed manner "So April showers 
 have been falling ! " When I asked him to watch and check 
 my faults, he positively refused, saying that "I heard already 
 too much of them. I must remember I was passing through 
 my novitiate not, like most others, before a provincial, but 
 before a London audience, and that I must expect to have much 
 to learn. But if I kept always thinking of myself and my 
 shortcomings, I should spoil my style, the charm of which was 
 my self-forgetfulness and power of identifying myself with the 
 character I was acting. How was I to be a real Juliet or Des- 
 demona if I had my defects always uppermost in my mind 1 I 
 must trust to their falling away from me by thought and prac- 
 tice in my art." He was the more tender, I can now see, partly 
 in consequence of my extreme sensitiveness and my dissatisfac- 
 tion with my own efforts, and partly from seeing too strong a 
 disposition in Mr Macready to take exception to everything I 
 did that was not exactly in accordance with his own notions. 
 "My dear, you are entirely wrong in this conception," was a 
 phrase constantly in his mouth. The young girl was expected 
 to take the same view as the ripe artist, who had had great ex- 
 perience, no doubt, but who had also confirmed habits, and whose 
 strong masculine mind had in it but little of the feminine 
 element. But I believed in him, and could not act by his side 
 without being moved and influenced by his intense earnestness 
 and power. I tried hard to do what he advised too much per- 
 haps ; for you may remember, I was accused of having caught 
 1 See Appendix, p. 395.
 
 52 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 his manner and expression. It was almost impossible to do 
 otherwise, considering the many hours we had to pass under his 
 direction. Eehearsals began at ten in the morning, and usually 
 went on until three or four. When reviving an old, or bringing 
 out a new play, these rehearsals were as a rule continued daily 
 for three weeks at least, sometimes for four or five. 
 
 Still, unflinching disciplinarian as he was, Mr Macready was 
 not always stern. He could joke, and had "pretty things to 
 say " upon occasion. I always did my best to be punctual ; but 
 I had to drive three miles to the theatre a distance which, if 
 I had acted the previous night, I found rather trying in the 
 early winter mornings. I remember well one morning when I 
 was a little late, I found that I had been already " called " for 
 the stage. On reaching it, I made my apologies, but said that 
 if they looked at the time they would find I was but ten 
 minutes after the hour, and I understood that ten minutes' 
 grace was always given. "Ah," said Mr Macready, turning 
 gravely to me, "not to you! We all agree that you do not 
 require it : you have enough already." A rebuke so pleasantly 
 given was not likely to hurt much. 
 
 Then with all his sternness, how tender-hearted he was in the 
 case of illness ! All knew that, for the great exertion of the 
 lungs in this my first girlhood, Nature revenged herself by in- 
 flicting on me a cough which harassed and distressed me night 
 and day. Often, often has Mr Macready said to me ; " My 
 poor child, your cough goes to my heart. How I wish I could 
 spare you ! " And when at last, in my third winter, I was 
 ordered to give up my work and go to a milder climate for a 
 year, he never omitted writing to me week by week, advising 
 me what books to read, and encouraging me to write and give 
 him my criticisms upon them ; l sending me news of the theatre ; 
 and, best of all, bidding me get well soon, as I was greatly 
 
 1 Mr Macready was not, so far as I knew, given to writing verses. It 
 was, therefore, a very pleasant surprise to me, when he sent back my album 
 about the time spoken of in the text, with these lines addressed to myself : 
 
 " 'Tis not the dove-like softness of thine eyes 
 My pensive gaze that draws, however fair ; 
 A holier charm within their beauty lies, 
 The unspotted soul, that's mirrored always there.
 
 DESDEMONA. 53 
 
 missed and asked for, and he could not revive or bring forward 
 certain plays without my help. This was my only drop of com- 
 fort ; for, despite the love and care of a dear friend who left 
 her home to tend and watch over me, it was a weary time, this 
 banishment this separation from the art which was all in all 
 to me ; from which I had derived almost the only happiness in 
 my hitherto rather lonely, little- cared-f or life. I could not but 
 see, too, that my friends did not expect I should grow better. 
 I do not think I very much cared. By the very young I be- 
 lieve life is not highly prized. But oh, the inaction, the en- 
 forced care and thought for myself, the wearing cough by night, 
 the sameness of the dreary days ! Had my life not been just 
 before so different, so full of work, of imaginative excitement, 
 doubtless my spirits would not have sunk so low. Happily, the 
 dreary winter and trying spring gave way at last to summer : 
 summer and youth triumphed over my illness, and before an- 
 other winter I was well again. 
 
 ^ I have wandered far from my text. " Old memories, they 
 cling, they cling ! " But as my thoughts travel back to these 
 well-remembered days, and the 
 
 "Manche Hebe Schatten steigen auf," 
 
 of which Goethe speaks, my pen runs on with a freedom which 
 I feel sure your friendship will forgive. You see, with encour- 
 agement, how conceited and " self-imbued " I can become. 
 
 Now let me go back to Desdemona, as I dreamed of her in 
 those days, and as I think of her still. As in the case of 
 Ophelia and Portia, so also in hers ; her mother had obviously 
 been long dead before Shakespeare takes up the story. Desde- 
 mona only once alludes to her mother, and that is in her hour 
 of deepest bewilderment and sorrow, when she simply says, 
 "My mother had a maid called Barbara," whose lover had 
 "proved mad, and did forsake her." Like Portia, Desdemona 
 was a noble Venetian lady, but there was a whole world of 
 
 There every thought of thy young heart is seen, 
 Radiant and pure, by truth and genius given, 
 
 As, on the surface of the lake serene 
 Reflected, gleam the perfect lights of heaven." W. C. M.
 
 54 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 difference between their homes and their bringing up. No 
 proud indulgent father watched the training of Desdemona's 
 youth, and studied the progress of her heart and mind. Ab- 
 sorbed in state affairs, he seems to have been at no pains to 
 read his daughter's nature, to engage her affections or her con- 
 fidence. Thus, a creature, loving, generous, imaginative, was 
 thrown back upon herself, and left to dream over characters 
 more noble, and lives more checkered with adventure, than any 
 she could see or hear of in her father's luxurious home. Mak- 
 ing so small a part of her father's life, and missing the love, or 
 the display of it, which would have been so precious to her, 
 she finds her happiness in dreams of worth more exalted than 
 any she has known, but which she has heard and read of in 
 the poets and romancers of her own and other times. Supreme 
 mistress of her father's house, she receives his guests, dispenses 
 his hospitalities ; and, except that she has never felt the assur- 
 ance of that father's love, she yet " hath felt no age nor known 
 no sorrow," and is " a child to chiding." 
 
 Her father finds her obedient to his every wish, a most dili- 
 gent mistress of his house affairs "a maiden never bold"; of 
 " spirit still and quiet." He never thinks of the depths that 
 may lie under this unruffled surface not only hidden from his 
 sight, but unknown to his child herself. He has found her 
 " opposite to marriage " with the " curled darlings " of Venice, 
 who had solicited her. As these have never moved her quiet, 
 because deep spirit, her love for what he imagines she feared to 
 look on is, to his thinking, "against all rules of nature," and 
 could only be brought about " by spells and medicines bought 
 of mountebanks." The enchantment, the witchcraft with which 
 love fills the heart, Brabantio has never felt. With him all 
 must be magic which is not customary. 
 
 Shakespeare carefully shows, in Desdemona's address to the 
 senate, how matters stood between her father and herself. " Do 
 you perceive in all this noble company," he asks her, " where 
 most_joji_pwe obedience ? " Obedjgnce, observe, not affecjion. 
 And what is her reply 1 Not that of a shrinking, timid girl, but 
 that of a thoughtful woman ; one whose mind and heart went 
 with her love, whose courage is as great and as high as she thinks
 
 DESDEMONA. 55 
 
 <li the object of her love is worthy ready to meet the consequences, 
 / and above all, to transfer to her own shoulders from Othello's the 
 1 blame of her abduction : \ 
 
 " That I did love the Moor to live with him, 
 
 My downright violence and storm of fortunes 1 \V Y^ r^ \\ 
 
 May trumpet to the world : . . . 1 4? - x J I 
 
 And to his honours and his valiant parts 
 Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate." 
 
 Of her father she says he is "the lord of duty." To him she is 
 bound for "life and education"; these teach her "how to re- 
 spect" him. Just as he has not asked, so not a word does she 
 say about love and affection towards him. He is silenced. She 
 owns freely all she owes him for "life and education." Up to 
 the time of her marriage he is first ; she owes and pays him all 
 obedience, all respect : , , 
 
 " But here's my husband ; '-f" O ' 
 
 And so much duty as my mother showed \ ^0 
 
 To you, preferring you before her father, 
 So much I challenge that I may profess 
 Due to the Moor my lord." 
 
 From all we see of Desdemona's readiness to give more than is 
 expected from her of love and service, even to those who had 
 much slighter claims upon her, I cannot think she would have 
 been wanting in these to her father, had he not chilled her girl- 
 hood's natural demonstrations of affection. There is a kind of 
 proud frowardness in some natures which, as I have known, even 
 while loving dearly, will yet hold aloof from, keep at a distance, 
 the objects of their love. They claim as a right that which will 
 not grow without care and fostering, without some responsive 
 looks, some tender words. 
 
 It is hardly conceivable that Brabantio should not have been 
 proud of his daughter, of whose beauty and fascination he must 
 have heard all tongues speak in praise. "What pains has not 
 Shakespeare taken to tell us over and over again what this 
 gracious creature was ! As she moved among her father's guests 
 in his palace halls, or flashed in her gondola along the canals of
 
 
 56 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Venice, what admiring eyes must have followed her ! Of her 
 serene grace and womanly gentleness Brabantio's words have in- 
 formed us. Cassio, the gentleman and scholar of high blood and 
 breeding, speaks of her as 
 
 " a maid 
 That paragons description and wild fame." 
 
 When she lands in Cyprus it is 
 
 " The riches of the ship is come on shore ! " 
 
 High as Othello stands in his regard, yet she is above even him 
 in excellence. She is " our great captain's captain." Though 
 dead to belief in all human excellence, even lago is not blind 
 either to her virtue or her beauty. Although to Eoderigo he 
 calls her " a super-subtle Venetian," yet to Cassio he says, " She 
 is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds 
 it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested." 
 But if she is such as this to the general eye, what is she to 
 Othello's ? To him she is " the cunning'st pattern of excelling 
 nature. . . . The world hath not a sweeter creature." And 
 then her sweet, womanly graces ! "So delicate with her needle : 
 an admirable musician : oh, she will sing the savageness out of 
 a bear ; of so high and plenteous wit and invention ! . . . 
 And then of so gentle a condition ! " She is pictured to us, in 
 short, as possessed of every quality which could lay hold of a 
 hero's heart and bring joy into his home : 
 
 " If Heaven would make me such another world 
 Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, 
 I'd not have sold her for it ! " 
 
 What imagination would not kindle at the images thus set before 
 it ! Who would be content to see in this exquisite woman, as so 
 many do, only a pretty piece of yielding amiability ! 
 
 As with Imogen, so with Desdemona, Shakespeare has, in the 
 passages cited, and in many others throughout the play, taken 
 infinite pains to show how these his favourite heroines excelled 
 in every accomplishment how the grace, the purity, the dignity 
 of their minds gave added charm to the fascination of their 
 beauty and their manners. And this woman, this " divine Des-
 
 DESDEMONA. 57 
 
 demona," whose mind has been fed, as in those stirring times of 
 war it was sure to be, with " tales of high emprise and chivalry," 
 and whose heart is ready for the inspiring touch which was to 
 kindle it, is placed by her father under the influence which was 
 above all others likely to captivate her fancy that of the great 
 general, of Moorish but royal blood, whose name was in every 
 mouth, on whose valour and generalship the state had leaned, 
 and was leaning still, as its chief stay. Long before she saw 
 Othello, Desdemona must have pictured to herself this remark- 
 able man, about whose almost fabulous history the world's talk 
 had been so loud, and whose valorous deeds were in every mouth. 
 How dull must Brabantio have been when he so oft invited the 
 great hero of the day to his house ! If he found pleasure in 
 " questioning " the story of Othello's life, how was it he did not 
 cast a thought upon the still greater charm that story might have 
 for his daughter's ear? Dull and blind indeed must the old man 
 have been, not to see that the blunt soldier tells it "o'er and 
 o'er," because of the sweet listener at his side ; not to see how 
 quickly, when called away by house affairs, she steals back, sink- 
 ing quietly into her seat so as not to interrupt the tale. The 
 tremor in Desdemona's manner, which her father mistook for fear, 
 had quite another origin. She felt frightened, not at Othello, 
 but at herself at the novel, bewildering, absorbing feeling which, 
 hour by hour, was overmastering her. 
 
 The rapt attention the eager, tender eyes, often suffused with 
 tears when Othello spoke of " being taken by the insolent foe, 
 and sold to slavery" the parted lips and shortened breath, 
 if these were noted by Brabantio, it would seem he held them 
 as of no more moment than if they had been called forth by some 
 skilled improvisators. The idea that his daughter's being could 
 be moved, her heart touched, by this stranger to her race and 
 country this 
 
 " Extravagant and wheeling stranger 
 Of here and everywhere, " 
 
 as Eoderigo calls him, whose complexion was like "the shadowed 
 livery of the burnished sun " had never crossed his mind. He 
 would as soon have thought of her being attracted by her torch-
 
 58 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 bearer or her gondolier, as by one whom he classes with " bond 
 slaves and pagans." 
 
 This wide difference of feeling could not have existed, had 
 there been any living sympathy between the father and his child. 
 He would have foreseen the danger of exposing a girl dawning 
 into womanhood, and of sensibilities so deep, to such an unusual 
 fascination, and she would have turned to him when she found 
 herself in danger of being overmastered by a feeling, the indul- 
 gence in which might wreck his peace or her own. But the 
 father, who is only the " lord of duty," has established no claim 
 upon her heart; and that heart, hitherto untouched, is stolen 
 from her during these long interviews, insensibly but for ever. 
 
 We are not to think that all this happens suddenly. The 
 father is not surprised into losing his child. If he has been de- 
 ceived, it is by himself and not by her. Othello speaks of having 
 " some nine moons wasted " away from the tented field. Many 
 of these may have been passed in Venice. Much time, therefore, 
 may have flitted happily away in these interrupted recitals, before 
 Othello found "good means to draw" from Desdemona 
 
 " a prayer of earnest heart 
 That he would all his pilgrimage dilate, 
 Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
 But not intentively." 
 
 When the story has been told from first to last, she gives him 
 for his " pains a world of sighs." 
 
 " 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful ; 
 She wished she had not heard it. Yet she wished 
 That Heaven had made her such a man," 
 
 so noble, so self-devoting, so grandly enduring so altogether 
 spotless and heroic. Here comes out the warrior spirit which I 
 have ascribed to her the power of kindling, of understanding 
 and rising up to, heroic deeds. We feel, even apart from 
 Othello's words and her own subsequent avowal, that "her 
 heart's subdued even to the very quality " of her lord. Thence- 
 forth she is his own, in war or peace, in life and death, for ever- 
 more. The accident of the difference in Othello's complexion,
 
 DESDEMONA. 59 
 
 which operates against him in other eyes, endears him to hers. 
 It touches her generosity. " I saw Othello's visage in his mind;" 
 and "to his honours and his valiant parts" she consecrates her 
 soul and fortunes from that moment. 
 
 Thus, under his very eyes, was Brabantio's daughter wooed 
 and won ; for he does not venture to gainsay this, after Othello 
 has delivered his " round unvarnished tale " to the Venetian 
 Council. But his very blindness indifference it could not be 
 must have shown the lovers the impossibility of gaining his 
 consent to their union. 
 
 Therefore did the " maiden never bold " take courage to leave 
 her father's home, and give herself in marriage to the Moor. 
 She had also the true, quiet courage, when sent for to the senate- 
 house, to appeal directly to the Duke, begging him to hear her 
 story, and to let her find a " charter in his voice to assist her 
 simpleness." When her " unfolding " is ended, there is but one 
 feeling in the council to "let her will have free way." The 
 Duke, in bidding "good-night to every one," adds to Brabantio : 
 
 "And, noble signior, 
 If virtue no delighted beauty lack, 
 Your son-in-law is far more fair than black." 
 
 The first senator says : " Adieu, brave Moor ; use Desdeniona 
 well." Then does Brabantio let out the cold malignity of his 
 natural disposition the unforgiving cruelty which he keeps to 
 the last, so that it may sting and wound more surely : 
 
 " Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see : 
 She has deceived her father, and may thee." 
 
 Othello responds, " My life upon her faith ! " 
 
 How vain, how futile are these words ! Desdemona never 
 forgot them. But how was it with Othello 1 Although at the 
 time cast aside, defied, yet they struck home as they were in- 
 tended ; and such a listener as lago, intent, as we know before- 
 hand, on revenge, and caring not by what means it was brought 
 about, would eagerly seize the weapon Brabantio puts into his 
 hands, which, adroitly wielded by this subtle fiend, leads on to 
 the fearful climax " the tragic loading " of Desdemona's bed !
 
 60 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 These fatal words open up to his quick eye the whole devilish 
 scheme on which the play turns, and he closes the scene saying 
 
 " I have 't. It is engender'd. Hell and night 
 Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light ! " 
 
 9; Well might Othello say, "My life upon her faith!" How 
 valiantly has she his few hours' wife stood by him before 
 these haughty senators and her much-dreaded father ! how sur- 
 prised him with delight, begging, this delicately nurtured lady, 
 to be allowed to share with him the hardships and perils of the 
 impending campaign to live with him in the " tented field " ! 
 Had she been one who loved her ease and pleasure, such an one 
 as lago describes Venetian women in general to have been, was 
 she likely to make such a request ] Who cannot see that this 
 woman was of the true, heroic mould, fearless as she was gentle 1 
 At the time, her request appears to have gone to Othello's heart 
 to have moved him to endless gratitude, as well it might. When 
 they meet at Cyprus, the first words on his lips are, " my fair 
 warrior ! " The phrase, doubtless, afterwards became a favourite 
 one with them ; and it is touching to find Desdemona using it 
 after Othello's to her incomprehensible frenzy concerning the 
 handkerchief, when she rebukes herself for her momentary harsh 
 thought of him : 
 
 " Beshrew me much, Emilia, 
 
 I was, unhandsome warrior as I am, 
 
 Arraigning his unkindness with my soul ; 
 
 But now I find I had suborn'd the witness, 
 
 And he's indicted falsely." 
 
 My life upon her faith ! " Yes, whatever these words were 
 for Othello, they were ever dear to her, believing, as she does 
 almost to the last, that her noble Moor's love and trust were as 
 absolute as her own. In this her very innocence, in her loyalty 
 to her husband, and to his friend Michael Cassio, lago finds the 
 easy means to accomplish his fiendish purpose. 
 
 It is the highest tribute to Desdemona that she alone is 
 unbeguiled by lago's subtlety. Othello, Koderigo, Cassio, Emilia, 
 he plays upon them all uses them, gets them within his fatal 
 grasp makes of them his tools or his dupes leads them on 
 blindly to their own undoing. Not so Desdemona.
 
 DESDEMONA. 61 
 
 " Oh, she was innocent ! 
 And to be innocent is nature's wisdom ! 
 Oh, surer than suspicion's hundred eyes 
 Is that fine sense, which to the pure in heart, 
 By mere oppugnancy to their own goodness, 
 Reveals the approach of evil ! " l 
 
 lago, conscious of this fine intuition, makes no attempt to 
 deceive her. His victim she may be, but he feels she will never 
 be his dupe. After the first meeting in Cyprus, he appears 
 never to have come into contact with her until she sends for 
 him, to see if he can throw light upon the unaccountable change 
 that has come over her husband. Had he dared to approach her 
 with the faintest suggestion that Othello was untrue, she would 
 have treated him as Nina Sforza, another noble Venetian lady, 
 treated a similar traducer in Zouch Troughton's fine modern 
 tragedy which bears her name : 
 
 " My Doria false ! 
 Oh, I could strike thee, liar ! " { 
 
 Except to illustrate the truth that no man knows himself, 
 I marvel why Shakespeare makes Othello speak of himself as 
 "not easily jealous." It seems to me that the spark scarcely 
 touches the tinder before it is aflame. A few words dropped by 
 the tempter take hold of him even when his happiness is at 
 the fullest when he has just parted from Desdemona in a 
 transport of content, which finds vent in the words 
 
 " Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul, 
 But I do love thee ! And when I love thee not, 
 Chaos is come again." 
 
 Chaos has come ! An artfully muttered " Indeed ! " a question 
 about Cassio's previous acquaintance with his wife, and his sus- 
 picion is at once aroused. Othello insists upon knowing lago's 
 "thinkings," on wringing from him the meanings of his "stops," 
 gives admission at once to the idea that he may be wronged ; 
 and when lago, by way of seeming warning, bids him beware of 
 "jealousy," you see from his agonised exclamation, " misery ! " 
 that the word has sunk into the very depths of his being. All the 
 
 1 Coleridge's Zapdya, Act iv. sc. 1.
 
 62 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 love, all the devoted self-sacrifice of Desdemona, all sense of what 
 is due to her and to himself, are forgotten. He suffers lago to 
 remind him of her father's parting words, and so to pour his en- 
 venomed slime upon this fair creature, to whom he owes so much, 
 that her name and fame can never again in life show fair in his 
 eyes : 
 
 "She's gone ; I am abused, and my relief 
 Must be to loathe her." 
 
 And thus, because of the foul words, the vile suggestion of this 
 base Machiavellian trickster, the life of these two noble beings 
 is turned from paradise into hell, and there is no more peace nor 
 joy for either of them. 
 
 Othello is right, when he says of lago that he 
 
 " Knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, 
 Of human dealings." 
 
 But that he should think him " honest," this is the marveL Nor 
 less marvel is it that, knowing him to be but a " rough soldier," 
 and, as lago says of himself, by nature apt " to spy into abuses," 
 and to " shape things that are not," Othello can allow him even 
 in words and distantly to approach the sanctuary of his wife's 
 virtue. Men, as we know, may possess all manly gifts and be 
 fairly decorous and moral in their conduct, yet, through some 
 defect of nature or of training, or of both, may be quite incapable 
 of conceiving the noblest qualities of womanhood. To under- 
 stand these there must be some sympathy, some affinity. There- 
 fore lago might be in a sense "honest," yet totally unfit to 
 speak or be listened to on such a subject. Had Othello been 
 really the "noble Moor," as "true of mind" as Desdemona 
 thought him, he would, at the lightest aspersion of his wife, 
 have recoiled from lago as from a serpent. He would have 
 crushed the insolen traducer and his vile suggestions beneath his 
 heel in bitterest contempt. 
 
 ' " Not easily jealous ! " Of all men, Othello had cause not to 
 be jealous. Capable as he had proved himself of admiring Des- 
 demona's trustful, reverential love, of appreciating her graceful, 
 playful fondness new as it was to him, and touching, as it did, 
 chords which had never vibrated during a life spent hitherto
 
 DESDEMONA. 63 
 
 among men in the rough scenes of war, his senses fascinated by 
 her beauty, as his mind was by her purity and sympathy how 
 could he fall away from his allegiance so soon? Was such a 
 woman as Desdemona likely to become untrue because he had 
 not a fair skin or silky manners 1 " She had eyes, and chose 
 me ! " Or why should he think he had been displaced in her 
 affections by Cassio ? Cassio was obviously an older friend of 
 Desdemona than himself a welcome visitor at Brabantio's house ; 
 for in their wooing he " went between them very oft." He 
 makes no secret of his admiration of Desdemona ; and we may 
 be sure that, had she shown him the slightest favour, he would 
 have been among her suitors. But no. All his advantages of 
 person, of mind and manners, had given him no hold upon her 
 fancy. His best recommendation to her had been that he was 
 ever eloquent in Othello's praise : 
 
 " What ! Michael Cassio, 
 
 That came a-wooing with you, and many a time, 
 When I have spoke of you dispraisingly, 
 Hath ta'en your part ! " 
 
 As if she had ever spoken of him dispraisingly ! except, perhaps, 
 for the pleasure of having her ears filled with his praises by one 
 who " had known him long." Yet not a thought of this familiar 
 story crosses Othello's mind ; he leaps at once to the conclusion 
 that both the tired friend and the wife who had forsworn for his 
 sake " country, credit, everything," were false to him. And this 
 he does upon the mere suggestion of a villain whom he absurdly 
 believes to be "of exceeding honesty." Truly had lago gauged 
 him when he said 
 
 " The Moor is of a free and open nature, 
 That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, 
 And will as tenderly be led by the nose 
 As asses are ! " 
 
 But lago could neither see nor feel that Othello's nature, free and 
 open as it might be, lacked that true nobility which, being itself 
 incapable of baseness, is resolutely closed to innuendoes against 
 those it loves. Alas the while ! But for this fatal defect, how 
 could Othello have fallen so easy a prey to his malignant tempter ?
 
 64 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 How could he have come so readily to believe that he had been 
 " discarded thence," where, as he says, he had " garnered up his 
 heart " 
 
 " Where either I must live, or bear no life ; 
 
 The fountain from the which my current runs, 
 
 Or else dries up " ! 
 
 We feel with him when he exclaims, " Oh, the pity of it, the 
 pity of it ! " but we feel, too, that had he but possessed some 
 of Desdemona's loyalty, some grains of common-sense, all lago's 
 snares might have been set for him in vain. 
 
 For, after all, lago, as I have said, seems to me but a poor 
 trickster at the best. He acts from the basest motives, and 
 works by artifices the shallowest as well as the most vile 
 artifices liable to be upset at any moment by the merest 
 casualty. He hates Othello mortally for having, as he thinks, 
 unfairly kept him out of his lieutenancy. If Othello erred 
 in this, his injustice is paid for by a fearful penalty. lago's 
 jealousy of Othello with his own wife is but one of those con- 
 scious sacrifices to what he himself calls the " divinity of hell," 
 to which he resorts as juggles with his conscience. He hates 
 Cassio for the same cause, and for supplanting him in his 
 office. He hates his wife, as such creatures hate the wives 
 that have "outlived their liking." He is brutish in mind as, 
 when he dare be, he is in manners, and he is as sordid as he 
 is vindictive using Eoderigo, that "poor trash of Venice," as 
 a sponge to squeeze ducats from. Above all, he hates Desde- 
 mona, because she is impervious to his arts. Cunning as he 
 is, yet he is in hourly terror that the net he has woven to 
 ensnare others may enmesh himself. One word of frank 
 explanation between Othello and Desdemona, a whisper from 
 Emilia that the handkerchief was given by herself to her 
 husband, a hint from Eoderigo to. Desdemona of the lies with 
 which lago has fooled him, and all his fine-spun web would 
 have fallen to pieces before, as it does fall in the end. He 
 knows this well, and sees no way of escape but in the murder 
 of his dupes. Eoderigo and Cassio must be "removed," and 
 the Moor goaded on to murder his wife. To murder her 
 and howl Othello would have made her death swift and
 
 DESDEMONA. 65 
 
 easy by poison. But this is not torture enough to satisfy 
 lago. "Strangle her in her bed even the bed she has con- 
 taminated ! " When we think of all that has gone before 
 when, with this suggestion still recent on his lips, we see him 
 afterwards by the side of Desdemona, summoned by her in 
 her trouble, as her "good friend," we feel inclined to echo his 
 own words : " There is no such man ; it is impossible." 
 
 lago has wit enough to see some of the good qualities of 
 his victims, and, judging of other men by himself for he 
 knows no other standard he acts with full reliance on the 
 vices and the weaknesses of mankind. But he has not wit 
 enough to see that he is playing a game which he must lose 
 in the end, for all the odds are against the chance of his 
 victims being swept away so completely that his villany can 
 never come to light. I see no grandeur in a "demi-devil" of 
 this type ; and I think the judgment misplaced which can 
 find it in his expressed determination to answer no questions, 
 even upon the rack. He had already said too much in his 
 garrulous boast of having tricked his victims by dropping 
 Desdemona's handkerchief in Cassio's chamber. A cleverer 
 villain would have held his peace. "Woful indeed it is, that 
 a creature so despicable should have had the power to hurt 
 Othello's mind past curing, to drag it down into the very mire 
 that he should have made him think base thoughts, and 
 stain his soul so deeply that no years of penitential grief could 
 ever have washed it clean again. History has not on record such 
 another inhuman villain. In my young dreams I never could 
 quite decide into which of the circles of the Inferno he should be 
 cast ; even the worst seemed too good for him. 
 
 Is not my view of both Othello and lago borne out by the 
 brief, sad story, that rushes on so swiftly to its ghastly climax ? / 
 We see little of the blissful life which Othello and Desdemona ' ; 
 lived after their happy union as married lovers at Cyprus. After \ 
 all his terrors for her safety, that he should find Desdemona \ 
 happily landed there before him is a relief and a joy past all ex- / 
 pressing. With a foreboding of evil he fears that 
 
 " not another comfort like to this 
 Succeeds in unknown fate." 
 E
 
 66 
 
 SHAKESPEARE S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 V 
 
 Troubles indeed begin early to press upon them. Cassio, their 
 friend, endeared to them by the closest ties, so unaccountably 
 forgets himself that his general has at once to strip him of his 
 lieutenancy. This must be a great sorrow to them both. Still, 
 the rent is not irreparable; and we learn that Othello would 
 have been glad of a fair excuse to reinstate his friend. When 
 Desdemona first speaks for Cassio, Ave see that she knew 
 Othello's mind. He pretends but only pretends to be ab- 
 sorbed in other matters, for the pleasure of hearing her plead 
 as a petitioner. He puts her off only to hear her urge her suit 
 again : 
 
 " Good my lord, 
 
 If I have any grace or power to move you, 
 His present reconciliation take ; 
 For, if he be not one that truly loves you, 
 That errs in ignorance and not in cunning, 
 I have no judgment in an honest face. 
 
 . . Good love, call him back. 
 
 Old. Not now, sweet Desdemona ; some other time. 
 Des. But shall't be shortly ? 
 
 Oth. The sooner, sweet, for you. 
 
 Des. Shall't be to-night at supper ? 
 Oth. No, not to-night. 
 
 Des. To-morrow dinner, then ? 
 
 Oth. I shall not dine at home. 
 
 Des. Why, then, to-morrow night, or Tuesday morn ; 
 Or Tuesday noon, or night ; on Wednesday morn : 
 I prithee, name the time ; but let it not 
 Exceed three days ; in faith he's penitent. 
 . . . I wonder in my soul 
 What you would ask me, that I should deny, 
 Or stand so mammering on. What ! Michael Cassio, 
 That came a- wooing with you," &c. 
 
 When Othello sees that Desdemona is hurt at his silence, he 
 breaks in with 
 
 " Prithee, no more : let him come when he will ; 
 I will deny thee nothing. " 
 
 But she thinks this so small a favour to be granted to a friend 
 who had done so much for them, that she will hardly accept it as 
 such. The "great captain's captain" will not have it called a 
 " boon." 'Tis only so slight a service as she would " entreat him 
 wear his gloves, or feed on nourishing dishes " :
 
 DESDEMONA. 67 
 
 " Nay, when I have a suit 
 Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed, 
 It shall be full of poise and difficulty, 
 And fearful to be granted." 
 
 He repeats his former words : 
 
 f I "I will deny thee nothing ; 
 
 V I Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, 
 [ To leave me but a little to myself." 
 
 How sweet is her rejoinder ! 
 
 He replies : 
 
 " Farewell, my Desdemona : I'll come to thee straight " 
 
 J*T which draws from her the winning assurance of her full faith in 
 /\) nim : 
 
 , 
 
 " Be as your fancies teach you ; 
 
 Whate'er you be, I am obedient." 
 
 And at this point ends the happiness, which is as perfect now as 
 it weU could be. V 
 
 In the meantime, and while the adder's tongue is busy at its 
 work, arrive the leading personages in Cyprus invited by Othello / 
 to a banquet. Desdemona receives them, and plays the part of / 
 gracious hostess, so natural to her. To her surprise Othello, / 
 who said he would "come to her straight," does not appear. | 
 She fears his guests will think him discourteous in this prolonged I 
 absence, and hastens to remind him of their visitors. She enters / 
 gaily, ready with a pretty chiding : 
 
 " How now, my dear Othello ! 
 Your dinner, and the generous islanders 
 
 By you invited, do attend your presence. \ 
 
 Oth. I am to blame. " 
 
 The coldness and reserve of his speech startle her : 
 
 " Why do you speak so faintly ? Are you not well ? 
 
 Oth. I have a pain upon my forehead here. 
 
 Des. Faith, that's with watching ; 'twill away again : 
 Let me but bind it hard, within this hour 
 It will be well. 
 
 Oth. Your napkin is too little ; 
 
 Let it alone."
 
 68 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 The harsh abruptness shown in this reply to her offer to relieve ] 
 his pain must have come indeed as a shock to Desdemona, con- 
 trasting strangely as it did with the tone of their parting so i 
 short a time before. Yet she sweetly adds, without noticing his / 
 rudeness : / 
 
 " I am very sorry that you are not well." / 
 
 No wonder, finding things so changed, and with no apparent 
 cause, that she forgets the handkerchief, dear as it was to her, 
 with which she had offered to bind his forehead. She is "a 
 child to chiding," and no doubt feels these first harsh words 
 very keenly. They go out together, and we may suppose that 
 her frank innocent demeanour and fond words reassure him for 
 the time. I remember so well Mr Macready's manner as we left 
 the scene. He took my face in both his hands, looked long into 
 my eyes, and then the old look came back into his, and it spoke 
 as plainly as possible, " My life upon her faith ! " 
 
 What happens at the banquet we are not told. It cannot be 
 the presence of Cassio which inflames Othello, for, being in dis- 
 grace, he would hardly be there. It may be that the free, loyal 
 homage which he sees paid to his wife, not only because of her 
 position as his wife, but still more on account of her beauty and 
 sweet courtesy to his guests, makes her still more precious in his 
 eyes, so that the bare thought of not standing alone in her affec- 
 tions maddens him. But certainly he returns shortly after in 
 a paroxysm of rage and grief, and salutes lago with " A vaunt ! 
 begone ! thou hast set me on the rack." Then follows that ex- 
 quisite speech in which he bids farewell to everything in life 
 most dear to " the tranquil mind ! " to " content ! " to all 
 "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war." 
 " Farewell ! Othello's occupation's gone ! " 
 
 To direct the fury of Othello's " waked wrath " into the desired 
 channel, lago has ready a whole catalogue of reasons to prove 
 Desdemona and Cassio's disloyalty. Othello accepts them readily, 
 as though they were " proofs of Holy Writ " : 
 
 " Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, lago ; 
 All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 
 'Tis gone. . . . Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, 
 For 'tis of aspics' tongues ! "
 
 DESDEMONA. 69 
 
 These "aspics' tongues" have been hissing out their venom to 
 deadly purpose. These are the drugs which lago uses, and to 
 which he again appeals : 
 
 " Work on 
 My medicine, work ! Thus credulous fools are caught." 
 
 Desdemona has made so sure of winning Othello's consent to 
 receive Cassio into favour again, that she sends for him to tell 
 him the good news : " Tell him I have moved my lord on his 
 behalf, and hope all will be well." But before they meet occurs 
 the scene with the handkerchief, and Othello's violence at the 
 supposed loss of it. Still Desdemona, who knows nothing of its 
 whereabouts, but believing it to be only mislaid, and hoping to 
 have it to show him when it has been properly searched for, 
 thinks his vehemence on the subject a little overstrained put 
 upon her, indeed, "as a trick to drive her from her suit." 
 Therefore she still repeats it, urging Cassio's claims upon him 
 with the words 
 
 " You'll never meet a more sufficient man. 
 
 A man that, all his time, 
 
 Hath founded his good fortunes on your love ; 
 
 Shared dangers with you." 
 
 It is only when Othello breaks angrily from her that she realises 
 there may be " some wonder in this handkerchief : I am most 1 
 unhappy in the loss of it." 
 
 Emilia, instead of being, as her husband fancies, inclined favour- 
 ably towards Othello, appears to me to have the dislike, common 
 to many of her class, of anything unusual, and looks all along 
 upon the Moor with unfriendly, suspicious eyes. So she says, 
 
 " 'Tis not a year or two shows us a man." 
 
 She no doubt had found it to be so : even lago must have 
 appeared to her in different colours when they were first wedded. 
 Her pent-up dislike to the Moor adds fuel to her wrath, when 
 she finds subsequently that he has been the easy dupe of her 
 villanous husband. 
 
 After the episode of the handkerchief, when Cassio appears, ^
 
 70 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 , 
 
 >C1 
 
 J 
 
 who had been sent for by Desdemona to hear, as she hoped, 
 good news, Desdemona, ever unselfish, is as sorry for him as for 
 herself : 
 
 "Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio ! 
 
 My advocation is not now in tune ; 
 
 My lord is not my lord ; nor should I know him, 
 
 Were he in favour as in humour alter'd." 
 
 She remembers that she has pledged herself to be his " solicitor " 
 
 even to the death, 
 
 " You must awhile be patient : 
 What I can do I will ; and more I will 
 Than for myself I dare : let that suffice you." 
 
 Cassio will surely think of this hereafter ! 
 
 >*The next time we see Desdemona she comes with Lodovico, 
 who has been sent to Cyprus from Venice, bearing to Othello 
 the Duke's letters and commands. Desdemona salutes Lodovico 
 as " cousin." He may be so, or this may be only a phrase of 
 courtesy in the same way that royalty uses it. When speaking 
 of him afterwards to Emilia, she says, " This Lodovico is a proper 
 man." "A very handsome man," says Emilia. Desdemona 
 replies, " He speaks well." See the difference in the women 
 how finely marked in these comments ! While Othello reads 
 his papers, Lodovico inquires after his friend, Lieutenant Cassio. 
 Upon this Desdemona, who never loses sight of her promise, 
 says : " Cousin, there's fallen between him and my lord an un- 
 kind breach ; " and, beginning to fear that her own influence 
 will not be sufficient, she adds, "But you shall make all well." 
 " Is there division," Lodovico says, with evident surprise, " 'twixt 
 my lord and Cassio ? " 
 
 " A most unhappy one : I would do much 
 To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio." 
 
 This public declaration of her goodwill which appears, what 
 in truth it is, nothing to those around but simply the natural 
 feeling for a friend in trouble all but maddens Othello ; and 
 when Desdemona expresses her gladness that they are com- 
 manded home, and that Cassio is to be governor of Cyprus in 
 his place, Othello breaks out, " I am glad to see you mad" and 
 strikes her.
 
 J 
 
 DESDEMONA. 71 
 
 ' My lord, this would not be believed in Venice, 
 Though I should swear I saw't : 'tis very much : 
 Make her amends ; she weeps." 
 
 Her tears, Othello says, are but those of a crocodile. To his 
 fiercer injunction, " Out of my sight ! " her only answer is, " I 
 will not stay to offend you." Then upon Lodovico's request she 
 is called back, and comes upon the instant, true to her former 
 words " Whate'er you be, I am obedient." Untouched by her 
 gentleness, Othello continues : 
 
 " Proceed you in your tears. 
 Concerning this, sir, well-painted passion ! 
 . . . Get you away ; 
 I'll send for you anon. . . . Hence, avaunt ! " 
 
 No wonder that Lodovico, when Othello quits the scene, 
 exclaims in amazement : 
 
 ' ' Is this the noble Moor whom our full senate 
 Call all-in-all sufficient ? This the nature 
 Whom passion could not shake ? . . . 
 Are his wits safe ? Is he not light of brain ? 
 
 What ! strike his wife ! " 
 
 lago prepares Lodovico for what he knows is to follow, by 
 replying : " Would I knew that stroke would prove the worst ! " 
 "I am sorry that I am deceived in him," is Lodovico's " answer. 
 He will no doubt remember afterwards that he has been deceived 
 in more than in Othello. 
 
 Next come the Moor's interrogations of Emilia, and her 
 replies : 
 
 " I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, 
 Lay down my soul at stake : . 
 For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true, 
 There's no man happy." 
 
 But she may as well speak to the winds. If Othello had 
 spoken here of having seen the handkerchief in Cassio's hand, 
 I believe, despite the terror of her husband, Emilia would have 
 explained how she had herself found and given it to lago ; but 
 he does not. He sends her to fetch Desdemona, and then rudely 
 dismisses her.
 
 72 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 The poor dove is now in the falcon's grasp, but not quite yet 
 to be torn to pieces. One wonders why Othello sends for her, 
 for he will believe nothing she says or swears : 
 
 " Oth. Swear thou art honest. 
 
 Des. Heaven doth truly know it. 
 
 Oth. Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell ! 
 
 Des. To whom, my lord ? With whom ? How am I false ? 
 
 Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed ? 
 
 Oth. . . . What committed ! 
 I should make very forges of my cheeks, 
 That would to cinders burn up modesty, 
 Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed ! 
 
 Des. By Heaven, you do me wrong ! " 
 
 When in the coarsest terms he asks her if she is not unfaithful, 
 she exclaims : "No, as I am a Christian. . . . No, as I shall 
 be saved ! " 
 
 Emilia finds her on the floor, to which she has sunk after 
 making oath, on her knees, of her being to Othello " a true and 
 loyal wife." Think how stunned and bewildered she must be ! 
 She is accused of a crime beyond all others most foreign to her 
 nature. She can imagine no motive for the accusation has no 
 clue to the "With whom? How am I false?" It is like a 
 hideous dream ; and, with a pathos unsurpassed, to my thinking, 
 in poetry, she answers Emilia's question, " How do you, my good 
 lady ? " with 
 
 " 'Faith, half asleep. 
 Emil. Good madam, what's the matter with my lord ? 
 
 Des. Who is thy lord ? 
 
 Emil. He that is yours, sweet lady. 
 
 Des. I have none : do not talk to me, Emilia ; I cannot weep. . . . 
 
 Prithee to-night 
 
 Lay on my bed my wedding-sheets remember ; 
 And call thy husband hither." 
 
 Then follows that most pathetic scene, in which she so touch- 
 ingly appeals for help to her destroyer, and asks, "Am I that 
 name, lago 1 " " What name, fair lady ? " Not being able to 
 utter the foul word herself, she answers :
 
 DESDEMONA. 73 
 
 " Such as she says my lord did say I was. 
 
 good lago, 
 
 What shall I do to win my lord again ? 
 
 Good friend, go to him ; for, by this light of heaven, 
 
 1 know not how I lost him." 
 
 She fears that in his anger he may shake her off " to beggarly 
 divorcement." Yet as she ever did, so she ever will, 'Slove him 
 
 dearly." 
 
 " Un kindness may do much ; ' \s 
 And his unkindness may defeat my life, 
 But never taint my love. " 
 
 She has to put up with the cold comfort which lago gives pre- 
 tending to know nothing : 
 
 " I pray you, be content ; 'tis but his humour : 
 The business of the state does him offence, 
 And he does chide with you." 
 
 At this she catches with trembling eagerness : 
 
 " If 'twere no other 
 
 logo. "Tis but so, I warrant. 
 
 Go in, and weep not ; all things shall be well." 
 
 How sad it is that the exigencies of our stage require the 
 omission of the exquisite scene which follows (Act iv. sc. 3) 
 in the anteroom to Desdemona's bedchamber a scene so im- 
 portant for~"the development~ of her character, and affording 
 such fine opportunity for the highest powers of pathos in the 
 actress P___ Othello, says Emilia, "looks gentler " ; but he has 
 commanded her to be dismissed. " Dismiss me ! " " So he 
 
 1 I never saw this scene acted but once, and that was in Dresden. Cer- 
 tainly the Germans prove their high admiration and respect for our great 
 poet. They give his plays in their integrity, never dreaming of cutting out 
 the very scenes that are most necessary for the development of plot and 
 character. Their scenery is good, appropriate, harmonious and stands, as 
 it always should, in subservience to the plot and human interest in the 
 play : it is so unostentatiously good that you never think of it. So of the 
 costumes : you think you see the persons represented. As all is in keeping, 
 so you never criticise what the characters wear. You feel at once, they 
 looked or did not look as they should, and give this subject no further heed. 
 All these matters are deeply studied, but not so much talked about as they
 
 J 
 
 74 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 says." " I would you had never seen him ! " " So would not 
 I," Desdemona rejoins : 
 
 " My love doth so approve him, 
 
 That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns 
 Prithee, unpin me, have grace and favour in them." 
 
 She had before, when most unhappy, bidden Emilia lay her wed- 
 ding-sheets that night upon her bed. Emilia now tells her she 
 has done so. She replies 
 
 ' ' All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds ! 
 If I do die before thee, prithee, shroud me 
 In one of those same sheets " 
 
 little thinking how soon that shroud would be required. In 
 what follows, what might not be done by that silent acting 
 that eloquence not of words but of look and gesture which 
 is the great test of the actor's powers ! While Emilia is " un- 
 pinning " her mistress, I picture to myself Desdemona seated, 
 her sad thoughts wandering far away, gently taking the jewels 
 from her throat, her ears, her fingers ; while Emilia uncoils the 
 pearls from her hair, untwists its long plaits, and gathers them 
 for the night in a loose coil at the back of her head. Then, as 
 Emilia kneels at her feet to unfasten the embroidered shoes, 
 Desdemona may put her hand admiringly on Emilia's head and 
 smooth her fine hair. Meanwhile her thoughts are travelling 
 back to her childhood perhaps to that mother whose caresses 
 she so early lost and missed, for she had known but few from 
 her cold father : in imagination she may again feel them. Then 
 she remembers Barbara, her mother's maid, who loved and was 
 
 are here. Being but accessories at the best, they are very properly only 
 treated as such. 
 
 I feel very grateful for the draped curtain which in Germany drops down 
 from the sides after a scene a usage which is now adopted in some of 
 our leading theatres. While it is closed, such furniture as has been neces- 
 sary for the scene is quietly withdrawn (no sofas pushed on and pulled off 
 by very visible ropes) and the next scene appears, on the withdrawal of 
 the curtain, quite complete. In this way one of the great difficulties in 
 presenting Shakespeare's plays, arising from the frequent changes of the 
 scene, is got over. In Germany, a play of Shakespeare takes a whole long 
 evening ; and the Germans will sit four or five hours, listening patiently and 
 delightedly to all he has to teach them.
 
 DESDEMONA. 75 
 
 forsaken, and who died singing the sad old ditty that " expressed 
 her fortune " an incident likely to stamp itself deeply in Des- 
 demona's memory. Little had she thought it was to be her 
 death-song too ! 
 
 " That song to-night 
 
 Will not go from my mind. I have much to do, 
 But to go hang my head all at one side, 
 And sing it like poor Barbara. . . . 
 
 " (Sings) ' The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore-tree, 
 Sing all a green willow ; 
 
 Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones ' ; 
 Lay by these : 
 
 ' Sing willow, willow, willow ; ' 
 Prithee, hie thee ; he'll come anon : . . . 
 ' Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve ' 
 Nay, that's not next. Hark ! who is't that knocks ? 
 Emil. It is the wind. 
 
 Des. ' I call'd my love false love ; but what said he then ? 
 Sing willo,w7 willow, willow.' 
 
 . . . Good night. Mine eyes do itch ; 
 Doth that bode weeping ? 
 
 Emil. 'Tis neither here nor there. 
 
 Des. I have heard it said so. . , 
 Dost thou in conscience think, tell me, Emilia, 
 That there be women do abuse their husbands 
 In such gross kind ? 
 
 Emil. There be some such, no question. 
 
 Des. Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong 
 For the whole world. 
 
 I do not think there is any such woman." 
 
 After listening to some of Emilia's coarse worldly maxims, she 
 hreaks away from the subject by saying 
 
 " Good night, good night : Heaven me such uses send 
 Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend ! " 
 
 Although such heavy clouds had passed over her happiness, 
 
 lyet Desdemona still loved and trusted, and was not, therefore, 
 
 \] altogether sad. To the last she shows herself to be of a hopeful, 
 
 generous disposition. She knows how to forgive hopes that
 
 76 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 what has been the mystery of Othello's unkindness is perhaps 
 to be explained in the privacy of their chamber, when a word 
 of regret, of remorse from him, will win her fullest pardon. 
 There is something almost sublime in this unshaken love and 
 trust. She falls asleep in it for oh, such a rude awakening ! 
 The swan had sung her song, and so sinks into her deathbed, 
 although she knew it not. 
 
 I It is, as we have seen, with some presentiment of sorrow 
 /before her that Desdemona goes to bed. The shock of Othello's 
 
 f accusation has struck to her soul, and shaken her whole being. 
 
 \ She will not accuse or hear him accused of injustice by Emilia, 
 
 but her idol cannot stand in her imagination where he did. He 
 
 f has human infirmities, and these far greater than she could have 
 
 \ looked for. She can think of no indiscretion of her own, except 
 
 \ perhaps suing for their friend Cassio, at a time when Othello was 
 
 J not in a mood to listen when state affairs disturbed him. Yet 
 how could he, for so slight a cause, strike her disgrace himself 
 and her before the gentleman who came with despatches from 
 Venice, and afterwards shock her ears with names not to be 
 uttered ! and 
 
 " Throw such despite and heavy terms upon her, 
 As true hearts cannot bear ! " 
 
 Is this her noble Moor, " so true of mind, and made of no such 
 baseness as jealous creatures are " 1 
 
 Sad, disappointed as she is at his unkindness, yet her con- 
 science is at rest. Besides, the fit seemed past : he had " looked 
 gentler " ; so, trying for more hopeful thoughts, and praying for 
 the help she needed worn out, too/ as she was by unusual and 
 unexpected trouble she falls asleep. 
 
 It is strange it never occurs to Othello that, if Desdemona 
 had really been the " cunning " Venetian he thought her, know- 
 ing her vileness discovered, she might have found means easily 
 to bribe those who would have hidden her from his just wrath. 
 Emilia was not so scrupulous a woman as to have refused her 
 assistance. Besides, had not the Moor insulted her, also, in the 
 grossest language? And would she not have been, at a word 
 from her mistress, glad enough to help her, and thwart him 1 ?
 
 DESDEMONA. 77 
 
 But he sees this cunning, past all expressing "vile one" obey 
 his will without a murmur, go quietly to bed, and finds her, 
 with this load of guilt, as he believes, upon her heart, sleeping 
 the sweet sleep of a child. Well may Emilia exclaim of him, 
 " gull ! dolt ! " He sees nothing but what he is primed to 
 see; in all things else "as ignorant as dirt." He may have 
 "looked gentler," but the poison has done its work ; and nothing 
 but the life's blood of his victim can, as he says, "remove or 
 choke the strong conception which I do groan withal." The 
 very serenity of her guileless soul makes against her. " She must 
 die, or she'll betray more men." What a scene is this ! The 
 powers of good and evil have met in mortal strife ! 
 
 My friends used to say, as Mr Macready did, that in Desde- 
 mona I was "very hard to kill." How could it be otherwise? 
 I would not die dishonoured in Othello's esteem. This was 
 bitterer than fifty thousand deaths. Then I thought of all his 
 after-suffering, when he should come to know how he had mis- 
 taken me ! The agony for him which filled my heart, as well 
 as the mortal agony of death, which I felt in imagination, made 
 my cries and struggles no doubt very vehement and very real. 
 My whole soul was flung into the entreaty, but for " half an 
 hour ! " " but while I say one prayer ! " which prayer would 
 have been for him. Then, when she hears, for the first time, 
 that Cassio is the supposed accomplice in her guilt, it was as 
 though I spoke for myself in uttering the swift rejoinder 
 " Send for the man and ask him ! " x 
 
 Oh that Othello had been so true a friend and husband as to 
 do this before ! But no : the poison still works, and all she 
 says only serves to augment his fury. When Desdemona hears 
 that Cassio has already lost his life, and that "his mouth is 
 stopped," she naturally weeps for the loss of the innocent man, 
 
 1 It was a great pleasure to me, when, talking with Mr Carlyle in 1873 
 about Mr Macready's revivals, which he spoke of very warmly, he referred 
 in glowing terms to my Desdemona. Amid much else, he said he had never 
 felt the play so deeply before. One phrase especially struck me" It quite 
 hurt me to see the fair, delicate creature so brutally used. " Would that 
 I could give an idea of his tone and accent, gentle and tremulous, as if a 
 suffering living creature were there before him ! I quote from my Diary, 
 November 24, 1873.
 
 78 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 both for his own sake and because he alone could, she thinks, 
 prove her guiltless. All things conspire against her her very 
 tears, her prayers, her asseverations give countenance to her 
 guilt. She is hurled headlong down the precipice, but, alas ! 
 not killed at once. The strong young life will not leave its 
 tenement the mortal agony is prolonged even the dagger's 
 thrust, which is meant in mercy that she may not "linger in 
 her pain," is not enough. The soul cannot away until it asserts 
 the purity of the sweet casket in which it has been set. It 
 lingers on in its pain until the poor lips can speak, not, as before, 
 to deaf ears that will not listen, but to those of a sympathising 
 woman. Then, with bitter moans and broken breath, Desdemona 
 stammers out with her last gasp of life "A guiltless death I 
 die ! " 
 
 When asked by Emilia who has done this deed, she says, 
 "Nobody; I myself." As in the senate - house, before the 
 council, she took all the blame upon herself, so here again, and 
 with her dying breath, she exonerates the Moor. I did it all 
 "I myself." Blame no one else. "Commend me to my kind 
 lord : 0, farewell ! " 
 
 Commend me to my brave warrior ! Of what higher heroism 
 than this of what nobler love and self-abnegation has history 
 or romance any record ? 
 
 Mr Macready was very fine in this scene. There was an im- 
 pressive grandeur, an elevation even, in his ravings : 
 
 " Whip me, ye devils, 
 
 From the possession of this heavenly sight ! 
 Blow me about in winds ! roast me in sulphur ! 
 Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire ! 
 O Desdemona ! Desdemona ! dead ! dead ! dead ! " 
 
 As I lay there and listened, he seemed to me to be like a soul in 
 hell, whirling in the second circle of the Inferno. And there 
 was a piteousness, a pathos, in his reiteration of the loved one's 
 name that went to my very heart. Then one felt how wisely 
 Shakespeare had made its penultimate syllable long, and not 
 short, as in Italy it is, bringing into it a prolonged moaning 
 sound, which at this point of the play seems so much in accord 
 with Desdemona's doom. Oh, how my heart ached, too, for
 
 DESDEMONA. 79 
 
 Othello, when his eyes were opened, and he could see and trace 
 the paltry threads by which his soul and body had been ensnared, 
 and when I heard the broken accents of his shame at having 
 sunk so low as to conspire in Cassio's death ! 
 
 " Lod. Did you and he consent in Cassio's death ? 
 Oth. Ay. 
 
 Cas. Dear general, I never gave you cause. 
 Oth. I do believe it, and I ask you pardon." 
 
 And now the end has come. The play begins in night with 
 hurry and turmoil ; in night, and what a night, it closes ! There 
 are glorious days of perfect happiness between, but they are 
 few, and the last of them overshadowed with clouds " consulting 
 for foul weather," and giving portentous presage of a terrible 
 catastrophe. But not with storm and turmoil does the last 
 night come. The deep blue sky is studded with " chaste stars," 
 not a breath is stirring, and the lapping of the Levantine sea 
 against the castle rock is alone heard through the stillness ; while 
 "the sweetest innocent that e'er did lift up eye" is cruelly done 
 to death by him that loved her best. 
 
 As we " look upon the tragic loading of that bed," we are not 
 without comfort. Truly it is best so. The wrench which had 
 been given to the bond by which these two noble lovers were 
 united could never be repaired on earth. Life could never again 
 have been to them the same as in their brief days of happiness. 
 The delusion which made Othello mad has been rent from his 
 eyes. He must rejoin her who died with a message for him on 
 her lips. No fear that when they "meet at compt" her look 
 will " hurl his soul from heaven." Her infinite love and pity 
 will think but of his sufferings, and will plead for the forgiveness 
 he dares not ask for himself. 
 
 Another victim lies near them, and one who has become almost 
 hallowed by her death. 
 
 Whatever may have been Emilia's life before, we must feel for 
 her now. She has truly loved and honoured Desdemona, all the 
 more that, to her common nature, and with her rough experience 
 of the world, her mistress reveals a purity and elevation of spirit 
 which she had never met before nay, of which she had never 
 so much as dreamed. We cannot forgive the part she plays in
 
 80 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 giving the dropped handkerchief to her husband, instead of 
 returning it to her lady, knowing how she values it how she 
 keeps it " always by her to kiss and talk to." Although she has 
 misgivings as to the use her husband means to make of it, yet 
 she gives it to "please his fantasy." She hears Desdemona 
 deplore its loss " Where should I lose that handkerchief, 
 Emilia ? " Yet she can answer, " I know not, madam." She 
 hears the Moor's wild burst of passion when Desdemona owns she 
 "has it not about her"; she knows that its absence has made 
 him jealous ; she sees her mistress plunged in grief for its loss, 
 and yet keeps silence. Nothing can excuse that silence, not even 
 her dread of her husband, brutal as she knew him to be this 
 " honest, honest lago " ! She could have told them of what 
 metal he was made. 
 
 Still she expiates her wrong-doing with her life. With that 
 last interview of only an hour ago in her thoughts, the old ballad 
 still sounding in her ears, when she next sees her sweet mistress 
 it is to find her breathless dying from a violent and most un- 
 natural death. Well may she say, " Oh, this grief will kill me ! " 
 But she has yet to learn the share which she herself has had in 
 this dismal tragedy to learn that the handkerchief she stole and 
 gave to her husband, Desdemona had been accused of giving to 
 Cassio. At last she speaks. Though late, she will make what 
 reparation she can, and she does it unflinchingly. Her husband's 
 threats and his commands that she shall go home do not stop her. 
 She entreats of the others leave to speak. " "Tis proper I obey 
 him, but not now. Perchance, lago, I will ne'er go home." No ! 
 there is no more home for any of them. What has she more to 
 live for ? Better die, as she does, by lago's sword, than drag out 
 a life of remorse for disloyalty to her mistress. That mistress is 
 the one sole creature of whom she can now think, and with her 
 dying breath she reiterates to Othello the asseverations of her 
 innocence. " She loved thee, cruel Moor ; ... so speaking as 
 I think, I die, I die ; " and her last words are a prayer that she 
 may be laid by her mistress's side. 
 
 We have learned from Gratiano that Brabantio is dead. No 
 doubt when he returned from the ducal palace to his desolate 
 home, Brabantio would become alive to the truth that his
 
 DESDEMONA. 81 
 
 daughter had been its very light and life. Self-reproaches would 
 rise to fill her place and embitter his loneliness, reminding him 
 of all he might have been to her, but had not been. The maiden, 
 so tender, so unobtrusive, had a magic in her presence not con- 
 sciously known or felt until lost, which filled his home and life 
 with blessings, and without which the charm of both was gone, 
 and so the old senator died quickly " pure grief shore his old 
 thread in twain." 
 
 Of Cassio what shall be said? The two creatures he most 
 admired and loved have been brought to ruin, and chiefly through 
 him ! By his own folly in the brawl with Eoderigo he will be 
 apt to think he laid the groundwork for lago's plot. He will 
 remember that it was lago who first urged him to appeal to 
 Desdemona to get him reinstated. Nor can he fail to learn how 
 his importunity and her kindness "Your solicitor shall rather 
 die than give your cause away ! " helped to bring about the 
 woful catastrophe. If so, what unhappiness is before him ! It 
 will take long years to deaden the thought that, but for his fatal 
 weakness, no intercession would have been necessary, and thus 
 all would have gone well. A great gap has been made in his 
 life. He will never be the same man again, though he may be a 
 better and a wiser one. Neither Cyprus nor Venice will hold him 
 long. He will get back, I think, to Florence, and to the books 
 and studies of his youth. Ever present with him will be the 
 image of the victims of the " misad ventured piteous overthrow " in 
 which he had unwittingly played so prominent a part. But for 
 him there will be one " enskyed and sainted " above all her sex 
 one who will keep alive for him his faith in woman, his hopes of 
 the hereafter, when the mysteries of " all this unintelligible world " 
 shall be solved ; and that one will be "the divine Desdemona." 
 
 Adieu, my friend. I have told you, as you wished me, my 
 thoughts about the three important female characters in Shake- 
 speare to which you believed the least justice had generally been 
 done. Would I had held your pen to write with ! Adieu ! 
 
 Ever affectionately yours, 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT MARTIN. 
 To Miss GEBALDINB E. JEWSBUBT.
 
 82 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 [Before this letter was despatched, I learned that the dear 
 friend for whom it was intended had sunk into a state of uncon- 
 sciousness. As it was written, however, so I leave it, praying 
 forbearance for what in it is merely personal the trifles which 
 would have given it a special value in her eyes. 
 
 H. F. M. 
 
 31 ONSLOW SQUAKE, LONDON, S.W., 
 February 12, 1881.]
 
 IV. 
 JULIET
 
 IV. 
 JULIET. 
 
 31 ONBLOW SQUARE, 5th January 1881. 
 
 " So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows 
 As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows." 
 
 TTOU ask me to write to you, dear friend, of Juliet, and of all 
 -*- my earliest dreams about her. Whose bidding should I 
 heed, if not yours, my always loving, indulgent, constant friend ? 
 But indeed you hardly realise how difficult is the task you have 
 set me. Of the characters which I wrote about to our dear Miss 
 Jewsbury, I could speak as of beings outside, as it were, my own 
 personality; but Juliet seems inwoven with my life. Of all 
 characters, hers is the one which I have found the greatest diffi- 
 culty, but also the greatest delight, in acting. My early girl- 
 hood's first step upon the stage was made as Juliet. To the last 
 days of my artist life I never acted the character without finding 
 fresh cause to marvel at the genius which created this child- 
 woman, raised by love to heroism of the highest type. 
 
 It was at the little theatre beside the Green at Eichmond 1 
 that I first played Juliet ; and Eichmond is therefore indelibly 
 associated with the Juliet of my early youth. I will tell you 
 
 1 As these sheets are passing through the press (March 1885), I read, not 
 without a pang, that this little theatre, after sinking into a state of pitiable 
 decay, is being pulled down.
 
 86 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 why. My holidays were passed there, for there my family 
 always spent the summer months. The small house on the 
 Green, in which we were often left with a kind old servant in 
 charge, looks to me even now like a home. Every step of the 
 Green, the river-banks, the fields round Sion House, the Hill, 
 the Park, the Twickenham Meadows, were all loved more and 
 more as each summer enlarged my sense of beauty. One of my 
 earliest and most vivid recollections I was then quite a child 
 was a meeting with " the great Edmund Kean," as my sister 
 called him. He was her pet hero. She had seen him act, and, 
 through friends, had a slight acquaintance with him. Wishing 
 her little " birdie," as she called me, to share all her pleasures, 
 she often took me with her to the Green for the chance of seeing 
 him, as he strolled there with his aunt, old Miss Tidswell. The 
 great man had been very ill, so that our expectations had been 
 frequently disappointed. At last, about noon one very warm 
 sunny day, my sister's eager eyes saw the two figures in the far 
 distance. It would have been bad manners to appear to be 
 watching, so in a roundabout way our approach was made. As 
 we drew near, I would gladly have run away. I was startled, 
 frightened at what I saw, a small pale man with a fur cap, 
 and wrapped in a fur cloak. He looked to me as if come from 
 the grave. A stray lock of very dark hair crossed his forehead, 
 under which shone eyes which looked dark, and yet bright as 
 lamps. So large were they, so piercing, so absorbing, I could 
 see no other feature. I shrank from them behind my sister, but 
 she whispered to me that it would be unkind to show any fear, 
 so we approached, and were kindly greeted by the pair. 
 
 Oh what a voice was that which spoke ! It seemed to come 
 from so far away a long, long way behind him. After the 
 first salutation, it said, " Who is this little one ? " When my 
 sister had explained, the face smiled (I was reassured by the 
 smile, and the face looked less terrible) and he asked me where 
 I went to school, and which of my books I liked best. Alas ! I 
 could not then remember that I liked any, but my ever good 
 angel-sister said she knew I was fond of poetry, for I had just 
 won a prize for recitation. Upon this the face looked still more 
 kindly at me, and we all moved together to a seat under the
 
 JULIET. 87 
 
 trees. Then the far-away hollow voice but it was not harsh 
 spoke again, as he put his hand in mine, and bade me tell 
 him whether I liked my school-walks better than the walks at 
 Richmond. This was too much, and it broke the ice of my 
 silence. No, indeed ! Greenwich Park was very pretty so 
 was Blackheath, with its donkeys, which we were, on occasions 
 much too rare, allowed to ride. But Eichmond ! Nothing 
 could be so beautiful ! I was asked to name my favourite spots, 
 and whether I had ever been in a punt which I had, and 
 caught fish which I had not. My tongue, once untied, ran on 
 and on, and had after a time to be stopped, for my sister and 
 the old lady-aunt thought I should fatigue the invalid. But he 
 would not part just yet. He asked my name, and when it was 
 told, exclaimed, " Oh, the old ballad ! do you know it 1 which 
 begins, 
 
 ' Oh, my Helen, 
 
 There is no tellin' 
 
 Why love I fell in ; 
 
 The grave, my dwellin', 
 
 Would I were well in ! ' 
 
 I know now why with ' my Helen, love I fell in ' ; it is because 
 she loves poetry, and she loves Richmond. Will my Helen 
 come and repeat her poetry to me some day?" This alarming 
 suggestion at once silenced my prattle, and my sister had to 
 express for me the pleasure and honour I was supposed to feel. 
 
 Here the interview ended. The kind hand was withdrawn 
 which had lain in mine so heavily, and yet looked so thin and 
 small. I did not then know how great is the weight of weak- 
 ness. It was put upon my head, and I was bid God-speed ! I 
 was to be sent for some day soon. But the day never came ; 
 the school-days were at hand ; those wondrous eyes I never saw, 
 and that distant voice I never heard again. 
 
 How vividly some things remain with us ! I can shut my 
 eyes and recall the whole scene, see and hear all that passed, 
 and thrill again with my old fright and pleasure ! The actual 
 words I have mentioned, and many more that passed, doubt- 
 less would not have remained with me, if I had not heard them 
 repeated often and often by my sister. She was as proud of
 
 88 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 this little episode in my young life as if a king had noticed me ; 
 and she spoke of her great hero's kind words to me so constantly, 
 telling them to all our friends, that they became riveted in 
 my memory. A day or two afterwards my sister met Miss 
 Tidswell, who told her that Mr Kean had not suffered from his 
 walk, and had often spoken of the little sweet-voiced maiden, 
 who could be dumb, and yet full of talk when the right chord 
 was struck. He was very fond, she said, of children, and would 
 like the little sister to pay him an early visit. But this was not 
 to be. He must have recovered from the illness which pre- 
 vented him from sending for me, for I heard of his acting in 
 London afterwards, and felt all a child's pride in having once 
 attracted the attention of a distinguished man. And who so 
 distinguished, so invested with charm for a girl's imagination, as 
 the tragic hero of the day 1 
 
 I cannot remember if the house into which I saw him go was 
 the small house attached to the Richmond theatre, which I have 
 heard belonged to him at the time of his death, and in which he 
 died. With that little house are linked remembrances of mine 
 very deep and lasting. In the parlour I dressed, not many years 
 afterwards, for the part of Juliet, to make my first appearance 
 on the stage. How this came about was somewhat singular. 
 "We were, as usual, in our summer quarters at Richmond. At 
 this time a Mr Willis Jones was the lessee of the little theatre : 
 he was, it was said, a gentleman of independent fortune, who 
 had a great desire to be something more than an amateur actor. 
 The performances took place about twice or thrice a-week. The 
 stage-door of the theatre was always open, and on the off-days 
 of performance we sometimes stole in and stood upon the, to 
 me, weirdly mysterious place, the stage, looking into the gloom 
 of the vacant pit and boxes. How full of mystery it all seemed ! 
 so dim, so impenetrable ! One hot afternoon my sister and my- 
 self, finding it yet too sunny to walk down to the river we had 
 to pass the theatre on the way took refuge in the dark cool 
 place to rest awhile. On the stage was a flight of steps, and a 
 balcony, left standing no doubt after rehearsal, or prepared for 
 that of the next day. After sitting on the steps for a while, my 
 sister exclaimed, "Why, this might do for Romeo and Juliet's
 
 JULIET. 89 
 
 balcony ! Go up, birdie, and I will be your Romeo." Upon 
 which, amid much laughter, and with no little stumbling over 
 the words, we went through the balcony scene, I being prompter ; 
 for in the lonely days by the sea-shore, of which I have spoken, 
 with only the great dog of the house as my companion, I had, 
 almost unconsciously, learned by heart all the scenes in which 
 my favourite heroines figured. 
 
 I may say that, in those days, Juliet, like the other heroines 
 of my fancy, was attractive to me principally through what she 
 had to suffer, in which the horror of her tomb, " the being stifled 
 in the vault," always my first terror, played a prominent part. 
 Our school -walks from Greenwich took us at times to Lee 
 churchyard, where there was a vault that to my imagination 
 was altogether terrible. A flight of green, slimy-looking steps 
 led down to a massive door with open iron-work at the upper 
 part, and we girls used to snatch a fearful pleasure by peering 
 through it into the gloom within. My favourite school-friend 
 was a German girl, with a very pretty face, but in figure so un- 
 gainly that she was the despair of our dancing-master. She 
 shared my dread of the terrible, and also the attraction I felt 
 towards it. Over this vault we often talked, and we both agreed 
 that in just such a tomb must Juliet have been placed. We 
 had seen the toads and frogs hopping about in and out of it, and 
 devoutly did we hope that Juliet's face was covered. For, oh 
 the horror for her to have a cold flabby toad upon it ! And 
 then, had we not read of "worms that were her chamber- 
 maids"? an awful suggestion to the literal minds of young 
 girls. How we rejoiced that, when she really awoke, she saw 
 by her side the " comfortable friar " ! To most young minds, 
 I suppose, the terrible and the tragic are always the most 
 alluring. Certainly at that time the fourth and fifth acts of 
 Romeo and Juliet weighed heavier in the balance with me than 
 the earlier and happy ones. Of the passion of love I had then 
 naturally no knowledge. It did not interest me. But Juliet's 
 devotion to Eomeo, and her resolve to die rather than prove un- 
 true, this I could understand, because all the heroes and heroines 
 worthy of the name of whom I had read were always true and 
 loyal.
 
 90 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 But I have wandered far from this, to me, memorable after- 
 noon at Richmond. My sister and I went away to the river, 
 leaving the shadowy gloom of the stage empty as we had found 
 it. To our surprise and consternation we learned, some little 
 time after, that there had been a listener. When our friends 
 arrived some days later, the lessee told them that, having oc- 
 casion to go from the dwelling-house to his private box, he had 
 heard voices, listened, and remained during the time of our 
 merry rehearsal He spoke in such warm terms of the Juliet's 
 voice, its adaptability to the character, her figure, I was tall 
 for my age, and so forth, that in the end he prevailed upon 
 my friends to let me make a trial on his stage. To this, at my 
 then very tender age, they were loath to consent. But I was 
 to be announced simply as a young lady, her first appear- 
 ance. At the worst, a failure would not matter ; and, at any 
 rate, the experiment would show whether I had gifts or not in 
 that direction. Thus did a little frolic prove to be the turning- 
 point of my life. As I recall those days, and the interval that 
 followed before my debut on the London stage, where also I 
 was announced to make my first appearance as Juliet, all my 
 young life seemed wrapped up in her. You can see, therefore, 
 how difficult it must be to divest myself of the emotions in- 
 separable from her name sufficiently to write of her with criti- 
 cal calmness. 
 
 Before I attempt to do so, let me complete my gossiping ac- 
 count of my first appearance at Richmond. It was a summer 
 evening, and the room was given me to dress in, which, I was 
 told, had been Mr Kean's parlour and dressing-room. There 
 was a glass case there in which were preserved as relics several 
 articles of his toilet, brushes and things of that kind. How 
 these brought to my mind that interview the frail figure which 
 seemed buried in furs, the large eyes so intense in their lustre, 
 the dark hair straggling over the forehead, the voice coming 
 from so far away, and the kind, quaint manner ! I could now 
 see how he had humoured the shy child by pretending ignor- 
 ance, in order to draw forth her opinions and explanations. It 
 was very sweet to look back upon, and I could almost believe 
 that his spirit was there in sympathy with mine ; had not his
 
 JULIET. 91 
 
 parting words to me been a God-speed ? Very wisely, no one 
 had ever mentioned in my hearing the word "stage fright." I 
 had thought of the performance only as another rehearsal, with 
 the difference that it was at night and not by day, and with the 
 great additional pleasure of wearing a new dress of white satin, 
 which was so soft and exquisite to the touch, and oh the dig- 
 nity of this ! with a small train to it. It had no ornament, not 
 even a flower; for when I heard that I must not wear real 
 flowers, for fear of their dropping on the stage and some one 
 slipping upon them, I would not have any others. As the time 
 for the play to begin approached, and I heard the instruments 
 tuning, and a voice cry out that " the overture was on," I felt a 
 most unaccountable sensation stealing over me. This feeling 
 grew and grew until it nearly overcame me. I saw my mother 
 looking very anxiously at me, and I could not hide from my- 
 self that I felt good for nothing. I begged her to leave me 
 to myself for a few minutes. At first she did not gather 
 what was in my mind, and tried to rally my courage : but again 
 I begged to be left, for I knew well that when alone I could 
 more freely seek the help which all so suddenly I seemed to 
 need more than I ever could have guessed. My wish was 
 granted. They did not return to me until I was wanted for 
 the stage. I remember being asked if I had left anything 
 behind, when I turned to give a last look at the relics in the 
 glass case. It was a sort of farewell a feeling as if life were 
 ending. 
 
 My sister, to give me comfort, was to be the Lady Capulet. 
 Poor darling ! she was so agitated that they could hardly per- 
 suade her to appear on the scene ; and when the nurse had 
 called out for th'e "lamb," the "ladybird" (your "ladybird," 
 you know, ever after), the Juliet rushed straight into her 
 mother's arms, never to be lured from them again during the 
 scene by all the cajolings of the nurse. How the lights per- 
 plexed me ! All seemed so different ! I could see faces so 
 close to me. It was well I could see one whose agitation was 
 apparent to me on the instant. I felt I must try to please him, 
 this dear friend of all my young life, my constant helper and 
 instructor, who, though he was no blood relative, always called
 
 92 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHAEACTERS: 
 
 me "his child." He it was who taught me very much of what I 
 learned, after my delicate health took me from school, and sent 
 me to the sea-shore, and to him and him only could I confide, 
 with the assurance of perfect sympathy, all my devotion for the 
 heroines of Shakespeare. He taught me the value of the different 
 metres in blank verse and in rhyme, as I recited to him many of 
 Milton's poems, the " Lycidas," large portions of " Paradise Lost," 
 and Byron's " Darkness," which I knew by heart. He made me 
 understand the value of words, nay, of every letter of every word, 
 for the purposes of declamation. Nothing was to be slighted. 
 This true friend a man of varied and large acquirements, a 
 humourist, too, and a wit never refused, although most delicate 
 in health, to give me largely of his time. How grateful I was, 
 and am to him ! His death, which happened far too soon for my 
 advantage though not for his, it released him from a life of 
 constant pain robbed me of my first and truest guide and 
 friend. It was his face I saw. Should his " child," his darling, 
 give him pain disappointment ? No ! Gradually he and Juliet 
 filled my mind, and I went on swimmingly, until the fourth act. 
 Here, with all the ardour and all the ignorance of a novice, I 
 took no heed that the phial for the sleeping potion, which Friar 
 Laurence had given me, was of glass, but kept it tightly in my 
 hand, as though it were a real deliverance from a dreaded fate 
 which it was to effect for me, through the long impassioned scene 
 that follows. "When the time came to drink the potion, there 
 was none ; for the phial had been crushed in my hand, the frag- 
 ments of glass were eating their way into the tender palm, and the 
 blood was trickling down in a little stream over my much-admired 
 dress. This had been for some time apparent to the audience, 
 but the Juliet knew nothing of it, and felt nothing, until the 
 red stream arrested her attention. Excited as I already was, 
 this was too much for me ; and having always had a sickening 
 horror of the bare sight or even talk of blood, poor Juliet grew 
 faint, and went staggering towards the bed, on which she really 
 fainted. I remember nothing of the end of the play, beyond see- 
 ing many kind people in my dressing-room, and wondering what 
 this meant. Our good family doctor from London was among 
 the audience, and bound up the wounded hand. This never
 
 JULIET. 93 
 
 occurred again, because they ever afterwards gave me a wooden 
 phial. But oh, nay dress ! my first waking thought. I was in- 
 consolable, until told that the injured part could be renewed. 
 
 So much for my first Juliet ! I repeated the character several 
 times in the same little theatre each time trying to make it more 
 like what I thought would satisfy my dear master. I sought no 
 other praise. 
 
 On the last occasion he was there. When I saw him at the 
 end of the play I was sure something was wrong. He was very 
 silent, and when I begged to have his opinion, whatever it might 
 be, he told me I had not improved, that I had disappointed 
 him. I was not in the character throughout, and he feared I had 
 not the true artistic power to lose myself in the being of another. 
 Oh the pain this caused me ! The wound is even now only 
 scarred over. I would not let him see my grief, but I knew no 
 sleep that night for weeping. My generous sweet sister thought 
 I had been cruelly treated, and tried to comfort me and heal my 
 wounds, but they were far too deep for that. 
 
 Xext day my dear friend was deeply pained to see that I 
 had taken his censure so sorely to heart, and had forgotten 
 how, here and there, it had been tempered with approbation. 
 After some talk with my mother, it was decided that Juliet 
 and all other heroines were for me to pass once more into " the 
 sphere of dream." I was quietly to forget them and return 
 to my studies. My friend confessed that he had expected too 
 much from my tender years that an English girl of the age 
 which Shakespeare assigns to Juliet was in every respect a dif- 
 ferent creature. Development must come later ; I certainly was 
 never a precocious child. So until I appeared about three years 
 later on the London stage, my life was very studious and very 
 quiet. 
 
 How good and tender and helpful that dear friend was to 
 me ever after, and how repentant for having caused me that 
 bitter night of sorrow, taking all the blame upon himself, and 
 declaring that he had no right to look for what he did in one 
 so young ! Doubtless he was wrong in expecting too much ; 
 but the lesson I then learned was never forgotten. He saw 
 and helped me in every other character I acted until his too
 
 94 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 early death, which was the first great sorrow of iny life. 
 Generous heart, I hope your own could tell you how loving 
 and how grateful mine was ! 
 
 The last night he saw me act was at Drury Lane, and he had 
 almost to be carried to his private box. He died about ten 
 days after. Never can I forget how good and thoughtful for me 
 Mr Macready proved himself at this time. I had something 
 very important and difficult to study at a short notice I 
 forget what. It was drawing towards the end of a season 
 in which my work had been most exhausting. I was very ill 
 and tired, so that my memory, usually quick enough, seemed 
 to fail me. I grew nervous, and told Mr Macready that even 
 by sitting up at night I feared I could not be ready at the time 
 he wished. This engrossing study accounted for my not seeing 
 my dear friend for some days together only sending to his 
 house daily to inquire after him. During one of those nights 
 that I was spending in study the night before its results were 
 to be made public he died. This was kept from me, but word 
 of the sad event was sent in the morning to Mr Macready. 
 As my acting that night was of the utmost importance, he 
 sent me a kind note, asking me to go to him directly at the 
 theatre, share his little dinner, and go quietly over with him the 
 scenes which were making me nervous, telling me he was quite 
 sure he could put me at my ease. I accepted his invitation, 
 and his gentle kindness I shall ever remember with gratitude. 
 As the afternoon wore on, he sent for my dresser, and told her 
 to make me lie down for an hour or two before I thought of 
 dressing for the stage. I had a lurking feeling through the day 
 that something was happening, for all about me looked at me 
 so earnestly and kindly, but what trouble was hanging over me 
 I could not even guess, because the last news given to me of my 
 dear friend before I left home had been reassuring. 
 
 When the performance was over, Mr Macready met me as I 
 was leaving my room, and put a letter into my hand, giving me 
 the impression that it was upon business, I was tired, he said, 
 and the morning would be the best time to read it. Its object 
 really was to tell me of his sympathy, and to offer what comfort 
 he could, for he knew well how dear was the friend whom I had
 
 JULIET. 95 
 
 lost. However, as my great struggle of the night was over, I 
 insisted, in spite of all the remonstrances of my maid, on calling 
 at my friend's house, which we had to pass on the way home, 
 and I got out of the carriage to make my own inquiries. The 
 surprised and frightened look of the servant who opened the door 
 told me everything, and I saw at once why all had combined to 
 keep me in ignorance throughout the day. Then I understood 
 how thoughtful Mr Macready had been. His letter was most 
 kind. He gave me some days' rest to face my trouble, although, 
 as the close of the season was near, he must have been put to ex- 
 treme inconvenience by my absence. 
 
 Oh the sharpness of that grief ! The prelude, too, of another 
 trial ; for suddenly Mr Macready gave up the management of 
 Drury Lane and went to America. Another friend lost ! He 
 had been four years at the head of a theatre two at Covent 
 Garden and two at Drury Lane doing his very best to raise the 
 tone of the stage to a level worthy of its great poet ; while those 
 whom he had gathered round him gladly seconded his efforts, and 
 followed his guidance. 1 
 
 To me the breaking up of this establishment was a heavy blow 
 indeed. Severe as my labours had been, the delight in them far 
 more than outweighed the fatigue. Drury Lane Theatre, so con- 
 ducted, was an arena in which every gift I had found scope for 
 exercise. My studies were all of an elevating character : my 
 thoughts were given to the great types of womanhood, drawn by 
 Shakespeare's master-hand, or by the hands of modern poets 
 Browning, Marston, Troughton, Bulwer Lytton, and others 
 anxious to maintain the reputation of the national drama. My 
 audiences, kind to me from the first, grew ever more and more 
 kind, and I felt among them as among friends. Now an end to 
 all this had come "the world seemed shattered at my feet." 
 Engagements were offered to me in many theatres ; in one case I 
 
 1 I have often seen it stated that Mr Macready abandoned the manage- 
 ment of Drury Lane Theatre because he lost money by it. This was not 
 so. The theatre had so prospered under his management, that the pro- 
 prietors, selfishly desiring to profit by a prosperity nob of their own creat- 
 ing, demanded an increased rent. This so angered Mr Macready that he 
 declined to renew his lease, and went away to America.
 
 96 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 was even asked to assume the office of directress. But I shrank 
 from the responsibilities of such a position, and felt that, for my 
 own interests as an artist, it was not well to allow myself to be 
 hampered by them. 
 
 Ill and sad at heart, it was then that the kindness of you, my 
 dear friend, and others like you, cheered my drooping spirits, 
 and encouraged me to believe that I could walk alone nay, that 
 a chance which seemed then a calamity might ultimately prove 
 an advantage in my art, by leaving me to develop what was in 
 me, relieved from the overmastering influence of Mr Macready's 
 style. Young in my art as I was although the whole weight of 
 every leading female character had, since my debut, rested on my 
 shoulders all my friends agreed that engagements for a week or 
 two at a time in the leading provincial theatres would be the best 
 practice for me. I could thus, too, take rest in the intervals be- 
 tween my various engagements, rest so necessary for me, over- 
 taxed as my strength had continually been since the beginning of 
 my professional career. Both then and afterwards, I could never 
 have been equal to the strain upon heart and brain and body, 
 but for the summer months, in which I always took holiday, 
 passing them quietly among my friends. 
 
 It was with a sad heart enough that I started on my first 
 engagement out of London, for Mr Macready had always told 
 me that it was in London I must make my home, as no pro- 
 vincial audience would care for or understand my style. I 
 took Edinburgh first, and had a sufficiently cold reception from 
 a house far from full. I had gone, as I afterwards always made 
 it my rule to go, wherever I went, without any heralds in 
 advance to proclaim my coming or to sound my praises. How- 
 ever, the lessee and manager, Mr Murray a man of great 
 dramatic ability and many accomplishments, who acted Colonel 
 Damas to my Pauline in The Lady of Lyons, this first night 
 of my experience there told me not to be disheartened. He 
 felt sure, he said, I had taken hold of my audience, and that 
 this was the only indifferent house before which I should ever 
 have to act there. The event proved that he knew his public ; 
 his prophecy, indeed, was more than realised, for neither there 
 nor elsewhere did I ever again play to an indifferently filled
 
 JULIET. 97 
 
 house. Of want of enthusiasm or of constancy in my pro- 
 vincial audiences no one could have had less reason to complain, 
 nor had I ever occasion from that hour to be reminded of what 
 Mr Macready had predicted. Had the state of the theatres in 
 London been such as to admit of my joining them, I would 
 willingly have done so. I longed for my London audiences, 
 who had been so kind, so true, so sympathetic in my earliest 
 efforts. And although for some little time I only came before 
 them at intervals and for short engagements, yet they always 
 made me feel that I was not forgotten, and that they were as 
 quick as ever to go along with me in my efforts to interpret 
 the heart and nature of woman, as drawn by our master-poets. 
 
 But let me go back to my earliest days. Nearly three years, 
 as I have said, elapsed, after my first girlish experiments, before 
 I again trod the stage, not this time the tiny stage of Kichmond, 
 but the vast stage of Covent Garden, and before an audience 
 that filled the theatre from floor to ceiling. The interval, spent 
 in quiet study, had widened my views about many things, 
 Juliet included. Still I remained true to my first love; and 
 when it was decided that I should submit myself to the dread 
 ordeal of a London audience, to ascertain whether I possessed 
 the qualities to justify my friends in allowing me to adopt the 
 stage as a profession, I selected Juliet for my first appearance. 
 I rehearsed the part several times, and was announced to appear 
 in it. During the rehearsals, Mr Charles Kemble, who was then 
 taking his leave of the stage, was always present, seated in the 
 front of the dark theatre. On his judgment and that of one or 
 two others, I believe the manager was to decide whether, having 
 no experience or practice in the actor's art, being indeed a mere 
 novice, I was fit to make an appearance before a London audi- 
 ence. I was not told at the time through what an ordeal I was 
 passing. Mr Kemble gave judgment in my favour, and was to 
 have taken the part of Mercutio. How sympathetic, and court- 
 eous, and encouraging he was ! He, to use his own words to me, 
 was making his final bow to his art, as I my first curtsey. 
 
 Unhappily for me, the rehearsals showed that the Eomeo of 
 the theatre the only one available at the time was of too 
 mature an age to act with so young a Juliet when she came 
 G
 
 98 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS : 
 
 before an audience on her debut. A month or two later I did act 
 the character with him. He was an excellent actor in his way, 
 but very vehement, so much so that, when he played Romeo, 
 my sister would never trust me in the tomb alone. He shook it 
 so violently with the crowbar, that she used to declare, if she 
 had not been there to play the part of a caryatid, and help to 
 hold it up, the frail fabric would have dropped to pieces on my 
 head. Oh ! if I had not had a very different Romeo in my im- 
 agination, it would have been hard indeed to make one out of 
 such an unromantic spluttering lover ! When Mr Macready un- 
 dertook the management very soon after, Mr James Anderson 
 joined the company, and I had in him a very gallant Romeo. 
 Discretion tempered his fire. 
 
 Judge of my dismay when, a short time before my debut, I 
 was told that I must forego Juliet, and appear as Julia in The 
 Hunchback. I was almost heart-broken. But it was too late to 
 recede ; and as Julia I had to appear. How much this added to 
 the terrible tension of feeling with which I approached the trial, 
 none but myself can ever know. You, my dear friend, were 
 there, as you have told me, and you know, as a spectator, what 
 a fearful ordeal I had to pass through. On this occasion I had 
 no loving sister's arms to rush into ; but I remember gratefully 
 how kind Miss Taylor was to me; she was the Helen of that 
 evening, as she had been the original Helen of the play. At the 
 rehearsals she had given me valuable advice as to the stage direc- 
 tions, &c., and during the actual performance she comforted and 
 supported me with all her might, and with all the fine tact of a 
 sympathetic heart. 
 
 How well I remember that awful moment when called to the 
 side-scene to be ready for my entrance with Helen ! Seeing my 
 agitation, Miss Taylor set herself to divert my attention by ad- 
 miring my dress. She liked, she said, the yellowish whiteness 
 of it ; she could not endure a harsh dead white. Where had 
 mamma, who was standing beside us, got me such dainty mittens 1 
 Then she showed me her own said how fortunate I was to have 
 such long wavy hair that curled of its own accord, and did not 
 need dressing, wished hers was the same, and how she had to 
 curl and pinch and torture it and herself, in order to get the same
 
 JULIET. 99 
 
 effect, anything to take off my attention. But as the dreadful 
 moment drew nearer, this talk, all on one side, would no longer 
 help. With sympathetic tears in her own eyes, she begged me 
 not to let those big tears fall so continuously and spoil my pretty 
 cheeks ; and when the terrible moment came for our entrance, 
 she put her arm round my waist, and propelled me forward, 
 whispering to me to " curtsey to the applause again ! again ! "- 
 when, but for her help, I could hardly stand. 
 
 It must have been plain to the audience how good she was to 
 me ; and they, no doubt, favourite as she was, liked her all the 
 better for it. I cannot but think what a different play The 
 Hunchback was then, when Helen was interpreted by this lady. 
 Her refinement of manner took away nothing from the archness 
 and piquancy of her scenes with Modus, but rather added to 
 them. He, too, appeared as a real student, not unmannerly and 
 dull from want of breeding and sense, but only awkward from 
 abstraction and absorption in his book-lore. It was sheer ennui, 
 and not forwardness, that made Helen in the dull country-house 
 amuse herself with him. I shudder to think to what I have 
 seen these scenes reduced. Latterly, indeed, I declined to act in 
 this play, because I did not like to be mixed up, even indirectly, 
 with such misinterpretations. 1 It is woful that an author's words 
 and meaning should be degraded by such tones and looks and 
 manner, and that audiences should be found ready to bear with, 
 if not indeed to enjoy, these perversions of his purpose. 
 
 At the end of the first act some of the kind actors came about 
 
 1 In truth, I was not very sorry to have an excuse for giving up the per- 
 formance of a play which I never cordially liked. Julia's character was one 
 that really took no hold of my heart, therefore I always went to the imper- 
 sonation of it as a piece of taskwork. Some of the situations are unques- 
 tionably powerful. They are, however, of a kind in which success will al- 
 ways be due as much to the individual power of the actress as to the author. 
 By what she herself infuses into the character she must veil its inconsist- 
 encies, and so animate it with feeling and passion as to make the audience 
 forget the improbabilities of the plot on which it turns, and the somewhat 
 unlovable qualities of the heroine. If the warm sympathy and applause of 
 audiences could have made me like the part of Julia, I ought to have been 
 fond of it ; but they were dearly bought at the cost of the severe strain 
 upon my imagination and my emotions, as well as the great physical fatigue 
 which went to gain them.
 
 100 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 me, saying that it was " all right." I had only to take courage 
 and speak louder. But, alas! I felt it was "all wrong." I 
 could not control my fears and agitation. They gave me sal 
 volatile in my dressing-room, which I gave mostly to my dress. 
 My mother looked sad and disappointed ; the dear old dresser 
 very pitiful. 1 My sister, alas ! was not then with me. I thought 
 all was over, and did not see my way at all to getting through 
 the play. Then came a knock at my dressing-room door, which 
 my mother answered, and I heard the dear accustomed voice of 
 my friend and master say, " Have you given the poor child any- 
 thing?" I cried out for him to come to me, but the voice an- 
 swered, "Not now, my child ; take all the rest you can." There 
 was, I fancied, such a trouble in the tone, that it added to my 
 own. It was evident he could not trust himself near me. He 
 had been among the audience, but in that enormous theatre only 
 a sea of heads was seen. No one could be distinguished ; so this 
 time he had not helped me. I felt despairing. Never can I 
 forget that half-hour. While I write, it comes back upon me 
 with all its hopeless anguish. 
 
 When we met at the side-scene for the second act, kind Miss 
 
 1 This excellent woman, who was attached to my dressing-room on this 
 my first night as my attendant, never left me afterwards while I was per- 
 manently in London. We were attached to each other from that time. 
 She never left my side except when I was on the stage, but attended with 
 a shawl or cloak all my exits or entrances. She used to be called my 
 " duenna," for she hurried me away from those who might wish to speak or 
 detain me, with, " I beg your pardon, my young lady has already only too 
 little time to change her dress, or to rest in," as it might be. My mother 
 had full confidence in this good woman's care of me, and with good cause. 
 She had known her before she became, as she was now, a widow. The nurs- 
 ing of her husband in a long decline had exhausted her means, and caused 
 her to seek the occupation in which I first knew her. The sweet, refined, 
 unselfish, pure-minded woman was a great assistance and comfort to me. 
 Silence was the order my mother had given as the rule for my dressing- 
 room, no talk to take my thoughts from the work I had in hand. I never 
 knew the dear creature break it, except after the scenes where the nurse 
 proves untrue to Juliet. Then her indignation knew no bounds; such 
 treachery, such desertion of her charge in the hour of her trouble nothing 
 could be so wicked in her eyes ! Even the frequent repetition of the play 
 hardly calmed her anger. This dear woman, whose rare qualities I have 
 never seen excelled, even in stations far above her own, reached her rest in 
 1883, in her cottage at Old Windsor.
 
 JULIET. 101 
 
 Taylor again went through the admirer's part ; she liked my hat 
 and feather, and my whole dress, thought them very charming, 
 very becoming, reminded me that now we were to change char- 
 acters, that I was to be the gay fine lady, and she only the 
 listening astonished one. A very watery smile was, I am sure, 
 all that answered her. When we entered upon the scene, and 
 during the pause at the long kind reception which again awaited 
 me, my eyes lighted on a familiar face raised above all the 
 others, and close before me in the orchestra. Long white hair 
 fell on each side of it, and I saw the handkerchief wiping tears 
 from the eyes. Again a face saved me ! I knew^it was that of 
 my dear grandfather, who, because of his deafness, was, during 
 the play, allowed to occupy the leader's seat. In an instant the 
 thought flashed into my mind of the sad disappointment that 
 was in store for these dear grand-parents, who had been real 
 parents to me in all my earliest years, the one present, and 
 the other, the beloved Quaker grandmother, who had never in 
 her life been inside a theatre. She was waiting in an agony of 
 suspense, as I knew, at home, and her blessing had been the 
 last thing on my heart as I left it. Oh, I could not endure to 
 pain them ! The help I sorely needed, which I knew was even 
 then being invoked for me, came. In a moment, as it seemed, 
 iny agitation calmed. My voice gained tone, and when the point 
 arrived where I had to say " I'll shine, be sure I will," the kind 
 audience interrupted me with a shout of applause. From this 
 time I never faltered, always keeping the dear and now smiling 
 face before me. 
 
 At the end of the third act I was told the manager (not Mr 
 Macready ; he took the management a little later) had requested 
 to see my friends to consult them about a three years' engage- 
 ment, which, as I was much under age, was signed by them for 
 me the next morning, and attached me for that period to the 
 theatre, as the leading actress. Thus was I bound to the art 
 which has been the delight of my after-life, and the way opened 
 for me to clothe oh happy privilege ! with form and motion 
 the great creations of poetical genius over which my girlish 
 imagination had long brooded. 
 
 Of Mr Charles Kemble's good opinion of me I have already
 
 102 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 spoken. When it was decided that the play ahould be changed 
 to The Hunchback, he offered to resume his original part of Sir 
 Thomas Clifford to support me. Never can I forget his rendering 
 of it. What a high and noble bearing ! What tender respect in 
 his approaches as a lover ! What dignified forbearance and self- 
 respect in his reproof afterwards, and in his deportment as the 
 Secretary ! All this made the heroine's part more difficult to 
 act ; for what girl, even the most frivolous, could for a moment 
 have thought of the title or the fortune of such a man in com- 
 parison with himself ? 
 
 In connection with that first night in Covent Garden, I must 
 tell you a little anecdote of my German schoolfellow. On 
 that night a young girl was sitting near some of our friends. 
 Throughout the performance she made herself very conspicuous 
 by clapping her hands and breaking out into admiring but very 
 disturbing exclamations. At last some one near ventured on a 
 gentle remonstrance, and a remark that she could not be aware 
 of the noise she was making. In reply she said, "Oh, please, 
 do not mind, really I cannot help it. She is my schoolfellow, 
 and I am so happy ! " It was explained to her between the 
 acts that she was speaking to friends who knew me. Upon 
 this she became very confidential, told them many incidents of 
 our school-days, and sent me more loves and messages than 
 could be carried. But the ever-recurring refrain was, " Why 
 had I been unfaithful to our school-love, Juliet, whose tomb 
 in Lee churchyard we had so often dressed up with horrors, 
 and in which character she had heard of my appearing at Rich- 
 mond?" It was very hard to make her understand that there 
 was no Romeo to be had youthful enough for her old play- 
 mate's Juliet. 
 
 Something of this was told me at the end of the second act 
 of the play by my dear friend and master, who came to my 
 room (this time) joyously, and being now assured that all was 
 well, did his best to animate my courage. He made me laugh 
 by his description of the vehemence of my young school-friend, 
 and he was made the bearer of a message from me to her. She 
 was to go the next day and tell our dear governess and her 
 sister, near whom she lived, all about the night. This was
 
 JULIET. 103 
 
 such a lucky incident : it made me forget in part the dreaded 
 audience, and filled my mind with fresh incentives to succeed, 
 in order to give pleasure to all the dear friends whose thoughts 
 I knew were with me. 
 
 I said, in the beginning of this letter, that Juliet was inwoven 
 with my life. Some of the reasons I have mentioned ; but there 
 are others that touch me very deeply, which are inseparably 
 linked with the character. 
 
 My beloved only sister was with me in my dressing-room 
 while I was acting Juliet during the last hours we were together 
 in life. During that sad evening we talked of the sportive 
 afternoon rehearsal at Richmond in which she was my Romeo, 
 and all that had come out of it. We parted the next morning ; 
 and oh, what a parting ! she to start that day with her hus- 
 band for America, where in Boston, eighteen months afterwards, 
 alas ! she died. By a strange coincidence, the first time I 
 appeared after the fatal news reached me, I acted a portion of 
 Juliet. The occasion was one of those unsatisfactory monster 
 performances which had been arranged many weeks before, in 
 order to make up the sum required for the statue of Mrs 
 Siddons, now placed in Westminster Abbey. Mr Macready was 
 requested to act in some scenes from Henry the Fourth, and I to 
 give the fourth act in Romeo and Juliet. What the other per- 
 formances were, I do not remember. The blow had fallen upon 
 me only some ten days before, and it made me entirely unfit for 
 exertion of any kind. But the committee wrote so pressingly to 
 me, urging that to take my name from the programme would 
 seriously affect the receipts, that at last I consented to make the 
 effort, not caring much what became of me. How the whole 
 misery of that time comes before me now ! Mr Macready, who 
 knew my sister, and therefore knew how grievous her loss was 
 to me, sent, and came to my dressing-room door, several times 
 during the evening, asking after, and pressing to see, and say a 
 few words to me. We had not met for some time. He was 
 fulfilling his farewell engagements in the provinces, and our 
 paths were different. I felt that I could not bear his look of 
 sympathy or words of kindness, and had to deny myself to him. 
 Even the very sound of his voice heard at the door was all but
 
 104 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 too much for me. I had a duty before me, and I dared not 
 break in upon the calm which I had forced upon myself. Over 
 my Juliet's dress I threw a large flowing black veil, which I 
 hugged to my heart as an outward proof of the mourning within 
 it, and which, in some measure, comforted me. Besides, it also 
 hid from me the kind faces which, I felt sure, would meet mine 
 at the side-scenes. 
 
 The greetings of the audience did not move me. They did 
 not know my grief, so I could bear them. I got on very well 
 in the scene with the Friar. There was despair in it, but 
 nothing that in any way touched upon my own trial. My 
 great struggle was in Juliet's chamber when left alone. Then 
 her desolation, her loneliness, became mine, and the rushing 
 tears would have way. Happily the fearful images presented 
 to Juliet's mind of what is before her in the tomb soon sent 
 softer feelings away ; but how glad I was when the fancied sight 
 of Tybalt's ghost allowed the grief that was in my heart to find 
 vent in a wild cry of anguish as well as horror ! 
 
 From Juliet's bed I was taken to my own, which kept me for 
 many a long day. That is a night which I hardly dare to look 
 back upon. Months and months followed, when the cry was 
 ever in my heart for my loved one, whose loss was to me that 
 of half my life. Can you wonder, then, what thoughts and 
 memories Juliet stirs within me? 
 
 It shocks me to think how egotistical I must appear in 
 recounting to you all these personal details. But in writing 
 of these things, I look back upon myself as upon some other 
 person. And then you, dear friend, and many other friends, 
 have so strongly urged me to tell you of my past in relation to 
 the work I did, that you must share the blame with me. 
 
 What I have to say of Shakespeare's Juliet must be reserved 
 for another letter. Ever your loving and grateful " ladybird," 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT MARTIN. 
 To Mrs S. C. HALL.
 
 V. 
 JULIET 
 
 (CONCLUDED)
 
 V. 
 JULIET 
 
 (CONCLUDED). 
 
 ONSLOW SQUARE, 1881. 
 
 "Trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
 Than those that have more cunning to be strange." 
 
 T ET me try now, my dear friend, to speak to you of the real 
 -"^ Juliet as she filled my imagination when the time came 
 for me to venture on impersonating her in London. In my 
 first trials at Richmond I had ardour and self-forgetfulness 
 enough ; but I was too young, too near the age of Shakespeare's 
 Juliet, considering the tardier development of an English girl, to 
 understand so strong and deep a nature ; neither had my imagin- 
 ation the power to grasp the whole scope and purpose of the 
 play ; and without this power no one can ever be qualified to 
 embody one of Shakespeare's heroines. Hitherto I had only 
 known the outward form of the poet's exquisite creation, and 
 could not reach the deeper meaning that lies beneath it ; indeed 
 I never should have reached it, had I not subsequently been 
 allowed to see the real Shakespeare instead 'of the imperfect 
 copy, adapted and condensed for the stage, in which I originally 
 knew the play. Now a new light broke in upon me. It was 
 no longer only a love-story, the most beautiful of all I had ever 
 read, but a tale where, as in the Greek dramas of which I had
 
 108 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 seen some glimpses, the young and innocent were doomed to 
 punishment in retribution for the guilt of kindred whose " bloody 
 feuds" were to be expiated and ended by the death of their 
 posterity. 
 
 But even then how little could I know ! Although the torch 
 had been put into my hand, I could only see what my small 
 experience showed me. The wonderful proportion, the harmony, 
 the loveliness and pathos, grew upon me only with my mental 
 growth, and could not be grasped in unripe years. Besides, I 
 needed above all things the practice in my art, which to the 
 artist is the greatest help towards developing the poet's meaning, 
 and which throws lights upon it that no study, however close, 
 can give. In certain moods of mind the poet's intention may be 
 read in this way as plainly as in an open book. The inspiration 
 of the scene makes clear what before had not been even dreamed 
 of, but which, once shown, is never to be forgotten or neglected. 
 I always tried to keep my mind open to such revealings, tried 
 not to repeat mechanically any part of any character, but always 
 to go to it as though I had never acted it before. This was easy 
 enough in Shakespeare's plays, but very difficult in those of some 
 other dramatists. 
 
 With the complete play in my hands, I could not fail to see 
 that the key-note was struck in the Prologue, where the whole 
 purpose of the poet is told within the compass of a sonnet. It 
 speaks of the bitter feuds of " two households " for whose rivalry 
 lives were being sacrificed, and for whose " ancient grudge " the 
 followers of both were continually breaking into "new mutiny." 
 To teach a lesson to the reckless leaders of those brawls, " bred 
 of an airy word," it was necessary that each should suffer in his 
 tenderest point, each lose his dearest hope, his only child 
 
 " Whose misadventured piteous overthrows 
 Do, with their death, bury their parents' strife. " 
 
 Nor was the lesson to be read to them alone, but to those " re 
 bellious subjects " also, those " enemies of peace," who helped by 
 their violent partisanship to disturb the quiet and security of 
 Verona's streets. 1 
 
 1 I considered this Prologue of so much importance for the audience, that
 
 JULIET. 109 
 
 As if to emphasise the purpose shown in the Prologue, almost 
 the last words in the play are those spoken by the Prince of 
 Verona, whose kinsmen Mercutio and Paris had both fallen 
 victims to a purely hereditary animosity ! 
 
 ' ' Capulet ! Montague ! 
 See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, 
 That Heaven finds means to kill your joys with love ! 
 And I, for winking at your discords too, 
 Have lost a brace of kinsmen : all are punished." 
 
 "With these passages before me, I started on my study of the 
 play from a fresh point. Romeo and Juliet were no common 
 lovers. In their persons they must be pure, beautiful, generous, 
 devoted, and in every way meet, like the spotless Iphigenia, to 
 be offered up a worthy sacrifice to the gods as an expiation for 
 the past, a healing and propitiation for the future ; and in such 
 wise that the remembrance of their death should make impos- 
 sible any after-enmity each party alike sharing in the woful 
 penalty. 
 
 " Capulet. brother Montague, give me thy hand : 
 This is my daughter's jointure, for no more 
 Can I demand. 
 
 Montagw. But I can give thee more : 
 For I will raise her statue in pure gold ; 
 That, while Verona by that name is known, 
 There shall no figure at such rate be set, 
 As that of true and faithful Juliet. 
 
 Cap. As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie ; 
 Poor sacrifices of our enmity ! " 
 
 Very terrible has been the awakening of these two passionate 
 old men to the miserable folly of their feud ! At our first sight 
 of them, they rush angrily into the melee of their retainers which 
 opens the play, no reason asked how it has arisen Capulet 
 shouting, " Give me my long sword, ho ! " and Montague, held 
 back by his wife, hurling defiance in the words, " Thou villain 
 Capulet ! " At our last sight of them, we leave them standing 
 
 during my last engagement at Drury Lane, in 1869, I used to speak it, no 
 one else being inclined to undertake the task, with a silk domino thrown 
 over my dress, and in front of a fine scene painted many years before by 
 Mr David Roberts representing the Tomb of the Scaligers in Verona.
 
 110 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 remorsefully hand in hand by the dead bodies of their only 
 children, each reading in the other's face the rueful lineaments 
 of his own cureless grief. 
 
 It is only when the din of the street brawl has died down 
 under the stern rebuke and threats of the Prince of Verona that 
 we hear of Eomeo. " Eight glad I am," says Lady Montague, 
 " he was not at this fray." Then, in answer to her inquiry as to 
 where he is, she is told by his friend and cousin, Benvolio, that 
 he was seen an hour before dawn walking in one of his favourite 
 haunts "underneath the grove of sycamore." This intelligence 
 draws from his father the remark, that 
 
 " Many a morning hath he there been seen, 
 With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew. " 
 
 Shakespeare, we see, has taken the greatest pains to show the 
 kind of love-sickness into which Romeo has been thrown by the 
 charms of the fair but icy Rosaline, who chose to be " forsworn 
 to love " that vague yearning of the fancy, that idle listlessness 
 which finds vent in " sighing like furnace," and writing sonnets 
 to his "mistress' eyebrow," and is as unlike the love which is 
 soon to absorb his whole soul " as moonlight is to sunlight, or as 
 water is to wine." Much of it is but " according to the fashion 
 of the time." Not only Romeo's habits, his very language under- 
 goes a change from the moment he sees Juliet. It is no longer 
 the fancy but the heart that speaks. 
 
 Shakespeare prepares us early for the coming tragedy in the 
 foreboding reluctance with which Romeo allows himself to be 
 persuaded by his friends to go to the "old accustomed feast" 
 that night at Capulet's house. Destiny has begun her work. 
 Some power constrains him against his will. He has no thought 
 of enjoyment before him, for he says 
 
 " Give me a torch : I am not for this ambling ; 
 Being but heavy, I will bear the light. 
 
 Mercutio. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. 
 
 Romeo. Not I, believe me : you have dancing shoes 
 With nimble soles ; I have a sole of lead, 
 So stakes me to the ground, I cannot move. 
 
 I'll be a candle-holder, and look on."
 
 JULIET. Ill 
 
 Even although he has heard that the fair Rosaline is to be among 
 the guests, he is unable to throw off a heavy misgiving of calamity 
 "hanging in the stars," which is to date from "this night's 
 revels," and to close in "some vile forfeit of untimely death." 
 "But," he adds, 
 
 " He, that hath the steerage of my course, 
 Direct my sail ! " 
 
 words which always remind me of those to the same effect 
 spoken by the Lady in Comus, when forebodings and anxieties 
 perplex her 
 
 ' ' Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial 
 To my proportioned strength ! " 
 
 In every way happier than Juliet, Romeo is fortunate in his 
 parents. They are from the first loving, considerate, and sympa- 
 thetic ; and, had they known his wishes, they would have spared 
 no pains to gratify them. Not so with Juliet. Although an only 
 child, there has been obviously not much tenderness lavished on 
 her. "Earth," says Lord Capulet, 
 
 " hath swallow'd all my hopes but she ; 
 She is the hopeful lady of my earth." 
 
 This would lead one to believe that she was the cherished joy 
 of his life. And when Paris presses his suit, he says 
 
 " Get her heart, 
 My will to her consent is but a part." 
 
 Yet this profession does not stand the proof ; for when, later, his 
 child entreats with all the earnestness of despair but to be heard, 
 he is deaf as an adder to her appeal, his own will admitting of 
 no question. Apart from this unreasonable despotism in his 
 family, old Capulet is in every sense a gentleman. Observe, for 
 instance, the manner in which he reprimands Tybalt when he 
 would insult Romeo at the ball 
 
 " Young Romeo is't ? Verona brags of him, 
 To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth ; 
 I would not for the wealth of all this town 
 Here in my house do him disparagement : 
 Therefore be patient, take no note of him : 
 It is my will. . . .
 
 112 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Tybalt. I'll not endure him. 
 
 Cap. He shall be endured. 
 
 What, goodman boy ! I say, he shall ; Go to ; 
 You'll not endure him ! . 
 You'll make a mutiny among my guests ! " 
 
 Choleric and unreasonable as he is, yet I like him better than 
 his wife, who appears to me to be a piece of cold, formal pro- 
 priety ; of the type that would " with a hoard of shallow maxims 
 preach down a daughter's heart." One can see that there is no 
 sympathy between Lady Capulet and her daughter, although 
 Juliet, her " loving child," as she calls her when she has lost her, 
 would not question that she owed her mother all obedience, and 
 would, when she first comes before us, never hesitate in showing 
 it. With what bluntness this hard mother brings the sacred 
 subject of marriage before the mind of her undeveloped, yet, as 
 she ought to know, imaginative daughter ! 
 
 " Tell me, daughter Juliet, 
 How stands your disposition to be married ? " 
 
 Juliet's simple quiet reply should have taught her how far from 
 her thoughts was such a subject " It is an honour that I dream 
 not of." 
 
 She stands a silent, almost indifferent listener to all her mother 
 has to say concerning the virtues, beauties, and accomplishments 
 of Paris, her panegyric echoed in the garrulous piling up of 
 admiring epithets by the Nurse 
 
 " Why, he's a man of wax. 
 Nay, he's a flower ; in faith, a very flower. " 
 
 Impatient at getting no response from Juliet after this outburst, 
 Lady Capulet says 
 
 " Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love ? " 
 
 Juliet, startled and unprepared, takes up the word given to her, 
 and says 
 
 "I'll look to like, if looking liking move : " 
 
 but adds in all ignorant obedience 
 
 " But no more deep will I endart mine eye 
 Than your consent gives strength to make it fly."
 
 JULIET. 113 
 
 Poor Juliet ! With a father who loves her in a wilful, pas- 
 sionate way, with the understanding that when he has set his 
 mind upon a thing her will shall always bend to his; with a 
 mother who, if she loves her daughter, entirely fails to under- 
 stand her nature, or to feel for her in a matter where even hard 
 mothers are tender ; and having for her only other friend, her 
 foster-mother, a coarse-minded, weakly indulgent, silly woman, 
 over whom, since her infancy, she has ruled supreme, coaxing 
 and tyrannising by turns, not one of them having, as we are 
 brought to see, an idea of marriage beyond the good worldly 
 match thought necessary for the rich heiress of the Capulets ! 
 Amid such surroundings has bloomed into early girlhood this 
 creature, with a rich imagination full of romance, and with a 
 boundless capacity for self-devotion. Her dreams are of a future, 
 with a love in store for her responsive to her own capacity of 
 loving, and they are inspired by an ideal hero possessing the best 
 attributes of manhood, a love in which her whole" being should 
 be merged, and by which her every faculty and feeling should be 
 quickened into noblest life. 
 
 These dreams were even now to be realised in the person of 
 him who was unwillingly making his slow way among the maskers 
 to her father's festival, carrying his " heavy burden " of love along 
 with him. He has not found it the " tender thing " which 
 Mercutio calls it. No 
 
 " It is too rough, 
 Too rude, too boisterous ; and it pricks like thorn." 
 
 Following his friends into the ball - room he looks carelessly 
 around, and lo ! what do his eyes light upon ? A vision of a 
 beauty never imagined before ! 
 
 No haughty coldness here, no measured stately movement. 
 He watches entranced this lovely vision swaying to the rhythmic 
 movement of the music, with unstudied grace, so noble, yet so 
 childlike; looking for nothing, unconscious of admiring eyes 
 upon her, herself delighting only in the simple enjoyment of the 
 dance, with a bright and happy smile of amused delight at the 
 novelty of the scene beaming in her lovely and innocent face. 
 
 What is this creature, this "snowy dove trooping with 
 crows " ?
 
 114 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand 
 Of yonder knight ? " 
 
 he asks some strange servant ; who replies 
 
 "I know not, sir. 
 
 Rom. 0, she doth teach the torches to burn bright ! 
 Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night 
 Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear : 
 Beauty too rich for uee, for earth too dear ! 
 
 Did my heart love till now ? forswear it, sight ! 
 For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night." 
 
 All the wonder of this gracious creature's charm flashes swift as 
 lightning upon him, and reveals to his awakened senses a some- 
 thing before which all former dreams and yearnings vanish, and 
 become as though they had never been. He feels instinctively 
 that there is within this peerless form a soul as peerless, towards 
 which his own rushes as towards its other self. The languid 
 fantastic youth of dreams and whims becomes at once the man of 
 purpose. He puts on his armour and begins the battle of life. 
 No hesitation now, such as we had seen in him before, no more, 
 " my mind misgives me ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, we may be sure that " yonder knight," who is no 
 other than the County Paris, has been doing his best during the 
 dance to excite Juliet's admiration. She has come straight from 
 the recapitulation of his perfections, and knows well from her 
 mother's words that " like " him or not, this comely gentleman, 
 "the valiant Paris," is destined by her parents to be her hus- 
 band. She has therefore " looked to like," as she was told to do, 
 but evidently with no success on her part, whatever increase of 
 ardour the meeting may have brought to Paris. Her heart and 
 fancy are alike untouched, when, at the close of the dance, a 
 stranger, in the dress of a pilgrim, "with his cockle, hat, and 
 staff," approaches to watch, as he says, 
 
 " her place of stand, 
 And, touching hers, make happy my rude hand." 
 
 During the dispute between Capulet and Tybalt, Eomeo has 
 made his way to Juliet. It is only the close of their conversation
 
 JULIET. 115 
 
 that we hear, when he asks, as the pilgrim, that his " unworthy 
 hand " may be permitted to touch " this holy shrine," earnestly 
 pleading that he may be allowed to atone for the roughness of 
 his touch by the softer pressure of his lips upon her flower-soft 
 hand. The touch is gentle, the words are few ; but that touch 
 of " palm to palm," those few words, have an eloquence more 
 persuasive than volumes of passionate phrases. The beseeching 
 eyes, the tremulous voice full of adoration and humility have 
 these not spoken ? The heart's deepest meanings rarely find 
 utterance in words. 
 
 The " dear saint " replies to the holy pilgrim's devotion in a 
 playful manner, telling him that his lips, as a pilgrim, he " must 
 use in prayer." Far too soon breaks in the Nurse, who no doubt 
 likes not this talk with a stranger, and tells Juliet that her 
 mother craves a word with her. Romeo takes this opportunity 
 to ask, " What is her mother ? " Upon which the Nurse replies 
 that she is the " lady of the house, and a good lady," and that 
 she herself had nursed her daughter, whom he had "talk'd 
 withal," adding, in the true gossiping manner of her class : 
 
 " I tell you, he, that can lay hold of her, 
 Shall have the chinks. 
 
 Rom. Is she a Capulet ? 
 
 dear account ! my life is my foe's debt." 
 
 Benvolio hurries his friend away before, as he thinks, the fact 
 of their presence has been discovered and also wisely, while yet 
 " the sport is at the best." Lord Capulet most courteously urges 
 them to remain to supper, although he has been told who they 
 are ; and finding they decline, he bids them good night, thanking 
 them graciously for their company : 
 
 " Why, then, I thank you all ; 
 I thank you, honest gentlemen ; good night." 
 
 Juliet naturally wishes to know Romeo's name, as he had desired 
 to know hers. As the Montagues leave the room, each by turns 
 saluting her, she asks and learns from the Nurse the names of 
 Romeo's friends. He lingers last; and to her eager "What's 
 he, that follows, there," she adds, to recall him more particularly 
 to the Nurse's attention, what must have appeared very singular
 
 116 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 to herself, "that would not dance?" But the Nurse has to 
 inquire, and finds 
 
 " His name is Borneo, and a Montague ; 
 The only son of your great enemy. 
 
 Juliet. My only love sprung from my only hate ! 
 Too early seen unknown, and known too late ! 
 Prodigious birth of love it is to me, 
 That I must love a loathed enemy." 
 
 The tragic note is struck. There is no questioning of her feeling 
 no doubt, no hesitation. Like lightning love has shot into 
 her heart and left its barb, whether for joy or woe, time alone 
 will prove. This is, possibly, their last as well as their first 
 meeting. Such is Juliet's thought as the act closes. For what 
 ensues Shakespeare prepares the audience in the words of the 
 prologue to the second act. 
 
 1 ' Being held a foe, he may not have access 
 To breathe such vows as lovers used to swear ; 
 
 But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, 
 Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. " 
 
 Romeo, taken reluctantly from the feast by his friends, who 
 will not sup with their enemy, steals away from them im- 
 mediately. Although the " snowy dove " is his fair enemy, his 
 " unrest " causes him to hover near the place where he has found 
 his true life. The foreboding of trouble may hang over him, 
 but this is forgotten in the presence of Juliet. The whole man 
 is changed. "With love's light wings" he overleaps the wall 
 of Capulet's garden. No talk now of "sinking under love's 
 heavy burden." Indeed, no talk at all. No more confidences 
 to his friends. This real passion makes him gravely happy is 
 too sacred to be named and talked over. 
 
 . Neither of the lovers can have any insight into the feeling of 
 the other, when the same impulse, or destiny, which leads Romeo 
 to find his way beneath his lady's chamber-window, despite all 
 obstruction "the orchard walls are high, and hard to climb" 
 urges Juliet to seek the freshness of the night air in the balcony 
 or loggia leading from her room, to think over and indulge these 
 new sensations of mingled happiness and pain, which had so
 
 JULIET. 117 
 
 wildly and entirely taken possession of her. The tumult of her 
 feelings must find vent. What a new life has opened to her ! 
 The past seems swept away ; her spirit has risen with a bound 
 as at some undreamt-of call. It has not been left to her will to 
 determine how "deep she will endart her eye." The invincible 
 and unknown Eros has come upon her unlocked for, unannounced, 
 in all his terror and in all his beauty. But he to whom she is 
 prepared to "give up all herself" is separated from her by a 
 bitter and impassable family feud of which she has been hearing 
 all her life. Her throbbing pulse, the flush of the heated ball- 
 room, make the cool moonlight air most welcome. She could 
 not breathe within. Here she is alone, safe even from the silly 
 prattle of the Nurse, whom she has left dozing in her chair. She 
 will tell her secret to the soft night breeze, whisper to it over 
 and over the name which is so dear and yet so fatal, adjure 
 young Montague in fancy to renounce it, 
 
 " And for that name, which is no part of thee, 
 Take all myself." 
 
 Oh, how sweeter far than sweetest note of any nightingale 
 must have been that soft, tremulous, half-inarticulate voice as it 
 floated in the still air towards Borneo's ear ! What ecstasy to 
 learn, and thus to learn, that she Avho "has wounded him so 
 deeply, is by him wounded " ! At first too amazed, too doubtful 
 of his joy, he is fearful to interrupt her spoken reverie, but upon 
 the offer of herself his self-restraint can hold out no longer, and 
 he breaks in vehemently with - 
 
 " I take thee at thy word : 
 Call me but love, and I'll be new baptised ; 
 Henceforth I never will be Romeo." 
 
 Too terrified at first at finding she has had a listener, Juliet 
 recognises neither voice nor words, and exclaims angrily 
 
 " What man art thou, that, thus bescreen'd in night, 
 So stumblest on my counsel " 
 
 In his reply he shrinks from repeating the name which is hateful 
 to himself, "because it is an enemy to' thee." With a thrill of 
 rapture Juliet whispers to herself
 
 118 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words 
 Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound." 
 
 Yet she must be assured from his own lips how he came hither 
 and wherefore. Thus, when she tells him of the peril of the 
 place, no less than death, "if any of my kinsmen find thee 
 here," he answers 
 
 " Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye, 
 Than twenty of their swords ; look thou but sweet, 
 And I am proof against their enmity." 
 
 Rapturously welcome to her heart as this rejoinder is, it cannot 
 still her anxiety for his safety. 
 
 ' ' I would not for the world they saw thee here. 
 
 Rom. And but thou love me, let them find me here : 
 My life were better ended by their hate, 
 Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love." 
 
 Then she is full of amazement as to how he came there. Who 
 could have guided him 1 
 
 " By whose direction found'st thou out this place ? 
 Rom. By love." 
 
 All love. Love is on his lips as in his heart. 
 
 " I am no pilot ; yet, wert thou as far 
 As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, 
 I would adventure for such merchandise." 
 
 Juliet, when partly pacified as to his safety "I have night's 
 cloak to hide me from their sight " has time to think of how 
 she has committed herself, in how unmaidenly a guise she must 
 appear before him. 
 
 Women are deeply in debt to Shakespeare for all the lovely 
 noble things he has put into his women's hearts and mouths, 
 but surely for nothing more than for the words in which Juliet's 
 reply is couched. Only one who knew of what a true woman is 
 capable, in frankness, in courage, and self-surrender when her 
 heart is possessed by a noble love, could have touched with such 
 delicacy, such infinite charm of mingled reserve and artless 
 frankness, the avowal of so fervent yet so modest a love, the
 
 JULIET. 119 
 
 secret of which had been so strangely stolen from her. As the 
 whole scene is the noblest paean to Love ever written, so is what 
 Juliet now says supreme in subtlety of feeling and expression, 
 where all is beautiful. Watch all the fluctuations of emotion 
 which pervade it and you will understand what a task is laid 
 upon the actress to interpret them, not in voice and tone only, 
 important as these are, but also in manner and in action. The 
 generous frankness of the giving, the timid drawing back, fearful 
 of having given too much unsought ; the perplexity of the 
 whole, all summed up in that sweet entreaty for pardon with 
 which it closes. But I must quote the whole passage : 
 
 " Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, 
 Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek 
 For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
 Fain would I dwell on form ; fain, fain deny 
 What I have spoke ; but farewell compliment ! 
 Dost thou love me 1 I know thou wilt say ' Ay,' 
 And I will take thy word : yet, if thou swear'st, 
 Thou may'st prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, 
 They say, Jove laughs. gentle Romeo, 
 If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully : 
 Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, 
 I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, 
 So thou wilt woo ; but else, not for the world. 
 In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond ; 
 And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light : 
 But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
 Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
 I should have been more strange, I must confess, 
 But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, 
 My true love's passion : therefore, pardon me, 
 And not impute this yielding to light love, 
 Which the dark night hath so discovered." 
 
 I considered this speech one of the most difficult in the play, 
 and loved and dreaded it equally, always fearing to do too much 
 or too little in it. Indeed, the whole scene is a very anxious 
 and a very fatiguing one. 
 
 How much must Romeo have felt the contrast between the 
 gentle, ardent, yet deprecating tones he listens to so rapturously, 
 and the unsympathetic voice in which the haughty Eosaline had 
 told him she thought it virtue to give nought in return for love !
 
 120 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 What was her cold beauty to that which he was now watching 
 in the waning moonlight ! And here, too, there was so much 
 besides the beautiful outside ; the frank innocence, the boundless 
 generosity which told of the noble sweetness of the inner nature ! 
 He is spell-bound into silence, and cannot break the music of 
 those words that flood his heart with happiness, until Juliet, by 
 asking him not to think lightly of a love so frankly expressed, 
 binds him to her by a tie never to be sundered. That passionate 
 childlike loving queens her in his sight, and makes him her slave 
 for ever. To his eyes, "being o'er his head," she appears as 
 "a winged messenger of heaven." He would make the pure 
 chaste moon, as being most like to her, the goddess to bear 
 witness to his vows " Lady, by yonder blessed moon I 
 
 swear " But Juliet interrupts, and will not let him 
 
 swear by 
 
 "the inconstant moon, 
 That monthly changes in her circled orb, 
 Lest that thy love prove likewise variable." 
 
 He asks" What shall I swear by ? " She answers 
 
 " Do not swear at all ; 
 Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
 Which is the god of my idolatry, 
 And I'll believe thee." 
 
 Oh the rich resonance of those words ! What scope they give 
 the actress, by her delivery of them, to mark the enthusiasm and 
 the devotion of Juliet's nature which is so soon to develop into 
 the heroic constancy which carries her, alone and unsupported, 
 through a trial more fearful than death itself ! 
 . Suddenly she thinks that such joy as this cannot be lasting, 
 that this contract between them is 
 
 "too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; 
 Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, 
 Ere one can say ' It lightens.' " 
 
 But such a reflection is only momentary, for she directly adds 
 
 " Sweet, good night ! 
 
 This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
 May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet ; "
 
 JULIET. 121 
 
 and to prove that no disturbing thoughts have real place within 
 her, says, as she turns to leave him 
 
 " As sweet repose and rest 
 Come to thy heart, as that within my breast ! " 
 
 Naturally anxious to delay the parting, Romeo detains Juliet by 
 the entreaty 
 
 " 0, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 
 
 JuL, What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? 
 
 Rom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine." 
 
 How charming is what follows ! 
 
 " I gave thee mine before thou didst request it : 
 And yet I would it were to give again. " 
 
 Romeo tremblingly asks 
 
 " Would'st thou withdraw it ? for what purpose, love ? 
 
 JuL But to be frank, and give it thee again. . . . 
 My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
 My love as deep ; the more I give to thee, 
 The more I have, for both are infinite." 
 
 At this moment the Nurse, awakening, misses Juliet and calls to 
 her; on which, fearing the house may be disturbed and her love 
 in danger, she bids Romeo a hasty adieu, with an eager admoni- 
 tion to " be true." Then, as it may be only the Nurse that has 
 awoke, she adds, " Stay but a little, I will come again." When 
 left alone, Romeo cannot believe his happiness : 
 
 ' ' I am af eard, 
 
 Being in night, all this is but a dream, 
 Too flattering-sweet to be substantial." 
 
 So marked a change takes place in Juliet's manner and words 
 on her return, that we are led to suppose the Nurse may have 
 questioned her on what she thought of Paris and of her approach- 
 ing marriage with him. From such talk she breaks hastily away, 
 and knowing how little likelihood there was of another meeting 
 with her lover without more peril to his life dreading also that 
 her parents may force her into an immediate marriage with Paris,
 
 122 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 and having now no time to explain anything, she is obliged to 
 say to Borneo abruptly, in "three words "- 
 
 " If that thy bent of love be honourable, 
 Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 
 By one that I'll procure to come to thee, 
 Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite ; 
 And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, 
 And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world." 
 
 Here the Nurse again calls 
 
 " Madam ! 
 
 Jul. I come, anon. But if thou mean'st not well, 
 I do beseech thee " 
 
 Another interruption comes from the Nurse, to which Juliet, 
 almost past patience, cries 
 
 " By and by, I come : 
 To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief." 
 
 Romeo has only time to say, "So thrive my soul," when 
 Juliet leaves him with " A thousand times good night ! " The 
 Nurse must have been quieted by what Juliet has imparted to 
 her ; for when, after Romeo's reluctant steps have taken him to 
 some little distance, and Juliet comes back again to the balcony, 
 there is no further interruption from her. Thinking Romeo gone, 
 Juliet wishes 
 
 " Oh, for a falconer's voice, 
 To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! " 
 
 The " silver-sweet " voice reaches his attending ear " like softest 
 music," and brings him instantly back. 
 
 Why has she stolen forth again? Partly to learn the hour 
 when she is to send to him partly for the fond pleasure of 
 listening to some few more words of that " tongue's utterance." 
 Presently she says, " I have forgot why I did call thee back." 
 Had she forgotten anything? I think not. Only bewildered 
 with her happiness that "sweet repose and rest" which she 
 found within her heart she thought she had, and owns that 
 she shall 
 
 " forget, to have thee still stand there, 
 Remembering how I love thy company."
 
 JULIET. 123 
 
 Romeo will gladly stay " Forgetting any other home but this " ; 
 but the " night's cloak " can no longer conceal him. " Tis almost 
 morning." They must separate. Juliet leaves him with 
 
 " Good night, good night ! Parting is such sweet sorrow, 
 That I shall say good night, till it be morrow. 
 
 Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ! 
 Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest ! " 
 
 Eomeo wants no sleep. His satisfied heart needs no refresh- 
 ment. While yet 
 
 " The grey-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, 
 Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light," 
 
 he seeks the cell of Friar Laurence, who would appear to be the 
 Confessor of both families. Upon his " Good-morrow, father ! " 
 the Friar asks, "What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?" 
 Romeo amazes the holy man by his confession that he has forgot 
 the name of Rosaline, and explains how his 
 
 " heart's dear love is set 
 On the fair daughter of rich Capulet. 
 
 When, and where, and how 
 We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, 
 I'll tell thee as we pass ; but this I pray, 
 That thou consent to marry us to-day. 
 
 Friar. Holy Saint Francis ! what a change is here ! " 
 
 Romeo is made to listen to a homily for this fickleness ; but the 
 Friar ends with consenting to his request, under the impression 
 that the marriage may possibly bring to a conclusion the long 
 feud between their families. 
 
 " For this alliance may so happy prove, 
 To turn your households' rancour to pure love." 
 
 Juliet, meanwhile, has had to take the Nurse fully into 
 her confidence. The notion of a marriage, and a secret one, 
 in which she herself has to play an important part, delights 
 the heart of this conceited, silly woman. She gladly under- 
 takes to be Juliet's messenger, and finds Romeo at the ap- 
 pointed hour with his friends Mercutio and Benvolio. Before
 
 124 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 her entrance, we see how entirely Eomeo has cast aside the 
 languor of the love -sick youth of the day before. When 
 rallied by the brilliant Mercutio on his giving them "the 
 slip" the previous night, he turns the tables on him gives 
 him jest for jest, so that this glib-tongued gentleman, "who 
 loves to hear himself talk," has to call in Benvolio to help 
 him "Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint." 
 Upon still getting the worst from Eomeo, he says, "Why, is 
 not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou 
 sociable ; now art thou Romeo ; now art thou what thou art, 
 by art as well as by nature." Mercutio, after wasting some of 
 his wit on the Nurse, quits the scene with Benvolio. The 
 Nurse, exceedingly angered and indignant at Mercutio, can 
 hardly be brought to give to Eomeo, who does all he can 
 to soothe her, the message from her mistress "what she bade 
 me say, I will keep to myself ; " but Eomeo's fair words and 
 a handsome douceur, which she takes after a little coquet- 
 ting, bring her round, and an appointment is made for her 
 lady to come that afternoon to Friar Laurence's cell, there to 
 be "shrived and married." Eomeo also directs her to meet 
 his man behind the abbey wall, and to get from him "cords 
 made like a tackled stair," by which he may after dark ascend 
 to the chamber of his bride. Before she consents to this, she 
 is shrewd enough to require satisfaction on a very material 
 point : 
 
 " Is your man secret ? Did you ne'er hear say, 
 Two may keep counsel, putting one away ?" 
 
 We may believe that the Nurse, loving much her own ease, 
 has not, on this hot day, made her best haste back to Juliet. 
 We hear she has been " three long hours " away a period for 
 which her short interview with Eomeo could hardly account. 
 We do not wonder, therefore, at Juliet's impatience. When at 
 last the Nurse comes, Juliet can get but little from her. The 
 Nurse feels that she is mistress of the situation, and will make 
 the most of it. She is " a- weary " ; her " bones ache " ; she must 
 have " leave awhile " ; she will not speak to the point " Do you 
 not see that I am out of breath ? "
 
 JULIET. 125 
 
 " Jiil. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath 
 To say to me that thou art out of breath ? 
 
 Is thy news good or bad ? answer to that ; 
 Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance." 
 
 The Nurse remembering, no doubt, Romeo's handsome gift, now 
 bursts into an eulogium upon him. He is in all points " past 
 compare." Then the fear of having lost her dinner startles her 
 " What ! have you dined at home 1 " " No, no." 
 
 Although at another time Juliet could never weary of hearing 
 the praises of her lover, yet now a much more urgent matter is 
 in hand. 
 
 " But all this did I know before ; 
 What says he of our marriage ? what of that ? " 
 
 The selfish nature of the Niirse is here shown by the way 
 she keeps Juliet in suspense, and therefore we' cannot much 
 wonder at the light in which she appears afterwards. It is 
 for ever herself, herself " Lord, how my head aches ! " then 
 her back, reproaching Juliet for the time she has herself 
 wasted "with jaunting up and down." 
 
 When Juliet has pitied and petted her enough, she thinks 
 she has brought her to the point ; but just as she is touching it, 
 the Nurse breaks off again with, " Where is your mother 1 " At 
 this, Juliet's patience gives way, and she replies angrily 
 
 " Why, she is within ; 
 Where should she be ? How oddly thou repliest ! " 
 
 thereby only giving the Nurse fresh weapons to torment her. 
 Juliet sees that she must still be humoured ; and here occurs 
 one of those passages which, with unerring instinct, Shakespeare 
 leaves the performer to fill up by action words being quite 
 inadequate to carry on the scene. The caressing, winning kisses 
 and loving ways of Juliet gradually subdue her tormentor. By 
 this time, too, perhaps the thought of dinner becomes uppermost 
 in the Nurse's mind ; and in reply to Juliet's question, " Come, 
 what says Eomeo ] " she replies, coming straight to the point at 
 last 
 
 " Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day ? 
 JuL. I have.
 
 126 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell ; 
 There stays a husband to make you a wife. 
 
 Hie you to church ; 
 
 Go ; I'll to dinner ; hie you to the cell." 
 
 " Hie to high fortune ! honest Nurse, farewell ! " exclaims 
 Juliet, as with happy throbbing heart she hastens away to 
 celebrate the rite which frees her from Paris, gives her to her 
 lover, and after which she will be ready "to follow him 
 throughout the world." 
 
 No need to dwell on the short scene which follows, when the 
 lovers meet at Friar Laurence's cell, where the poet shows what 
 countless wealth of love each is ready to bestow upon the other. 
 No forebodings now from either. The "bud of love" seems 
 swiftly to have grown into a "beauteous flower" unhindered. 
 The swifter blighting to follow is hidden for that blessed moment 
 from them. The Friar, fearing these supposed enemies should 
 be seen together at his cell, hurries them away into his chapel 
 to perform the marriage rite; and "holy church incorporates 
 two in one." After the Friar's benediction they part; but 
 only until the moon shall be "touching with silver all the 
 fruit-tree tops," and the nightingale shall again be "trilling her 
 thick-warbled note" from the pomegranate-tree in a low sweet 
 epithalamium. Why should their bliss be dashed by fear? 
 They have both entire faith in the Friar, in his power to help 
 them, and in good time to reconcile their friends to the marriage. 
 He must look forward to this himself, or he would not otherwise 
 have consented to it. Their parting, therefore, is as full of joy 
 as their meeting had been, though of a more subdued and holier 
 kind 
 
 Alas for their next meeting ! All seems fair ; but Destiny 
 now begins her woful work in earnest, and chooses her first 
 victim in the person of the gallant, gay, high-spirited Mercutio, 
 who is strolling along in the hot noonday, despite the remon- 
 strances of his friend Benvolio. 
 
 " The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, 
 And, if we meet, we shall not 'scape a brawl ; 
 For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring."
 
 JULIET. 127 
 
 Presently comes Tybalt seeking Eomeo, in order to insult and 
 challenge him for having intruded the previous night into his 
 uncle's house. Mercutio tries to provoke him to an encounter, 
 but Tybalt will have none of him. At that moment Mercutio 
 is not the man he seeks. For such a hot-blooded young gentle- 
 man he shows wondrous forbearance under Mercutio's taunts, 
 and ends with, " Well, peace be with you, sir ! here conies my 
 man," as he catches sight of Eomeo, who is coming straight 
 from the Friar's cell after the celebration of his marriage. In 
 this mood the world to him is full of love and amity, even the 
 insulting address of Tybalt cannot move him. Besides, is Tybalt 
 not the kinsman of his love? To a coarse greeting he replies 
 with dignity and kindness 
 
 " Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee 
 Doth much excuse the appertaining rage 
 To such a greeting : villain am I none ; 
 Therefore, farewell; I see thou know'st me not." 
 
 Borneo's gentleness, even under renewed provocation, takes away 
 the sting of Tybalt's wrath. He cannot as a gentleman add 
 still further insult, but must perforce, for the time, be satisfied. 
 Mercutio, however, who knows none of Romeo's reasons for 
 desiring to be at peace with the Capulets, calls this a "dis- 
 honourable, vile submission," and feels that he must, on his own 
 part, wipe out the discredit with his sword. He turns furiously 
 on Tybalt, and in a second their swords are tilting at each other's 
 breasts. Calling on his friend Benvolio to help him, and re- 
 minding the combatants that " the prince expressly hath for- 
 bidden bandying in Verona streets," Romeo interposes and beats 
 up their weapons. This gives Tybalt an opportunity to inflict a 
 wound on Mercutio under Romeo's arm, after which he leaves 
 the scene with his followers. Mercutio knows at once that he 
 has received his death-stroke 
 
 " I am hurt ; 
 
 A plague o' both your houses ! I am sped : 
 Is he gone, and hath nothing ? " 
 
 With all his pain he never loses his wit and spirit. Romeo
 
 128 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " Courage, man ; the hurt cannot be much. 
 
 Mer. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door ; but 'tis 
 enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave 
 man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. 
 
 Help me into some house, Benvolio, 
 
 Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses ! 
 
 They have made worms' meat of me. " 
 
 \ 
 All the dismal consequences of this disaster, of which he is the 
 
 innocent cause, at once flash upon Romeo. 
 
 "This gentleman, the prince's near ally, 
 My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt 
 In my behalf ; my reputation stain'd 
 By Tybalt's slander Tybalt, that an hour 
 Hath been my kinsman ! sweet Juliet, 
 Thy beauty hath made me effeminate, 
 And in my temper soften'd valour's steel ! " 
 
 Unluckily, while Romeo's grief is at its height, on hearing 
 from Benvolio that Mercutio is dead, Tybalt comes back upon 
 the scene. At the sight of the slayer of his friend, even Juliet 
 is forgotten ; and rushing with fury upon Tybalt, who has again 
 insulted him with taunting words, Romeo kills him, and is 
 hurried from the scene by Benvolio as the citizens rush in, pres- 
 ently to be followed by the Prince of Verona with the heads of 
 both the rival houses. 
 
 The Prince, who has so lately issued his decree that, if either 
 of the conflicting factions should again disturb the quiet of the 
 streets, "their life shall pay the forfeit," upon hearing from 
 Benvolio the provocation under which Romeo fought, is moved 
 to pronounce a milder sentence 
 
 " Let Romeo hence in haste, 
 Else, when he's found, that hour is his last. 
 
 Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill." 
 
 While all these disasters are taking place, Juliet, entirely 
 unconscious of the difference in her fate, is revelling in joyful 
 anticipation of the approach of night, which shall bring back 
 Romeo :
 
 JULIET. 129 
 
 " Come, night ! Come, Romeo ! come, thou day in night ! 
 For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night 
 Whiter than new snow on a raven's back. 
 Come, gentle night ; come, loving, black-brow'd night, 
 Give me my Romeo : and, when he shall die, 
 Take him and cut him out in little stars, 
 And he will make the face of heaven so fine, 
 That all the world will be in love with night, 
 And pay no worship to the garish sun. 
 
 So tedious is this day, 
 As is the night before some festival 
 To an impatient child, that hath new robes, 
 And may not wear them. 0, here comes my nurse, 
 And she brings news ; and every tongue, that speaks 
 But Romeo's name, speaks heavenly eloquence. 
 Now, nurse, what news ? " 
 
 " Ah me ! what news 1 " The cruel, tiresome Nurse will only 
 wring her hands and say 
 
 " Ah well-a-day ! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead ! 
 We are undone, lady, we are undone ! 
 Alack the day ! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead ! " 
 
 Juliet, naturally believing that Romeo has fallen by her kins- 
 man's hand, thinking too of the "little stars" which, she has 
 just said, will at his death "make the face of heaven so fine," 
 cries out 
 
 " Can heaven be so envious ? 
 
 Nurse. Romeo can, 
 
 Though heaven cannot. Romeo, Romeo ! 
 Who ever would have thought it ? Romeo ? " 
 
 Maddened by these exclamations, which contain no explanation, 
 Juliet cries 
 
 " What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus ? l 
 This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. 
 Hath Romeo slain himself ? " 
 
 Not even the anguish Juliet shows at the bare thought moves 
 this heartless creature, who goes maundering on 
 
 1 See Appendix, p. 397. 
 
 I
 
 130 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, 
 God save the mark ! here on his manly breast 
 A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse ; 
 Pale, pale as ashes." 
 
 Then Juliet asks no more questions 
 
 " break, my heart ! poor bankrupt, break at once ! 
 
 . . . . End motion here : 
 And thou, and Romeo, press one heavy bier ! " 
 
 When the Nurse continues 
 
 " Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had ! 
 
 That ever I should live to see thee dead ! " 
 Juliet, seeing only more perplexity, more grief, exclaims 
 
 " Is Romeo slaughtered ? and is Tybalt dead ? 
 My dear-loved cousin, and my dearer lord ? " 
 
 At last comes the dismal truth 
 
 " Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished ; 
 Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished." 
 
 In horror Juliet asks 
 
 " Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood ? 
 Nurse. It did, it did ; alas the day, it did ! " 
 
 This bare fact, without the circumstances attending it, naturally 
 shocks Juliet ; she exclaims 
 
 " serpent heart, hid with a flowering face ! 
 .... 0, that deceit should dwell 
 In such a gorgeous palace ! " 
 
 Then follows the Nurse's vulgar diatribe against the male sex 
 
 " There's no trust, 
 
 No faith, no honesty in men ; all perjured, 
 All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. 
 
 Shame come to Romeo ! " 
 
 This word applied to Eomeo arouses a fiery indignation in 
 Juliet, who turns upon her instantly with
 
 JULIET. 131 
 
 " Blister'd be thy tongue 
 For such a wish ! he was not born to shame ; 
 Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit ; 
 For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd 
 Sole monarch of the universal earth." 
 
 Amazed at such a rebuke from one whom she has till now been 
 treating merely as a child, the Nurse can but feebly ask 
 
 " Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin ? 
 Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband ? " 
 
 In Juliet's answer we see that her intellect was as clear, her 
 sense of duty in the position she had chosen as vivid, as her 
 feelings were quick and strong. 
 
 "Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, 
 When I, thy three hours' wife, have mangled it ? " 
 
 Whoever is to blame, it cannot be her lord. She drives away 
 her tears at the remembrance that her 
 
 " husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain ; 
 And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband : 
 All this is comfort ; wherefore weep I then ? " 
 
 Memory now brings back the dreadful word, which she would 
 fain forget, "that murdered her." 
 
 " ' Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished ; ' 
 That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,' 
 Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts." 
 
 The very Nurse is touched by a depth of grief such as she had 
 never seen, could hardly understand, and she tries to find some 
 means of consolation. 
 
 " Hie to your chamber : I'll find Romeo 
 To comfort you : I wot well where he is. 
 Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night : 
 I'll to him ; he is hid at Laurence' cell. 
 
 Jul. 0, find him ! give this ring to my true knight, 
 And bid him come to take his last farewell. " 
 
 No word of blame, although he has killed her kinsman and 
 destroyed their joint happiness ! She even sends a ring, as if
 
 132 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 desirous to bind herself more closely to him, and betroth herself 
 anew in their affliction. 
 
 Juliet's despair has its counterpart in that of Eomeo, as we 
 next see him at the Friar's cell ; nay, if not deeper, it is wilder 
 in its expression, when he learns from the Friar's lips the Prince's 
 sentence 
 
 "Not body's death, but body's banishment. 
 
 Rom Be mei-ciful, say ' death ' ; 
 
 For exile hath more terror in his look, 
 
 Much more than death : do not say ' banishment.' " 
 
 Vainly does the Friar try to press upon him his 
 
 " Rude unthankfulness. 
 
 Thy fault our law calls death ; but the kind prince, 
 Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law 
 And turn'd that black word death to banishment : 
 This is dear mercy, aiid thou seest it not. 
 
 Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy : heaven is here, 
 Where Juliet lives. " 
 
 The Friar can neither dispute with him on his estate, nor bring 
 " adversity's sweet milk, philosophy," to help him. 
 
 " Rom. Yet ' banished ' ? Hang up philosophy ! 
 Useless philosophy can make a Juliet, 
 Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, 
 It helps not, it prevails not ; talk no more." 
 
 Not even the arrival of the Nurse, as Juliet's messenger, can 
 arouse him from the frenzy of grief in which he has flung him- 
 self upon the ground, " taking the measure of an unmade grave." 
 When he becomes conscious of her presence, and learns the state 
 of his mistress, since he has " stained the childhood of their joy 
 with blood removed but little from her own," his first impulse is 
 to draw his sword and destroy himself. But now the Friar's 
 language rises to a higher strain : 
 
 " Art thou a man ? thy form cries out, thou art : 
 Thy tears are womanish ; thy wild acts denote 
 The unreasonable fury of a beast. 
 
 I thought thy disposition better temper'd. 
 Hast thou slain Tybalt ? wilt thou slay thyself ?
 
 JULIET. 133 
 
 And slay thy lady too that lives in thee, 
 By doing damned hate upon thyself ? 
 
 What, rouse thee, man ! thy Juliet is alive. 
 For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead : 
 There art thou happy : Tybalt would kill thee, 
 But thou slew'st Tybalt ; there art thou happy too : 
 The law, that threaten'd death, becomes thy friend, 
 And turns it into exile ; there art thou happy : 
 A pack of blessings lights upon thy back." 
 
 Juliet's clear intellect quickly absolves Eomeo from blame for 
 having slain Tybalt, "that would have slain her husband"; but 
 the Friar has to reason this out for Eomeo, who is too generous 
 to find excuses for himself. The Friar, moreover, proves no 
 mere preacher of what the ]S"urse calls "good counsel." He is 
 also a man of action. He bids Romeo keep the meeting with 
 his bride. 
 
 " Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed, 
 Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her : 
 But look thou stay not till the watch be set, 
 For then thou canst not pass to Mantua," 
 
 where he is to live until the Friar can find a time, which he 
 does not doubt of finding soon, to make the marriage known, 
 reconcile the lover's parents, turn by this "their households' 
 rancour to pure love," and so secure the Prince's pardon and 
 Romeo's recall. 
 
 " Go before, nurse : commend me to thy lady ; 
 And bid her hasten all the house to bed, 
 Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto : 
 Romeo is coming." 
 
 The Friar, who knows human nature in all its varieties, 
 proves a most wise and comforting counsellor to Romeo. But 
 his sagacity has no power to foresee what is now going on in 
 the house of the Capulets to upset all his plans for the present 
 and future happiness of the lovers. Remembering that it is 
 already very late and the night setting in, he suggests to Romeo 
 that, if he cannot get away from his interview with Juliet before 
 the watch is set, he should depart in disguise by the break of 
 day. He promises that he will find out Romeo's man, and sig-
 
 134 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTEES: 
 
 nify through him "from time to time every good hap to you 
 that chances here." Eomeo, repentant and deeply grateful, 
 leaves him, saying 
 
 " But that a joy past joy calls out on me, 
 It were a grief so soon to part with thee : 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 Shakespeare shows his wondrous skill in dramatic construc- 
 tion by the brief scene which he interposes here between Lord 
 and Lady Capulet and Paris. They have been discussing the 
 projected marriage of their daughter, which Paris is there to 
 press, and have been sitting late in counsel. The result is, that 
 Lord Capulet has determined it shall take place : 
 
 " Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender 
 Of my child's love : I think she will be ruled 
 In all respects by me ; nay more, I doubt it not." 
 
 To his wife, who has said she will know Juliet's mind early to- 
 morrow, as "to-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness," he 
 says 
 
 " Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed ; 
 Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love. 
 
 0' Thursday, tell her, 
 She shall be married to this noble earl ; " 
 
 quite ignoring what he has said early in the play 
 
 " But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, 
 My will to her consent is but a part ; 
 An she agree, within her scope of choice 
 Lies my consent and fair according voice." 
 
 Poor Juliet ! She is to be no exception to the truth, that 
 troubles never come singly. That which is now in store goes 
 far deeper than even the anguish of parting from her lover- 
 husband. This is a woful night indeed ! this so -longed -for, 
 much-entreated, gentle, "loving, black-brow'd night"! 
 
 What a prelude is this scene of cold, worldly disposing of 
 hearts and lives to that now enacting between the lovers, which 
 Shakespeare makes to take place on the very balcony or loggia 
 which was consecrated by the first avowal of their love ! In
 
 JULIET. 135 
 
 that meeting what extremes of rapture and of anguish ! The 
 hour of parting has arrived. Juliet has of late been too much 
 absorbed in their love and their woe to give a thought to the 
 suit of Paris ; but in this sad hour the remembrance of it must 
 doubtless have come upon her, and seemed to separate her still 
 further from her husband. She will not add to the burthen of 
 his grief by confiding to him this new trial, and all the perse- 
 cution it may bring upon her. All is bad enough without this 
 dread apprehension ; yet it adds a special terror to his going. It 
 cannot be that day is so near at hand. The same nightingale, 
 whose song had sounded so sweetly in their ears the previous 
 night, has been singing in the same pomegranate-tree. Yet how 
 different the sound ! And now another strain strikes harshly on 
 their ears. The lark, the herald of the morn, is carolling its glad 
 note as it " mounts up on high." How cruel is its joy ! Their 
 days will all seem nights until they meet again. Seeing that 
 
 "Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund clay 
 Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops," 
 
 Romeo sadly says " I must be gone and live, or stay and die." 
 Juliet jwill not believe in the so rapid approach of day. They 
 seem hardly to have met. 
 
 "Yon light is not daylight ; . . . 
 It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 
 To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, 
 And light thee on thy way to Mantua : 
 Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone." 
 
 Romeo, willing to risk all in order to remain even for a short 
 time near her, exclaims 
 
 " I'll say, yon grey is not the morning's eye ; 
 
 Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat 
 The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. 
 
 Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so. 
 How is't, my soul ? let's talk, it is not day." 
 
 At the word " death" Juliet at once realises the risk he is run- 
 ning, and hurries him away " 0, now be gone ; more light and 
 light it grows." The Nurse comes to caution them that the " day
 
 136 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHAKACTEKS: 
 
 is broke," and to tell Juliet that her lady mother is coming to 
 her chamber. 
 
 Oh the cry of the poor forlorn heart when Eomeo has descended 
 the ladder of ropes and she sees him there, where the day before 
 he had looked up in the rapture of hope under the same grey 
 morning light! "Art thou gone so, love, lord 1 ? ay, husband, 
 friend ! " Ever, when I acted this scene, these words came from 
 me like the cry of my own heart, and all that followed seemed the 
 very voice of my own "ill-divining soul." 
 
 " Jul. 0, think'st thou we shall ever meet again ? 
 
 Rom. I doubt it not ; and all these woes shall serve 
 For sweet discourses in our time to come. 
 
 Jul. God ! I have an ill-divining soul : 
 Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, 
 As one dead in the bottom of a tomb." 
 
 And it is only thus that her eyes ever again behold him ! 
 
 To add to her almost intolerable misery, now comes in her 
 mother, who shows some surprise at finding her daughter up at 
 so late an hour, and drowned in tears. "Why, how now, 
 Juliet?" "Madam, I am not well." No sympathy comes from 
 the cold mother, who only says, somewhat sarcastically 
 
 " Evermore weeping for your cousin's death ? 
 What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears ? 
 
 Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child- 
 One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, 
 Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy. 
 That thou expect'st not, nor I look'd not for. 
 . . . . Early next Thursday morn, 
 The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, 
 The County Paris, at St Peter's church, 
 Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride." 
 
 Juliet, affrighted, amazed at this sudden woe and peril, replies 
 angrily 
 
 " Now, by St Peter's church, and Peter too, 
 He shall not make me there a joyful bride. 
 I wonder at this haste ; that I must wed 
 Ere he, that should be husband, comes to woo. 
 I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, 
 I will not marry yet. "
 
 JULIET. 137 
 
 Capulet, a little doubtful how his young daughter may take the 
 news of these hasty nuptials, but not questioning her assent in 
 the end, now enters her chamber with the Nurse. To his amaze- 
 ment, his wife tells him that Juliet will not hear of the marriage 
 " she will none " of it, adding, " I would the fool were married 
 to her grave ! " Does she think of this hereafter 1 Capulet's in- 
 dignation knows no bounds. 
 
 " Is she not proud ? doth she not count her blest, 
 Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought 
 So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom ? " 
 
 Juliet on her knees entreats her father to hear her " with patience 
 but to speak a word." But he grows hotter and hotter at find- 
 ing determined opposition where he had looked for little. The 
 Nurse is rebuked for taking Juliet's part and saying, " You are 
 to blame, my lord, to rate her so." " And why, my lady wisdom ? 
 Hold your tongue ! " And he leaves Juliet with this threat 
 
 " Look to't, think on't, I do not use to jest. 
 Thursday is near ; lay hand on heart, advise : 
 An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend ; 
 An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, 
 For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, 
 Nor what is mine shall never do thee good : 
 Trust to't, bethink you ; I'll not be forsworn." 
 
 Juliet in her anguish cries out 
 
 " Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, 
 That sees into the bottom of my grief ? " 
 
 Then turns to her mother with the piteous appeal 
 
 ' ' 0, sweet my mother, cast me not away ! 
 Delay this marriage for a month, a week ; 
 Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed 
 In that dim monument where Tybalt lies ! " 
 
 Prophetic words, which might well have startled the formal 
 mother's ears ; but she replies in feeble imitation of her hus- 
 band, and in language which sounds more shocking than his, 
 because not spoken in hot passion 
 
 " Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word ; 
 Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee."
 
 138 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 And now the Nurse alone remains. She at least is sure. She is 
 her own, and never could desert the foster-child, whom she nursed, 
 that took the place of her own Susan, " who is with God." Juliet 
 turns to her as her last but certain comforter : 
 
 " nurse, how shall this be prevented ? 
 
 Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems 
 Upon so soft a subject as myself ! 
 What say'st thou ? hast thou not a word of joy ? 
 Some comfort, nurse ! " 
 
 Alas for Juliet ! Comfort from a creature so shallow-hearted, so 
 selfish, so untrue ! We see that the Nurse has been pondering 
 over the situation. The parents are not to be moved. To con- 
 fess to them the part she has played in the secret marriage is not 
 to be thought of. She would lose the home which she looks upon 
 as her own for life, and be sent from it in disgrace. This young 
 girl cannot help her ; why should she, therefore, risk comfort and 
 respectability on her account 1 She knows nothing of the sym- 
 pathy of soul with soul of the heaven-given impulse, which has 
 drawn the lovers together ; the love " that looks on tempests and 
 is never shaken " ; the feeling that in Juliet consecrates her per- 
 son, as it has bound her soul, to Eomeo. No ! The conclusion 
 she comes to and the counsel she gives is, that Eomeo 
 
 " Is banished : and all the world to nothing, 
 That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you ; 
 Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. 
 Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, 
 I think it best you married with the >couuty." 
 
 Then, to reassure and encourage Juliet, as she stands in dumb 
 astonishment 
 
 " 0, he's a lovely gentleman ! 
 . . . An eagle, madam, 
 Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye, 
 As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, 
 I think you are happy in this second match, 
 For it excels your first." 
 
 All my blood seemed to be forced back upon my heart as I 
 listened to these words. I grew as stone when she went on
 
 JULIET. 139 
 
 to descant upon the praises of Paris in contrast with Romeo. 
 What can be said in answer to such words, such comfort, such 
 counsel ? I have often been startled at the sad solemnity of my 
 own tones, as I put the question, "Speakest thou from thy 
 heart ? " and in the very significant " Amen ! " which follows her 
 reply "From my soul too; or else beshrew them both." 
 
 Juliet's hope, her trust in the one on whose devotion she felt 
 assured she might rely, is at an end, and now she sees, as she 
 had never seen before, the Nurse's character altogether in its true 
 light. Stolid as the Nurse is, and incapable of any finer feeling, 
 yet we see, by her startled " What ? what ] " that she notes the 
 difference in Juliet's tone and manner. For the first time 
 Juliet assumes her position as mistress towards her, and after 
 the half - ironical "Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous 
 much," orders her to go in and tell her mother that she has gone, 
 having displeased her father, to Friar Laurence's cell, " to make 
 confession, and to be absolved." 
 
 Alas, again, for Juliet ! The familiar ground which she has 
 trodden, to which she has trusted all her life, taken from under 
 her, and she left standing alone cast off by all within her home ! 
 Worse than cast away by the Nurse, who knows all her trouble, 
 and would have her meet it in this despicable manner ! She 
 makes no remonstrance : no further appeal could be made to 
 such a creature. Her tears are dried, and she stands erect in her 
 desolation. Alone she must face the future a future steeped in 
 gloom. The child's trust in others falls from her : " her soul 
 springs up astonished springs full-statured in an hour." She 
 is henceforth the determined woman. She will not condescend 
 to bandy more words with the Nurse who, being incapable of 
 understanding her nature, does not deserve her consideration 
 yet when alone her pent-up indignation and scorn find a way to 
 her lips : 
 
 " most wicked fiend ! 
 Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, 
 Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue 
 Which she hath praised him with above compare 
 So many thousand times ? Go, counsellor ; 
 Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain." 
 
 Whatever happens, their lives are henceforth separate. Rather
 
 140 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 than follow such counsel she will destroy herself ! In this 
 supreme moment she has formed her resolution. "I'll to the 
 Friar, to know his remedy." Then remembering and possessing 
 herself of the dagger, which had been the toy of her happy hours, 
 she adds 
 
 " If all else fail, myself have power to die." 
 
 It is for the actress, in this marvellous and most difficult 
 scene, to show, by her look and manner, how everything that 
 is girlish and immature, everything that, under happy cir- 
 cumstances, would have marked the gentle clinging nature of 
 youth, falls off from Juliet, how she is transfigured into 
 the heroic woman just as Romeo, when possessed by a genuine 
 passion, rises from the dreaming youth to the full stature of a 
 noble manhood. 
 
 This difference is plainly marked in her dignified treatment 
 of Paris, whom she finds before her at the Friar's cell. The 
 Nurse's praises, still sounding in her ears, make him particularly 
 unwelcome to her. He evidently thinks her father's sanction 
 to their marriage is all-sufficient, and with self-complacent 
 impertinence treats her as though she were already his pro- 
 perty. Juliet's curt and somewhat sarcastic answers to his 
 questions should have shown him how distasteful he was to 
 her; but he believes in himself as an acceptable suitor to any 
 lady. Even her evident impatience to get rid of him tells him 
 nothing. He chooses to believe that her confession to the Friar 
 is partly made on his account. 
 
 " Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. 
 JuL. I will confess to you that I love him. 
 Par. So will you, I am sure, that you love me. " 
 
 After a little more of this fencing, Juliet, seeing that he will not 
 leave them, turns to the Friar " Are you at leisure, holy father, 
 now 1 " Such a hint cannot but be taken, and Paris leaves her 
 with the promise 
 
 " Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you t 
 Till then, adieu ! " 
 
 No sooner is the door shut upon him, than she finds that
 
 JULIET. 141 
 
 through Paris the Friar is already acquainted with her grief; 
 " it strains me," he says, " past the compass of my wits." The 
 Friar can hardly be prepared to find how rapidly the extremity 
 which has so suddenly come upon Juliet has developed her 
 character. The determined resolute composure which she shows 
 could alone have encouraged him to suggest to her the desper- 
 ate remedy which is the only " kind of hope " he has to offer 
 her. 
 
 " Jut. God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands ; 
 And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd, 
 Shall be the label to another deed, 
 Or my true heart with treacherous revolt 
 Turn to another, this shall slay them both. 
 
 Be not so long to speak ; I long to die, 
 
 If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy." 
 
 The Friar must see how ready she is to sacrifice the life conse- 
 crated to her lover ; and he at once explains that the only escape 
 he had been able to devise was a desperate and terrible one. 
 But if she be prepared, as she says, to face death itself, she may 
 not hesitate to undertake " a thing like death to chide away this 
 shame." 
 
 In her answer Juliet proclaims with passionate vehemence her 
 readiness to face such terrors as he might think would affright 
 her most, if only she may live " an unstained wife to her sweet 
 love." There is such proof of earnest purpose in this, that the 
 Friar no longer hesitates to lay his device before her. She is 
 in no way appalled by the thought of being laid for dead for 
 a certain time in her ancestral tomb. Is she not assured that 
 by the time she will awake, her Romeo, summoned by the Friar, 
 will be by her side, and bear her thence "that very night to 
 Mantua " 1 
 
 " If no unconstant toy, nor womanish fear, 
 Abate thy valour in the acting it." 
 
 " Give me, give me ! tell me not of fear," she exclaims, as 
 she seizes the phial ; " Love give me strength ! " What strength 
 love gives her we are soon to see love true and unwavering as 
 that she plighted in the words
 
 142 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS 
 
 ' ' But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
 Than those that have more cunning to be strange." 
 
 Lord Capulet, unused to be thwarted, must be in a fever of 
 impatience to know what effect the Friar's admonitions have had 
 upon his wayward daughter, in whom he now traces some of his 
 own imperious will. His surprise and delight, therefore, know 
 no bounds when she returns apparently contrite and ready to 
 obey his wish nay, as willing as himself to expedite matters. 
 
 " Send for the county ; go tell him of this : 
 I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. 
 
 Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar, 
 All our whole city is much bound up in him." 
 
 Juliet says 
 
 "Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, 
 To help me sort such needful ornaments 
 As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow ? " 
 
 Lady Capulet, wishing to keep to the original day, breaks in 
 with " ISTo, not till Thursday ; there is time enough." Lord 
 Capulet, most anxious to take Juliet while in the vein, exclaims, 
 "Go, Nurse, go with her; we'll to church to-morrow." Still 
 Lady Capulet remonstrates 
 
 " We shall be short in our provision ; 
 "Tis now near night. 
 
 Cap. Tush ! I will stir about, 
 
 And all things shall be well, I warrant, wife ; 
 Go thou to Juliet, help to deck her up ; 
 111 not to bed to-night. 
 
 My heart is wondrous light, 
 Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd." 
 
 Juliet is now in her chamber, and has let the Nurse choose 
 any dress she pleases for the intended ceremony on the morrow. 
 "Ay, those attires are best." The same, doubtless, that she was 
 really robed in for her grave. She must be at peace now, even 
 with the treacherous woman who had so failed her in her utmost 
 need, for this is their last meeting. She asks the Nurse to leave 
 her
 
 JULIET. 143 
 
 " For I have need of many orisons 
 To move the heavens to smile upon my state, 
 Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin." 
 
 Lady Capulet comes in to inquire if her help is needed. Juliet 
 replies that all is ready, and asks to be left alone, adding 
 
 " And let the nurse this night sit up with you ; 
 For, I am sure, you have your hands full all 
 In this so sudden business." 
 
 Lady Capulet, who sees nothing in her daughter's change of 
 manner but what she considers natural in the situation 
 wrought in her, doubtless, by the good Friar's spiritual advice 
 and counsel bids her " good night " in the usual way, only 
 adding, as she knew Juliet had been waking and weeping all the 
 previous night, " Get thee to bed, and rest ; for thou hast need." 
 With what awe, with what dread fascination, I used to 
 approach what follows ! I always felt a kind of icy coldness 
 and stillness come over me after leaving the Friar's cell which 
 lasted until this moment. The " Farewell ! " to Lady Capulet, 
 "God knows when we shall meet again," relaxed this state 
 of tension. When I knelt to my father, I had mutely, in kiss- 
 ing his hand, taken leave of him ; but now my mother the 
 mother whose sympathy would have been so precious was 
 leaving me to my lonely despair. This breaking up of all the 
 natural ties of youth and home, the heart-sick feeling of desola- 
 tion, overpowered me, and sobs came against my will. The very 
 room looked strange, larger, darker, with but the faint light of 
 the lamp, which threw the recesses of the windows and the heavy 
 furniture into deeper shade. I used to lift the lamp from the 
 table and peer into the shadows, to try to take away their terror. 
 Already I could fancy I had descended into the vault. 
 
 " I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, 
 That almost freezes up the heat of life." 
 
 There was no enduring it : " I'll call them back again to comfort 
 me; Nurse!" No! I have forgot. "What should she do 
 here 1 " No one must know, " my dismal scene I needs must 
 act alone." Hitherto all has been as the Friar ordered : his in- 
 structions have been faithfully carried out. Now Juliet stands,
 
 144 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 for the first time, alone, to think over and to face what is to 
 follow. She does not waver, but she has to put before herself 
 the dread realities which must be encountered in the way of the 
 escape devised for her. The hush of the unaccustomed solitude 
 is strange, for the Nurse has been near her always until this 
 night. Things undreamt of take possession of her brain. A 
 swift, sudden death, such as she had pictured to the Friar, would 
 have no terror ; but slow horrors seem now to gather round her. 
 
 " What if this mixture do not work at all ? 
 Shall I be married then to-morrow morning ? " 
 
 No ! There is a remedy against that. The dagger is kept near 
 her heart, and will find its place in it if necessary. Then again, 
 it may be a poison subtly administered by the Friar, lest he 
 should be dishonoured, "because he married me before to 
 Eomeo." This thought is put aside at once as unworthy 
 " for he hath still been tried a holy man." But now imagina- 
 tion conjures up a much more terrible vision, and such as might 
 appal the bravest heart : 
 
 " How if, when I am laid into the tomb, 
 I wake before the time that Romeo 
 Come to redeem me ? " 
 
 This is indeed " a fearful point ! " She has seen the outside of 
 the family vault ; the space remaining cannot be large, it being 
 already full of her kindred, who have been buried there for 
 " many hundred years." Remembering the custom of burying 
 the corpse uncovered on the bier, to fall bit by bit into decay, 
 the air, such air as may find its way in, laden with the odours 
 of decaying mortality, may stifle her, nay, the foul mouth of 
 the vault is not large enough to let in the " healthsome air," and 
 she will "there die strangled ere my Romeo comes." Or if not 
 if she should live how is she to endure 
 
 " The horrible conceit of death and night, 
 Together with the terror of the place, 
 
 Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, 
 Lies festering in his shroud " ? 1 
 
 1 I could never utter these words without an exclamation of shuddering 
 disgust escaping with them.
 
 JULIET. 145 
 
 Horror accumulates upon horror. Wandering spirits resort to 
 such spots. What with loathsome smells, the shrieks of man- 
 drakes torn out of the earth, she will go mad 
 
 " Environed with all these hideous fears. 
 
 And in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, 
 As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ! " 
 
 For the moment the great fear gets the better of the great love, 
 and all seems madness. Then in her frenzy of excitement she 
 seems to see Tybalt's figure start into life 
 
 " Look ! methiuks I see my cousin's ghost 
 Seeking out Romeo ! . . . 
 
 Stay, Tybalt, stay ! " 
 
 At the mention of Romeo's name, I used to feel all my resolu- 
 tion return. Eomeo ! She goes to meet him, and what terror 
 shall hold her back 1 She will pass through the horror of hell 
 itself to reach what lies beyond ; and she swallows the potion 
 with his name upon her lips " Eomeo, I come ! this do I drink 
 to thee ! " 
 
 What a scene is this so simple, so grand, so terrible ! 
 What it is to act I need not tell you. What power it 
 demands, and yet what restraint ! To be tame would be to 
 make the words ridiculous. The voice must be as capable of 
 variety of expression as are the words, the action simple, 
 earnest, impressive. Eepetition, certainly, had no effect in mak- 
 ing the scene less vivid to my imagination. The last time 
 I played Juliet, which was in Manchester in 1871, I fainted 
 on the bed at the end of it, so much was I overcome with 
 the reality of the "thick- coming fancies," just as the first 
 time I played the part I had fainted at the sight of my own 
 blood, which, for the moment, seemed to make the scene all too 
 real. I am not given to fainting, indeed I have very rarely 
 known the sensation. But the fascination which the terrible 
 had for me from the first, it maintained to the last ; and as the 
 images which the poet suggests rose in cumulative horror before 
 my mind, the stronger imagination of riper years gave them, no 
 doubt, a still greater power over my nervous system, and for the 
 K
 
 146 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 time overcame me. I know no scene in Shakespeare more diffi- 
 cult. Three such scenes for the actress in one play the balcony 
 scene, the scene when Juliet hears of Borneo's banishment, and 
 this ! Alas ! who could hope to do them full justice 1 
 
 While the daughter of the house is contending with the 
 horrors that crowd on her imagination at the thought of the 
 "nest of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep," in which she 
 is presently to be laid, Shakespeare, with a true painter's eye for 
 contrast, lets us see a little of the busy life which is in the 
 meantime going on in the background through the night in 
 the bustle of preparation for these hasty nuptials. Day is 
 breaking, yet Capulet has not been in bed : 
 
 " Come, stir, stir, stir ! the second cock hath crow'd, 
 The curfew-bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock." 
 
 While Lady Capulet and the Nurse are equally active in getting 
 " spices and quinces " for the operations of the kitchen, servants 
 are seen moving to and fro with spits, logs, and baskets 
 
 " Cap. Now, fellow, what's there ? 
 
 First Servant. Things for the cook, sir ; but I know not what. 
 Cap. Make haste, make haste ! Sirrah, fetch drier logs. 
 
 The county will be here with music straight, 
 For BO he said he would. I hear him near." 
 
 The Nurse is despatched in haste to Juliet to waken her, and 
 "trim her up." All this stir and bustle of festal preparation, 
 the prelude to the hushed solemnity of death ! What a picture 
 meets the eyes of the stricken parents, the faithless Nurse, the 
 assured and triumphant bridegroom ! Friar Laurence, knowing 
 what he does of them and their poor victims, may well cut short 
 their selfish lamentations by the words 
 
 " The heavens do lour upon you for some ill, 
 Move them no more by crossing their high will. " 
 
 The close of the fourth act leaves us in uncertainty, but still 
 with a kind of hope that all these woes may serve " for sweet 
 discourses in the time to come." There seems to be no necessity 
 for a tragic ending. Eomeo is safe in Mantua, awaiting, with all
 
 JULIET. 147 
 
 the patience he can command, the news which the Friar is to 
 send him through his man from time to time of "every good 
 hap that chances here." Friar John has been sent to him 
 with all speed witli a letter apprising him of what has just 
 happened a letter which will bring him back on the instant 
 to Verona. Juliet is safe from her parents' importunity in 
 the " pleasant sleep " which is to end in such a happy wak- 
 ing. All seems to go well. 
 
 But Destiny now steps in again. The fates are spinning, 
 spinning out the doom of the lovers, and will not be thwarted. 
 
 The fifth act of this play has always impressed me as being 
 wonderfully beautiful, simple, human, and grand as the finest 
 of the Greek plays ; much finer, indeed for the ancients knew 
 nothing of the passion of love in its purity, its earnestness, 
 its devotedness, its self-sacrifice. It needed Christianity to 
 teach us this, and a Shakespeare in the drama to illustrate 
 it. The Greek dramatists, as a rule, preserved the unities of 
 time, place, and action. Shakespeare put them aside for higher 
 purposes. His genius could not be so trammelled. Human 
 lives and human minds he took to work upon, and made all 
 outside matter subservient to his great end. Time, place, action, 
 were his instruments, and he made them submit to him. He 
 looked to the "beyond beyond," where no time is, and would 
 not subject himself to mere days and hours, which at the best 
 come and go unheeded, some flying, others dragging their weary 
 length along. 
 
 In the opening of the act we meet Romeo in Mantua. Grief 
 has matured, ennobled him. He is full of buoyant hopes because 
 of a happy dream. In the first act, before he goes to the revels, 
 he says, " 'Tis no wit to go. I dream'd a dream to-night." This 
 dream was of a kind evidently to set him against going to the 
 house of his enemy. But, following on this dream of warning, 
 comes the greatest joy of his life. The present dream supposes, 
 curiously, that he, instead of his lady, was lying dead, and that 
 her kisses breathed such new life into him that he " revived, and 
 was an emperor." Now, in the climax of this joyful anticipation, 
 comes Balthazar with news from. Verona. Has he brought letters 
 from the Friar? No, Then,
 
 148 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " How doth my lady ? Is my father well ? 
 How fares my Juliet ? That I ask again, 
 For nothing can be ill, if she be well. 
 
 Sal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. 
 Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, 
 And her immortal part with angels lives. 
 I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault." 
 
 Romeo's grief is of that overwhelming kind which finds no vent 
 in words. He simply says, " Is it even so 1 then I defy you, 
 stars ! " On the instant he sees his course. He gives a few brief 
 directions to his servant to hire post-horses, and dismisses him 
 with renewed injunctions " and hire those horses ; I'll be with 
 thee straight." What a change the shock has wrought upon him 
 in a moment is seen in Balthazar's words ! 
 
 " I do beseech you, sir, have patience ; 
 Your looks are pale and wild." 
 
 Eomeo asks no questions, seeks for no details. In the anguish 
 of a sudden blow it is not the greatest sufferer who wants to 
 know particulars. The "why?" the "when?" the "where?" 
 come from others less deeply stricken. The thought may pass 
 through Eomeo's mind of the pale face he had last looked upon 
 in the anguish of parting. "Dry sorrow" has indeed "drunk 
 her blood " and snapped her life's strings. 
 
 " Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. 
 Let's see for means. mischief, thou art swift 
 To enter in the thoughts of desperate men ! " 
 
 Swift too swift; for already Destiny had thrown the means 
 across his path. 
 
 " I do remember an apothecary 
 And hereabouts he dwells. . . . 
 Noting his penury, to myself I said 
 And if a man did need a poison now, 
 
 Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. 
 0, this same thought did but forerun my need ! 
 
 Come, cordial, and not poison ; go with me 
 To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee.
 
 JULIET. 149 
 
 With what a subtle touch Shakespeare reveals to us the state 
 of Romeo's mind during his hurried night-ride to Verona ! for, 
 as an exiled man, he must still use " night's cloak " to hide him 
 from men's eyes. His man, thinking the details of what had 
 happened in Verona deeply interesting, would fain tell him all, 
 spare his master nothing of the elaborate ceremony which he 
 had witnessed of Juliet's entombment, or of the gossip which he 
 has heard around of the unusual sadness of the event of her 
 youth, her beauty, and of the day on which she died having been 
 appointed for her marriage with the rich County Paris. But 
 Romeo heeds nothing. One all-absorbing thought possesses him 
 to hasten on and lie by Juliet's side in death. 
 
 The next scene shows us how the Fates have been at work, 
 using the plague which was then raging in part of Verona as an 
 instrument of their will. Friar John, while seeking the "associate" 
 who was to accompany him to Verona, is found in a house sus- 
 pected of infection, and is shut up there, so that he can neither 
 send on to Mantua the letter intrusted to him, nor get it returned 
 to Friar Laurence. He brings it back after this delay, when 
 the time for it to be of use has gone by. " Unhappy fortune ! " 
 says Friar Laurence ; but as he evidently thought Romeo could 
 not have heard what had happened through any other channel, 
 he proposes to write again to him, and in the meantime to bring 
 Juliet away on her awaking, and keep her at his cell. 
 
 On Romeo's arrival at the churchyard, he finds Paris there 
 before him, strewing the tomb with flowers. Paris has loved 
 Juliet to the best of his nature, and mourns her in a gentle 
 sentimental way : 
 
 " Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew : 
 The obsequies that I for thee will keep, 
 Nightly shall be, to strew thy grave and weep. " 
 
 He retires when his page warns him of the approach of Romeo ; 
 but on witnessing what he supposes to be desecration of the tomb 
 of the Capulets, he breaks in with 
 
 " Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague ! 
 Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee ! "
 
 150 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Romeo proves his gentle, noble nature by showing the same 
 forbearance to Paris with which he had met the insolence of 
 Tybalt : 
 
 " Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man ; 
 
 Fly hence and leave me 
 
 I beseech thee, youth, 
 Put not another sin upon my head, 
 By urging me to fury ! 0, begone ! 
 By heaven, I love thee better than myself : 
 For I come hither arm'd against myself." 
 
 Paris will not be persuaded, and Eomeo is not to be balked. 
 They fight, and it is only when Paris has fallen that he is 
 recognised by Eomeo as "Mercutio's kinsman, noble County 
 Paris." Then something crosses his mind as to what his man 
 had talked of on the road 
 
 " When my betossed soul 
 Did not attend him as we rode. I think, 
 He told me, Paris should have married Juliet : 
 Said he not so ? or did I dream it so ? 
 Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, 
 To think it was so ? " 
 
 To the man who would have been his foe alive, he can say in 
 death 
 
 " 0, give me thy hand, 
 
 One writ with me in sour misfortune's book ! 
 
 I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave. 
 
 For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes 
 This vault a feasting presence full of light." 
 
 We may conceive the anguish of the cry that now breaks from 
 
 him: 
 
 " my love ! my wife ! 
 
 Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, 
 Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. " 
 
 "The roses on her lips and cheeks," which under the first in- 
 fluence of the potion had faded " to paly ashes," have begun 
 to return, as its effects are dying away. How much is the 
 pathos of the scene deepened by the circumstance that Romeo 
 sees nothing in this to make him hesitate ! He thinks only
 
 JULIET. 151 
 
 that " beauty's ensign " is still " crimson in her lips and in her 
 cheeks," and that for a while " death's pale flag is not advanced 
 there." He now sees what she had truly pictured to herself, 
 the body of Tybalt "uncovered on the bier" close beside her. 
 Ever generous and forgiving himself, he turns to ask the for- 
 giveness of his foe : 
 
 " Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet ? 
 0, what more favour can I do to thee, 
 Than with that hand which cut thy youth in twain 
 To sunder his that was thine enemy ? 
 Forgive me, cousin ! Ah, dear Juliet, 
 Why art thou yet so fair ? . . . 
 
 Here, here will I remain 
 
 With worms that are thy chamber-maids ; 0, here 
 Will I set up my everlasting rest, 
 And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars 
 From this world-wearied flesh. 
 
 Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide ! 
 Here's to my love ! " 
 
 Even so before had it been with Juliet " Romeo, I drink to 
 thee." 
 
 While this is going on at the tomb of the Capulets, and on 
 the very instant of Romeo's exclamation, " true apothecary, 
 thy drugs are quick ! Thus with a kiss I die," Friar Laurence 
 enters at the far end of the churchyard, with a crowbar and all 
 the materials for opening the monument. As he makes his way 
 towards it he says, groping his way along, 
 
 " Saint Francis be my speed ? how oft to-night 
 Have my old feet stumbled at graves. " 
 
 Romeo's man, who has been enjoined, at peril of his life, to keep 
 aloof, tells the Friar of Romeo's advent at the tomb. The Friar's 
 worst fears are aroused by this, 
 
 " Fear comes upon me : 
 0, much I fear some ill unlucky thing." 
 
 He calls on Romeo's name ; finds the sepulchre open, and at 
 the entrance of it, "masterless and gory swords." Entering 
 he
 
 152 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " Romeo ! 0, pale ! Who else ? what, Paris too ? 
 And steep'd in blood ? " 
 
 Before he has recovered the shock of this discovery Juliet 
 awakes "as from a pleasant sleep." Her first sight is of the 
 Friar. This is as she was promised. Her brain is clear, her 
 memory active. 
 
 " comfortable friar, where is my lord ? 
 I do remember well where I should be. 
 And there I am. Where is my Romeo ? " 
 
 Noises in the distance tell the Friar that the watch is ap- 
 proaching. 
 
 ' ' Lady, come from that nest 
 Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep : 
 A greater power than we can contradict 
 Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away." 
 
 Is it likely she will consent when he adds 
 
 " Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead. 
 . . . Come, I'll dispose of thee 
 Among a sisterhood of holy nuns : 
 Stay not to question, for the watch is coming." 
 
 What a moment for Juliet ! She has braved all the horrors 
 which her imagination so vividly pictured for the sake of him 
 who now lies dead before her. She has wakened for this ! 
 She has no questions, no words. Her heart is bankrupt utterly. 
 If she can think at all, it is that Borneo has found her dead, 
 and, to follow her quickly, has taken poison. She finds the 
 phial closed tightly in his hand. She utters no reproaches, 
 except the loving one 
 
 " churl ! drink all ; and leave no friendly drop, 
 To help me after ! " 
 
 The poor old Friar, in his grief and utter bewilderment at 
 this " lamentable chance," finding all his efforts fruitless to tear 
 Juliet from her husband's body, as the noise of the approaching 
 crowd comes nearer, at last leaves her. Juliet, glad of the 
 release, says, "Go, get thee hence, for I will riot away." The 
 noise comes nearer still. To be found alive would be to be 
 separated from her lover. The dagger which was to have been
 
 JULIET. 153 
 
 her friendly help to let out life, should the potion not have 
 worked, is not at hand has not been buried with her. Where 
 can she look for help? Will her desperate hand have indeed 
 to seek some kinsman's bone with which to dash out her brains ? 
 JSTo ! The " inconstant moon " is a friendly helper now ; it 
 breaks through the darkness, and by its light she sees the 
 shimmering of Romeo's dagger. Here is relief ! to die by the 
 instrument which had touched his hand, had been part of his 
 daily wearing and belongings nothing could be more welcome. 
 She snatches it from his belt, exclaiming, as she stabs herself, 
 " happy dagger ! this is thy sheath ; there rust, and let 
 me die." 
 
 Thus is the "fearful passage of their death -mark'd love" 
 complete. Had Shakespeare only wished to show true love con- 
 stant and triumphant throughout persistent evil fortune, he might 
 have ended here. But, as I said in the outset, his purpose, I 
 believe, was far wider and deeper, and is plainly shown in the 
 elaborate close which he has written to the scene. 
 
 The play opens in the thronged streets of Verona perhaps 
 in its picturesque and stirring market-place, where, upon a 
 casual meeting, the hot blood of the retainers of the Montagues 
 and Capulets, made hotter by the blazing noonday sun, breaks 
 out into a bloody brawl, into the midst of which, when at its 
 height, the heads of both the houses rush with a passion little 
 suited to their years, and are reduced to order only by the inter- 
 vention of their Prince. It closes in the chill midnight, in a 
 churchyard. The actors in the first scene are all present except 
 the kind Lady Montague, who has died of grief that very night 
 for her son's exile ; and there, locked in each other's arms in 
 death, lie these two fair young creatures done to death by reason 
 " of their parents' rage." 
 
 Too late too late for their happiness on earth do these 
 parents learn the lesson of amity and brotherly love over the 
 dumbly eloquent bodies of their immolated children. But they 
 do, with stricken hearts, learn it, and try vainly to make ex- 
 piation. All future generations may also learn it there, for 
 never could the lesson be more emphatically taught, as of a 
 surety
 
 154 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 " Never was a story of more woe, 
 Than this of Juliet and her Romeo." 
 
 There is in this play no scope for surmise, no possible mis- 
 understanding of the chief characters or of the poet's purpose, 
 such as there are in Hamlet and Macbeth. The chill mists and 
 vapours of the North seem to shroud these plays in an atmo- 
 sphere of mystery, uncertainty, and gloom. But here all is dis- 
 tinct and luminous as the vivid sunshine, or the clear, tender 
 moonlight of the South. You have but to throw your mind 
 back into the history of the time, and to let your heart warm 
 and your imagination kindle with the hot blood and quick- 
 flashing fancies of the Italian temperament, and the whole tale 
 of love and woe stands fully revealed before you. Still, to 
 judge Juliet rightly, we must have clear ideas of Romeo, of her 
 parents, and of all the circumstances that determined her con- 
 duct. "What I have written, therefore, has been written with 
 this object. Would I might think that in my art I was in 
 some measure able to express what my imagination had con- 
 ceived of Juliet in her brief hours of exquisite happiness and 
 exquisite suffering! 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT MARTIN. 
 To Mrs S. C. HALL. 
 
 [The second of these letters was not completed when tidings 
 of the death, after a very brief illness, of the dear friend for 
 whom it was intended, reached me. She was present to my 
 mind when I wrote it, and I dedicate it to her memory. The 
 world knew her great talents and her worth ; but only her friends 
 could estimate her goodness, her charity in thought as well as in 
 deed. Her kindness, like her sympathy, knew no limit. It was 
 as constant and loyal, as it was encouraging and judicious. In 
 loving grateful memory she lives, I doubt not, in many hearts, as 
 she does in mine.]
 
 VI. 
 
 IMOGEN, PRINCESS OF BRITAIN
 
 VI. 
 IMOGEN, PKINCESS OF BRITAIN. 
 
 ' ' Alas, poor princess, 
 Thou divine Imogen ! " 
 
 ' So every spirit, as it is most pure, 
 And hath in it the more of heavenly light, 
 So it the fairer body doth procure 
 To habit in : 
 
 For of the soule the bodie forme doth take, 
 For soule is forme, and doth the bodie make." 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 October 1882. 
 MY DEAR ANNA SWANWICK, 
 
 "VTOU wonder, I daresay, at my long delay in yielding to your 
 urgent request that I should write of Imogen, your chief 
 favourite, as you tell me, among all Shakespeare's women. You 
 would not wonder, could I make you feel how, by long brooding 
 over her character, and by living through all her emotions and 
 trials on the stage till she seemed to become "my very life of 
 life," I find it next to impossible to put her so far away from me 
 that I can look at her as a being to be scanned, and measured, 
 and written about. All words such, at least, as are at my com- 
 mand seem inadequate to express what I felt about her from 
 my earliest years, not to speak of all that the experiences of my 
 woman's heart and of human life have taught me since of the
 
 158 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 matchless truth and beauty with which Shakespeare has invested 
 her. In drawing her he has made his masterpiece ; and of all 
 heroines of poetry or romance, who can be named beside her? 
 
 It has been my happy lot to impersonate not a few ideal 
 women among them two of your own Greek favourites, Anti- 
 gone and Iphigenia in Aulis : l but Imogen has always occupied 
 the largest place in my heart ; and while she taxed largely my 
 powers of impersonation, she has always repaid me for the effort 
 tenfold by the delight I felt at being the means of placing a 
 being in every way so noble before the eyes and hearts of my 
 audiences, and of making them feel, perhaps, and think of her, 
 and of him to whose genius we owe her, with something of my 
 own reverence and love. Ah, how much finer a medium than 
 all the pen can do for bringing home to the heart what was in 
 Shakespeare's mind when he drew his men and women, is the 
 " well-trod stage," with that living commentary which actor and 
 actress capable in their art can give ! How much has he left to 
 be filled up by accent, by play of feature, by bearing, by action, 
 by subtle shades of expression, inspired by the heart and striking 
 home to the heart, by all those movements and inflections of 
 tone which come intuitively to the sympathetic artist, apparently 
 trifling in themselves, but which play so large a part in produc- 
 ing the impression left upon us by a living interpretation of the 
 master-poet ! To one accustomed like myself to such helps as 
 these for bringing out the results of my studies of Shakespeare's 
 women, it seems hopeless to endeavour to convey the same im- 
 pressions by mere words. The more a character has wound 
 itself round the heart, the more is this felt. Can you wonder, 
 then, that I approach my " woman of women " with fear and 
 trembling ? 
 
 Do you remember what that bright, charming, frank old lady, 
 
 1 What delight I had in acting these plays in Dublin, and to what intelli- 
 gent and sympathetic audiences ! The Antigone gave me the greater pleas- 
 ure, both for itself, and because of Mendelssohn's music. The chorus was 
 admirable, and all the scenic adjuncts correct and complete. Although the 
 whole performance occupied little more than an hour, great audiences filled 
 the theatre night after night. It is strange how much more deeply these 
 Greek plays moved the Irish heart than either the Scotch or the English. 
 (See Appendix, p. 397.)
 
 IMOGEN. 159 
 
 no, I will not call her " old," for there is nothing old about 
 her; I know many far older in spirit who count not half or a 
 
 quarter her years, Mrs D S said to me lately when 
 
 you were standing by 1 She had been scolding me in her playful 
 way for not having given her more of my " letters " to read, and, 
 after calling me idle, forgetful, &c., asked me who was to be the 
 subject of my next. I replied, I thought Imogen, but that I 
 knew I should find it most difficult to express what I felt about 
 her. " Ah, my dear ! " she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in 
 her usual characteristic manner when she feels strongly, "you 
 will never write of Imogen as you acted her ! " I told her that 
 her words filled me with despair. " Never mind," was her re- 
 joinder ; " go on and try. My memory will fill up the gaps." I 
 have one of the kind letters by me, which you wrote after seeing 
 me act Imogen at Drury Lane in 1866. So your memory too 
 will have to come to my aid, by filling up the gaps. It is very 
 pleasant to think that our friend's feeling may possibly be shared 
 by many of that unknown public who were always so ready to 
 put themselves in sympathy with me ; but that thought does not 
 make the fulfilment of my promise to you the less formidable. 
 
 Imogen had been one of the great favourites of my girlhood. 
 At school we used to read the scenes at the cave with Belarius, 
 Arviragus, and Guiderius ; and never can I forget our getting 
 them up to act as a surprise for our governess on her birthday. 
 We always prepared some " surprise " on this occasion, or what 
 she kindly took as one. The brothers were arrayed in all the fur 
 trimmings, boas, cuffs, muffs, &c., we could muster, one of the 
 muffs doing duty as the cap for Belarius. Then the practisings 
 for something suggestive of the ^Eolian harp that has to play a 
 Miserere for Imogen's supposed death ! Our only available means 
 of simulating Belarius's "ingenious instrument" was a guitar; 
 but the girl who played it had to be apart from the scene, and, 
 as she never would take the right cue, she was always breaking 
 in at the wrong place. I was the Imogen ; and, curiously enough, 
 it was as Imogen my dear governess first saw me on the stage. I 
 wondered whether she remembered the incidents of our school- 
 girl performance as I did. She might very well forget, but not 
 I ; for what escapes our memory of things done or thought in
 
 160 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 childhood? Such small matters then appear eventful, and loom 
 so very large to young eyes and imaginations ! 
 
 I cannot quite remember who acted with me first in Cymbeline, 
 but I can never forget Mr Macready's finding fault with my 
 page's dress, which I had ordered to be made with a tunic that 
 descended to the ankles. On going to the theatre at the last re- 
 hearsal, he told me, with many apologies and much concern, that 
 he had seen my page's dress, and had given directions to have it 
 altered. He had taken the liberty of doing this, he said, without 
 consulting me, because, although he could understand the reasons 
 which had weighed with me in ordering the dress to be made as 
 I had done, he was sure I would forgive him when he explained 
 to me that such a dress would not tell the story, and that one- 
 half the audience all, in fact, who did not know the play 
 would not discover that it was a disguise, but would suppose 
 Imogen to be still in woman's attire. Remonstrance was too late, 
 and, with many tears, I had to yield, and to add my own terror 
 to that of Imogen when first entering the cave. I managed, how- 
 ever, to devise a kind of compromise, by swathing myself in the 
 "franklin housewife's riding-cloak," which I kept about me as I 
 went into the cave ; and this I caused to be wrapped round me 
 afterwards when the brothers carry in Imogen the poor " dead 
 bird, which they have made so much on." 
 
 I remember well the Pisanio was my good friend Mr Elton, 
 the best Pisanio of my time. No one whom I have since acted 
 with has so truly thrown into the part the deep devotion, the 
 respectful manly tenderness and delicacy of feeling, which it re- 
 quires. He drew out all the nicer points of the character with 
 the same fine and firm hand which we used to admire upon the 
 French stage in M. Regnier, that most finished of artists, in char- 
 acters of this kind. As I write, by some strange association of 
 ideas I suppose we must have been rehearsing Cymbeline at the 
 time a little circumstance illustrative of the character of this 
 good Mr Elton comes into my mind. Pardon me if I leave Imo- 
 gen for the moment, to speak of other matters. This helpful 
 friend did not always cheer and praise, but very kindly told me 
 of my mistakes. We were to appear in The Lady of Lyons, 
 which was then in its first run, and had been commanded by the
 
 IMOGEN. 161 
 
 Queen for a State performance. I had never acted before Her 
 Majesty and Prince Albert ; and to me, young as I was, this Avas 
 a great event. Immediately I thought there ought to be some- 
 thing special about my dress for the occasion. Now, either from 
 a doubt as to the play's success, or for some good financial reason, 
 no expense had been incurred in bringing it out. Mr Macready 
 asked me if I had any dresses which could be adapted for Pauline 
 Deschapelles. He could not, he said, afford to give me new 
 dresses, and he would be glad if I could manage without them. 
 Of course I said I would willingly do my best. Upon consulting 
 with the excellent Mr Dominic Colnaghi, the printseller in Pall 
 Mall, who always gave me access to all his books of costume, I 
 found, as I had already heard, that the dress of the young girl of 
 the period was simple in material and form fine muslin, with 
 lace fichus, ruffles, broad sashes, and the hair worn in long loose 
 curls down the back, my own coming in naturally for this fashion. 
 As it was in my case, so I suppose it was with the others the 
 costumes, however, being all true to the period. The scenery 
 was of course good and sufficient, for in this department Mr Mac- 
 ready never failed. And thus, with trifling cost, this play, which 
 was to prove so wonderfully successful, came forth to the world 
 unassisted by any extraneous adjuncts, depending solely upon its 
 own merits and the actors' interpretation of it. It must have 
 been written with rare knowledge of what the stage requires, for 
 not one word was cut out, nor one scene rearranged or altered 
 after the first representation. The author was no doubt lucky in 
 his interpreters. Mr Macready, though in appearance far too old 
 for Claude Melnotte, yet had a slight, elastic figure, and so much 
 buoyancy of manner that the impression of age quickly wore off. 
 The secret of his success was, that he lifted the character, and 
 gave it the dignity and strength which it required to make 
 Claude respected under circumstances so equivocal. This was 
 especially conspicuous in a critical point early in the play (Act 
 ii.), where Claude passes himself off as a prince. Mr Macready 's 
 manner became his dress. The slight confusion, when addressed 
 by Colonel Damas in Italian, was so instantly turned to his own 
 advantage by the playful way in which he laid the blame on the 
 general's bad Italian, his whole bearing was so dignified and 
 L
 
 162 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 courteous, that it did not seem strange he should charm the 
 girlish fancy of one who was accustomed to be courted, hut 
 whose heart was hitherto untouched. He made the hero, indeed, 
 one of nature's exceptional gentlemen, and in this way prepos- 
 sessed his audience, despite the unworthy device to which Claude 
 lends himself in the first frenzy of wounded vanity. Truth to 
 say, unless dealt with poetically and romantically, both Claude 
 and Pauline drop down into very commonplace people indeed I 
 have been surprised to see how commonplace. Again, Mrs Clif- 
 ford as Madame Deschapelles, by a stately aristocratic bearing, 
 carried off the heartless foolishness of her sayings. The Damas 
 of Mr Bartley was a fine vigorous impersonation of the blunt, im- 
 petuous, genial soldier. Mr Elton acted, as he always did, most 
 carefully and well, and gave importance and style to the disagree- 
 able character of M. Beauseant. 
 
 But to return to the evening of the Eoyal command, and what 
 I was going to say. I had nothing especially new and fresh to 
 wear ; so in honour of the occasion I had ordered from Foster's 
 some lovely pink roses with silver leaves, to trim the dress I 
 worn in the second act. I had hitherto used only real roses 
 friends, known and unknown, always supplying me with them. 
 One dear friend never failed to furnish Pauline with the bouquet 
 for her hand. Oh, how very often, as she might tell you, has 
 she seen me in that play ! 1 I thought my new flowers, when 
 arranged about my dress, looked lovely quite fairy-like. When 
 accosted with the usual " Good evenings " while waiting at the 
 side scenes for the opening of the second act, I saw Mr Elton 
 looking at me with a sort of amused wonder. I said at once, 
 " Do you not think my fresh flowers pretty 1 " " Oh," he said, 
 " are they fresh 1 They must have come a long way. Where do 
 they grow ? I never saw any of the kind before. They must 
 have come out of Aladdin's garden. Silver leaves ! How re- 
 markable ! They may be more rare, but I much prefer the home- 
 
 1 In my mind was always the idea that Pauline loved flowers passionately. 
 It was in the garden, among his flowers, that Claude first saw and loved her. 
 I never was without them in the play ; even in the sad last act I had violets 
 on my plain muslin dress. You remember how Madame Deschapelles re- 
 proaches Pauline for not being en grande tenue on that " joyful occasion."
 
 IMOGEN. 163 
 
 grown ones you have in your hand." Eidicule of my fine decora- 
 tion ! Alas ! alas ! I felt at once that it was deserved. It was 
 too late to repair my error. I must act the scene with them 
 before the Queen, too ! and all my pleasure was gone. I hid 
 them as well as I could with my fan and handkerchief, and hoped 
 no one would notice them. Need I say how they were torn off 
 when I reached my dressing-room, never to see the light again] 
 I never felt more ashamed and vexed with myself. 1 
 
 It was well I had a handkerchief on this occasion to help to 
 screen my poor silver leaves ; but as a general rule I kept it in 
 my pocket and for this reason : In the scene in the third act 
 where Pauline learns the infamous stratagem of which she is 
 the victim on the night the play was first acted I tore my 
 handkerchief right across without knowing that I had done so ; 
 and in the passion and emotion of the scene it became a streamer, 
 and waved about as I moved and walked. Surely any one might 
 have seen that this was an accident, the involuntary act of the 
 maddened girl ; but in a criticism on the play I suppose the day 
 after, but as I was never allowed to have my mind disturbed by 
 theatrical criticisms, I cannot feel sure I was acciised of having 
 arranged this as a trick in order to produce an effect. So inno- 
 cent was I of a device which would have been utterly at variance 
 with the spirit in which I looked at my art, that when my dear 
 home master and friend asked me if I had torn a handkerchief in 
 the scene, I laughed and said, " Yes ; at the end of the play my 
 dresser had shown me one in ribbons." " I would not," was his 
 remark, " have you carry one again in the scene, if you can do 
 without it " ; and I did not usually do so. It was some time af ter- 
 
 1 Like many pleasures long looked forward to, the whole of this evening 
 was a disappointment. The side scenes were crowded with visitors, Mr 
 Macready having invited many friends. They were terribly in the way of 
 the exits and entrances. Worse than all, those who knew you insisted on 
 saluting you ; those who did not, made you run the gauntlet of a host of 
 curious eyes, and this in a place where, most properly, no stranger had 
 hitherto been allowed to intrude. Then, too, though of course I never 
 looked at the Queen and the Prince, still their presence was felt by me more 
 than I could have anticipated. It overawed me somehow stood between 
 me and Pauline ; and instead of doing my best, I could not in my usual way 
 lose myself entirely in my character, so that, on the whole, I never acted 
 worse or more artificially too like my poor flowers !
 
 164 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 wards before I learned his reason, and I then continued to keep 
 my handkerchief mostly in my pocket, lest the same accident 
 should happen again ; for, as I always allowed the full feeling of 
 the scene to take possession of me, I could not answer but that it 
 might. There would have been nothing wrong in acting upon 
 what strong natural emotion had suggested in the heat of actual 
 performance ; but all true artists will, I believe, avoid the use of 
 any action, however striking, which may become by repetition a 
 mere mechanical artifice. 
 
 It was different with another suggestion which was made to 
 me as to the way I acted in the same scene. As I recalled to 
 Claude, in bitter scorn, his glowing description of his palace 
 by the Lake of Como, I broke into a paroxysm of hysterical 
 laughter, which came upon me, I suppose, as the natural relief 
 from the intensity of the mingled feelings of anger, scorn, 
 wounded pride, and outraged love, by which I found myself 
 carried away. The effect upon the audience was electrical be- 
 cause the impulse was genuine. But well do I remember Mr 
 Macready's remonstrance with me for yielding to it. It was too 
 daring, he said ; to have failed in it on a first representation 
 might have ruined the scene (which was true). No one, more- 
 over, should ever, he said, hazard an unrehearsed effect. I could 
 only answer that I could not help it ; that this seemed the only 
 way for my feelings to find vent ; and if the impulse seized me 
 again, again, I feared, I must act the scene in the same way. 
 And often as I have played Pauline, never did the situation fail 
 to bring back the same burst of hysterical emotion ; nor, so far as 
 I know, did any one ever regard my yielding to it as out of place, 
 or otherwise than true to nature. Some time afterwards I was 
 comforted by reading a reply of the great French actor Baron, 
 when he was blamed for raising his hands above his head in some 
 impassioned scene, on the ground that such a gesture was contrary 
 to the rules of art. " Tell me not of art," he said. " If nature 
 makes you raise your hands, be it ever so high, be sure nature is 
 right, and the business of art is to obey her." When playing 
 with Mr Macready the following year at the Haymarket, I noticed 
 a chair placed every evening at the wing as I went on the stage 
 for this act. On inquiry, I found it was for Mrs Glover, the
 
 IMOGEN. 165 
 
 great actress of comedy, who afterwards told me that she came 
 every night to see me in this scene, she was so much struck by 
 the originality of my treatment of it. She said it was bold 
 beyond anything she had ever known ; and yet it was always 
 so fresh and new, that each time it moved her as if she had 
 not seen it before. Nature spoke through me to her no praise 
 to me. 
 
 The success of The Lady of Lyons had during the rehearsals 
 been considered very doubtful. Its defects in a literary point 
 of view seemed obvious to those who were capable of judging, 
 and its merits as a piece of skilful dramatic construction could 
 not then be fully seen. The master and dear friend of whom 
 I spoke in my letter on Juliet, thought the character of Pauline, 
 when I was studying it, very difficult and somewhat disagreeable. 
 I remember well his saying to me, " You have hitherto, in your 
 Shakespearian studies, had to lift yourself up to the level of 
 your heroines ; now you must, by tone and manner and dignity 
 of expression, lift this one up to yourself." During the rehear- 
 sals no one knew who was the author. The play had not a 
 name given to it until very near the time it was brought out. 
 There was great speculation during the rehearsals as to who was 
 the author, and what it was to be called. Love and Duty, Love 
 and Pride, were suggested, but discarded as too like the titles of 
 a novel. The Gardener's Son, said one. No, that suggested 
 nothing. The Merchant of Lyons, said another. No, surely 
 not ; was there not a Merchant of Venice ? Upon which Mr 
 Bartley, who was the stage manager, and also the first and the 
 best Colonel Damas, turned to me, and taking off his hat, and 
 bowing in the soldier-like manner of the colonel in the play, 
 said, " I think ' my young cousin ' should give the play a name. 
 Shall it not be called The Lady of Lyons?" Whether this 
 name had been decided on before, I cannot tell ; but shortly 
 after the play was announced by that title. 1 
 
 During the first run of this play it was in winter I suffered 
 
 terribly from a constant cough. It would sometimes seize me 
 
 in the most trying passages. On one of these occasions I found 
 
 Lord Lytton waiting for me as I left the scene, showing the 
 
 1 See Appendix, p. 399.
 
 166 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 greatest concern, and begging me to take care of my health. 
 Shortly after, he sent some lozenges to my dressing-room, with 
 renewed injunctions to give up acting for a time. As this in- 
 volved the withdrawal of the play at the height of its success, I 
 felt how generous was this proposal. Indeed I always found 
 Lord Lytton most kind and considerate, with a very tender heart 
 for suffering. Not long afterwards, my physicians sent me away 
 from my loved work for many weary months : hut rest had be- 
 come quite necessary ; had they not insisted upon it, no more 
 work or play would there have been for me in this world. 
 
 But, oh how I have wandered from Imogen ! It is I sup- 
 pose, like Portia, 
 
 " To peize the time, 
 To eke it and to draw it out in length," 
 
 to stay myself from grappling with a task which I yearn, yet 
 dread, to approach. 
 
 It is impossible, I find, to write of Imogen, without treating 
 in some degree of all the principal characters of the play. She 
 acts upon and influences them all. We must make ourselves 
 familiar with them, in order fully to know her. This opens up 
 a wide field ; for the action of the play covers an unusual space, 
 and is carried on by many important agents. It sets the unities, 
 especially the unity of place, entirely at defiance. We are now 
 in Britain, then in Eome anon once more in Britain, then back 
 in Eome. The scene changes, and we are again at Cymbeline's 
 Court ; then in a mountainous jegion of South Wales ; and so 
 backwards and forwards to the end of the play. Cymbeline 
 would be the despair of those getters-up of plays nowadays, 
 whose scenery is so elaborate that they can give but one scene 
 to each act. But, oh how refreshing it is to have your thoughts 
 centred upon such human beings as Shakespeare drew, each 
 phase of their characters unfolding before you, with all their 
 joys, their woes, their affections, sufferings, passions, instead of 
 the immovable upholstery and painted simulations of reality in 
 which the modern fashion takes delight ! The eye perhaps is 
 pleased, but what becomes of the heart and the imagination? 
 Some people tell you that Shakespeare would, if he could, have 
 availed himself of all the material resources of the costumier,
 
 IMOGEN. 167 
 
 scene-painter, and stage-manager, which are now so freely used. 
 I venture to think not. He knew too well that if the eye be 
 distracted by excess either of numbers or of movement, or by a 
 multiplicity of beautiful or picturesque objects, the actor must 
 work at a disadvantage. He can neither gain nor keep that 
 grasp of the minds and sympathies of the audience which is 
 essential for bringing home to them the purpose of the poet. 
 
 I have seen the plot of Cymbeline severely censured. The 
 play certainly wants the concentration which is supposed to be 
 necessary for representation on the stage. It is not marked by 
 the exquisite constructive skill which is apparent in Macbeth, 
 Romeo and Juliet, Much Ado about Nothing, and some of Shake- 
 speare's other plays. Still the plot itself is clear enough, and 
 sufficiently full of sustained interest to engage the attention of 
 the audience and keep it in suspense to the close. The play, in 
 fact, is of only too luxuriant growth, so that a little judicious 
 lopping improves its form without prejudice to it as an acting 
 drama. Its occasional diffuseness is plainly caused by an ex- 
 treme anxiety to leave nothing obscure either in the action 
 or the characters. But the genius of the great dramatist is 
 apparent in the skill with which the story of Imogen's trials is 
 interwoven with traditionary tales of the ancient Britons and 
 their relations to Kome, which give to the play the vivid in- 
 terest of a grand historical background. The incident on which 
 it hinges the wager between lachimo and Posthumus appears 
 to have been taken from Boccaccio's story, simply because it was 
 familiar to the theatre-going public, and because Shakespeare saw 
 in it a great opportunity for introducing characters and incidents 
 well fitted to develop, in a manner " unattempted yet in prose or 
 rhyme," the character of a noble, cultivated, loving woman and 
 wife at her best. The play might indeed be fitly called Imogen, 
 Princess of Britain, for it is upon her, her trials and her triumph, 
 that it chiefly turns. 
 
 Observe how carefully Shakespeare fixes our attention upon 
 her at the very outset of the play, by the conversation of the two 
 courtiers. " You do not meet a man but frowns," says one ; for 
 the king is angry, and from him all the Court takes its tone. 
 To the question, "But what's the matter?" he replies
 
 168 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " His daughter, and the heir of his kingdom, whom 
 He purposed to his wife's sole son (a widow 
 That late he married), hath referr'd herself 
 Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded ; 
 Her husband banish'd ; she imprison'd : all 
 Is outward sorrow ; though I think the king 
 Be touched at very heart. 
 
 2nd Gent. None but the king ? 
 
 1st Gent. He that hath lost her, too : so is the queen, 
 That most desired the match : but not a courtier, 
 Although they wear their faces to the bent 
 Of the king's looks, but hath a heart that is not 
 Glad at the thing they scowl at. 
 
 2nd Gent. And why so ? 
 
 1st Gent. He that hath miss'd the princess is a thing 
 Too bad for bad report ; and he that hath her 
 I mean, that married her, alack, good man ! 
 And therefore banish'd is a creature such 
 As, to seek through the regions of the earth 
 For one his like, there would be something failing 
 In him that should compare. I do not think 
 So fair an outward, and such stuff within, 
 Endows a man but he." 
 
 The speaker has much more to say in praise of Posthumus 
 Leonatus; but the climax of his panegyric is, that the best 
 proof of the worth of Posthumus lies in the fact that such a 
 woman as Imogen has chosen him for her husband : 
 
 For whom he now is banish'd, her own price 
 Proclaims how she esteern'd him and his virtue ; 
 By her election may be truly read 
 What kind of man he is." 
 
 Thus, then, we see that Imogen is fitly mated. There has 
 been that "marriage of true minds" on which Shakespeare 
 lays so much stress in one of his finest sonnets (the 116th). 
 Both are noble creatures, rich in the endowments of body as 
 well as mind, and drawn towards each other as 
 
 " Like to like, but like in difference, 
 Distinct in individualities, 
 But like each other even as those who love." 
 
 What Shakespeare intends us to see in Imogen is made
 
 IMOGEN. 169 
 
 plain by the impression she is described as producing on all 
 who come into contact with her, strangers, as well as those 
 who have seen her grow up at her father's Court. She is of 
 royal nature as well as of royal blood, too noble to know 
 that she is noble. A grand and patient faithfulness is at 
 the root of her character. Yet she can be angry, vehement, 
 passionate, upon occasion. With a being of so fine and sen- 
 sitive an organisation, how could it be otherwise? Her soul's 
 strength and nobleness, speaking through her form and move- 
 ments, impress all alike with an irresistible charm. Her fine 
 taste, her delicate ways, her accomplishments, her sweet sing- 
 ing, are brought before us by countless subtle touches. To 
 her belongs especially the quality of grace, that quality which, 
 in Goethe's words, "macht unwiderstehlich," 1 and which, as 
 Racine says, is even "superior to beauty, or rather is beauty 
 sweetly animated." lachimo, fastidious and cloyed in sensu- 
 ality as he is, no sooner sees her than he is struck with 
 admiring awe : 
 
 "All of her that is out of door most rich ! 
 If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, 
 She is alone the Arabian bird." 
 
 And even Cloten, whose dull brain cannot resist the impression 
 of her queenly grace and beauty, grows eloquent when he speaks 
 of her : 
 
 " She's fair and royal, 
 And hath all courtly parts more exquisite 
 Than lady, ladies, woman ; from every one 
 The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, 
 Outsells them all." 
 
 Like many of Shakespeare's heroines, Imogen has early lost 
 her mother; but she has been most lovingly and royally nur- 
 tured by her father, to whom, no doubt, she was doubly endeared 
 after the loss of his two sons. What she was to him, we see 
 
 1 "Die Schonheit bleibt sich selber selig, 
 Die Anmuth macht unwiderstehlich. " 
 
 Self -blest is beauty, look who list; 
 Grace has a charm none may resist. 
 
 Faust, Part II.
 
 170 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 when his hour of trouble comes, and he is left without her. 
 " Imogen, the great part of my comfort, gone ! " (Act iv. sc. 3.) 
 Her fine intellect and strong affection would then have been the 
 stay to him it had often been in the days before he allowed his 
 love for her to be overclouded by the fascinations of his beautiful 
 and crafty second queen. Yet not even she could keep him from 
 being "touched at very heart," despite his anger at his child for 
 wedding Posthumus. 
 
 With what skill the characters of that queen and of Cym- 
 beline are put before us ! He is full of good impulses, but weak, 
 wayward, passionate, and, as such natures commonly are when 
 thwarted, cruel, and carried away, like Lear, by "impatient 
 womanish violence." Having no insight into character, he has 
 been led by designing flatterers, who played upon his weakness, 
 to suspect "the perfect honour" of his tried friend and officer 
 Belarius, and to banish him from the Court. The loss of his 
 two sons, stolen from him by Belarius in revenge for this wrong, 
 has embittered his life. It probably cost him also that of their 
 mother, whose death left the Princess Imogen, her youngest- 
 born, as his only solace. Out of the nobler impulse of his 
 nature came the care and training which he gave to Posthumus, 
 the orphaned son of his great general, Sicilius Leonatus. And 
 yet after treating him as if he were one of the sons whom he 
 had lost, breeding him along with Imogen as her " playfellow," 
 and knowing, as he could not fail to know, the deep affection 
 that must spring from such an intimacy on discovering the 
 marriage, he sends him from the Court with violence and in 
 disgrace, careless of the misery which, by so doing, he inflicts 
 on his own child. Left to himself, things might have taken a 
 very different course. But he is blinded for the time by the 
 spell which his newly wedded, beautiful, soft- voiced, dissembling 
 queen has cast upon him. At her instigation he resents the 
 marriage with a bitterness the more intense because it is in some 
 measure artificial, and gives vent to his anger against Posthumus 
 in an undignified manner, and in unkingly phrases : 
 
 " Thou basest thing, avoid ! Hence from my sight ! 
 
 . Away ! 
 Thou'rt poison to my blood ! "
 
 IMOGEN. 171 
 
 In the same passionate way he heaps maledictions on his 
 daughter. " O thou vile one ! " 
 
 " Nay, let her languish 
 A drop of blood a day, and, being aged, 
 Die of this folly ! " 
 
 Choleric and irrational as old Capulet himself, Cymbeline is 
 equally regardless of everybody's feelings but his own. Just 
 the man, therefore, to become the plastic tool of a cold, beauti- 
 ful, unscrupulous, ambitious woman like his queen. She, again, 
 has but one soft place in her heart, and that is filled by her 
 handsome peacock -witted son Cloten a lout so vapid and 
 brainless that he cannot " take two from twenty and leave 
 eighteen." For him this fawning, dissembling, crafty woman 
 this secret poisoner, in intention, if not in deed is prepared to 
 dare everything. If she cannot secure Imogen for her son, and 
 so prepare his way to the throne, she is quite ready to "catch 
 the nearest way " by compassing Imogen's death. Cymbeline, 
 infatuated by an old man's love for a handsome woman, is a 
 child in her hands. Imogen's keen intelligence sees through her 
 pretended sympathy, dismissing it with the words 
 
 " Oh dissembling courtesy ! How fine this tyrant 
 Can tickle where she wounds ! " 
 
 knowing well that she will have less cause to dread " the hourly 
 shot of angry eyes" than the silent machinations of this " most 
 delicate fiend." 
 
 The whole tragedy of her position is summed up by Imogen 
 herself early in the play, in the words (Act i. sc. 6) 
 
 "A father cruel and a step-dame false : 
 A foolish suitor to a wedded lady, 
 That hath her husband banish'd : oh, that husband ! 
 My supreme crown of grief ! and those repeated 
 Vexations of it ! " 
 
 Note, too, how it looks to the shrewd Second Lord in attendance 
 upon Cloten (Act ii. sc. 1) : 
 
 "Alas, poor princess, 
 Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st !
 
 172 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd ; 
 
 A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer 
 
 More hateful than the foul expulsion is 
 
 Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act 
 
 Of the divorce he'd make ! The heavens hold firm 
 
 The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshaked 
 
 That temple, thy fair mind ! " 
 
 And all this, while she was still " comforted to live," because in 
 her husband she had the one priceless "jewel in the world that 
 she might see again." Eudely stripped of that comfort, as she 
 soon is, what state so desolate, what trial more cruel than hers ! 
 But I must not anticipate. 
 
 When we see Imogen first, it is at the moment of her parting 
 with Posthumus. Their marriage-hours must have been of the 
 shortest. Even had they tried to conceal their union, which 
 most probably they had not, the watchful queen, with her spies 
 everywhere, would speedily have discovered it. It is she in- 
 deed who has unwittingly brought about that union; for her 
 encouragement of the suit of her son "that harsh, shallow 
 nothing" has made a marriage with Posthumus the only 
 effectual barrier to it, and enabled him to prevail on Imogen 
 to " set up her disobedience 'gainst the king her father." One 
 wrong leads to another. The marriage, when made known, is 
 followed by the instant and contemptuous banishment of Pos- 
 thumus ; and it is in the sharp anguish of his separation from 
 Imogen that we first see them anguish made more poignant by 
 the pretended sympathy of the queen, to whom they owe their 
 misery. Posthumus entreats his wife 
 
 ' ' lady, weep no more, lest I give cause 
 To be suspected of more tenderness 
 Than doth become a man ! I will remain 
 The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth." 
 
 They exchange those parting gifts, one of which is to work so 
 fatally against their happiness; she giving him what, we may 
 be assured, was her most treasured possession, the diamond that 
 had been her mother's with the words, oh, how full of ten- 
 derness ! 
 
 " Take it, heart ; 
 
 But keep it till you woo another wife, 
 
 When Imogen is dead ! "
 
 IMOGEN. 173 
 
 while he clasps a bracelet on her arm, saying 
 
 " For my sake, wear this ; 
 It is a manacle of love : I'll place it 
 Upon this fairest prisoner. 
 
 Imo. the gods ! 
 
 When shall we see again ? " 
 
 All further speech between them is stopped by the entrance of 
 Cymbeline, who thrusts Posthumus from the Court with words 
 so coarsely insulting that, as he goes, Imogen exclaims 
 
 " There cannot be a pinch in death 
 More sharp than this is." 
 
 And now when her father turns his reproaches upon her, we see 
 in her replies the loving, dutiful daughter, the still more loving 
 and devoted wife : 
 
 " I beseech you, sir, 
 
 Harm not yourself with your vexation ; I 
 Am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare 
 Subdues all pangs, all fears. 
 
 Gym. Thou mightst have had the sole son of my queen ! 
 
 Imo. blest, that I might not ! . . . 
 
 Cym. Thou took'st a beggar ; wouldst have made my throne 
 A seat for baseness ! 
 
 Imo. No ; I rather added 
 
 A lustre to it. 
 
 Cym. thou vile one ! 
 
 Imo. Sir, 
 
 It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus : 
 You bred him as my playfellow ; and he is 
 A man worth any woman, overbuys me 
 Almost the sum he pays. 
 
 Cym. What, art thou mad ? 
 
 Imo. Almost, sir : heaven restore me ! Would I were 
 A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus 
 Our neighbour shepherd's son ! " 
 
 A cry, we may well believe, that has often risen in palaces from 
 hearts weary of the irksome restraints, or awed by the great re- 
 sponsibilities, of princely life. 
 
 Her father leaves her, with the order to his queen, "Away 
 with her, and pen her up ! " and Pisanio returns with the tidings
 
 174 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 that Cloten had drawn his sword upon his master Posthumus. 
 Imogen's contempt for Cloten breaks out despite his mother's 
 presence : 
 
 " Your son's my father's friend ; he takes his part. 
 To draw upon an exile ! brave sir ! 
 I would they were in Afric both together ; 
 Myself by with a needle, that I might prick 
 The goer-back." 
 
 Posthumus, assured that in Pisanio Imogen would have at least 
 one loyal friend who might be counted on to stand firmly by her, 
 has sent him back, refusing to allow him to be absent from her 
 even for so brief a time as was necessary to reach the haven. But 
 now Imogen desires him to return to "see her lord aboard." 
 Why she did so, we learn in their dialogue when he returns : 
 
 " Imo. What was the last 
 
 That he spake to thee ? 
 
 Pis. It was, ' His queen ! his queen ! ' 
 
 Imo. Then waved his handkerchief ? 
 
 Pis. And kiss'd it, madam. 
 
 Imo. Senseless linen ! Happier therein than I ! 
 And that was all? 
 
 Pis. No, madam ; for so long 
 
 As he could make me with this eye or ear 
 Distinguish him from others, he did keep 
 The deck, with glove or hat or handkerchief 
 Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind 
 Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, 
 How swift his ship. 
 
 Imo. Thou shouldst have made him 
 
 As little as a crow, or less, ere left 
 To after-eye him. 
 
 Pis. Madam, so I did. 
 
 Imo. I would have broke mine eye-strings, crack'd them, but 
 To look upon him ; till the diminution 
 Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle ; 
 Nay, follow'd him, till he had melted from 
 The smallness of a gnat to air ; and then 
 Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, 
 When shall we hear from him ? 
 
 Pis. Be assured madam, 
 
 With his next vantage. 
 
 Imo. I did not cake my leave of him, but had 
 Most pretty things to say : ere I could tell him
 
 IMOGEN. 175 
 
 How I would think on him, at certain hours, 
 
 Such thoughts and such ; or I could make him swear 
 
 The shes of Italy should not betray 
 
 Mine interest and his honour ; or have charged him 
 
 At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, 
 
 To encounter me with orisons, for then 
 
 I am in heaven for him ; or ere I could 
 
 Give him that parting kiss which I had set 
 
 Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, 
 
 And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north, 
 
 Shakes all our buds from growing. " 
 
 Imogen can pour out her heart in these exquisite bursts of 
 tenderness before Pisanio without reserve, because she is assured 
 of his sympathy, and of his devotion to her lord as well as to 
 herself. I have always fancied that Pisanio had formerly been 
 a follower of Posthumus's father, Sicilius Leonatus, and had been 
 assigned, therefore, by Cymbeline to his son as his special servant 
 when he first took the orphaned boy under his care, and made 
 him the playfellow of Imogen. He had seen Posthumus grow up 
 with all the winning graces of a fine person, and a simple, truth- 
 ful, manly nature, so void of guile himself as to be unsuspicious 
 of it in others ; while Imogen had developed into the beautiful, 
 accomplished, high-souled woman, for whom mere "princely 
 suitors " and, we are told, she had many had no attraction, 
 companioned as she had been from childhood to womanhood by 
 one whose high and winning qualities she knew so well. Pisanio 
 had seen them grow dearer and dearer to each other, and never 
 doubted that Cymbeline looked with favour on their growing 
 affection until the evil hour when he re-married, and was per- 
 suaded by his queen to favour Cloten's suit. The character of 
 that coarse, arrogant, cowardly braggadocio must have made his 
 pretensions to the hand of Imogen odious to the whole Court that 
 loved and honoured her, but especially to Pisanio ; and we may 
 be sure he was taken into counsel, when a marriage was resolved 
 upon as the only way to make the union with Cloten impossible. 
 Thus he has drawn upon himself the suspicion and hatred of the 
 queen and her handsome, well-proportioned, brainless son. I say 
 well-proportioned ; for how otherwise could Imogen have after- 
 wards mistaken his headless body, as she does (Act iv. sc. 2), for 
 that of Posthumus ?
 
 176 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 These opening scenes, in which Imogen appears, are a proof, 
 among many others, how much Shakespeare expected from the 
 personators of his heroines. In them the actress must contrive 
 to produce the impression of a character of which all that is 
 afterwards seen of Imogen is the natural development. In look, 
 in bearing, in tone and accent, we must see the princess, strong 
 in the possession of fine and cultivated intelligence, and equal, 
 through all her womanly tenderness and by very reason of that 
 tenderness, to any strain which may be put upon her fortitude 
 and endurance, one who, while she draws on all insensibly to 
 love her by her mere presence, at the same time inspires them 
 with a reverent devotion. Ah ! how little can those who, in 
 mere ignorance, speak slightingly of the actor's art, know of the 
 mental and moral training which is needed to take home into the 
 being, and then to express in action, however faintly, what must 
 have been in the poet's mind, as his vision of Imogen found ex- 
 pression in the language he has put into her mouth ! 
 
 And now we must leave Imogen, and follow Posthumus to 
 Eome, where he is expected at a banquet at his friend Philario's 
 house. Before he enters (Act i. sc. 5) we see that, except by 
 his host, his presence is not desired. His reputation as no or- 
 dinary man has run before him ; and the French and Koman 
 guests already carp at and depreciate him. When he enters, 
 his self-possession and dignified courtesy show in marked con- 
 trast to the disposition seen in the others to irritate and offend 
 him. lachimo has an old grudge against him. He had seen 
 him before in Britain, and the antagonism between his own 
 corrupt and selfish nature and the noble qualities of Posthumus 
 had bred mutual dislike. The Italian's flippancy and loose vein 
 of expression are rebuked by the calm reticence of the Briton. 
 This reserve is made greater by the deep sorrow that is tugging 
 at his heart. By what now seems to him his selfishness in 
 pressing Imogen to a private marriage, he has brought not only 
 disgrace and contumely upon himself, but suffering and sorrow 
 upon her whom his love would yearn to shelter from any touch 
 of pain. Eemorse, love, and pride are thus at war within him. 
 Angry with himself, he is impatient of annoyance or opposition.
 
 IMOGEN. 177 
 
 In this mood, on reaching his friend's house, he encounters in 
 lachimo a man who would have been distasteful to him under 
 any circumstances. Nothing could be more unlucky. In his 
 present state of mind he is fit company for no stranger, least 
 of all for this mocking supercilious Italian, with his ostentatious 
 disbelief in woman's worth, his arrogant, sarcastic nature, in- 
 dolent yet cunning, and only moved to action by the desire to 
 gratify his vanity or his senses. lachimo's very manner, with its 
 assured complacency, irritates and frets the heart-stricken Briton. 
 Had he not been at war with himself, I believe he would not 
 have allowed a conversation to be carried on in his presence, in 
 which his mistress's name should even be mentioned. But, 
 smarting as he is under Cymbeline's insulting language, with the 
 echo of it still ringing in his ears, he is unable to retain his usual 
 reticence and self-command. He is moved in time to give taunt 
 for taunt, boast for boast ; and when this insolent unmannerly 
 stranger dares to bring the constancy and honour of his mistress 
 into question, he is provoked into accepting the challenge which 
 lachimo proposes as a test of her virtue, without thinking for the 
 moment of the insult to his wife implied by the mere introduction 
 of such a man into her presence. 
 
 We now go back to Imogen. "Weeks have obviously gone 
 by ; but we hear that " she weeps still." The persecution of a 
 " father cruel, and a step-dame false," and the importunities of 
 "a foolish suitor," serve but to make her cling closer to the 
 thought of her dear lord and husband. 
 
 " Oh, that husband ! 
 My supreme crown of grief ! 
 Had I been thief-stolen, 
 
 As my two brothers, happy ! but most miserable 
 Is the desire that's glorious." 
 
 She is in this mood when Pisanio introduces "a noble gentle- 
 man of Borne," who brings letters from her lord. The mere 
 mention of them sends all the colour from her face. lachimo 
 noticing this, reassures her : 
 
 " Change you, madam ? 
 The worthy Leonatus is in safety, 
 And greets your highness dearly." 
 M
 
 178 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Now returns the delicate rose to her cheek, the warmth to her 
 heart, and she can say with all her accustomed grace, " Thanks, 
 good sir. You are kindly welcome." This is her first letter from 
 her wedded lord ; and while she is drinking in its words of love, 
 lachimo is watching her with all his eyes. The happiness in 
 hers, lately so full of tears, adds to her fascination, and her whole 
 demeanour expresses, silently but eloquently, the purity and 
 beauty of her soul. lachimo, unbeliever as he is in woman's 
 worth, is too shrewd not to see that the charm of her face and 
 person " all of her that is out of door most rich ! " would not 
 be so exquisite but for the dignity and elevation of her mind. 
 His wager, he feels instinctively, is as good as lost ; but the stake 
 is too serious not to be played for, at all risks. 
 
 "Boldness, audacity," must arm him "from head to foot," 
 aided by all the craft and subtlety of a spirit long versed in guile. 
 No matter at what sacrifice of truth, or at what cost of misery to 
 his victims, the wager must be won. He already feels it will not 
 be gained by triumph over Imogen's virtue ; but means must be 
 found to wreak his hate upon the haughty, self-reliant Briton, and 
 to bring down his pride, by convincing him of her disloyalty. 
 
 He begins his advances in the way common to common minds, 
 by daring to praise and seeming to be lost in admiration of Imo- 
 gen's beauty. But here he is entirely thwarted, for she fails to 
 see his meaning, and asks, in all simplicity, " What, dear sir, thus 
 wraps you ? Are you well ? " Having the sense at once to see 
 that he is upon a wrong tack, he starts upon another, in hopes of 
 better success. In reply to her anxious inquiry after the health 
 of her lord, he assures her that he is not only well, but 
 
 " Exceeding pleasant ; none a stranger there 
 So merry and so gamesome : he is call'd 
 The Briton reveller." 
 
 A report so little in consonance with all she has known of Pos- 
 thumus at once arrests Imogen's attention. lachimo, thinking he 
 has gained a point and that he may pique her pride, proceeds to 
 illustrate the small respect in which her husband holds her sex, by 
 telling her of a " Frenchman, his companion," over whose sighs 
 for " a Gallian girl at home " Posthumus makes merry :
 
 IMOGEN. 179 
 
 "The jolly Briton 
 
 (Your lord, I mean) laughs from's free lungs, cries ' Oh ! 
 Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows 
 By history, report, or his own proof, 
 What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose 
 But must be, will his free hours languish for 
 Assured bondage ? ' " 
 
 Imogen, amazed, can only say, " Will my lord say so ? " But 
 this levity on the part of her lord must be pushed home to 
 herself. Accordingly, lachimo goes on to express wonder and 
 
 pity : 
 
 " Imo. What do you pity, sir ? 
 
 lack. Two creatures, heartily. 
 
 Imo. Am I one, sir ? 
 
 You look on me : what wreck discern you in me 
 Deserves your pity ? " 
 
 He still speaks so enigmatically, that she conjures him to say 
 plainly what he means : 
 
 " You do seem to know 
 
 Something of me, or what concerns me. Pray you 
 (Since doubting things go ill often hurts more 
 Than to be sure they do), . . . discover to me 
 What both you spur and stop." 
 
 Upon this, he speaks so plainly and with such indignation of her 
 lord's disloyalty, that for a moment a cloud rests upon her mind. 
 With a sad dignity she says 
 
 " Imo. My lord, I fear, 
 
 Has forgot Britain. 
 
 loch. And himself. Not I, 
 
 Inclined to this intelligence, pronounce 
 The beggary of his change ; but 'tis your graces 
 That from my mutest conscience to my tongue 
 Charms this report out." 
 
 He is now striking into a vein which reveals a something in the 
 speaker from which, as a pure woman, she instinctively recoils, 
 and she exclaims, " Let me hear no more ! " lachimo, mistaking 
 for wounded pride the shock to her love, and to all the cherished 
 convictions of the worth of Posthumus on which it rests, urges 
 her to be revenged upon him. How beautiful is her reply ! For
 
 180 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS 
 
 a wrong like this there is no remedy, no revenge. It is too mon- 
 strous even for belief : 
 
 " Revenged ! 
 
 How should I be revenged ? If this be true 
 As I have such a heart, that both mine ears 
 Must not in haste abuse if it be true, 
 How shall I be revenged ? " 
 
 Imogen, who has throughout felt an instinctive dislike to the 
 free-spoken Eoman, this bringer of ill tidings, when he now 
 dares to tender love and devotion to herself, on the instant reads 
 him through and through. She calls at once for Pisanio to eject 
 him from her presence, but the wily Italian has taken care not to 
 have her loyal retainer within hearing. Quite early in the scene 
 he has sent him out of the way by the words 
 
 " Beseech you, sir, desire 
 My man's abode where I did leave him : he 
 Is strange and peevish." 
 
 Pisanio does not, therefore, answer to his mistress's call, and 
 lachimo continues his advances. Her instinct, then, was right. 
 The cloud vanishes which for a moment has rested upon her 
 mind ; and instead of the doubting perplexed woman, wounded 
 in her most sacred belief, we see the indignant princess sweeping 
 from her presence in measureless scorn the man whose every word 
 she feels to be an insult : 
 
 " Away ! I do condemn mine ears that have 
 So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, 
 Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not 
 For such an end thou seek'st ; as base as strange. 
 Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far 
 From thy report as thou from honour ; and 
 Solicit'st here a lady, that disdains 
 Thee and the devil alike. What ho ! Pisanio ! " 
 
 At this point the address of the wily, subtle Italian comes to his 
 rescue. The vulnerable point in Imogen, he sees, is her devotion 
 to her lord, and lachimo immediately breaks out into his praises, 
 and excuses all which he has before said by the plea that his ob- 
 ject was to prove if Imogen was indeed worthy of " the worthiest 
 sir that ever country called his " :
 
 IMOGEN. 1 8 1 
 
 " Give me your pardon. 
 I have spoke this, to know if your affiance 
 Were deeply rooted ; and shall make your lord 
 That which he is new o'er. And he is one, 
 The truest manner' d ; such a holy witch, 
 That he enchants societies unto him : 
 Half all men's hearts are his." 
 
 Forgetting her own wrong in the delight of hearing this tribute 
 paid to the worth of that dear lord whose name has of late heen 
 only coupled in her hearing with insulting and contumelious 
 epithets, Imogen murmurs half aloud, "You make amends." 
 lachimo, seeing his advantage, pursues it : 
 
 " He sits 'mongst men like a descended god : 
 He hath a kind of honour sets him off, 
 More than a mortal seeming. . . . 
 
 The love I bear him 
 
 Made me to fan you thus ; but the gods made you, 
 Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon ! " 
 
 This praise of Posthumus, now so rare at Cymbeline's Court, to- 
 gether with lachimo's vehement protestations of regard for him, 
 completely deceives Imogen, and she replies, "All's well, sir. 
 Take my power in the Court for yours." His " humble thanks " 
 are tendered, and his audience ended. As he retires, however, 
 he turns back, and in the most seemingly simple manner asks for 
 the aid she has proffered, to help him in the safe keeping of the 
 costly plate and jewels which he had purchased in France, as a 
 present to the Emperor from " some dozen Romans of us and your 
 lord, the best feather of our wing." It is enough for her that 
 Posthumus has an interest in their " safe stowage " : 
 
 " Since 
 
 My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them 
 In my bed-chamber." 
 
 How lachimo's heart must have bounded at these words ! Things 
 fashion themselves for him to a wish, and make easy the way, 
 which before had seemed beset with insurmountable difficulties. 
 The generous forgiveness of the princess, and her pleasure in 
 showing courtesy to him who had professed so much regard for
 
 182 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 her lord, thus become the ministers to his vile purpose and her 
 own wretchedness. 
 
 We next see Imogen in her bed, reading. How rich were the 
 appointments of her chamber, we gather afterwards from lachimo's 
 description (Act ii. sc. 4). It was hung 
 
 " With tapestry of silk and silver ; the story, 
 Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman. . . . 
 
 A piece of work 
 
 So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive 
 In workmanship and value. . . . 
 
 The chimney-piece 
 
 Chaste Dian bathing : never saw I figures 
 So likely to report themselves. . . . 
 
 The roof o' the chamber 
 With golden cherubims is fretted." 
 
 And from such luxury, such surroundings, which have been with 
 her all her life, the treachery of this ignoble, crafty, selfish villain, 
 lying on the watch there in his trunk, was shortly to cast her 
 forth into an unknown world, in misery, in pain and weariness of 
 body, with only the ground for her bed ! 
 
 Imogen has been reading for three hours a weary time for 
 the hidden " Italian fiend " ! On hearing it is midnight, she 
 dismisses her woman Helen, telling her to " fold down the leaf 
 where she had left." This, we hear from lachimo afterwards, 
 was the tale of Tereus, "where Philomel gave up," that is, we 
 may suppose, at the point where Philomela and her sister Procne 
 were (in answer to their prayer to escape Tereus, their infuriated 
 pursuer) transformed, the one into a nightingale, the other into a 
 swallow. She adds 
 
 " Take not away the taper, leave it burning ; 
 And if thou canst awake by four o' the clock, 
 I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly." 
 
 She kisses fondly the bracelet on her arm, the parting gift of 
 Leonatus, and with a brief prayer to the gods for protection 
 "from fairies and the tempters of the night," drops into that 
 deep sleep which enables lachimo to accomplish his purpose un- 
 heard, unseen. Libertine and sceptic as he is, he is awed by the 
 exquisite beauty and chastity of the sleeper :
 
 IMOGEN. 183 
 
 " Cytherea, 
 
 How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! Fresh lily ! 
 And whiter than the sheets ! That I might touch ! 
 But kiss ; one kiss ! Rubies unparagon'd, 
 How dearly they do't ! Tis her breathing that 
 Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the taper 
 Bows towards her, and would under-peep her lids, 
 To see the enclosed lights, now canopied 
 Under these windows, white and azure, laced 
 With blue of heaven's own tinct." 
 
 What a picture is here ! Drawn by a master-hand ; for lachimo 
 has all the subtle perception of the refined sensualist. " That I 
 might touch ! " But even he, struck into reverence, dares not. 
 " A thousand liveried angels wait on her," so that his approach 
 is barred. With all despatch he notes the features and furniture 
 of the room. "Sleep, the ape of death, lies dull upon her," 
 and this emboldens him to steal the bracelet from her arm. 
 While he is triumphing in the thought how this may be used 
 to work " the madding of her lord," his eye is caught by a mark 
 he has espied upon her bosom, which "rivets, screws itself to his 
 memory," as a conclusive voucher with Posthumus that he has 
 " ta'en the treasure of her honour " : 
 
 " On her left breast 
 
 A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops 
 I' the bottom of a cowslip. ' ' 
 
 What need of further token ! Those of which he is now pos- 
 sessed, he is satisfied, will be ample to carry conviction to a man 
 of pure heart like Posthumus, who could not conceive of base- 
 ness so vile as that by which lachimo has come to know of that 
 sweet secret mark. Now, therefore, he may return to the chest, 
 and shut the lid, invoking, as he does so, "the dragons of the 
 night," to fly swiftly, that "dawning may bare the raven's eye." 
 His men doubtless have their orders to carry away the supposed 
 treasure-chest by daybreak. Well may he dread the time till 
 then : 
 
 "I lodge in fear; 
 Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here." 
 
 And this same hell he is to carry about with him, as we shall see,
 
 184 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 for ever after; a hell of remorse which robs him of his valour 
 and his peace. 
 
 In the morning we find musicians, hired by Cloten, singing 
 under Imogen's chamber -window that brightest, daintiest of 
 aubades, " Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings ! " as if 
 Shakespeare could not choose but pour out his own heart in 
 homage to the " divine Imogen " he had created. Forced to ap- 
 pear in answer to Cloten's importunities, she tells him frankly, 
 " You lay out too much pains for purchasing but trouble." The 
 silly underbred fellow will not take her denial, and by his rude- 
 ness forces her for a moment to meet him with his own weapons. 
 But it is only for a moment ; and then she offers him this pretty 
 and most characteristic apology, even while she makes clearer 
 than ever the hoplessness of his suit : 
 
 " I am much sorry, sir, 
 You put me to forget a lady's manners, 
 By being so verbal : and learn now, for all, 
 That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, 
 By the very truth of it, I care not for you ; 
 And am so near the lack of charity, 
 (To accuse myself) I hate you ; which I had rather 
 You felt, than mak't my boast." 
 
 Exasperated by this avowal, Cloten replies by attacking "that 
 base wretch " Posthumus : 
 
 " One bred of alms, and foster'd with cold dishes, 
 With scraps o' the Court ; " 
 
 and asserts that her contract with him is no contract at all, and 
 that she, being curbed in her actions by " the consequence o' the 
 crown," must not soil 
 
 " The precious note of it with a base slave, 
 A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, 
 A pantler, not so eminent. " 
 
 On this Imogen's patience leaves her, and she turns upon him 
 with the same eloquence of scorn with which we have before 
 seen her silence lachimo, but with even greater contempt : 
 
 " Profane fellow ! 
 Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
 
 IMOGEN. 185 
 
 But what thou art besides, thou wert too base 
 To be his groom. 
 
 Clo. The south-fog rot him ! 
 
 Imo. He never can meet more mischance, than come 
 To be but named of thee ! His meanest garment, 
 That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer 
 In my respect than all the hairs above thee, 
 Were they all made such men." 
 
 Even as she speaks, she misses from her arm the bracelet which 
 had never quitted it since Posthumus placed it there, and hastily 
 summons Pisanio, whom she bids tell her women to search for 
 it. Vexation upon vexation : 
 
 " I am spirited with a fool, 
 Frighted, and anger'd worse." 
 
 As is so common when we first miss anything, she thinks she 
 
 saw it lately : 
 
 " I do think 
 
 I saw't this morning : confident I am 
 Last night 'twas on mine arm ; I kissed it, " 
 
 adding, with a sweet womanish touch 
 
 ' ' I hope it be not gone to tell my lord 
 That I kiss aught but he." 
 
 "Aught," you see, not " any one." Alas! it lias gone to him, 
 and on a deadlier errand. " Frighted " as Imogen now is, she is 
 in no humour to be longer " spirited by a fool." Cloten's threat 
 of appealing to her father is treated with contempt, and she 
 leaves him " to the worst of discontent," and to fierce threats of 
 vengeance, in the midst of which her preference for her husband's 
 " meanest garment " is always uppermost in his foolish brain. 
 
 In the next scene we are again in Philario's house in Eome, to 
 which lachimo has returned with all possible speed. I need not 
 dwell upon the skill with which lachimo develops his proofs 
 against the virtue of Imogen, bringing them forward one by one, 
 as if they were drawn from him reluctantly, and mingled with 
 such suggestions as, in the mouth of a known voluptuary like 
 himself, could not fail to lend confirmation to his story. Pos- 
 thumus is no easy dupe. His faith in Imogen is too deeply
 
 186 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 rooted. He fights against conviction to the last, and only yields 
 when lachimo crowns his story by speaking of the mole under 
 Imogen's breast, "right proud of that most delicate lodging." 
 Nor is he alone in his conviction ; for his friend Philario, who 
 knows lachimo well enough to be sure that he would be in no 
 way scrupulous about truth in a matter of this kind, is himself 
 compelled to come to the same conclusion, and to avow it by 
 saying to lachimo, " You have won." It is impossible, indeed, 
 not to admire the exquisite art with which this super-subtle 
 Italian arrays what he afterwards (Act v. sc. 5) calls "simular 
 proof enough to make the noble Leonatus mad," and, in doing so, 
 fulfils the dramatist's purpose of keeping alive our respect for 
 the wretched husband, whose whole life is laid waste by the 
 ruin of his belief in one who had been the incarnation for him 
 of all that was beautiful, and pure, and holy upon earth. Were 
 it otherwise, we could not forgive the cruel device by which he, 
 who had been her " true knight," all " of her honour confident," 
 sought to avenge his imagined wrong, by commanding Pisanio to 
 lure her from the Court, on the pretext of bringing her to her 
 husband, and then to take away her life. 
 
 "What a contrast to the scene in which Posthumus gives vent 
 to his anguish and despair (Act ii. sc. 5) is that in which we 
 next see Imogen (Act iii. sc. 2) ! It is the one occasion in the 
 whole play in which she can smile and is happy. That her 
 natural temperament is cheerful, we see by the readiness with 
 which she seizes this first opportunity to rejoice a letter from 
 her lord, and when least expected : 
 
 " Pis. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. 
 Imo. Who ? thy lord ? that is my lord, Leonatus ! " 
 
 How Pisanio must have shuddered inwardly as he gave it to her, 
 knowing for what it was devised, and seeing the ecstasy with 
 which it is welcomed ! How pretty is the way in which she, as 
 it were, talks to the letter before she opens it : 
 
 " Oh, learn'd indeed were that astronomer 
 That knew the stars as I his characters ; 
 He'd lay the future open."
 
 IMOGEN. 187 
 
 Then the little prayer, like some devout Greek, to the "good 
 gods " to 
 
 " Let what is here contain'd relish of love, 
 Of my lord's health, of his content yet not, 
 That we two are asunder, let that grieve him." 
 
 In her overflowing happiness, as she breaks the wax of the seals, 
 she blesses the very bees "that make these locks of counsel." 
 And then her transport when she finds from the letter that 
 Posthumus is again in Britain, and that he invites her to meet 
 him ! " Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven. 
 What your own love will out of this advise you, follow." 
 Strange that, being convinced as he is of her disloyalty, Pos- 
 thumus should be so assured that she would fly at once to meet 
 him ! She had, he believed, given his bracelet to another, " and 
 said she prized it once." Why, then, should she encounter the 
 fatigue and the peril of escape from the Court to come to him ? 
 I can only suppose that, being utterly distracted for the time, he 
 had lost the power of reasoning ; and, mixing up the memory of 
 her former love with the story of her late disloyalty, he had 
 trusted to the old love to work upon her heart. As to what it 
 does advise, there is no question. Her first words are " for a 
 horse with wings ! " Then she plies Pisanio rapidly with ques- 
 tions as to how far it is to Milford-Haven. She, who has never 
 been outside the precincts of the Court except on rare occasions, 
 and then with all its stately retinue, cannot plod along like 
 ordinary mortals, who would take a week to do it, but she must 
 "glide thither in a day." Finding that Pisanio does not second 
 her so eagerly as she expects, she, as it were, reminds him of his 
 affection for his master : 
 
 "Then, true Pisanio, 
 
 Who long'st, like me, to see thy lord ; who long'st, 
 Oh, let me bate, but not like me yet long'st, 
 But in a fainter kind : oh, not like me ; 
 For mine's beyond beyond." 
 
 How charming is all this ! How touching, too, when we know 
 what has passed, and what is to come ! There is a warmth and 
 tenderness in the whole of this scene that are all but unequalled.
 
 188 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 The joy in Imogen's heart overflows upon her tongue. She can- 
 not cease her questions. Everything, every place is " blessed " 
 which brings her nearer to her lord. 
 
 " How far is it 
 
 To this same blessed Milford ? And, by the way, 
 Tell me how Wales was made so happy as 
 To inherit such a haven ? " 
 
 a haven which to her seems Elysium, for Posthumus is there. 
 Like a happy child, she goes running all round the subject ; and 
 then comes the thought, " How may we steal from hence ? " 
 how excuse their absence when they return, which she apparently 
 thinks will be soon ? 
 
 " But first, how get hence ? 
 Why should excuse be born or e'er begot ? 
 We'll talk of that hereafter." 
 
 Her heart and thoughts are so full, that she does not notice 
 Pisanio's hesitation when she bids him forthwith provide a rid- 
 ing-suit for her, " no costlier than would fit a franklin's house- 
 wife." And when he still prays her to consider, all further 
 question is stopped by her kindly but decisive answer 
 
 ' ' I see before me, man : nor here, nor here, 
 Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them, 
 That I cannot look through." 
 
 Oh, how I enjoyed acting this scene ! All had been so sad 
 before. What a burst of happiness, what play of loving fancy, 
 had scope here ! It was like a bit of Rosalind in the forest. 
 The sense of liberty, of breathing in the free air, and for a while 
 escaping from the trammels of the Court and her persecutors 
 there, gave light to the eyes and buoyancy to the step. Imogen 
 is already in imagination at that height of happiness, at that " be- 
 yond beyond," which brings her into the presence of her banished 
 lord. She can only " see before her " ; she can look neither right 
 nor left, nor to aught that may come after. These things have 
 " a fog in them she cannot look through." " Away ! " she says, 
 " I prithee " ; and stops Pisanio's further remonstrance with
 
 IMOGEN. 189 
 
 " Do as I bid thee ! there's no more to say ; 
 Accessible is none but Milford way." 
 
 "We can imagine with what delighted haste Imogen dons the 
 riding-suit of the franklin's housewife ! Pisanio is barely allowed 
 time to procure horses. Her women hurry on the preparations 
 for, as we have heard, they are " all sworn and honourable " ; and 
 thus rejoicingly she starts on her sad, ill-omened journey. Pisanio 
 has little to say during the last scene ; but what may not the 
 actor express by tone, and look, and manner? We know his 
 grief for her, his bitter disappointment in her husband : 
 
 " master ! what a strange infection 
 Is fall'n into thy ear ! What false Italian 
 (As poisonous-tongued as handed) hath prevailed 
 On thy too ready hearing ? Disloyal ? No ; 
 She's punish'd for her truth. ... my master, 
 Thy mind to her is now as low as were 
 Thy fortunes ! " 
 
 These thoughts are in his mind, and give the tone to his whole 
 bearing. Had Imogen been less wrapped up in her own happi- 
 ness, she must have noticed and questioned him about his strange 
 unwillingness to obey his master's orders wondered, too, at his 
 showing no gladness at the thought of seeing him whom she 
 believed that he, "next to herself," most longed to see again. 
 But her eyes are full of that " fog " which obscures everything 
 from view but the one bright spot that blessed Milford where 
 her heart is. 
 
 And now we have to think of Imogen as having escaped from 
 her courtly prison-house. By her side rides " the true Pisanio," 
 her one friend, and he is conveying her to her husband. What 
 happy anticipations fill her heart ! Now she will be able to tell 
 him all the " most pretty things " she had to say at their sad 
 parting, when they were cut short by the entrance of her father, 
 who, 
 
 " Like the tyrannous breathing of the north, 
 Shook all their buds from blowing." 
 
 Absorbed in her own sweet dreams, she does not notice the con- 
 tinued silence of her companion, until, having reached some deep 
 mountain solitude, he tells her the place of meeting is near at
 
 190 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 hand, and they dismount. It is at this moment that they come 
 before us. Imogen, very weary with the unusual fatigue, looks 
 anxiously round for the approach of Posthumus. For the first 
 time she observes the strangeness of Pisanio's manner. "What 
 is in thy mind," she exclaims in alarm, 
 
 " That makes thee stare thus ? Wherefore breaks that sigh 
 From the inward of thee ? One, but painted thus, 
 Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd 
 Beyond self -explication. . . . What's the matter ? " 
 
 Pisanio, who can find no words to explain his mission, the pur- 
 port of which can neither be slurred over nor lightened by any 
 ray of comfort, simply offers her Posthumus's letter to himself. 
 " Why," she exclaims, " tender'st thou that paper to me ? " She 
 sees the superscription is in her husband's hand. How the stories 
 of Italian poisoning must have penetrated the English mind in 
 Shakespeare's time ! At once the thought of danger from this 
 cause occurs to her : 
 
 " That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-crafted him, 
 And he's at some hard point. Speak, man ; thy tongue 
 May take off some extremity, which to read 
 Would be even mortal to me." 
 
 At last he does speak, but so mysteriously that she has to turn to 
 the letter itself without any abatement of her terror. 
 
 My pen stops here. I know not how to write. Such a charge 
 as that letter contains, to meet the eyes of such a creature ! She 
 has begun to read, full of apprehension for her husband's safety, 
 and from his hand she now receives her deathblow. As the last 
 word drops from her lips, her head bows in silence over the 
 writing, and her body sinks as if some mighty rock had crushed 
 her with its weight. These few words have sufficed to blight, 
 to blacken, and to wither her whole life. The wonder is that 
 she ever rises. I used to feel tied to the earth. " What need," 
 says Pisanio, " to draw my sword 1 The paper hath cut her throat 
 already. . . . What cheer, madam ? " What indeed ! In a 
 dull kind of way, she, after a while, repeats the words in the 
 letter : " False to his bed ! What is it to be false ? " Then, re-
 
 IMOGEN. 191 
 
 membering how so many weary nights have been passed by her 
 in that bed, she asks 
 
 " To lie in watch there, and to think on him ? 
 To weep 'twixt clock and clock ? If sleep charge nature, 
 To break it with a fearful dream of him, 
 And cry myself awake ? That's false to his bed, 
 Is it?" 
 
 Her honour wedded to his honour, both must be wrecked to- 
 gether ! That he should entertain one instant's suspicion of her 
 takes the life out of her heart. No sin could be more utterly 
 abhorrent to her nature than that of which she is accused ; and 
 this no one should know so well as her accuser, the companion of 
 her life, the husband from whom no secret, not one of her most 
 sacred feelings, has been withheld. It is because she feels this, 
 that she can find no other solution to the mystery than that the 
 " shes of Italy " have "betrayed mine interest and his honour." 
 Then flashes upon her like a flood of light lachimo's account 
 of how the "jolly Briton" passed his time, of his opinion of 
 woman, of " what she cannot choose but must be," and of his con- 
 tempt for any man who will his " free hours languish for assured 
 bondage," and, worse still, how he could "slaver with lips as 
 common as the stairs that mount the Capitol ; join gripes with 
 hands made hard with hourly falsehood ; be " partnered with 
 tomboys," &c. All this comes back sharply on the memory of 
 this poor bewildered creature, who holds no other clue to the 
 motive, can imagine no other reason why the hand she loved 
 should desire to murder her. In her agony she remembers that 
 lachimo, when accusing Posthumus of inconstancy, "looked like 
 a villain " ; but, now that his words have seemingly come true, 
 she exclaims, " Now, methinks thy favour's good enough." No 
 suspicion crosses her mind that this same villain is in any way 
 connected with her present suffering. The sleep which " seized 
 her wholly," and made her the victim of his treachery, was too 
 deep for that ; neither could the loss of her bracelet be at all con- 
 nected in her mind with him. Oh, the exquisite cruelty of it all ! 
 under false pretences to get her from the Court, plant her in a 
 lonely desert, and there to take her life ! The charge against
 
 192 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 herself of being false appears to her but as a weak excuse for his 
 own frailty. He is weary of her desires to be free. 
 
 " Poor I am stale a garment out of fashion ; 
 And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, 
 I must be ripp'd : to pieces with me ! l Oh, 
 Men's vows are women's traitors ! " 
 
 "When she parted from Posthumus, we heard her say she was 
 " not comforted to live, but that there is this jewel in the world 
 that I may see again." And now, what has that jewel proved? 
 What, then, is life to her now 1 What left her but to show in 
 death her devotion to her lord? Were ever words so full of 
 anguish, of tender, passionate yearning, as hers? 
 
 " Come, fellow, be thou honest ; 
 
 Do thou thy master's bidding : when thou see'st him, 
 A little witness my obedience. Look ! 
 I draw the sword myself : take it, and hit 
 The innocent mansion of my love, my heart : 
 Fear not ; 'tis empty of all things but grief : 
 Thy master is not there, who was, indeed, 
 The riches of it. Do his bidding ; strike ! " 
 
 She sees nothing before her but to die ; and when Pisanio re- 
 fuses to " damn his hand " with the bloody task, she is only re- 
 strained from killing herself with his sword by the thought of 
 the " divine prohibition " against self-slaughter. This " cravens 
 her weak hand " ; but, renewing her entreaty to Pisanio, she 
 tears open her dress, that so a readier access may be given' to her 
 bosom. Then comes that touch so characteristic of the sovereign 
 dramatist : 
 
 " Come, here's my heart ! 
 
 Something's afore't ! Soft, soft ; we'll no defence ! 
 
 What is here ? 
 
 The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus, 
 
 All turn'd to heresy ? Away, away, 
 
 Corrupters of my faith ! You shall no more 
 
 Be stomachers to my heart ! " 
 
 1 How womanly are Imogen's similes ! She would have watched Posthu- 
 mus, as he sailed away, " till the diminution of space had pointed him sharp 
 as my needle " ; and here, " I must be ripp'd ; to pieces with me ! " How 
 Shakespeare thought woman's thoughts, with no woman then to embody 
 them !
 
 IMOGEN. 193 
 
 But even in the climax of her desolation and despair the thought 
 occurs to her of that inevitable day of remorse, when Posthumus 
 will feel that her contempt, for his sake, of the " suits of princely 
 fellows" was not an "act of common passage, but a strain of 
 rareness"; and uppermost in her heart is her grief 
 
 " To think, when thou shalt be disedged by her 
 That now thou tir'st on, how thy memory 
 Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee, dispatch ! 
 The lamb entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife ? 
 Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, 
 When I desire it too. 
 
 Pis. O gracious lady, 
 
 Since I received command to do this business, 
 I have not slept one wink. 
 
 Imo. Do't, and to bed then ! 
 
 Pis. I'll wake mine eyeballs blind first. 
 
 Imo. Wherefore, then, 
 
 Did'st undertake it ? ... 
 
 Why hast thou gone so far, 
 
 To be unbent, when thou hast ta'en thy stand, 
 The elected deer before thee ? 
 
 Pis. But to win time 
 
 To lose so bad employment." 
 
 Praying her patience, Pisanio then tries to make her think, as he 
 himself has believed from the first, that it cannot be " but that 
 his master is abused." 
 
 " Some villain, ay, and singular in his art, 
 Hath done you both this cursed injury." 
 
 Imogen, who can divine no motive but the one, will not entertain 
 this idea. But Pisanio persists in his belief ; and tells her he will 
 send notice to Posthumus of her death, along with some bloody 
 sign of it, obviously with the conviction that this will lead to 
 some explanation of the delusion under which his master is la- 
 bouring. Will she meanwhile go back to the Court? Swift is 
 her answer. " No Court, no father ! " What ! face again " the 
 father cruel, and the step-dame false," and the persistent wooing 
 of the "profane fellow" her son? Pisanio has anticipated this 
 answer ; and finding his mistress ready even to seek a refuge 
 abroad if necessary " Hath Britain all the sun that shines ? " 
 N
 
 194 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 he suggests that a way may be found by which she may haply 
 come near 
 
 " The residence of Posthumus ; so nigh, at least, 
 That though his actions were not visible, yet 
 Report should render him hourly to your ear, 
 As truly as he moves." 
 
 The right chord has been touched by the hand of this most sym- 
 pathetic and loyal of retainers. Posthumus may be seen, some 
 clue at least be found to what is now all mystery and anguish. 
 " Oh for such means ! " Imogen exclaims, 
 
 " Though peril to my modesty, not death on't, 
 I would adventure ! " 
 
 As a woman, Pisanio knows it would be impossible for her 
 to make her way alone to the camp of the Eoman general, Caius 
 Lucius, where tidings of Posthumus were most likely to reach 
 her. Accordingly, he tells her she must don a page's dress, 
 "forget to be a woman," be "ready in gibes, quick-answered, 
 saucy, and quarrelous as the weasel." How little of all this 
 is Imogen in her male attire we shall presently see. But the 
 object before her makes all hesitation vanish : 
 
 " I see into thy end, and am almost 
 A man already," 
 
 she exclaims, and hails with readiness Pisanio's announcement, 
 that he has by anticipation provided for her " doublet, hat, hose, 
 all that answer to them," with which she may present herself 
 before the noble Lucius. Pisanio adds 
 
 " Desire his service, tell him 
 
 Wherein you're happy, (which you'll make him know, 
 If that his head have ear in music)." 
 
 She is sure to be well received by him, " for he is honourable, 
 and, doubling that, most holy." He must himself return to 
 the Court, to avoid being suspected of having assisted in her 
 escape, and at parting gives her a box of medicine, in the belief 
 that, in case of illness, it " will drive away distemper." It had 
 been given to him by the queen, and he believes it to be what
 
 IMOGEN. 195 
 
 she professed it was ; for, treacherous as he knows her, he has no 
 suspicion that she would turn poisoner. It is only the physician 
 Cornelius who suspects the queen's purpose, and therefore gives 
 her drugs which h^ leads her to believe will kill, but which, 
 though suspending animation for a time, will, like Juliet's potion, 
 allow the patient to " awake as from a pleasant sleep." So for 
 the moment they separate, that she may don her man's apparel. 
 But they obviously meet again, when Pisanio conducts her to 
 some mountain-top, from \vhich he points out Milford to her, 
 which then seemed " within a ken " (Act iii. sc. 6), but which 
 she was to find, as inexperienced mountain-travellers always do 
 find, was much farther off than it looked. Naturally he would 
 not leave his "gracious mistress" until he had seen that her 
 equipment was complete, and could start her fairly on her way. 
 What a picture Imogen presents as we see her next (Act iii. 
 sc. 6) alone, among the wild hills, in a strange dress, in a 
 strange world wandering along unknown paths, still far away 
 from Milford-Haven ! Oh, that name, Milford-Haven ! I never 
 hear it spoken, see it written, without thinking of Imogen. 
 Weary and footsore, she wanders on, with a dull ache at 
 her heart far worse to bear than hunger, yearning, yet 
 dreading, to get to Milford, that "blessed Milford," as once 
 she thought it. When I read of the great harbour and docks 
 which are now there, I cannot help wishing that one little 
 sheltering corner could be found to christen as "Imogen's 
 Haven." Never did heroine or woman better deserve to have 
 her name thus consecrated and remembered. For two nights 
 she has made the ground her bed. What food she had with 
 her has long been exhausted ; and there is, oh, so little spur 
 of hope or promise in her heart to urge her onwards ! She 
 complains but little. The tender nursling of the Court learns, 
 by the roughest lessons, what goes on in that outer world of 
 which she has seen nothing. " I see," she says, " a man's life 
 is a tedious one." Still, with the patient nobility of her nature, 
 her "resolution helps her." She has set herself a task, and she 
 will carry it through. In her heart, despite what she has said to 
 Pisanio, there is still a corner in which he " that was the riches 
 of it " continues to hold a place for her love is of the kind
 
 196 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 that alters not " where it alteration finds " ; and she had learned 
 thoroughly love's first and greatest lesson fidelity. 
 
 It was this scene, and those at the cave immediately following, 
 which, as I have said, laid the strongest hold on my young 
 imagination. It seems so strange, and yet so fitting, that, in 
 her greatest grief and loneliness, Imogen should be led by an 
 unseen hand to her natural protectors, and that they, by an 
 irrepressible instinct, should, at the first sight, be moved to 
 love, admire, and cherish her. Before she reaches the cave, 
 which is to prove a brief but happy haven of refuge for her, 
 we have learned who its inhabitants are. We have been told 
 how the old courtier and soldier Belarius, in revenge for having 
 been wronged, insulted, and banished by Cymbeline, had, with 
 the help of their nurse Euriphile, stolen his two young sons, and 
 brought them up in a mountain-fastness as his own ; how he had 
 taught them all the arts he knew himself, and into what princely 
 youths they had grown, with but one desire ungratified, to see 
 the world, which they knew only by report, and take some part 
 in its stirring life. How delightful a relief after the overwhelm- 
 ing pathos of the previous scene is the accident which brings 
 these noble spirits into contact with a being like Imogen, in 
 whom all that makes a woman most winning to unspoiled manly 
 nature is unconsciously felt through the boyish disguise ! And 
 she how well prepared is she to take comfort in the gentle, 
 loving thoughtfulness shown to her by these " kind creatures " ! 
 
 Think of her, the daintily nurtured woman, as she conies to 
 their cave, spent with fatigue, and made desperate by hunger ! 
 On her way she has met two beggars, whom she may have 
 helped with money, but who could not help her with food. 
 They have told her she "could not miss her way"; yet she 
 has missed it. How touching the vein of thought this incident 
 opens in her mind ! 
 
 " Will poor folks lie, 
 
 That have afflictions on them ? . . . Yes ; no wonder, 
 When rich ones scarce tell true." 
 
 Then, more in pity than reproach, she adds, "My dear lord, 
 thou art one o' the false ones ! " We see that he is her " dear 
 lord " still But the thought of him brings back her heart-sick-
 
 IMOGEN. 197 
 
 ness, and takes away her hunger, although just before, she was 
 at the "point to sink for food." Then she perceives the entrance 
 to the cave of Belarius, and the path to it. 
 
 " 'Tie some savage hold : 
 'Twere best not call ; I dare not call." 
 
 In my first rehearsals of this scene, I instinctively adopted a 
 way of my own of entering the cave which I was told was 
 unusual. My dear friend and master approved of my concep- 
 tion. Mr Elton, my Pisanio, liked it much ; and Mr Macready, 
 after expressing many apprehensions, thought I might try it. 
 You have seen, and therefore I need not dwell on it more than 
 to remind you that Imogen's natural terror was certain to make 
 her exaggerate tenfold the possible dangers which that cave 
 might cover, from wild animals, or, still worse, from savage 
 men. Remember her Court training, her entire unfitness for, 
 and ignorance of, anything unlike the life she had been reared 
 in, for, as she says herself 
 
 " Plenty and peace breed cowards ; hardness ever 
 Of hardiness is mother." 
 
 But for sheer famine, which, " ere it clean o'erthrow nature, 
 makes it valiant," she would rather have gone away, given up 
 the thought of help, and laid her down to die, " as to a bed, that 
 longing she'd been sick for." The "Ho! who's here?" was 
 given, as you may remember, with a voice as faint and full of 
 terror as could be, followed by an instant shrinking behind the 
 nearest bush, tree, or rock. Then another and a little bolder ven- 
 ture : "If anything that's civil, speak ! " Another recoil. An- 
 other pause : "If savage, take or lend ! Ho ! " Gaining a little 
 courage, because of the entire silence : " No answer ? then I'll 
 enter ! " peering right and left, still expecting something to 
 pounce out upon her, and keeping ready, in the last resort, to fly. 
 Then the sword, which had been an encumbrance before, and 
 something to be afraid of, comes into her mind. If the dreaded 
 enemy be as cowardly as herself, it will keep him at bay : 
 
 " Best draw my sword ; and if mine enemy 
 But fear the sword like me he'll scarcely look on't."
 
 198 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 And so, with great dread, but still greater hunger, and holding the 
 good sword straight before her, she creeps slowly into the cave. 
 
 What a vision is that which Imogen presents, as she sits in 
 the semi-darkness of their rude home, to Belarius and his two 
 foster-sons as they return from the chase ! Looking in, he warns 
 them back : 
 
 " Stay ; come not in ! 
 
 But that it eats our victuals, I should think 
 Here were a fairy. 
 
 Gui. What's the matter, sir ? 
 
 Bd. By Jupiter, an angel ! or, if not, 
 An earthly paragon ! Behold divineness 
 No elder than a boy ! " 
 
 Startled by their voices, Imogen comes forward, still trembling 
 with fear, to explain why she had entered unbidden into their 
 cave : 
 
 " Good masters, harm me not : 
 Before I entered here, I call'd ; and thought 
 To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, 
 I have stolen nought ; nor would not, though I had found 
 Gold strew'd i' the floor." 
 
 How that sweet pleading figure, that voice so wistful, so irresist- 
 ible in its tender beseeching pathos, finds an instant passage to 
 their hearts ! When she offers money for what she has eaten, 
 the suggestion is received with a burst of surprise by the young 
 mountaineers, which she mistakes for anger ! 
 
 " I see you're angry : 
 
 Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should 
 Have died had I not made it." 
 
 The young fellows, abashed that their words have caused fresh 
 alarm when they meant but kindness, let Belarius inquire her 
 name, and whither she is going. She gives herself an apt one 
 Fidele and explains that she is on her way to Milford to join 
 a kinsman who has there embarked for Italy. Belarius tries to 
 reassure her by words of cordial kindness, and bids the boys, 
 who are hanging shyly back, to give her welcome. They do so, 
 each in a way that marks the difference of their characters. 
 Guiderius, the elder, and more likely to be sensitive to the
 
 IMOGEN. 199 
 
 womanly element that gives this seeming boy so much of her 
 charm, says, " Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but 
 be your groom." Arviragus accosts her with words that must 
 have been more welcome to her : 
 
 " I'll make't my comfort, 
 He is a man ; I'll love him as my brother : 
 And such a welcome as I'd give to him, 
 After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome ! 
 Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends ! " 
 
 " 'Mongst friends ! " murmurs Imogen to herself, adding, as if to 
 give voice to the prophetic instinct which draws her towards 
 them : 
 
 " If brothers ? would it had been so, that they 
 
 Had been my father's sons ! then had my prize 
 
 Been less ; and so more equal ballasting 
 
 To thee, Posthumus." 
 
 Posthumus, ever Posthumus, uppermost in her mind ! As a 
 fresh spasm of pain passes over her face at the thought of him, 
 Belarius says to the boys, " He rings at some distress " ; and 
 they, true knightly spirits as they are, are all eagerness to avert 
 it: 
 
 " Gui. Would I could free't ! 
 Arv. Or I, whate'er it be, 
 
 What pain it cost, what danger ! " 
 
 While the common blood of near relationship is warming the 
 hearts of these noble boys, Imogen recognises the true ring of 
 fine breeding in them. Of Belarius she takes little note. Her 
 thoughts centre upon them. No prince or paladin, she thinks, 
 with that fine penetrating appreciation of character which Shake- 
 speare marks as one of her qualities, could "outpeer these 
 twain " : 
 
 " Pardon me, gods ! 
 
 I'd change my sex to be companion with them, 
 
 Since Leonatus false." 
 
 She still keeps aloof with natural timidity, but at length yields 
 to their repeated prayers that she will "draw near," and share 
 their supper with them in the "rude place they live in."
 
 200 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 We can imagine the scene in the cave that evening. When 
 they have supped, they would " mannerly demand " the story of 
 the boy, which, we hear afterwards, was told in a very guarded 
 way : 
 
 " Gui. He said he was gentle, but unfortunate ; 
 Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. 
 
 Arv. Thus did he answer me ; yet said, hereafter 
 I might know more." 
 
 What that " more " was, how little could they guess ? By this 
 time they would have found their softest skins to make a couch 
 for one so delicate, which she, with all a woman's instinct, would 
 wrap well around her limbs. Then, forgetting fatigue, she would 
 sing or recite to them some tale, of which we know she had 
 many well stored in her memory. How the charm her presence 
 had wrought would deepen upon them as the night wore away, 
 and how the dreams that filled their sleep would carry on the 
 sweet dream of the waking hours which they had passed by her 
 side! 
 
 How long Imogen remains their guest we are not told some 
 days it must have been, else all the things they speak of could 
 not have happened. For the first time, their cave is felt to be a 
 home. On their return from their day's sport, a fresh smell of 
 newly strewn rushes, we may imagine, pervades it. Where the 
 light best finds its way into the cavern are seen such dainty 
 wild-flowers as she has found in her solitary rambles. Fresh 
 water from the brook is there. The vegetables are washed, and 
 cut into quaint "characters" to garnish the dishes; a savoury 
 odour of herbs comes from the "sauced" broth, and a smile, 
 sweet in their eyes beyond all other sweetness, salutes them as 
 they hurry in, each vying with the other who first shall catch 
 it. When the meal is ready, they wait upon Fidele, trying with 
 the daintiest morsels to tempt her small appetite j and, when it is 
 over, and she is couched upon their warmest skins, they lie down 
 at her feet, while she sings, "angel-like," to them, or tells them 
 tales of "high emprise and chivalry," such as become a king's 
 daughter. Even the old Belarius feels the subtle charm, and 
 wonders, yet not grudgingly, to see how this stranger takes a 
 place in the hearts of his two boys even before himself :
 
 IMOGEN. 201 
 
 " I'm not their father ; yet who this should be 
 Doth miracle itself, loved before me." 
 
 Meanwhile great events have taken place at Cymbeline's Court. 
 He has refused to acknowledge the claim for tribute presented 
 from the Koman Emperor by his envoy Caius Lucius, who, after 
 announcing that it will be claimed at the point of the sword, 
 craves and receives a safe-conduct for himself overland to Mil- 
 ford-Haven. Cymbeline has prepared for the eventuality of war, 
 and his preparations are so far advanced that he looks forward 
 with confidence to the issue. The kingly qualities of the man 
 are well shown, and contrast with his weakness in his domestic 
 relations. And now he misses his daughter, whom he has not 
 had time to think of for some days : 
 
 " My gentle queen, 
 
 Where is our daughter ? She hath not appear'd 
 Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd 
 The duty of the day." 
 
 An attendant is despatched to summon her to the presence; 
 while the queen, continuing to play the part of a seeming tender 
 mother to her, who, as we know, "was as a scorpion to her 
 sight " to her whose life she had intended to have " ta'en off 
 by poison," explains, that since the exile of Posthumus, Imogen 
 has kept in close retirement, the cure whereof 
 
 " 'Tis Time must do. Beseech your majesty, 
 Forbear sharp speeches to her. She's a lady 
 So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes, 
 And strokes death to her." 
 
 When the attendant returns after finding the princess's cham- 
 bers locked and tenantless, the king is seriously alarmed. His 
 conscience smites him when he thinks to what his unkindness 
 may have led : 
 
 " Her doors lock'd? 
 
 Not seen of late ? Grant, heavens, that which I fear 
 Prove false ! " 
 
 And he rushes away, followed by Cloten, to find his worst fears 
 confirmed. Pisanio gone, and Imogen ! In this the queen sees 
 a step gained in her plot to raise her son to the throne. Pisanio's
 
 202 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS : 
 
 absence, she hopes, may be caused by his having swallowed the 
 drug a poison, as she believes which she had given him. As 
 for Imogen, she is gone 
 
 "To death or to dishonour ; and my end 
 Can make good use of either : she being down, 
 I have the placing of the British crown." 
 
 The king, Cloten tells her on his return, is so wild with rage, 
 that " none dare come about him." The fitter, then, to fall an 
 easy prey to her cajoling ! Accordingly she hurries away to re- 
 inforce her sway over him, " by watching, weeping, tendance," 
 and affectation of sympathy, and so to move him by her craft 
 "to work her son into the adoption of the crown." 
 
 Meantime this son is working for himself a very different 
 ending to his ignoble life. Seeing Pisanio, who has just re- 
 turned, he accosts him with his usual braggart air : 
 
 " Where is thy lady ? 
 
 Close villain ! 
 
 I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip 
 Thy heart to find it ! " 
 
 Pisanio, not knowing how else to account for Imogen's absence, 
 and to mislead Cloten, gives him the letter from Posthumus, 
 appointing the meeting at Milford-Haven, one of those " scrip- 
 tures of the loyal Leonatus," which he had picked up when she 
 tore them from her breast. 
 
 " Or this," he says to himself, " or perish ! " 
 
 " She's far enough ; and what he learns by this 
 May prove his travel, not her danger. . . . 
 I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen, 
 Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again ! " 
 
 Cloten, who meantime has been reading and re-reading the 
 letter for we have been told how dull his wits are sees in it an 
 opening for the revenge on Posthumus and Imogen on which he 
 has set his heart. He will get from Pisanio a suit of his master's 
 clothes ; and Pisanio, who has no reason to withhold them from 
 the silly fellow, agrees to let him have the same suit that Pos- 
 thumus wore when he took leave of Imogen. Thus, in the very 
 garment which she had lately told him she held " in more respect
 
 IMOGEN. 203 
 
 than his noble and natural person," will he pursue the princess to 
 Milford-Haven, kill Posthumus before her eyes, and " knock her 
 back to the Court foot her home again. She hath despised me 
 rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge." 
 
 When we next see Cloten, he has reached the spot to which 
 Pisanio, believing Imogen to be by this time in the service of the 
 liomaii general, felt he might safely direct him as the meeting- 
 place of the lovers. It is near the cave of Belarius. Cloten is 
 more than ever enamoured of his personal appearance in the gar- 
 ments of Posthumus. " The lines of my body," he says, " are as 
 well drawn as his ; no less young, more strong " sentences skil- 
 fully introduced by the poet to account for his body being pres- 
 ently mistaken by Imogen, when she sees it lying headless, for 
 that of Posthumus. DraAving his sword, he goes off in search of 
 those who, he fancies, vapouring fool as he is, will be his easy 
 victims. Straightway from the cave comes forth the group that 
 inhabit it. Imogen, with all their care, is still sick and who 
 can wonder, with mind and body so sore 1 Belarius would have 
 her remain in the cave until they return from hunting. " Brother," 
 says Arviragus, " stay here ; are we not brothers 1 " At their first 
 meeting he had said he would love her as a brother, and every 
 hour since had deepened the feeling on his part. Imogen can but 
 answer ambiguously 
 
 "So man and man should be ; 
 But clay and clay differs in dignity, 
 Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick." 
 
 Upon this Guiderius, who, though of a more robust, is yet evi- 
 dently of a more sensitive nature, and who from the first had 
 wished Fidele were a woman, offers to remain behind to tend 
 him. But now Imogen makes light of her ailment, being in 
 truth only too glad to be left alone with her heart-sickness, to 
 which she can then give way. Gentle and kind as her com- 
 panions are, she is upon the stretch when they are by, dreading 
 to be further questioned as to her story, and, by reason of her 
 natural disposition to lose herself in others, desiring also in their 
 absence to do her utmost to contribute to their comfort and enjoy- 
 ment. She cannot deny that she is ill
 
 204 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " But your being by me 
 Cannot amend me : society is no comfort 
 To one not sociable." 
 
 Then she adds playfully, to set them at ease in leaving her 
 
 " I am not very sick, 
 
 Since I can reason of it. Pray you, trust me here ; 
 I'll rob none but myself. " 
 
 Again do both the boys proffer in warmest terms the assur- 
 ance of their love, avowing it to be deeper than that for their 
 supposed father the only love they have ever known ; but as 
 she still deprecates their absenting themselves from the chase, 
 they yield to her wish. Their tenderness and perfect courtesy 
 have gone to her very heart ; and as she moves lingeringly back 
 towards the cave, she says 
 
 " These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard ! 
 Our courtiers say all's savage but at Court. 
 Experience, oh, thou disprovest report ! 
 
 I am sick still heart-sick. Pisanio, 
 I'll now taste of thy drug." 
 
 Her companions watch her as she retires. There is something 
 so touching, so especially and mysteriously sad about her look 
 and movements to-day, that they will not go without a fresh 
 assurance to her that they will soon be back 
 
 " Arv. We'll not be long away. 
 
 Bel. Pray, be not sick, 
 
 For you must be our housewife." 
 
 "Well or ill, I am bound to you!" are Imogen's words, as she 
 disappears into the cave, with a wistful smile that insensibly 
 awakens fresh perplexity in their hearts, as we see by what 
 follows : 
 
 " Bel. This youth, howe'er distress'd, appears he hath had 
 Good ancestors. 
 
 A rv. How angel-like he sings ! 
 
 Gui. But his neat cookery ! He cut our roots in characters, 
 And sauced our broths, as Juno had been sick 
 And he her dieter.
 
 IMOGEN. 205 
 
 A rr. Nobly he yokes 
 A smiling with a sigh 
 
 Oui. I do note 
 
 That grief and patience, rooted in him both, 
 Mingle their spurs together." 
 
 What a picture do these sentences bring before us of a true 
 lady and princess, not sitting apart, brooding over her own 
 great grief, that her dear lord should be " one o' the false ones," 
 but bestirring herself to make their cavern-home as attractive 
 and pleasant to them as only the touch and feeling of a refined 
 Avoman could ! 
 
 They are interrupted by the entrance of Cloten, who, not 
 seeing them at first, exclaims, "I cannot find these runagates!" 
 Belarius, who has seen Cloten at the Court many years before, 
 recognises him as the queen's son, and, thinking that the phrase 
 applies to himself and his companions, suspects that some am- 
 bush has been set for them. He and Arviragus are hurried off 
 by Guiderius, to " search what companies are near," while he re- 
 mains to confront this stranger. Cloten, catching sight of them 
 as they retire, tries to stop them by recourse to his usual strain 
 of bullying arrogance : 
 
 " What are you, 
 
 That fly me thus ? Some villain mountaineers ? 
 
 I have heard of such. What slave art thou ?" 
 
 Of all tones, this is the least likely to move the manly spirit of 
 Guiderius. To Cloten's demand that he should yield to him, he 
 replies scornfully 
 
 " To who ? To thee ? What art thou ? Have not I 
 An arm as big as thine ? a heart as big ? 
 Thy words, I grant, are bigger ; for I wear not 
 My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art, 
 Why I should yield to thee ! 
 
 Clo. Thou villain base, 
 
 Know'st me not by my clothes ? " 
 
 This only provokes in Guiderius utter contempt for his assail- 
 ant. "Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee." As 
 little is he awed by Cloten's further announcement of his name, 
 and of the fact that he is son to the queen. . Fool to the last,
 
 206 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Cloten now attacks Guiderius, with perfect confidence that he 
 must make short work, first of him, and then of his companions ; 
 and they go out fighting, with the result, as we presently hear, 
 that Guiderius disarms him, cuts off his head with his own 
 sword and casts it into the river, that it may thence "to the 
 sea, and tell the fishes he's the queen's son, Cloten." To die by 
 the hands of this right royal youth seems too good a death for 
 such a creature. Yet, remembering his persecution of Imogen, 
 and his brutality of intention towards her, it is most fit that her 
 own brother should be her avenger, and so commence the work 
 of retribution ; the next stage of which is the death of Cloten's 
 mother, who dies in mad despair when she hears her son is 
 dead, having first made confession of her deadly designs, and 
 thereby solved many mysteries which would otherwise have 
 been difficult to clear up (Act v. sc. 5). 
 
 When Belarius hears of Cloten's death, he is naturally appre- 
 hensive that the search which will be made for him may lead to 
 the discovery of their mountain retreat. " We'll hunt no more 
 to-day," he says, " nor seek for danger where there's no profit ; " 
 and he sends Arviragus to the cave, telling him, "You and 
 Fidele play the cooks." "Poor sick Fidele!" Arviragus ex- 
 claims. 
 
 " I'll willingly to him : to gain his colour, 
 
 I'd let a parish of such Cloten's blood, 
 
 And praise myself for charity." 
 
 What a change Imogen has wrought upon the young pupils of 
 Belarius ! What charming features in their character have been 
 developed by her influence ! This change we infer from what 
 he says of them, while he stays without, waiting for the return 
 of Guiderius : 
 
 "0 thou goddess, 
 
 Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon'st 
 In these two princely boys ! They are as gentle 
 As zephyrs blowing below the violet, 
 Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough, 
 Their royal blood enchafed, as the rudest wind, 
 That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 
 And make him stoop to the vale." 
 
 Guiderius returns to tell that he has sent Cloten's "clotpoll
 
 IMOGEN. 207 
 
 down the stream, in embassy to his mother." Suddenly they 
 hear the " ingenious instrument " which Belarius had made, and 
 which " solemn thing " had not been set in motion since the 
 death of Euriphile, the supposed mother of the boys. Why 
 should this be ? What does Arviragus mean ? The answer is 
 given by his issuing from the cave, " bearing Imogen as dead in 
 his arms." I know not with what emotions this passage is 
 received in the theatre, for I have never seen the play acted ; 
 but, often as I have read it, I can never read it afresh without a 
 rush of tears to my eyes : 
 
 ' ' Arv. The bird is dead, 
 
 That we have made so much on. I had rather 
 
 Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty 
 
 To have turn'd my leaping- time into a crutch, 
 
 Than have seen this. 
 
 Gui. sweetest, fairest lily 
 
 My brother wears thee not the one-half so well 
 
 As when thou grew'st thyself. 
 
 Bel Thou blessed thing ! 
 
 Jove knows what man thou mightst have made ; but I, 
 
 Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. 
 
 How found you him ? 
 
 Arv. Stark, as you see : 
 
 Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, 
 
 Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at ; his right cheek 
 
 Reposing on a cushion. 
 
 Gui. Where ? 
 
 Arv. 0' the floor ; 
 
 His arms thus leagued. I thought he slept, and put 
 
 My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness 
 
 Answer'd my steps too loud. 
 
 Gui. Why, he but sleeps : 
 
 If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed ; 
 
 With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, 
 
 And worms will not come to thee. 
 
 Arv. With fairest flowers, 
 
 While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 
 I'll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack 
 
 The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor 
 
 The azured harebell, like thy veins ; no, nor 
 
 The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, 
 
 Out-sweeten'd not thy breath ; . . . . 
 
 Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, 
 To winter-ground thy corse.
 
 208 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Oui. Prithee, have done ; 
 
 And do not play in wench-like words with that 
 Which is so serious. Let us bury him, 
 And not protract with admiration what 
 Is now new debt. To the grave ! 
 
 Arv. Say, where shall's lay him ? 
 
 Oui. By good Euriphile, our mother. 
 
 Arv. Be't so : 
 
 And let us, Polydore, . . . sing him to the ground, 
 As once our mother." 
 
 Then says the deep-hearted Guiderius, "I cannot sing; I'll 
 weep, and word it with thee." Belarius, who has stood silently 
 by, now says : 
 
 " Great griefs, I see, medicine the less ; for Cloten 
 Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys ; 
 And though he came our enemy, remember 
 He was paid for that. . . . Our foe was princely ; 
 And though you took his life, as being our foe, 
 Yet bury him as a prince. 
 
 GUI. Pray you, fetch him hither. 
 
 Thersites' body is as good as Ajax', 
 When neither are alive. 
 
 Arv. If you'll go fetch him, 
 
 We'll say our song the while. Brother, begin." 
 
 And then they repeat that sweetest dirge that ever was devised 
 by aching heart for those who, having done their worldly task, 
 have gone to a better than mortal home 
 
 " Fear no more the heat o' the sun," &c. 
 
 When Belarius returns with the body of Cloten, they lay it 
 by Imogen's side. Belarius will not leave the poor "dead bird," 
 even for a little, without a further tribute : 
 
 " Here's a few flowers ; but, about midnight, more : 
 The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 
 Are strewings fitt'st for graves. Upon their faces. 
 You were as flowers, now wither'd : even so 
 These herblets shall, which we upon you strew. 
 Come on, away ; apart, upon our knees. " 
 
 So do they retire to pray and meditate, purposing to return at a 
 later hour to lay the bodies in the grave. Well do I remember
 
 IMOGEN. 209 
 
 my delight, in my early readings of the play, that only flowers 
 were put upon Imogen's face, and that she awakened so soon 
 after ! Perhaps their cool fresh fragrance helped her to recover 
 from the swoon. Had she lain till midnight, no doubt the 
 burial rites would have been completed, and the earth oh, 
 horrible! would thus have covered up and smothered her. 
 When "about midnight" they return with the night-flowers, 
 to complete the last sad rite of burial, what must have been 
 their surprise to find that their office had been anticipated 
 no trace, at least, to be seen of the bodies which they had so 
 lately left! 
 
 Scarcely have they gone apart to pray, before Imogen awakes, 
 and finds by her side what she thinks the dead body of her 
 husband. Though the semblance of life has been suspended by 
 Pisanio's drug, her sleep has not been dreamless. She awakens 
 asking her way to Milford- Haven from some one, who she 
 fancies tells her it is still six miles distant. The dream is still 
 with her : 
 
 " I thank you. By yond bush ? Pray, how far thither ? 
 'Ods pittikins ! can it be six miles yet? 
 I have gone all night. 'Faith, I'll lie down and sleep." 
 
 Then, becoming conscious of something by her side : 
 " But soft ! no bedfellow ! gods and goddesses ! " 
 
 She is now fully awake, feels the flowers about her, and sees the 
 blood-stained body by her side : 
 
 "These flowers are like the pleasures of the world ; 
 This bloody man, the care on't. I hope I dream ; 
 For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, 
 And cook to honest creatures ; but 'tis not so." 
 
 Surprise combines with fear to overwhelm her : 
 
 " Good faith, 
 
 I tremble still with fear. But if there be 
 Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity 
 As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it ! " 
 
 She looks about her ; the cave, the rocks, the woodland that she 
 knew, are there : 
 

 
 210 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTEKS: 
 
 " The dream's here still : even when I wake, it is 
 Without me, as within me ; not imagined, felt." 
 
 And yet how comes it that she should be lying beside a headless 
 man 1 ? On looking closer she recognises the garments of Pos- 
 thumus the figure too 'tis very Posthumus ! 
 
 " I know the shape of his leg ; this is his hand ; 
 His foot Mercurial ; his Martial thigh ; 
 The brawns of Hercules : but his Jovial face 
 Murder in heaven ? How ! 'Tis gone." 
 
 At once her thoughts fix on Pisanio as having betrayed them 
 both with his forged letters. It is he, "conspired with that 
 irregulous devil Cloten," that has cut off her lord. All former 
 distrust of that " dear lord " vanishes on the instant, and he is 
 restored to the place in her heart and imagination which he had 
 held before. They have both been the victims of the blackest 
 treachery, and Pisanio, "damned Pisanio," hath 
 
 " From this most bravest vessel of the world 
 Struck the main -top ! " 
 
 Think of the anguish of her cry : 
 
 " Posthumus ! Alas, 
 
 Where is thy head ? where's that ? Ay me ! where's that ? 
 Pisanio might have killed thee at the heart, 
 And left this head on. How should this be ? Pisanio 
 'Tis he, and Cloten. Malice and lucre in them 
 Have laid this woe here. Oh, 'tis pregnant, pregnant ! 
 The drug he gave me, which he said was precious 
 And cordial to me, have I not found it 
 Murderous to the senses ? That confirms it home ! 
 All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, 
 And mine to boot, be darted on thee ! " 
 
 And with one long agonised wail, " Oh, my lord, my lord ! " she 
 falls senseless upon the body. 
 
 There she is presently found by Caius Lucius and his fol- 
 lowers, as they pass on their way to Milford-Haven to meet the 
 legions from Gallia, and a select corps from Italy "under the 
 conduct of the bold lachimo," who have arrived there for the 
 purpose of enforcing the tribute from Cymbeline. On perceiv- 
 ing the body of Cloten, Lucius exclaims :
 
 IMOGEN. 211 
 
 " Soft, ho ! What trunk is here 
 Without his top ? The ruin speaks that sometime 
 It was a worthy building, How ! A page ! 
 Or dead, or sleeping on him ? But dead rather ; 
 For nature doth abhor to make his bed 
 With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. 
 Let's see the boy's face." 
 
 They raise him from the body, and Lucius asks in language full 
 of sympathy, "What is thy interest in this sad wreck? How 
 came it? Who is it? What art thou?" What a world of 
 pathos is in her answer 
 
 " I am nothing ; or if not, 
 Nothing to be were better. " 
 
 Truly may she say so ! All interest in life is over. She is full, 
 too, of self-reproach, to add to the bitterness of her loss. How 
 could she slander, even in thought, the man who was, in her 
 esteem, " worth any woman," so much worthier than herself that 
 he had " overbought her almost the sum he paid " ? Her words 
 now shall at least make some atonement : 
 
 " This was my master, 
 A very valiant Briton, and a good, 
 That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas ! 
 There are no more such masters : I may wander 
 From east to Occident, cry out for service, 
 Try many, all good, serve truly, never 
 Find such another master. 
 
 Luc. 'Lack, good youth, 
 
 Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining, than 
 Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend. 
 
 Imo. Richard du Champ. [Aside.] If I do lie, and do 
 No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope 
 They'll pardon it ! Say you, sir ? 
 
 Luc. Thy name ? 
 
 Imo. Fidele, sir. 
 
 Luc. Thou dost approve thyself the very same : 
 Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. 
 Will take thy chance with me ? I will not say 
 Thou shalt be so well master'd, but, be sure, 
 No less beloved." 
 
 Here we see how the very tone and look of Imogen, apart from 
 the boy's desolate state, impress Caius Lucius, as they have done
 
 212 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 all those who have ever been near her, with their resistless 
 charm. He continues : 
 
 " The Roman emperor's letters, 
 Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner 
 Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me." 
 
 The boy says he will follow, but first must see all honour paid to 
 his master's grave. It shall be as deep, to hide him from the 
 flies, as these "poor pickaxes" (his hands) can dig. And when 
 it has been strewn with wild wood-leaves and weeds, and he has 
 " on it said a century of prayers " as best he can through choking 
 tears and sighs, he will then take leave of the master, the like of 
 whom the world holds " from east to Occident " no other, and will 
 follow Lucius " So please you entertain me." Imogen promises 
 no new service to this new master. She looks forward to nothing. 
 The strength of her heart, her hopes, her usefulness, will all be 
 buried in the grave thus left behind. Not to go with this kind 
 man who offers help would have seemed ungracious ; and to keep 
 up her disguise for a while will leave Imogen more free to nurse 
 her grief. Alas ! alas ! all the strangers to her are kind and piti- 
 ful ! but the one is gone, done horribly to death, who could alone 
 have brought comfort to her heart ! If anything could have 
 drawn her towards this gentle, manly Eoman, it would have 
 been the way he assures the boy that he shall be taken into his 
 service, and treated by him as a father rather than a master. 
 "My friends," he adds, 
 
 ' ' The boy hath taught us manly duties : let us 
 Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, 
 And make him with our pikes and partisans 
 A grave. . . . Boy, he is pref err'd 
 By thee to us ; and he shall be interr'd 
 As soldiers can. Be cheerful ; wipe thine eyes ; 
 Some falls are means the happier to arise." 
 
 That she should be " cheerful," we know to be impossible : 
 
 "All was ended now the hope, the fear, and the sorrow ; 
 All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing ; 
 All the dull deep pain, and constant anguish of patience."
 
 IMOGEN. 213 
 
 But from what we have seen of her before, we know that she 
 will fight bravely with her own heart, and will not let others be 
 made unhappy by her grief. To forget is past her power, but 
 she will repay the kindness shown her by throwing herself zeal- 
 ously into the duties of her position. Lucius will keep the boy 
 near him, employing him in light tasks about his tent. He 
 will note with what noble gentleness and patience these duties 
 are performed. For amid the noisy stir of the camp, as in the 
 silent solitude of the cave, Imogen, with the self-abnegation 
 and devotion to others which distinguish her, bears her heavy 
 burden silently and alone. Never master, as Lucius afterwards 
 tells us, had 
 
 " A page so kind, so duteous, diligent 
 So tender over his occasions, true, 
 So feat, so nurse-like." 
 
 We must leave Imogen for a while, for the events are now 
 hurrying on which are to bring her sorrows to a happy close. 
 At the opening of the fifth act we find Posthumus, on the 
 eve of battle, in the ground betwixt the Eoman and the British 
 camps, having been brought over, as he tells us, "among the 
 Italian gentry, to fight against his lady's kingdom." From the 
 hour the " bloody cloth " reached him, which Pisanio has sent as 
 the evidence of Imogen's death, he has been upon the rack. 
 What was he, that, even were she the guilty thing he thought 
 her, he should have sent her from the world with her sins 
 unshriven ? 
 
 " Gods ! if you 
 
 Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never 
 
 Had lived to put on this : so had you saved 
 
 The noble Imogen to repent, and struck 
 
 Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. " 
 
 Never, never can he have been without misgiving that all 
 lachimo had said of her was untrue. Since her supposed death, 
 " the idea of her life " must have " sweetly crept into his study 
 of imagination," and pictured her there as the sweet, pure, noble 
 creature who had fostered all that was best and highest in him- 
 self. Again have come back to him, in all their vivid freshness,
 
 214 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 her beauty, her "gracious parts," her bright mind, the grace and 
 colour of all things that she did. 
 
 " Tis enough 
 
 That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress. Peace ! 
 
 I'll give no wound to thee. . . . I'll disrobe me 
 
 Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself 
 
 As does a Briton peasant : so I'll fight 
 
 Against the part I come with ; so I'll die 
 
 For thee, Imogen, even for whom my life 
 
 Is, every breath, a death." 
 
 And to what purpose he does fight we soon see. The gods have 
 " put the strength of the Leonati " in him for which he prays, 
 and so made him a main instrument in bringing about the res- 
 toration of his Imogen to his arms, and in avenging the wrong 
 wrought upon them both by lachimo. In the next scene Pos- 
 thumus encounters lachimo, and after disarming him, he leaves 
 him unscathed, probably from a noble impulse not to take the life 
 of a man towards whom he felt a profound personal repugnance, 
 lachimo, who has not recognised Posthumus in his peasant's garb, 
 thinks that his guilt has robbed him of his manhood, and that the 
 air of the country, whose princess he has belied, "revengingly 
 enfeebles " him. How else should one of its mere " carles " have 
 subdued him 1 
 
 The battle continues, success wavering from side to side. At 
 first the Eomans have the best of it, and Cymbeline is taken. 
 Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus arrive, and rally the flying 
 Britons. The stir of war, we have been shown in a previous 
 scene, has roused the princely ardour of the youths, and at all 
 risks they have resolved to strike a blow in the tented field 
 for their country's sake. How they and Belarius fight, Pos- 
 thumus, who had come to their aid, afterwards tells us in one 
 of those passages written at a white-heat, in which Shakespeare's 
 patriotic spirit revels. " Athwart the lane," he says, " an ancient 
 soldier," " with two striplings," 
 
 " Made good the passage ; cried to those that fled 
 ' Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men : 
 To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards ! Stand.' 
 
 These three, 
 
 Three thousand confident, in act as many 
 . . . with this word, ' Stand, stand,'
 
 IMOGEN. 215 
 
 Accommodated by the place, more charming 
 
 With their own nobleness (which could have turned 
 
 A distaff to a lance), gilded pale looks, 
 
 Part shame, part spirit renew'd ; that some, turn'd coward 
 
 But by example (oh, a sin in war, 
 
 Damn'd in the first beginners ! ) 'gan to look 
 
 The way that they did, and to grin like lions 
 
 Upon the pikes o' the hunters," &c. 
 
 The tide of battle is turned, Posthumus himself performing pro- 
 digies of valour in the rescue of Cymbeline, while he seeks vainly 
 for the death he cannot find : 
 
 " I, in mine own woe charm'd, 
 Could not find death where I did hear him groan, 
 
 Nor feel him where he struck 
 
 . . . Well, I will find him." 
 
 He will resume the Roman dress, and so be taken prisoner : 
 
 " For me, my ransom's death : 
 On either side I come to spend my breath, 
 Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again, 
 But end it by some means for Imogen." 
 
 His wish is gratified. Some British soldiers bring him a willing 
 captive to the presence of the king. A crowd of prisoners is 
 already there, among them lachimo, Lucius, and with them 
 Imogen, who has obviously followed Lucius, despite his en- 
 treaties to the contrary, through all the chances of the battle, 
 hoping, like Posthumus, to meet in death a release from her 
 now hopeless sorrow. Here the fine character of Lucius is 
 again shown. He asks no mercy for himself. "Sufficeth a 
 Eoman with a Eoman's heart can suffer." His only care is 
 for the boy who has served him so well : 
 
 " This one thing only, 
 I will entreat : my boy, a Briton born, 
 Let him be ransom'd. . . . 
 . . . He hath done no Briton harm, 
 Though he have served a Roman. Save him, sir, 
 And spare no blood besides." 
 
 Cymbeline is immediately struck by the boy's resemblance to 
 some erewhile familiar face. At once his heart warms towards
 
 216 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHAEACTERS: 
 
 him. " Boy, thou hast looked thyself into my grace, and art 
 mine own." Not only does he give him life; he bids him, as 
 a further assurance of his favour, ask " what boon thou wilt," 
 
 " Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, 
 The noblest ta'en." 
 
 Both Cymbeline and Lucius naturally think that he will 
 demand the life of his master. But "alack," as Imogen says, 
 "there's other work in hand." She has in the meantime espied 
 lachimo among the Roman prisoners, and noticed upon his finger 
 what was once her best treasure, "the diamond that was her 
 mother's," and which she had given to Posthumus at parting. 
 She now remembers that it was not on the dead hand which she 
 had lately thought her husband's. How had lachimo come by it ? 
 Honourably or dishonourably? This must before all things be 
 explained. Cymbeline, the more he notes the boy, is the more 
 drawn to him. He marks his perplexed looks, his fixed gaze 
 upon lachimo. " Speak ! " he says, " Wilt have him live ? Is 
 he thy kin? Thy friend?" Imogen asks permission to tell 
 him in private the reason of her conduct, and they step aside 
 that she may do so. How intently she has been absorbed in 
 watching lachimo is further shown by the circumstance that, 
 though near her late companions of the cave, she has not ob- 
 served them. They have been struck with amazement to see 
 alive the boy Fidele whom they had left for dead. Belarius 
 will not believe it is he : 
 
 " Peace, peace ! See further ; he eyes us not ; forbear. 
 Creatures may be alike : were't he, I'm sure 
 He would have spoke to us." 
 
 Pisanio has no such doubts. " It is my mistress ! " he murmurs 
 in delight to himself. 
 
 " Since she is living, let the time run on 
 To good or bad ! " 
 
 And now Imogen comes forward with Cymbeline, who bids 
 the seeming page stand by his side and make his demand aloud, 
 commanding lachimo at the same time to answer him frankly on
 
 IMOGEN. 217 
 
 pain of torture. My boon, says Imogen, is, " that this gentle- 
 man may render of -whom he had this ring 1 ?" Amazed at a 
 question so strange, Posthumus mutters to himself, ""What's that 
 to him 1 " Remorse has so far turned to penitence in lachimo, 
 that he is " glad to be constrained to utter " what " torments him 
 to conceal " : 
 
 ' ' By villainy 
 
 I got this ring ; 'twas Leonatus' jewel, 
 
 Whom thou didst banish ; and (which more may grieve thee, 
 
 As it doth me) a nobler sir ne'er lived 
 
 'Twixt sky and ground." 
 
 By villainy] Yet how 1 ? As yet Imogen is without a clue. 
 
 But lachimo's next words, in answer to Cymbeline's demand for 
 
 further explanation, must have sent all the blood back to her 
 
 heart : 
 
 "That paragon, thy daughter, 
 
 For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits 
 Quail to remember Give me leave, I faint ! " 
 
 How dear a place that daughter really held in Cymbeline's heart, 
 we see from his exclamation : 
 
 " My daughter ! What of her ? Renew thy strength : 
 I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will, 
 Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak ! " 
 
 On this, lachimo proceeds to recount the incidents of the wager, 
 and of his visit to the Court of Britain, together with the details 
 noted down in Imogen's chamber, that composed the "simular 
 proof" which made "the noble Leonatus mad." 
 
 Imagine Imogen's state of mind during the recital ! Oh the 
 shame, the agony with which she hears that her " dear lord " has 
 indeed had cause to think her false ! All is now clear as day. 
 The mystery is solved ; but too late, too late ! She remembers 
 the supposed treasure in the chest, although lachimo does not 
 speak of it. Then the lost bracelet ! How dull she has been 
 not to think before of the way it might have been stolen from 
 her ! Worst misery of all, Posthumus has died in the belief of 
 her guilt. No wonder he wished for her death ! What bitter 
 hopeless shame possesses her, even as though all were true that 
 he had been told ! Only in the great revealing of all mysteries
 
 218 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 hereafter will Posthuraus learn the truth. But till then she has 
 to bear the burden of knowing with what bitter thoughts of her 
 he passed out of life. 
 
 Ah, dear friend, as I write, the agony of all these thoughts 
 seems again to fill my mind, as it ever used to do when acting 
 this scene upon the stage. I wonder if I ever looked what I 
 felt ! It is in such passages as these that Shakespeare surpasses 
 all dramatic writers. He has faith in his interpreters, and does 
 not encumber them with words. None could express what then 
 was passing in Imogen's soul. At such moments Emerson has 
 truly said, we only "live from a great depth of being." 
 
 I cannot conceive what Imogen would have done eventually 
 had Posthumus been indeed dead. But I can conceive the 
 strange bewildered rapture with which she sees him spring for- 
 ward to interrupt lachimo's further speech. He is not dead. 
 He has heard her vindication ; and she, too, lives to hear his 
 remorse, his self-reproaches, his bitter taunts upon his own 
 credulity ! From his own lips her vindication comes : 
 
 "The temple 
 
 Of virtue was she ; yea, and she herself. 
 Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set 
 The dogs o' the street to bay me ! Every villain 
 Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus. . . . O Imogen ! 
 My queen, my life, my wife ! Imogen ! 
 Imogen, Imogen ! " 
 
 Unable to bear his anguish longer, and forgetting her page's dis- 
 guise, she springs forward to throw herself into his arms, with 
 the words, " Peace, my lord ; hear, hear ! " But he will neither 
 look nor hear, and casts the " scornful page " who, he thinks, is 
 trifling with his grief with violence away from him. Pisanio, 
 who, next to Posthumus and Imogen, has been the most in- 
 terested and wondering hearer of lachimo's story, says, as he 
 stoops to raise Imogen from the ground : 
 
 " Oh gentlemen, help ! 
 
 Mine and your mistress ! Oh, my lord Posthumus, 
 You ne'er kill'd Imogen till now. Help ! help ! 
 Mine honour'd lady ! " 
 
 When she returns to consciousness, Posthumus has scarce re-
 
 IMOGEN. 219 
 
 covered from the bewilderment of his surprise to find Imogen 
 alive, of whose death he had thought himself guilty. But with 
 what pangs and yearnings of the heart must he have heard her 
 sweet reproach ! 
 
 " Why did you throw your wedded lady from you ? 
 Think that you are upon a rock, and now 
 Throw me again. [Embracing him. 
 
 Post. Hang there, like fruit, my soul, 
 
 Till the tree die ! " 
 
 Imogen has meanwhile learned how innocent Pisanio was of all 
 evil intention in regard to the drug which the queen had hoped 
 would prove fatal to her, and how that intention had been frus- 
 trated by Cornelius giving to the queen, instead of a poison, 
 
 ' ' Certain stuff, which, being ta'en, would cease 
 The present power of life, but in short time 
 All offices of nature should again 
 Do their due functions." 
 
 The loyal servant, we may be sure, was more than requited 
 for the suspicion that had for a time rested on him, by the kind 
 looks and words with which Imogen would greet him. But a 
 last sweet moment is yet to come for her, when she hears the 
 story of Belarius, and learns that those from whom she had 
 received such timely help and kindness are indeed, what she 
 had then wished them to be, her brothers. When Cymbeline 
 says to her, "Oh, Imogen, thou hast lost by this a kingdom," 
 how true to all her generous impulses is her rejoinder ! A king- 
 dom ! What is so poor a thing as a kingdom in her account 1 
 " No, my lord ; I have got two ivorlds by it ! " And then, as 
 when the heart is very full of happiness, we are afraid of giving 
 way to great emotion, or of trusting ourselves to speak of the 
 joy we feel, she seeks relief in reminding them half jestingly, 
 as she places herself between them, of the past : 
 
 " Oh, my gentle brothers, 
 Have we thus met ? Oh, never say hereafter 
 But I am truest speaker. You call'd me brother, 
 When I was but your sister ; I you brothers, 
 When ye were so indeed. 
 
 Cym. Did you e'er meet
 
 220 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHAKACTERS: 
 
 Arv. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Gui. And at first meeting loved ; 
 
 Continued so, until we thought he died. 
 
 Cor. By the queen's dram she swallowed. 
 
 Cym. Oh, rare instinct ! 
 
 When shall I hear all through ? " 
 
 When now Cymbeline hails Belarius as his brother, Imogen 
 will not be behind in thankful recognition. She says 
 
 " You are my father too, and did relieve me, 
 To see this gracious season." 
 
 Nor is Lucius forgotten ; for when Cymbeline, in his exuberant 
 happiness, bids his prisoners be joyful too, "for they shall taste 
 our comfort," Imogen, as she hangs upon the breast of Posthu- 
 mus, turns smilingly to the noble Eoman with the words, " My 
 good master, I will yet do you service," and helps to relieve 
 him of his chains. They are the last she speaks ; and here I 
 might well leave her, with the picture of her in our minds which 
 Shakespeare has drawn for us in the words of her delighted 
 father : 
 
 "See, 
 
 Posthumus anchors upon Imogen ; 
 
 And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye 
 
 On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting 
 
 Each object with a joy." 
 
 Here, too, I believe, most people will prefer to leave her, as 
 Shakespeare leaves her and all around her, both good and bad, 
 happy : " Pardon's the word for all ! " But you know how, in 
 my letter on Portia, I said that I never could leave my char- 
 acters when the scene closed in upon them, but always dreamed 
 them over in my mind until their end. So it was with Imogen. 
 Her sufferings are over. The "father cruel," made so by the 
 " step-dame false," has returned to his old love and pride in her, 
 the love made doubly tender by remembrance of all that he 
 has caused her to suffer. The husband ah, what can measure 
 his penitence, his self-abasement ! That he had dared to doubt 
 her purity, her honour, he who had known her inmost thoughts 
 from childhood ! 
 
 But Imogen can she think of him as before ? Yes ! She
 
 IMOGEN. 221 
 
 is truly named the " divine Imogen " ; at least, she has so much 
 of the divine "quality of mercy" in her, that she can blot from 
 her memory all his doubts, all his want of faith, as if they had 
 never been. Her love is infinite "beyond beyond." Hers is 
 not a nature to do things by halves. She has forgotten as well 
 as forgiven. But can Posthumus forgive himself 1 No ! I be- 
 lieve, never. The more angel she proves herself in her loving 
 self-forgetfulness, the blacker his temporary delusion will look 
 in his own eyes. Imogen may surmise at times the thorns 
 which prick his conscience so sharply. Then she will quietly 
 double the tender ways in which she delights to show her love 
 and pride in him. But no spoken words will tell of this heart- 
 secret between them. 
 
 In her brothers Imogen has none but sweet and happy mem- 
 ories. These "two worlds" are an immense and unlooked-for 
 gain to her life ; they fill it with new thoughts, new sympathies. 
 She has their future to look forward to, their present to help. 
 One can see how their unsophisticated natures will go forth to 
 her ; how the tender memory of the " rare boy " Fidele will 
 give an added charm to the grace and attractiveness of the sweet 
 sister-tie; how, in their quiet hours with her, they will repeat 
 the incidents of the cave-life. Imogen will never tell them the 
 whole of her sorrow there. She fears they would not forgive 
 Posthumus. We can suppose, too, how, in this so new life to 
 them, the young princes would be for ever seeking this sweet 
 counsellor to guide them in the usages and customs of the Court 
 life, all so strange to them. Men will ask from women what 
 they would be shy of asking from one another. Think of the 
 pleasant banterings there would be at times between them ! 
 How amused Imogen would be at their mistakes in the Court 
 etiquette ! How often, laughingly, she would have to put them 
 right ; and how all these things would draw them nearer to each 
 other ! 
 
 Then, too, the old soldier Belarius, the tried retainer and 
 friend Pisanio ! What a group of loving hearts about the happy 
 princess ! Caius Lucius also, in Koine, carrying in his memory 
 tender thoughts of his once "kind, duteous" page Fidele, to- 
 gether with the admiring respect he feels for the noble Imogen,
 
 222 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Princess of Britain. And lachimo ! The time is to come when 
 his repentance will flow from a still deeper source. While at 
 the Court of Britain, he could not fail to hear of all the misery 
 which he had wrought upon the noble lovers. With his own 
 ears he heard the despair of Posthumus on learning the truth 
 his agony, his self-accusations at the thought that he had 
 taken away the life of the maligned princess. But even bitterer 
 pangs of remorse than he then felt will assail lachimo and never 
 leave him, for we find he is capable of feeling them, when 
 he learns that, before very long, the young noble life is quenched 
 through the suffering and bitter trials which his treachery had 
 brought upon it. For quenched, I believe, it is. 
 
 Happiness hides for a time injuries which are past healing. 
 The blow which was inflicted by the first sentence in that cruel 
 letter went to the heart with a too fatal force. Then followed, 
 on this crushing blow, the wandering, hopeless days and nights, 
 without shelter, without food even up to the point of famine. 
 Was this delicately nurtured creature one to go through her 
 terrible ordeal unscathed? We see that when food and shelter 
 came, they came too late. The heart-sickness was upon her : " I 
 am sick still heart-sick." Upon this follows the fearful sight 
 of, as she supposes, her husband's headless body. Well may she 
 say that she is " nothing ; or if not, nothing to be were better." 
 When happiness, even such as she had never known before, comes 
 to her, it comes, like the food and shelter, too late. 
 
 Tremblingly, gradually, and oh, how reluctantly ! the hearts 
 to whom that life is so precious will see the sweet smile which 
 greets them grow fainter, will hear the loved voice grow feebler ! 
 The wise physician Cornelius will tax his utmost skill, but he 
 will find the hurt too deep for mortal leech-craft to heal. The 
 " piece of tender air " very gently, but very surely, will fade out 
 like an exhalation of the dawn. Her loved ones will watch it 
 with straining eyes, until it 
 
 ' ' melts from 
 
 The smallness of a gnat to air ; and then 
 
 Will turn their eyes and weep. " 
 
 And when, as the years go by, their grief grows calm, that lovely 
 soul will be to them
 
 IMOGEN. 223 
 
 " like a star 
 Beaconing from the abodes where the Immortals are ; " 
 
 inspiring to worthy lives, and sustaining them with the hope 
 that where she is, they may, in God's good time, become fit to 
 he. Something of this the " divine Imogen " is to us also. Is 
 it not sol 
 
 This was my vision of Imogen when I acted her ; this is my 
 vision of her still. Ever, my dear friend, affectionately yours, 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT MARTIN. 
 
 BRYNTTSILIO, LLANGOLLEN, 
 NORTH WALES, Oct. 1882.
 
 VII. 
 ROSALIND
 
 VII. 
 KOSALIND. 
 
 BRYNTYSILIO, September 1884. 
 " But heavenly Rosalind ! " 
 
 " That gaze 
 
 Kept, and shall keep me to the end her own ! 
 She was above it but so would not sink 
 My gaze to earth." 
 
 Colombe's Birthday, Act ii. sc. 1. 
 
 MY DEAR MR BROWNING, 
 
 rpHE note in which you thanked me with so many kind words 
 for sending you my letter upon Imogen, ended with the 
 following suggestion, " And now you must give us Eosalind." I 
 would fain think you were moved to write these stimulating 
 words by some not unpleasing remembrance of the way in which, 
 to use Eosalind's own phrase, " I set her before your eyes, human 
 as she is," in the days when our kindred studies, yours as a 
 dramatist, mine as an interpreter of the drama, first drew us into 
 the communion which has ripened into a lifelong friendship. For 
 whom would I try with more alacrity to execute a task so diffi- 
 cult, yet so congenial, than for the poet whose Lucy Carlisle, whose 
 Mildred Tresham, and, last not least, whose exquisite Colombe are 
 associated with the earliest recollections of my artist life 1 
 
 With what sweet regret I look back to the time when, with
 
 228 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 other gifted men, Talfourd, Bulwer, Marston, Troughton, and 
 the rest, you made common cause with Mr Macready in raising 
 the drama of our time to a level not unworthy of the country of 
 Shakespeare ! How generously you all wrought towards this 
 end ! How warmly were your efforts seconded by the public ! 
 And yet I used the word "regret," because of the sudden end 
 which came to all our strivings, when Mr Macready threw up 
 the enterprise just when it seemed surest of success. It was 
 an evil hour for my own art, and not less evil, I venture to 
 think, for the literature of the drama. But for this mischance, 
 we might have looked to you for that fuller development of your 
 dramatic genius, which I can well believe you did not care to 
 put forth, when you were no longer sure of a combination of 
 trained actors and actresses to understand, and to make others 
 understand, the characters you had drawn. Grateful as I am for 
 what you have given to the world in many ways, I have always 
 felt how great a loss the stage has suffered from the diversion 
 into other channels of that creative dramatic power which you, 
 of all our contemporaries, seem to me pre-eminently to possess. 
 You may remember saying at a casual meeting in Hyde Park, 
 when I was expressing my love and admiration for Pompilia, 
 "Ah, if I could have had you for Pompilia, I would have 
 made the story into a drama." Your words made me very 
 happy. How gladly would I have done my best to illustrate a 
 character so finely conceived ! 
 
 "And now you must give us Eosalind." Your words lie 
 before me as I take up your letter again, after a long interval of 
 suffering, which, for nearly two years, has made writing, and 
 even continuous thought, impossible. They are my encourage- 
 ment to throw myself again into that world, so ideal yet so real, 
 in which, with Eosalind, it was my delight to sojourn, and 
 endeavour to put before you what was in my heart and my 
 imagination when I essayed to clothe her with life. Ah me ! 
 what it will be to me to enter again into that delicious dream- 
 land out of the life in death in which, for so long, I have been 
 " doomed to go in company with pain " ! 
 
 I need not tell you that, when you first saw my Eosalind, 
 " I was too young that time to value her," and could not enter
 
 ROSALIND. 229 
 
 so fully into her rich complex nature as to do justice to it. 
 This was no more possible than it would have been for Shake- 
 speare to have written, before the maturity of manhood, a play 
 so full of gentle wisdom, so catholic in its humanity, so subtle 
 in the delineation, so abounding in nicely balanced contrasts, of 
 character, so full of happy heart, so sweetly rounded into a har- 
 monious close, as As You Like It. His mind had assuredly 
 worked its way through the conflicts and perplexities of life, 
 within as well as without, and had settled into harmony with 
 itself, before this play was written. 
 
 In my first girlhood's studies of Shakespeare this play had no 
 share. Pathos, heroism, trial, suffering in these my imagina- 
 tion revelled, and my favourites were the heroines who were 
 put most sorely to the proof. Juliet, Desdemona, Cordelia, 
 Imogen, I had brooded over until they had become, as it were, 
 part of my life ; and, as you may remember, in the more modern 
 plays, in which I performed the heroines, the pathetic or tragic 
 element almost invariably predominated. When, therefore, I 
 was told by Mr Macready that he wished me to act Rosalind for 
 my benefit at the end of a season, I was terrified. I did not 
 know the words, nor had I ever seen the play performed, but 
 I had heard enough of what Mrs Jordan and others had done 
 with the character, to add fresh alarm to my misgivings. Mr 
 Macready, however, was not to be gainsaid ; so I took up my 
 Shakespeare, determined to make the best of what had to me 
 then all the aspect of a difficult and somewhat irksome task. 
 Of course I had not time to give to the entire play the study it 
 requires, if Rosalind is to be rightly understood. 
 
 The night of trial came. Partly because the audience were 
 indulgent to me in everything I did, partly, I suppose, because 
 it was my benefit night, the performance was received with en- 
 thusiasm. I went home happy, and thinking how much less 
 difficult my task had been than I had imagined. But there a 
 rude awakening met me. I was told that I had been merely 
 playing, not acting, not impersonating a great character. I had 
 not, it seemed to my friends, made out what were generally con- 
 sidered the great points in the character. True, I had gained 
 the applause of the audience, but this was to be deemed as
 
 230 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 nothing. Taken in the mass, they were as ignorant as I was, 
 perhaps more so, as probably, even in my hasty study, I had 
 become better acquainted with the play than most of them. It 
 was very necessary, I have no doubt, and wholesome for me, to 
 receive this lesson. But oh, what a pained and wounded heart 
 I took with me that night to my pillow ! I had thought that 
 upon the whole I had not been so very bad, that I had been 
 true at least to Shakespeare in my general conception, though, 
 even as I acted, I felt I had not grasped anything like the full 
 significance of the words I was uttering. Glimpses of the poet's 
 purpose I had, no doubt, for I do not think I ever altered the 
 main outlines of my first conception ; but of the infinite develop- 
 ment of which it is capable I had no idea. It was only when I 
 came to study the character minutely, and to act it frequently, 
 that its depths were revealed to me. 
 
 As I recall the incidents of this first performance, I am re- 
 minded how little the public knew of the disadvantages under 
 which, in those days, one used sometimes to be called upon to 
 play important parts. To an artist with a conscience, and a 
 reputation to lose, this was a serious affair. In much the same 
 hurried way I was originally required to act Lady Macbeth, and 
 this before the Dublin audience, which, I had been told, was 
 then in many respects more critical than that of London. After 
 the close of the Drury Lane season, in June, I acted a short en- 
 gagement in Dublin with Mr Macready. Macbeth was one of 
 his favourite parts, and to oblige the manager, Mr Calcraft, I 
 had promised to attempt Lady Macbeth ; but in the busy work 
 of each day, up to the close of the London season, I had had no 
 time to give the character any real thought or preparation. In- 
 deed the alarm I felt at the idea of presuming to go upon the 
 stage in such a character, made me put off grappling with it to 
 the last possible moment. The mere learning of the words took 
 no time. Shakespeare's words seem to fasten, without an effort, 
 upon the mind, and to live there for ever. Mr Macready at our 
 one rehearsal taught me the business of the scene, and I confided 
 to him the absolute terror I was in as the time of performance 
 drew near. He kindly encouraged me, and said, from what he 
 had seen during the rehearsal, he was sure I should get on very
 
 ROSALIND. 231 
 
 well. At night, when it was all over, he sent to my dressing-room 
 to invite me to take the call of the audience along with him. But 
 by this time the poor frightened " Lady " had changed her sleep- 
 walking dress with the extremest haste, and driven away home. 
 I was rather scolded the next day by Mr Macready, who reminded 
 me that he had asked me to remain, feeling assured the audience 
 would wish to see me. This I had quite forgotten, thinking only 
 of the joy of having got over my fearful task, and desirous of 
 running away and forgetting it as quickly as possible. 
 
 I have no remembrance of what the critics said. But Mr 
 Macready told me that my banquet and sleep-walking scenes 
 were the best. In the latter, he said, I gave the idea of sleep, 
 disturbed by fearful dreams, but still it was sleep. It was to be 
 seen even in my walk, which was heavy and unelastic, marking 
 the distinction too often overlooked between the muffled voice 
 and seeming-mechanical motion of the somnambulist, and the 
 wandering mind and quick fitful gestures of a maniac, whose 
 very violence would wake her from the deepest sleep, a criticism 
 I never forgot, always endeavouring afterwards to work upon 
 the same principle, which had come to me then by instinct. 
 Another remark of his about the sleep-walking scene I remember. 
 He said : " Oh, my child, where did you get that long-drawn 
 sigh 1 What can you know of such misery as that sigh speaks 
 of 1 ?" He also said that my first scene was very promising, 
 especially the soliloquy, also my reception of Duncan, but that 
 my after scenes with him were very tame. I had altogether 
 failed in "chastising with the valour of my tongue." 
 
 The only criticism I remember on this my first attempt in 
 Dublin, besides Mr Macready's, was that of a most highly cul- 
 tivated and dear lady friend, who said to me a day or two after- 
 wards : " My dear, I will never see you again in that terrible 
 character. I felt horror-stricken. Lear says of Cordelia, ' So 
 young and so untrue ! ' I should say of your Lady Macbeth, ' So 
 young and yet so wicked ! ' " 
 
 Her antipathy was equalled by my own. To the last time 
 of my performing the character I retained my dread of it, and to 
 such a degree, that when I was obliged to act it in the course 
 of my engagements (as others did not seem to dislike seeing me
 
 232 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 in the character so much as I disliked acting it), I invariably 
 took this play first, so as not to have it hanging over my head, 
 and thus cleared my mind for my greater favourites. Not that, 
 in the end, I disliked the character as a whole. I had no mis- 
 givings after reaching the third act, but the first two always 
 filled me with a shrinking horror. I could not but admire the 
 stern grandeur of the indomitable will which could unite itself 
 with " fate and metaphysical aid " to place the crown upon her 
 husband's brow. Something, it seemed to me, was also to be 
 said in extenuation of the eagerness with which Lady Macbeth 
 falls into his design, and urges him on to catch that crown " the 
 nearest way." If we throw our minds into the circumstances of 
 the time, we can understand the wife who would adventure so 
 much for so great a prize, though we may not sympathise with 
 her. Deeds of violence were common ; succession in the direct 
 line was often disturbed by the doctrine that " might was right " ; 
 the moral sense was not over-nice, when a great stake was to 
 be played for. Eetribution might come, or it might not; the 
 triumph for the moment was everything, and what we should 
 call, and rightly call, murder, often passed in common estima- 
 tion for an act of valour. Lady Macbeth had been brought up 
 amid such scenes, and one murder more seemed little to her. 
 But she did not know what it was to be personally implicated in 
 murder, nor foresee the Nemesis that would pursue her waking, 
 and fill her dreams with visions of the old man's blood slowly 
 trickling down before her eyes. Think, too, of her agony of 
 anxiety, on the early morning just after the murder, lest her 
 husband in his wild ravings should betray himself ; and of the 
 torture she endured while, no less to her amazement than her 
 horror, he recites to Malcolm and Donalbain, with fearful minute- 
 ness of detail, how he found Duncan lying gashed and gory in his 
 chamber ! She had faced that sight without blenching, when it 
 was essential to replace the daggers, and even to "smear the 
 sleepy grooms with blood " ; but to have the whole scene thus 
 vividly brought again before her was too great a strain upon her 
 nerves. No wonder that she faints. It was not Macbeth alone, 
 as we soon see, whose sleep was haunted by the affliction of ter- 
 rible dreams. She says nothing of them, for hers was the braver,
 
 ROSALIND. 233 
 
 more self -sustained nature of the two ; but I always felt an invol- 
 untary shudder creep over me when, in the scene before the ban- 
 quet scene, he mentions them as afflicting himself. He has no 
 thought of what she, too, is suffering ; but that a change has 
 come over her by this time is very clearly indicated by her words 
 at the beginning of the same scene (Act iii. sc. 2) : 
 
 " Nought's had, all's spent, 
 Where our desire is got without content : 
 "Tis safer to be that which we destroy, 
 Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy," 
 
 words which must never be lost sight of, pointing, as they do, 
 to the beginning of that mental unrest brought on by the re- 
 currence of images and thoughts which will not " die with them 
 they think on," and which culminates in the "slumbery agita- 
 tion " of the troubled nights that were quickly followed by her 
 death, of which, in the sleep-walking scene, we have a glimpse. 1 
 
 I acted Lady Macbeth, , for the second time, during Mr Mac- 
 ready's management at Drury Lane ; it was then also upon an 
 emergency, caused by the sudden illness of Mrs Warner, the 
 Lady Macbeth of the theatre. Not long afterwards I had to 
 take this character, among others selected for a series of per- 
 formances in Paris. This and Ophelia and Virginia I had con- 
 sented to play, to oblige Mr Mitchell of Bond Street, whose 
 enterprise it was, upon the understanding that I was to act in 
 other plays more identified with my name, which I selected. 
 When I made my engagement with Mr Mitchell, Mr Macready 
 was in America. On his return my plays were put aside by him, 
 and others of his own substituted. Mr Mitchell came to me in 
 great distress, and represented that, did I not feel for him, and 
 give in to his necessity, the whole scheme would collapse, and all 
 his labour and his expense would be thrown away. 
 
 Juliet I had only the opportunity of acting once, and that 
 was on the last night of the twelve performances. Romeo and 
 Juliet had been, with other plays, cut out of the list by Mr 
 Macready; but Mr Mitchell took it for his benefit, telling me 
 that I should at least have the chance of acting one character 
 
 1 See Appendix, p. 400.
 
 234 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 of my own selecting. That was a happy night to me, for the 
 audience went with me enthusiastically throughout the perform- 
 ance. The success, indeed, was so great, that Mr Mitchell was 
 most anxious I should renew my engagement without Mr Mac- 
 ready ; but he could not get the use of the theatre for a longer 
 period. I was told at the time that his disappointment was 
 attributable to the intervention of the Parisian actors, who ap- 
 pealed to the authorities to prevent the prolongation of the 
 English performances a piece of jealousy so unworthy, that I 
 found it hard to believe it. 1 
 
 Upon the whole, as things turned out, I had no great reason 
 to regret having yielded to Mr Mitchell's necessities. It was a 
 delight to play to audiences so refined and sympathetic, and to 
 learn, from the criticisms of such men as Victor Hugo, Alex- 
 andre Dumas, Edouard Thierry, and Jules Janin, that I had 
 carried them along with me in my treatment of characters so 
 varied. I remember well how strange they seemed to think it, 
 that the same actress should play Juliet, Ophelia, Desdemona, 
 and Lady Macbeth impressing each, as they were indulgent 
 enough to say, with characteristics so distinct and so marked, as 
 to make them forget the actress in the woman she represented. 
 
 In what they said and wrote I had some compensation for the 
 chagrin I naturally felt at being deprived by Mr Macready of the 
 opportunity of personating before a Parisian audience the char- 
 acters which were considered more peculiarly my own. Mr Mac- 
 ready was a great actor, and a distinguished man in many ways ; 
 but you will, I daresay, remember that he would never, if he 
 could help it, allow any one to stand upon the same level with 
 himself. I read once in Punch, that they supposed Mr Mac- 
 ready thought Miss Helen Faucit had a very handsome back, 
 for, when on the stage with her, he always managed that the 
 audience should see it and little else. But I must say that I 
 was never so conscious of this unfairness with him, as with his, 
 in my opinion, very inadequate successor Mr Phelps, who always 
 took his stand about two feet behind you, so that no face should 
 be seen, and no voice be distinctly heard, by the audience, but 
 his own. I remember finding this particularly unpleasant on the 
 1 See Appendix, p. 404.
 
 KOSALIND. 235 
 
 night I played Lady Macbeth at the first performance given in 
 honour of the Princess Eoyal's marriage. These performances 
 took place at Her Majesty's Theatre in the Haymarket, soon 
 afterwards burned down. The stage was the largest in London, 
 and fully one-third of it was occupied by the proscenium. I was 
 then, as was my choice after my marriage, acting very rarely, and 
 at long intervals. From want of continuous practice, therefore, 
 I was not so sure of the penetrating power of my voice, especi- 
 ally in a theatre of such unusual size. At one of the rehearsals, 
 kind Sir Julius Benedict warned me against speaking further 
 back than the proscenium. He said no voice, however powerful, 
 could be heard behind it, and that the singers invariably planted 
 themselves well in front. I mentioned this to Mr Phelps, who 
 was the Macbeth, and he seemed to agree to act upon the sugges- 
 tion. But at night, from his first entry to Lady Macbeth, he 
 took up a position far behind me, and kept it, wherever possible, 
 throughout all my scenes with him. In my subsequent experi- 
 ence with him, I found this to be his invariable practice. Tricks 
 of this sort are as foolish as they are ungenerous, and could never 
 enter the minds of those who desire to be truly artists. When 
 actors have told me, as they often have, that I was always so 
 fair to act with, I could only express my surprise ; for how can 
 you hope to represent characters faithfully unless mind is acting 
 upon mind and face meeting face, so that the words flow natur- 
 ally in answer to the thoughts you see depicted there ? 
 
 Forgive these details, which have thrust themselves in by the 
 way, and return with me to As You LiJte It. When I resolved 
 to make a thorough study of the play, I little thought how long, 
 yet how fascinating, a task I had imposed upon myself. With 
 every fresh perusal new points of interest and new charms re- 
 vealed themselves to me ; while, as for Rosalind, " she drew me 
 on to love her" with a warmth of feeling which can only be 
 understood by the artist who has found in the heroine she imper- 
 sonates that " something never to be wholly known," those sug- 
 gestions of high qualities answerable to all the contingencies or 
 trials of circumstance by which we are captivated in real life, 
 and which it is her aim and her triumph to bring home to the 
 hearts and imaginations of her audience as they have come home
 
 236 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 to her own. Often as I have played Rosalind since, I have never 
 done so without giving fresh thought to the character, nor with- 
 out finding in it something that had escaped me before. It was 
 ever, therefore, a fresh delight to bring out as best I could in 
 action what had thus flashed upon me in my hours of medita- 
 tion, and to try to make this exquisite creature as dear and fas- 
 cinating to my audience as she had become to myself. In the 
 very acting I learned much ; for if on the stage you leave your 
 mind open to what is going on around you, even an unskilful 
 actor by your side and I need not say how much more a gifted 
 one may, by a gesture or an intonation, open up something 
 fresh to your imagination. So it was I came to love Rosalind 
 with my whole heart ; and well did she repay me, for I have 
 often thought, "and have been told so of many," that in imper- 
 sonating her I was able to give full expression to what was best 
 in myself as well as in my art. 
 
 It was surely a strange perversion which, we read, assigned 
 Kosalind, as at one time it had assigned Portia, to actresses 
 whose strength lay only in comedy. Even the joyous, buoyant 
 side of her nature could hardly have justice done to it in their 
 hands ; for that is so inextricably mingled with deep womanly 
 tenderness, with an active intellect disciplined by fine culture, 
 as well as tempered by a certain native distinction, that a mere 
 comedian could not give the true tone and colouring even to her 
 playfulness and her wit. Those forest scenes between Orlando 
 and herself are not, as a comedy actress would be apt to make 
 them, merely pleasant fooling. At the core of all that Eosalind 
 says and does, lies a passionate love as pure and all-absorbing 
 as ever swayed a woman's heart. Surely it was the finest and 
 boldest of all devices, one on which only a Shakespeare could 
 have ventured, to put his heroine into such a position that she 
 could, without revealing her own secret, probe the heart of her 
 lover to the very core, and thus assure herself that the love which 
 possessed her being was as completely the master of his. Neither 
 could any but Shakespeare have so carried out this daring design, 
 that the woman thus rarely placed for gratifying the impulses of 
 her own heart, and testing the sincerity of her lover's, should 
 come triumphantly out of the ordeal, charming us, during the
 
 ROSALIND. 237 
 
 time of probation, by her wit, her fancy, by her pretty womanly 
 waywardnesses playing like summer lightning over her throbbing 
 tenderness of heart, and never in the gayest sallies of her happiest 
 moods losing one grain of our respect. Xo one can study this 
 play without seeing that, through the guise of the brilliant- 
 witted boy, Shakespeare meant the charm of the high-hearted 
 woman, strong, tender, delicate, to make itself felt. Hence it is 
 that Orlando finds the spell which "heavenly Rosalind" had 
 thrown around him, drawn hourly closer and closer, he knows 
 not how, while at the same time he has himself been winning 
 his way more and more into his mistress's heart. Thus, when 
 at last Eosalind doffs her doublet and hose, and appears arrayed 
 for her bridal, there seems nothing strange or unmeet in this 
 somewhat sudden consummation of what has been in truth a 
 lengthened wooing. The actress will, in my opinion, fail signally 
 in her task, who shall not suggest all this, who shall not leave 
 upon her audience the impression that, when Rosalind resumes 
 her state at her father's court, she will bring into it as much 
 grace and dignity, as by her bright spirits she had brought 
 of sunshine and cheerfulness into the shades of the forest of 
 Arden. 
 
 To me, As You Like It seems to be essentially as much a 
 love-poem as Romeo and Juliet, with this difference that it 
 deals with happy love, while the Veronese story deals with love 
 crossed by misadventure and crowned with death. It is as full 
 of imagination, of the glad rapture of the tender passion, of its 
 impulsiveness, its generosity, its pathos. No "hearse-like airs," 
 indeed, come wailing by, as in the tale of those " star-crossed 
 lovers," to warn us of their too early tragic " overthrow." All 
 is blended into a rich harmonious music, which makes the heart 
 throb, but never makes it ache. Still the love is not less deep, 
 less capable of proving itself strong as death ; neither are the 
 natures of Orlando and Rosalind less touched to all the fine issues 
 of that passion than those of "Juliet and her Romeo." 
 
 Is not love, indeed, the pivot on which the action of the play 
 turns love, too, at first sight ? Does it not seem that the text 
 the poet meant to illustrate was that which he puts into Phebe's 
 mouth
 
 238 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might, 
 ' Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight ? ' " 
 
 And this, too, the Phebe who but a few minutes before had 
 smiled with scorn at her suitor's warning 
 
 " If ever (as that ever may be near), 
 You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, 
 Then shall you know the wounds invisible 
 That love's keen arrows make. " 
 
 Love at first sight, like that of Juliet and Borneo, is the love of 
 Eosalind and Orlando, of Celia and Oliver, and of Phebe herself 
 for Ganymede. The two latter pairs of lovers are perhaps but 
 of little account ; but is not the might of Marlowe's saw as fully 
 exemplified in Eosalind and Orlando as in the lovers of Verona 1 
 Happily for them, and for us, there were no ancestral feuds, 
 no unsympathetic parents to step in and place a bar upon their 
 affections. Whether or not Shakespeare believed his own words 
 (A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act i. sc. 1) "The course of 
 true love never did run smooth," who may tell ? I venture to 
 think he no more held this creed than he did many of what are 
 called his opinions, which, although most apt in the mouths of 
 his characters, were never meant to be taken as universally true. 
 What, for example, can be more absurd than the too common 
 habit of quoting, as if it expressed Shakespeare's personal con- 
 viction, the phrase, " What's in a name 1 " No man, we may 
 be sure, better understood how very much there may be in a 
 name. As Juliet uses it, the phrase is apt and true. In the 
 rapture of her love it was nothing to her that Eomeo bore the 
 name of the enemy of her house. What were ancestral feuds 
 to her, who saw in him "the god of her idolatry"? "His 
 gracious self " was her all in all. What, then, was in his name ? 
 But the phrase is not only meaningless, but false, when cited, as 
 it too often is, without regard to person, place, or circumstance. 
 In any case, Shakespeare has given us in this play a supreme 
 instance in disproof of Lysander's sad axiom. The love in it 
 does run smooth all through, with no more check or difficulty 
 than serves to prove how genuine it is, and to bring two " true 
 minds " into that perfect unison which is the only right prelude to
 
 ROSALIND. 239 
 
 marriage. Circumstances, sad enough in themselves, have left 
 both the lovers untrammelled by the ties of kindred. Orlando's 
 father is dead. His elder brother defrauds him of his fortune, 
 stints him of the training due to his rank, and hates him. 
 Rosalind's father has been deposed from his dukedom while she 
 was yet in early girlhood, and she has not seen him for years. 
 She owes no allegiance to her uncle, at whose court she has been 
 detained. The wills of both lovers are thus entirely free, and, 
 by the time that each has found out what is in the other's heart, 
 the turn of events makes everything smooth for their marriage, 
 after the intermediate period of probation, which is in itself 
 happiness as nearly perfect as heart could desire. 
 
 With what skill does Shakespeare at the outset of the play 
 engage our interest for Orlando ! In vain his elder brother has 
 tried to crush in him, by neglect, and by "keeping him rusti- 
 cally at home" without the liberal culture of a gentleman, the 
 inherent nobility of his nature. His father had left him " but a 
 poor thousand crowns." Good old Sir Eowland was no doubt 
 fettered by the usage that makes eldest sons rich at the cost of 
 the younger; but he had charged Oliver "on his blessing" to 
 breed Orlando well, feeling confident that this training only was 
 wanted to enable him to carve out fortune for himself. How 
 had Oliver obeyed the charge? "You have trained me," Or- 
 lando tells him, " like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me 
 all gentlemanlike qualities." But as he has grown into manhood, 
 this state of things has become intolerable : 
 
 " The spirit of my father grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure 
 it : therefore, allow me such exercises as may become a gentleman, or give 
 me the poor allottery my father left me by testament ; with that I will go 
 buy my fortunes." 
 
 Why did Oliver treat him thus? Why was it that, as he 
 says, "he hates nothing more than he, and yet he knows not 
 why " ? Was it that Orlando had been his father's favourite, as 
 indeed he seems to have inherited the virtues of that good man 1 
 " my sweet master ! " says old Adam (Act ii. sc. 3) 
 
 " you memory 
 Of old Sir Rowland !
 
 240 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ? 
 And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ? 
 
 Your virtues, gentle master, 
 Are sanctified and holy traitors to you." 
 
 No lack of " inland nurture " was able to spoil a nature so 
 manly, in which the best instincts of "race" were paramount. 
 We picture him handsome, courteous, modest, gallant, with the 
 fresh cheek and the frank cordial eyes that speak of health, of 
 active habits, and a genial nature such as wins men's hearts. 
 Even Oliver is forced to admit that his efforts to spoil him 
 have completely failed. " He's gentle ; never schooled, and yet 
 learned ; full of noble device ; of all sorts enchantingly beloved ; 
 and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and especially of 
 my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether mis- 
 prised." 
 
 But of what avail is all this 1 Orlando has no career before 
 him ; all his powers are lying unused. He is in the saddest of 
 all plights that of a poor gentleman, full of noble aspirations, 
 and without a chance of proving that he is not of the common 
 herd. What wonder, then, that we see him dejected and out of 
 heart, or that his words should vibrate with feeling, when he 
 entreats Celia and Rosalind to forgive him for not yielding to 
 their entreaty that he will not risk his life by wrestling with 
 Charles, " the bony prizer of the humorous Duke " 1 
 
 " I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts ; wherein I con- 
 fess me much guilty, to deny so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let 
 your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial : wherein if I be 
 foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious ; if killed, but one 
 dead that is willing to be so ! I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have 
 none to lament me ; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing ; only in 
 the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made 
 it empty." 
 
 Such words in the mouth of one so young, so obviously at all 
 points a gentleman, could not fail to touch a gentlewoman's 
 heart ; and in Rosalind's case they were all the more likely to do 
 so, because in her own fortunes and her own mood at the time 
 there was much to beget in her a sympathetic feeling. The 
 world had not gone well with her, either. When her father was
 
 KOSALIND. 241 
 
 deposed she was yet a child, little likely, perhaps, to appreciate 
 the change from a princess of the reigning to a princess of the 
 dethroned house. She and her cousin Celia, the daughter of the 
 man who dispossessed her father of his throne, had been " ever 
 from their cradles bred together," and her superior charm and 
 force of character had so won upon the affections of her cousin, 
 that, as Shakespeare is at pains to tell us, through the mouth of 
 Charles the Wrestler (Act i. sc. 1), when Rosalind's father was 
 banished " Celia would have followed her exile, or have died to 
 stay behind her." The usurping Duke, whose only child Celia 
 was, would not let Rosalind go into banishment with her father, 
 for fear of the effect upon his daughter. " We stay'd her," as he 
 says to Celia, " for your sake ; else had she with her father 
 ranged along." But the beauty and gentle bearing of Rosalind, 
 as the years went on, made her dear to the people, who had 
 probably found out by this time that they had made a bad ex- 
 change in the " humorous Duke " for the amiable and accom- 
 plished ruler whom he had supplanted, just as the retainers of 
 Oliver had found that not in him, but in his youngest brother, 
 " the memory of old Sir Rowland " was perpetuated. Celia's 
 father holding his place by an uncertain tenure, and therefore 
 jealous of one who must be ever painfully reminding him of 
 his usurpation, did not fail to observe this feeling among his 
 subjects. It was dangerous to let it grow to a head ; and so we 
 see that, before the play opens, the thought had been present to 
 his mind that Rosalind must stay no longer at his court. As he 
 tells his daughter 
 
 " Her very silence, and her patience, 
 Speak to the people, and they pity her." 
 
 To a mind like his, full of misgiving as to his own position, the 
 observation of this fact must have been an hourly torment. But 
 the old difficulty, the affection between Rosalind and his child, 
 was by this time increased rather than diminished. " Never two 
 ladies loved as they do," says Charles ; " Their loves," says Le 
 Beau, " are dearer than the natural love of sisters," both speak- 
 ing the common voice of the people. And how united were their 
 lives, we learn from Celia herself 
 Q
 
 242 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " We still have slept together, 
 Hose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, ate together ; 
 And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, 
 Still we went coupled and inseparable. " 
 
 But her father's feeling of distrust had of late been growing 
 into one of antipathy. Le Beau, a shrewd observer in spite of all 
 his courtierly manner, and with a good heart, which the selfish 
 habits of a court life have not wholly spoiled, sees pretty clearly 
 the fate that is hanging over liosalind : 
 
 " Of late this duke 
 
 Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece, 
 Grounded upon no other argument 
 But that the people praise her for her virtues, 
 And pity her for her good father's sake ; 
 And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady 
 Will suddenly break forth." 
 
 What the courtly Le Beau had so plainly seen to be the state of 
 the Duke's mind was not likely to have escaped Eosalind's quick 
 sensitive nature. She feels the cloud of her uncle's displeasure 
 hanging over her, and ready to burst at any moment. She will 
 not pain Celia with her forebodings, who is so far from surmising 
 the truth, that the first lines she speaks are a gentle reproach to 
 Eosalind for her want of gaiety ; to which Eosalind replies, " I 
 show more mirth than I am mistress of ; and would you yet I 
 were merrier 1 " Then, throwing the blame of her present trouble 
 upon an old sorrow, she adds : " Unless you could teach me to 
 forget a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember 
 any extraordinary pleasure." From Celia's reply, it is obvious 
 she has no idea that Eosalind has fallen out of favour with the 
 usurping Duke. " If my uncle, thy banished father, had ban- 
 ished thy uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still 
 with me, I could have taught my love to take thy father for 
 mine." Too well Eosalind knows that the obstacle to this pretty 
 proposal lies not with herself, but with Celia's father. Still she 
 will hide from Celia the trouble she sees looming for herself in 
 the not far distance. She will not show her "the darks un- 
 dream'd of" into which their pleasant sisterly life is running. 
 Why "forestall her date of grief"? Why throw a shade over
 
 ROSALIND. 243 
 
 her cousin's happy spirit, or refuse anything to one so generous 
 in her assurance, that she will atone for the wrong done by her 
 father to Eosalind, given in such words as these ? 
 
 " You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to have : and, 
 truly, when he dies, thou shalt be his heir ; for what he hath taken away 
 from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection ; by mine 
 honour I will ; and when I break that oath, let me turn monster : there- 
 fore, my sweet Rose, my dear Rose, be merry." 
 
 A sad smile breaks over Eosalind's face as she replies, " From 
 henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports." "Let me see," she 
 adds, little dreaming how near was the reality, " what think 
 you of falling in love 1 " To which Celia rejoins, " Marry, pr'y- 
 thee, do, to make sport withal : but love no man in good earnest ; 
 nor no farther in sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush 
 thou mayst in honour come off again." And so these loving 
 cousins prattle on brightly upon the lawn before the ducal palace, 
 where presently an incident occurs which is to change the cur- 
 rent of their lives. They have just heard from Le Beau of the 
 murderous triumphs of the wrestler Charles, and would fain have 
 escaped from seeing a repetition of his " rib-breaking." But be- 
 fore they can get away, the Duke arrives with his suite upon 
 the ground to see the contest to which Orlando has challenged 
 Charles, with a determination, very clearly shown, to lower the 
 tone of that professional braggart, if skill and good heart can 
 do it. 
 
 At once the attention of the ladies is riveted by Orlando's ap- 
 pearance. " Is yonder the man ? " are the words that break from 
 Eosalind. " Alas," exclaims her cousin, " he is too young ! yet 
 he looks successfully." The Duke, judging from his looks that 
 the odds are all against the young fellow, tells the ladies they 
 will take little delight in the wrestling, and urges them to try to 
 dissuade him from persevering in his challenge. Celia, as the 
 reigning Duke's daughter, and also because she is probably not 
 so much moved as her cousin, does most of the talking ; but not 
 a word, either of her entreaties or of Orlando's refusal, escapes 
 Eosalind. Sho could not but respect a resolution so manly, yet 
 so modestly expressed, however she may fear the issue. Or-
 
 244 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 lando's heart must have leapt within him when she says, " The 
 little strength that I have, I would it were with you. Fare you 
 well. Pray heaven, I be deceived in you ! " Deceived she shall 
 be, he is determined, for her words have given to his sinews the 
 strength of steel. 
 
 No thought now of leaving the ground. The ladies will see 
 the fate of the young hero, and "rain influence" on him with 
 their bright eyes. The wrestling begins 
 
 " Ros. excellent young man ! 
 Cd. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down." 
 
 Charles is thrown by Orlando, and carried off insensible. And 
 now they are to learn who the young hero is. In answer to the 
 Duke, he tells his name, adding that he is the youngest son of 
 Sir Rowland de Bois. Here is the link between Rosalind and 
 Orlando. Sir Eowland has been loyal to the banished Duke a 
 sin the usurper cannot pardon in the son. 
 
 " The world esteemed thy father honourable, 
 But I did find him still mine enemy. 
 . . . Thou art a gallant youth : 
 I would thou hadst told me of another father. " 
 
 Celia's heart revolts at this injustice. Turning to Eosalind, she 
 says 
 
 " Were I my father, coz, would I do this ? " 
 
 And what says Eosalind 1 
 
 " My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul, 
 And all the world was of my father's mind : 
 Had I before known this young man his son, 
 I should have given him tears unto entreaties, 
 Ere he should thus have ventured." 
 
 She needs not the prompting of her cousin to "go thank him 
 and encourage him"; but while Celia finds ready words, Eosa- 
 lind's deeper emotion suggests to her a stronger token of the ad- 
 miration he has roused. She has taken a chain from her neck, 
 and stealthily kissing it at least I always used to do so she 
 gives it to Orlando, saying :
 
 ROSALIND 245 
 
 "Gentleman, 
 
 Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, 
 That could give more, but that her hand lacks means." 
 
 Here she pauses, naturally expecting some acknowledgment from 
 Orlando ; but finding none come, and not knowing how to break 
 off an interview which has kindled a strange emotion within her, 
 she adds, " Shall we go, coz ? " Celia, heart-whole as she is, has 
 no such difficulty. "Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman," she 
 says, and turns away. Eosalind is going with her. Meanwhile 
 Orlando, overcome by a new feeling, finds himself spell-bound. 
 
 " Orl. Can I not say I thank you ? My better parts 
 Are all thrown down ; and that which here stands up 
 Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block." 
 
 It cannot be that he should let them go thus without a word of 
 thanks ! Eosalind at least will not think so. What he mutters 
 faintly to himself must surely have been meant for them. 
 
 " Ros. He calls us back : my pride fell with my fortunes ; 
 I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir ? " 
 
 But his heart is too full, his tongue too heavily weighted by 
 passion, to find vent in words. His action is constrained. He 
 bows but makes no answering sign, and with trembling lips she 
 continues : 
 
 " Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
 More than your enemies." 
 
 This "more than your enemies" is very significant, and speaks 
 plainly enough, though spoken as it would be with great reserve 
 of manner, of the favourable impression which the young wrestler 
 has made upon her. We may be sure that, but for his modest 
 demeanour, Rosalind would not have allowed herself to confess 
 so much. 
 
 Celia amused, and disposed to rally her cousin about what 
 looks to her rather more than " falling in love in sport," accosts 
 Rosalind mockingly in the phrase she has used but a few mo- 
 ments before, " Will you go, coz ? " " Have with you," Rosalind 
 rejoins, quite understanding the roguish sparkle in her cousin's
 
 246 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 eyes, but not deterred by it from giving to Orlando as she goes 
 an earnest " Fare you well ! " But she is still slow to leave, 
 hoping and longing for some words from his lips addressed to 
 herself. When Celia takes her hand and is leading her away, 
 Celia bows slightly to Orlando; but Eosalind in a royal and 
 gentle manner curtseys to him, wishing to show her respect for 
 the memory of his father, the dear friend of her father, and also 
 her sympathy with his fortunes. These she can give him, if 
 nothing else. 
 
 This scene, you will agree, needs most delicate touching in the 
 actress. Eosalind has not much to say, but she has to make her 
 audience feel by subtle indications the revolution that is going 
 on in her heart from the moment her eyes fall upon her future 
 lover, down to the parting glance with which her lingering fare- 
 well is accompanied. It is Juliet in the ball-room, but under 
 conditions that demand a far greater variety of expression. There 
 is no avowal of love ; but when she leaves the stage, the audience 
 must have been made to feel that in her case, as in Juliet's, her 
 heart has made its choice, and that a change has come over her 
 akin to that which has come over Orlando. Only when she is 
 gone can he find words to tell it. 
 
 " What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue ? 
 I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. 
 poor Orlando, thou art overthrown ; 
 Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee." 
 
 He is in this state of strange bewildered delight when Le Beau, 
 whom I like very much, and who, I am sure, was a favourite 
 with Rosalind, returns, and warns him not to linger near the 
 court. The sympathy of the bystanders for the brave young 
 fellow has alarmed the Duke, and Le Beau's keen eyes have seen 
 signs that bode no good to Sir Rowland's son. 
 
 " Such is now the Duke's condition," 
 he teUs Orlando, 
 
 " That he misconstrues all that you have done ; " 
 
 adding, with a nice sense that a certain reticence is becoming in 
 himself as a member of the ducal court,
 
 ROSALIND. 247 
 
 " The Duke is humorous : what he is, indeed, 
 More suits you to conceive than me to speak of." 
 
 Orlando is in no mood to think much about his own safety. 
 Besides, what is the court to him t The all-important thing in 
 his eyes is to know which of the two gracious ladies " that here 
 were at the wrestling " is daughter of the Duke 1 He has lived 
 near the court, and must have often heard the names of the 
 two princesses. When, therefore, Le Beau replies, "The shorter 
 is his daughter," he knows that the name of the daughter of 
 the banished Duke, who left her chain with him, is Eosalind. 
 Only after he is satisfied of this does he bethink him of what 
 danger may await him. 
 
 " Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ; 
 From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother." 
 
 But come what may, one image, we see, will be ever present 
 with him, that of "heavenly Eosalind." 
 
 When soon after we see her with her cousin, it is no secret 
 between them that the sweet poison of love is working no less 
 strongly in her. She is surprised at herself, she tells us, because 
 she finds herself unable to resist it. How charmingly is this 
 brought before us ! 
 
 ' ' Gel. Why, cousin ; why, Rosalind ; Cupid have mercy ! Not a word ? 
 Ros. Not one to throw at a dog. 
 
 Gel. But is all this for your father ? 
 
 Ros. No ; some of it is for my father's child. 
 
 Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. 
 
 Ros. Oh, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself ! 
 
 Gel. Oh, a good wish upon you ! ... Is it possible, on such a sudden, 
 you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son ? 
 
 Ros. The duke my father lov'd his father dearly. 
 
 Cd. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly ? By 
 this kind of chase, I should hate him, for my father hated his father dearly ; 
 yet I hate not Orlando. 
 
 Ros. No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake. 
 
 Cd. Why should I not ? Doth he not deserve well ? 
 
 Ros. Let me love him for that ; and do you love him because I do. " 
 
 But now the storm bursts, of which Eosalind had lived for
 
 248 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 some time in apprehension. The Duke enters, his "eyes full 
 of anger," and his "rough and envious disposition" vents its 
 long-pent-up jealousy upon her in the cruel words 
 
 " Within these ten days, if that thou be'st found 
 So near our public court as twenty miles, 
 Thou diest for it." 
 
 At this sentence the spirit of the princess must have grown 
 warm within her. She knows her uncle too well to think of 
 remonstrance. But what has she done to justify or to provoke 
 this sudden outburst of his wrath? Still she controls herself, 
 and asks in a tone of entreaty 
 
 " I do beseech your grace, 
 
 Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me ; 
 If with myself I hold intelligence, 
 Or have acquaintance with mine own desires ; 
 If that I do not dream, or be not frantic 
 (As I do trust I am not), then, dear uncle, 
 Never so much as in a thought unborn 
 Did I offend your highness." 
 
 His reply, "Thus do all traitors," &c., rouses the royal blood 
 within her ; gentleness gives place to righteous remonstrance : 
 
 " Your mistrust cannot make me a traitor : 
 Tell me whereon the likelihood depends ? " 
 
 His reply 
 
 " Thou art thy father's daughter ; there's enough" 
 
 brings the instant answer, in which years of silent endurance 
 find a voice. She can bear any reproach to herself, but her 
 loyalty to her father gives pungency to her answer : 
 
 " So was I when your highness took his dukedom ; 
 So was I when your highness banish'd him. 
 Treason is not inherited, my lord ; 
 Or, if we did derive it from our friends, 
 What's that to me ? My father was no traitor." 
 
 In speaking this I could never help laying a slight emphasis on 
 the last words. For what but a traitor had the Duke himself 
 been 1 The sarcasm strikes home ; but, recovering herself a 
 little for Celia's sake, she adds more gently
 
 ROSALIND. 249 
 
 " Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much, 
 To think my poverty is treacherous." 
 
 In vain Celia tries to shake her father's resolution, telling him 
 that, when first he had kept back her cousin to be her com- 
 panion 
 
 " I was too young that time to value her ; 
 
 But now I know her : if she be a traitor, 
 
 Why so am I." 
 
 Celia heeds not her father when he replies that she suffers in 
 general estimation by the presence of Eosalind: 
 
 ' ' She robs thee of thy name ; 
 
 And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous 
 When she is gone ! " 
 
 And when he renews his doom of banishment, she proves, by 
 her reply, that the yearning of the child had become the fixed 
 resolution of the woman : 
 
 1 ' Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege ; 
 I cannot live out of her company." 
 
 The angry tyrant, thinking these to be but idle words, and un- 
 able to conceive a friendship of this exalted strain, breaks away, 
 saying 
 
 " You are a fool. You, niece, provide yourself : 
 If you outstay the time, upon my honour, 
 And in the greatness of my word, you die." 
 
 Then comes a passage, than which what prettier picture of more 
 than sisterly devotion was ever painted 1 
 
 " Gel. my poor Rosalind ! whither wilt thou go ? 
 Wilt thou change fathers ? I will give thee mine. 
 I charge thee, be not thou more griev'd than I am. 
 
 Ros. I have more cause. 
 
 Cel. Thou hast not, cousin : 
 
 Pr'ythee, be cheerful. Know'st thou not, the Duke 
 Hath banish'd me, his daughter ? 
 
 Ros. That he hath not 
 
 Cel. No ? hath not ? Rosalind lacks, then, the love 
 Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one. 
 Shall we be sunder'd ? Shall we part, sweet girl 
 No : let my father seek another heir.
 
 250 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Therefore devise with me how we may fly, 
 Whither to go, and what to bear with us : 
 And do not seek to take your change upon you, 
 To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out ; 
 For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale, 
 Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee." 
 
 Rosalind, touched to the heart, and feeling that she also could 
 not live without Celia, accepts the generous offer without remon- 
 strance. It told that Celia's love, never very deep for such a 
 father, had been so completely alienated by his injustice to her 
 cousin, as well as by his late ungenerous treatment of Orlando, 
 that to have remained behind, subject to his " rough and envious 
 disposition," would have been misery. When Eosalind, half 
 desponclingly, says 
 
 " Why, whither shall we go ? " 
 her cousin's ready answer 
 
 " To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden." 
 
 opens up, we may conceive, a delightful vision of freedom and 
 independence. But then the danger to them 
 
 " Maids as we are, to travel forth so far ! " 
 Celia is ready with her plan : 
 
 " I'll put myself in poor and mean attire, 
 The like do you : so shall we pass along, 
 And never stir assailants." 
 
 Rosalind was not likely to be behind her friend in courage. 
 Besides, is not Celia sacrificing all for her, and has she not, 
 therefore, a claim upon her for protection? ?So she betters 
 Celia's suggestion : 
 
 " Were it not better, 
 Because that I am more than common tall," 
 
 (How glad I always felt that in this respect, at least, I was akin 
 to the poet's Rosalind !) 
 
 "That I did suit me all points like a man ! " 
 Her fancy quickens at the thought, and with that fine buoyancy
 
 ROSALIND. 251 
 
 of spirit, and play of graceful humour, of which we are anon to 
 see so much, she goes on to complete the picture : 
 
 "A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, 
 A boar-spear in my hand ; and (in my heart 
 Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will) 
 We'll have a swashing and a martial outside ; 
 As many other mannish cowards have, 
 That do outface it with their semblances." 
 
 Celia enters with delight into the idea : 
 
 " Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man ! 
 Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jovs's own page ; 
 And therefore look you call me Ganymede. 
 But what will you be call'd ? " 
 
 Aliena, Celia says, shall be her name, as having "reference to 
 her state " ; and now they have grown so happy at the thought 
 of escaping from the trouble which seemed so terrible at first, 
 that they can jest and play with the anticipation of the life 
 before them. Touchstone, the court fool, shall be their com- 
 panion 
 
 " He'll go along o'er the wide world with me ; " 
 
 says Celia. He will be both a comfort and a protection; and 
 so with happy hearts they set about getting their "jewels and 
 their wealth together " for the enterprise, which is to lead them 
 
 " To liberty, and not to banishment." 
 
 While things have thus come to an extremity with his 
 "heavenly Eosalind," a similar fate is overtaking Orlando. 
 His brother, foiled in the hope that he would be killed by 
 Charles, is determined to get rid of him by more desperate 
 means. This Orlando learns from Adam, that ideal pattern of 
 an old retainer, made doubly dear to us by the tradition that 
 this was one of the characters which Shakespeare himself de- 
 lighted to impersonate. You remember, doubtless, Coleridge's 
 words, as reported by Mr Payne Collier: "Great dramatists 
 make great actors. But, looking at Shakespeare merely as a 
 performer, I am certain that he was greater as Adam in As You 
 Like It, than Burbage as Hamlet or Eichard the Third. Think
 
 252 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 of the scene between him and Orlando, and think again that 
 the actor of that part had to carry the author of it in his 
 arms ! Think of having had Shakespeare in one's arms ! It 
 is worth having died two hundred years ago to have heard 
 Shakespeare deliver a single line. He must have been a great 
 actor." I love to think so. Especially does my fancy gladly 
 picture him in this scene, and find in doing so a richer music 
 in the exquisite cadences of the lines in which the devotion and 
 humble piety of that "good old man" are couched. Through 
 his lips we learn, how worthy in all ways to be loved is Orlando 
 a matter of first importance in one who is to be beloved by 
 such a woman as Eosalind. The devotion of Celia to the 
 heroine of the play also finds its counterpart in that of Adam 
 to the hero and the plot derives a fresh interest from the 
 introduction of a character, not only charming in itself, but 
 most skilfully used, both in this scene and the few others in 
 which he appears, to heighten the favourable impression of 
 Orlando's character created by his demeanour in the earlier 
 scenes. The savings of Adam's life enable the old man and 
 his young master to seek better fortunes elsewhere, in hopes to 
 light "upon some settled low content." And so they, too, go 
 forth, to reappear in that wondrous forest of Arden. 
 
 Of the little world there we are given a delightful glimpse, 
 before either Celia and Eosalind, or Orlando and Adam, become 
 its denizens. The second act opens in it, and shows us in 
 Eosalind's father, the banished Duke, a character widely dif- 
 ferent from her own, with none of her vivacity or force, though 
 with something of her sweetness of disposition. Like Prospero, 
 a scholarly man, his retiring and unostentatious habits have, as 
 in Prospero's case, given scope for an ambitious brother to rob 
 him of his kingdom. Like Prospero, too, in this, " so dear the 
 love his people bore him," they would not have endured any 
 attempt upon his life, so that the worst his brother dared had 
 been to banish him. To one who had, again like Prospero, 
 " neglected worldly aids," dedicating the time, which ought more 
 fitly to have been devoted to the duties of government, "to 
 closeness, and the bettering of his mind," banishment has obvi- 
 ously been no great privation. Custom very soon has made
 
 ROSALIND. 253 
 
 the rough forest life "more sweet than that of painted pomp." 
 Adversity has given him clearer views of men, and taught him 
 more of his own heart, than he could have ever learned in " the 
 envious court." His calm, meditative mind discovers in the 
 scenes around him delightful incidents, reminding him by con- 
 trast of the turmoil and perils of his former state. He 
 
 " Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in everything," 
 
 and has in fact translated 
 
 " The stubbornness of fortune 
 Into so quiet and so sweet a style," 
 
 that any regrets for his lost wealth and honours are to all 
 appearance dead. Unlike Prospero, he shows no bitterness 
 against his usurping brother, and has no yearnings for the 
 power of which he has been despoiled. The easy dreamy life 
 of the woods suits his languid temperament. He likes nothing 
 better than an argument with Jaques, whose cynical views of 
 life excite and amuse him, though he has no sympathy with 
 them. Amiable, but weak, separation from his daughter does 
 not seem to have cost him much regret. He believes she is 
 happy where he has left her, in the position and with the sur- 
 roundings that become her birth, and which, in his banish- 
 ment, he could not give her. And she, on the other hand, is 
 no doubt aware that her presence is by no means essential to 
 his happiness. Thus she has no temptation to make herself 
 known to him, when they meet casually in the forest, and when 
 to have done so would have broken up the sweet masking 
 intercourse with her lover, in which she was by that time 
 involved. 
 
 When we first see Rosalind on the outskirts of the forest, 
 wayworn and weary, we have scarce time to note how she tries 
 to forget her own fatigue, and to comfort " the weaker vessel," 
 her still more weary cousin, " as doublet and hose ought to show 
 itself courageous to petticoat." Her thoughts, and ours, are 
 soon carried off in another direction by the dialogue between 
 the shepherd Corin and the young Silvius, in whose passion for
 
 254 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 the shepherdess Phebe Eosalind finds the counterpart to her 
 own haunting dreams about Orlando. Something of what these 
 have been her words show: "Alas, poor shepherd ! searching of 
 thy wound, I have by hard adventure found mine own." In 
 this train of thought Eosalind for the moment forgets weariness 
 and hunger ; but Celia, " faint almost to death," has to be 
 thought for. Corin comes to their help, and puts them in the 
 way of buying that cottage " by the tuft of olives " on the 
 skirts of the forest, to which lovers of this play will always in 
 their day-dreams find their way, leaving to the right " the rank 
 of osiers, by the murmuring stream," that mingled its music 
 with the songs of the birds and the rustling of the forest-leaves. 
 In this delightful retreat one loves to picture these two 
 charming women in the full enjoyment of their new-born 
 liberty, made more piquant by their little secret and by Rosa- 
 lind's masquerading attire. For all her mannish dress and airs, 
 there was, of course, something of a feminine character about 
 the youth. "The boy is fair, of female favour," we are told 
 later on, and, by contrast with Celia, "bestows himself like 
 a ripe sister;" while Celia is "low, and browner than her 
 brother." Again, Rosalind's picture is drawn for us by Phebe, 
 and what a picture it is ! 
 
 " It is a pretty youth : not very pretty : 
 But, sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes him : 
 He'll make a proper man : the best thing in him 
 Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue 
 Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. 
 He is not tall ; yet for his years he's tall : 
 His leg is but so-so ; and yet 'tis well : 
 There was a pretty redness in his lip ; 
 A little riper and more lusty red 
 
 Than that mixed in his cheek ; 'twas just the difference 
 Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask." 
 
 This is as she appeared to the rustic Phebe. Orlando, however, 
 has seen something finer and nobler in his " heavenly " Rosalind 
 during their brief meeting at the court. And naturally so, for 
 she is then a lovely woman, and in a woman's flowing dress her 
 height and carriage would make her look fairer and more majestic. 
 So he ascribes to her
 
 KOSALIND. 255 
 
 " Helen's cheek, but not her heart ; 
 
 Cleopatra's majesty ; 
 Atalanta's better part ; 
 Sad Lucretia's modesty." 
 
 Add to this fine health, fine spirits, a vivid fancy, the courage 
 of a pure heart and a frank generous nature, together with a 
 voice rich, melodious, resonant, clear, that filled the air and left 
 its tones lingering there, and the picture will be complete. 
 
 To a nature such as hers, the woodland life must have given 
 exquisite pleasure. In her rambles a vision of the young Orlando 
 would often mingle with her thoughts, and not unpleasantly. 
 His forlorn position, so like her own, his bravery, his modesty, 
 had made a deep impression on her, and yet this impression was 
 one which she must have felt it would be foolish to cherish. 
 They were now separated in such a way that their paths were 
 not likely again to cross each other. Their worlds were different. 
 Her heart's fancy must therefore be put aside, forgotten. How 
 long this inward struggle has been going on, Shakespeare does 
 not tell us it could not have been very long, for Orlando must 
 have reached the glades of Arden soon after she did, when 
 roaming through the forest, she comes across a copy of verses 
 hung (delightful defiance of local truth ! ) upon a palm-tree. 
 Think of the throb at her heart, as she reads her own name 
 running through every couplet ! Still there are many Eosalinds 
 in the world ; and how should he, of whom she has been 
 dreaming, even know her name, or how should he, of all men, 
 be there in Arden 1 ~No, no, it must be mere coincidence ; and 
 yet the pulse is quickened, the heart-throb felt. Presently she 
 sees Celia coming through the wood, and she, too, is reading 
 verses in praise of this unknown Eosalind. Although she has 
 listened to every word with panting eagerness, Eosalind affects 
 indifference, taxing Celia with inflicting upon her hearers " a 
 tedious homily of love." Before Celia answers, she sends Touch- 
 stone away, for she has just seen the author of this homily , and 
 knows enough of her cousin's heart to be sure that her tone will 
 alter the moment she learns who it is, and may thus betray her 
 secret to the sharp eyes of "the roynish fool." Untouched by 
 love herself, and so seeing only the humorous side of the passion,
 
 256 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Celia begins by tantalising Rosalind with the question, " Trow 
 you who hath done this 1 " With the same air of affected in- 
 difference Rosalind replies, "Is it a man?" and at first thinks 
 Celia is only teasing her, when she rejoins, "And a chain, that 
 you once wore, about his neck 1 " The tell-tale blood now rushes 
 to Rosalind's cheek, as she exclaims, " I pr'ythee, who 1 " It 
 may be Orlando then after all, and yet how should it be 1 ? Is 
 Celia merely mocking her 1 ? "Nay, I pray thee now, with most 
 petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is." Celia, unconscious of 
 the torture of suspense in which she is keeping her cousin, parries 
 all her questions. At last, after what seems to Rosalind an age, 
 she owns that " It is young Orlando, that tripp'd up the wrestler's 
 heels, and your heart, both in an instant." Rosalind will not 
 believe her, but thinks her still mocking. "Nay," she says, 
 " speak sad brow, and true maid." When Celia replies, " I' faith, 
 coz, 'tis he ! " not even yet can such happiness be believed. 
 Again the question must be asked " Orlando 1 " The name we 
 see by this had been often spoken between them. " Orlando ! " 
 Celia answers, and this time gravely, for Rosalind's emotion shows 
 her this is no jesting matter. 
 
 Oh happiness beyond belief, oh rapture irrepressible ! The 
 tears at this point always welled up to my eyes, and my whole 
 body trembled. If before Rosalind had any doubt as to the state 
 of her own heart, from this moment the doubt must have ended. 
 Overwhelmed as she is at the bare idea of Orlando's being near, 
 the thought flashes upon her " Alas the day ! what shall I do 
 with my doublet and hose 1 " but Celia has seen him he perhaps 
 has seen Celia and that perplexing thought is put aside in her 
 eagerness to learn full particulars about her lover. 
 
 ' ' What did he, when thou saw'st him ? What said he ? How look'd he ? 
 Wherein went he ? What makes he here ? Did he ask for me ? Where 
 remains he ? How parted he with thee ? and when shalt thou see him 
 again ? " 
 
 These questions, all different, all equally to the purpose, huddled 
 with breathless eagerness one upon another, yet each with differ- 
 ent meaning and urged with varying intonation, must all so 
 ravenous is her curiosity be answered "in one word." Well
 
 ROSALIND. 257 
 
 may Celia reply that she must borrow for her Gargantua's mouth 
 first, for " to say ay, and no, to these particulars, is more than to 
 answer in a catechism." But Rosalind's questions are not even 
 yet exhausted. She must learn whether Orlando knows that she 
 is in the forest, and in man's apparel 1 And then comes, to sum 
 up all, the sweet little womanly question, "Looks he as freshly 
 as he did the day he wrestled ? " After some further banter as 
 to the general unreasonableness of lovers, Celia mentions that she 
 saw him under a tree, where he lay " stretched along," evidently 
 having no eyes for her or any one, " like a wounded knight. He 
 was furnished like a hunter." 
 
 " JRos. ominous ! he comes to kill my heart. 
 
 Cel. I would sing my song without a burden : thou bring'st me out of 
 tune. 
 
 Ros. Do you not know I am a woman ? when I think, I must speak. 
 Sweet, say on." 
 
 At this moment Orlando is seen approaching with Jaqu.es 
 through the trees. A glance assures Rosalind that it is indeed 
 he ; but now the woman's natural shyness at being discovered in 
 so strange a dress comes over her. " Slink by and note him," 
 she says; and withdrawing along with Celia to a point where 
 she may see and not be seen, she listens, with what delight we 
 may conceive, to the colloquy in which her lover more than 
 holds his own, when the misanthrope Jaques rallies him on being 
 in love, and marring the forest-trees " with writing love-songs in 
 their barks." On the assurance given by Orlando's answers that 
 she is the very Rosalind of these songs, her heart leaps with 
 delight. Not for the world would she have Orlando recognise 
 her in her unmaidenly disguise ; but now a sudden impulse 
 determines her to risk all, and even to turn it to account as the 
 means of testing his love. Boldness must be her friend, and to 
 avert his suspicion, her only course is to put on a " swashing and 
 a martial outside," and to speak to him " like a saucy lacquey, 
 and under that habit play the knave with him." He must not 
 be allowed for an instant to surmise the " hidden woman's fear " 
 that lies in her heart. Besides, it is only by resort to a rough 
 and saucy greeting and manner that she could mask and keep 
 under the trembling of her voice, and the womanly tremor of 
 R
 
 258 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 her limbs. I always give the "Do you hear, forester?" with a 
 defiant air, as much as to say, What are you doing here, you, a 
 stranger, intruding in the forest on those who are "natives of 
 the place"? With such a swagger, too, that Orlando feels 
 inclined, "at first, to turn round sharply upon the boy, as he had 
 just done upon the cynical Jaques. But despite this swagger, 
 verging almost upon insolence, Orlando at once feels something 
 that interests him in the "pretty youth," for as he afterwards 
 tells her father 
 
 " My lord, the first time that I ever saw him, 
 Methought he was a brother to your daughter." 
 
 Once fairly launched on her delicate venture, Eosalind does not 
 give Orlando time to examine her appearance too closely, or to 
 question himself wherein this attraction lies. She engages him 
 in brilliant talk of a kind such as he had never before heard, but 
 which his natural aptitude and shrewdness enable him thoroughly 
 to appreciate. 
 
 How witty it all is, and how directly bearing upon the topic of 
 his love, of which she wishes to bring him to speak more ! 
 
 "Ros. I pray you, what is't o'clock ? 
 
 Orl. You should ask me what time o' day ; there's no clock in the forest. 
 
 Ros. Then there is no true lover in the forest ; else sighing every minute, 
 and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a 
 clock. 
 
 Orl. And why not the swift foot of Time ? Had not that been as proper ? 
 
 Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. 
 I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gal- 
 lops withal, and who he stands still withal. 
 
 Orl. I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal ? 
 
 Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the contract of 
 her marriage and the day it is solemnised. If the interim be but a se'n- 
 night, Time's pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years. 
 
 Orl. Who ambles Time withal ? 
 
 Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not the 
 gout ; for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study and the other lives 
 merrily because he feels no pain. . . . These Time ambles withal. 
 
 Orl. Who doth he gallop withal ? 
 
 Ros. With a thief to the gallows ; for though he go as softly as foot can 
 fall, he finds himself too soon there. 
 
 Orl. Who stays it still withal ? 
 
 Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they sleep between term and term, 
 and then they perceive not how Time moves. "
 
 KOSALIND. 259 
 
 Strange that one who gives himself out as forest-born, "as 
 the coney that you see dwell where she is kindled," should 
 possess so much knowledge of the world, so much fluency and 
 polish of expression. But when Orlando gives vent to his sur- 
 prise, by telling Ganymede that his " accent is something finer " 
 than was to be purchased in so " removed a dwelling," Rosalind, 
 after scarcely an instant's pause, is ready with her answer : " I 
 have been told so of many; but, indeed, an old religious uncle 
 of mine taught me to speak." She cannot, however, keep off 
 the theme that is uppermost in her heart, as it is in Orlando's, 
 so she continues, " one that knew courtship too well, for there 
 he fell in love." And then, to throw Orlando off the scent of 
 her being otherwise than the boy she seems, she adds : " I have 
 heard him read many lectures against it ; and I thank Heaven 
 I am not a woman to be touched with so many giddy offences 
 as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal." By this 
 time Orlando's attention is thoroughly arrested. The note has 
 been touched that is all music for him Woman. For him at 
 that moment there was but one in the world, and what "giddy 
 offence " could be truly laid to her charge 1 He will learn, how- 
 ever, if he can, some of the "principal evils" imputed to her 
 sex. When Rosalind replies with witty promptitude, " There 
 were none principal ; they were all like one another as half- 
 pence are : every one fault seeming monstrous, till its fellow 
 fault came to match it," he entreats her to recount some of 
 them. What an opening here for her to put her lover to the 
 test, to hear him say all that a woman most longs to hear from 
 him she loves, while he is all the while ignorant that he is laying 
 bare his heart before her ! 
 
 " No," she rejoins, " I will not cast away my physic, but upon those that 
 are sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants 
 with carving ' Rosalind ' on their barks " (she has just heard Jaques say 
 he did so, but obviously says this merely upon his report), "hangs odes 
 upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles : all, forsooth, deifying the name 
 of Rosalind : if I could meet that fancy -monger, I would give him some good 
 counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of love upon him." 
 
 Poor Orlando, racked by what he believes to be a hopeless 
 passion, would fain be helped to overcome the love-sickness
 
 260 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 that consumes him. With what secret joy Eosalind hears his 
 avowal ! " I am he that is so love-shaked ; I pray you, tell me 
 your remedy." But she is determined he shall say as much 
 again and again for what words are so sweet to her ear 1 and 
 so she affects to disbelieve him, telling him he has none of her 
 uncle's marks upon him, the lean cheek, the blue eye and 
 sunken, the beard neglected, the hose ungartered, the bonnet 
 unhanded, the sleeve unbuttoned, the general air of "careless 
 desolation," which are supposed to denote the man in love. 
 " But you are no such man ; you are rather point-device in 
 your accoutrements ; as loving yourself rather than seeming 
 the lover of any other." His earnest protest, "Fair youth, I 
 would I could make thee believe I love," only provokes the 
 further teasing remark, " Me believe it ! you may as soon make 
 her that you love believe it ; " and then, incapable of resisting 
 the humour of the situation, she adds, "which, I warrant, she 
 is apter to do than to confess she does : that is one of the points 
 in the which women still give the lie to their consciences." 
 She sees that Orlando is rather dashed by this sarcastic remark, 
 possibly pained, but she knows she holds the remedy for his pain 
 in her own hands ; and she puts him at his ease again by asking, 
 with a softened voice 
 
 "But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the trees, 
 wherein Rosalind is so admired. 
 
 Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I arn that he, 
 that unfortunate he. 
 
 Ros. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak ? 
 
 Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much." 
 
 Oh, how intently has she watched for that answer ! with what 
 secret rapture heard it ! But he must discern nothing of this. 
 So, turning carelessly away, and smiling inwardly to think that 
 she is herself an illustration of what she says, she exclaims 
 
 " Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house 
 and a whip as madmen do : and the reason why they are not so punished 
 and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love 
 too." 
 
 But now, coming back to the plan which has sprung up in her 
 heart for riveting still closer Orlando's devotion, she adds
 
 ROSALIND. 261 
 
 " Yet I profess curing it by counsel. 
 
 Orl. Did you ever cure any so ? 
 
 Ros. Yes, one, and in this manner. He was to imagine me his love, his 
 mistress ; and I set him every day to woo me : At which time would I, being 
 but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking, 
 proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles, for 
 every passion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys and 
 women are for the most part cattle of this colour ; would now like him, 
 now loath him ; then entertain him, then forswear him ; . . . that I drave 
 my suitor from his mad humour of love to a living humour of madness ; 
 which was, to forswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nook 
 merely monastic. And thus I cured him ; and this way will I take upon 
 me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart, that there shall not 
 be one spot of love in't." 
 
 In the range of Shakespearian comedy there is probably no 
 passage that demands more subtle treatment in the actress than 
 this. Rosalind's every faculty is quickened by delight, and this 
 delight breaks out into a witty picture of all the wayward coquet- 
 tishness that has ever been imputed to her sex. She rushes into 
 this vein of humorous detraction, in order to keep up the show 
 of curing Orlando of his passion by a picture of some of their 
 " giddy offences." Note the aptness, the exquisite suggestiveness 
 and variety of every epithet, which, woman as she is, she is irre- 
 sistibly moved to illustrate and enforce by suitable changes of 
 intonation and expression. But note also, so ready is her in- 
 telligence, that she does not forget to keep up the illusion about 
 herself, by throwing in the phrase, that boys as well as women 
 " are for the most part cattle of this colour." All the playful- 
 ness, the wit, the sarcasm bubble up, sparkle after sparkle, with 
 bewildering rapidity. Can we wonder they should work a charm 
 upon Orlando? What, he thinks, might a gifted creature like 
 this not do 1 What if the boy were indeed able to accomplish 
 what he has said he could ? No, that would be to rob life of 
 all that made life worth ; so he replies, " I would not be cured, 
 youth ! " And yet there is a certain mysterious fascination which 
 draws him on ; and when this strangely imperious youth rejoins, 
 with an air of unhesitating confidence, "I would cure you, if 
 you would but call me Rosalind " how she would linger on the 
 name ! " and come every day to my cote, and woo me ; " he 
 can but answer " Now, by the faith of my love, I will : tell
 
 262 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 me where it is." She will show it to him at once, and by the 
 way he shall "tell her where in the forest he lives." And 
 when to her invitation, " Will you go 1 " he replies, " "With all 
 my heart, good youth," she begins the remedial lesson by telling 
 him archly, with a playful smile that goes to his heart " Nay, 
 you must call me Eosalind." And turning to Celia, who must 
 have seen with no small amazement the unexpected development 
 of her cousin's character in this dialogue, calls to her to go home 
 with them. 
 
 I need scarcely say how necessary it is for the actress in this 
 scene, while carrying it through with a vivacity and dash that 
 shall avert from Orlando's mind every suspicion of her sex, to 
 preserve a refinement of tone and manner suitable to a woman 
 of Rosalind's high station and cultured intellect ; and by occa- 
 sional tenderness of action and sweet persuasiveness of look to 
 indicate how it is that, even at the outset, she establishes a hold 
 upon Orlando's feelings, which in their future intercourse in the 
 forest deepens, without his being sensibly conscious of it, his 
 love for the Rosalind of his dreams. I never approached this 
 scene without a sort of pleasing dread, so strongly did I feel 
 the difficulty and the importance of striking the true note in it. 
 Yet, when once engaged in the scene, I was borne along I knew 
 not how. The situation, in its very strangeness, was so delight- 
 ful to my imagination, that from the moment when I took the 
 assurance from Orlando's words to Jaques, that his love was as 
 absolute as woman could desire, I seemed to lose myself in a 
 sense of exquisite enjoyment. A thrill passed through me ; I 
 felt my pulse beat quicker ; my very feet seemed to dance under 
 me. That Rosalind should forget her first woman's fears about 
 her "doublet and hose" seemed the most natural thing in the 
 world. Speak to Orlando she must at any hazard. But oh, the 
 joy of getting him to pour out all his heart, without knowing 
 that it was his " very Rosalind " to whom he talked, of prov- 
 ing if he were indeed worthy of her love, and testing, at the 
 same time, the depth and sincerity of her own devotion ! The 
 device to which she resorted seemed to suggest itself irresistibly ; 
 and, armed with Shakespeare's words, it was an intense pleasure 
 to try to give expression to the archness, the wit, the quick
 
 ROSALIND. 263 
 
 ready intellect, the ebullient fancy, with the tenderness underly- 
 ing all, which gave to this scene its transcendent charm. Of all 
 the scenes in this exquisite play, while this is the most wonder- 
 ful, it is for the actress certainly the most difficult. 
 
 How mistaken, I think, is the opinion of those who maintain 
 that Shakespeare was governed, in drawing his heroines, by the 
 fact that they were acted by boys, and that this was one of his 
 reasons for choosing stories in which they had to assume male 
 attire ! As if Imogen, Viola, and Eosalind were not " pure 
 women " to the very core ; as if, indeed, this were not the secret 
 of the way in which they win the hearts of those whom they 
 meet. Their disguise is never surmised, not even by their own 
 sex, for Olivia falls passionately in love with Viola, and Phebe 
 with Eosalind ; and how markedly is Shakespeare's genius shown 
 by the difference of the way this circumstance is handled in the 
 case of each ! Viola, gentle, self-sacrificing, generous, but with 
 no spark of the heroic in her nature, sees the humorous absur- 
 dity of being wooed by a lady ; but she is more perplexed than 
 amused by it. She neither struggles against her own unrequited 
 love, nor makes an effort to win requital for it. But, if placed 
 in Viola's situation, Eosalind's mother- wit and high spirit would, 
 I fancy, have enabled her to extricate herself handsomely. At 
 all events, if, like Viola, she had fallen in love with the Duke 
 Orsino, the attractions of Olivia which fascinated that dreamy 
 personage would have grown daily fainter before the address, and 
 vivacity, and bright intelligence of such a woman as Eosalind. 
 By the time the discovery of her sex was made, his heart would 
 have gone clean out of him, for he was capable of loving a noble 
 woman nobly. How fine is his phrase, " Heaven walks on earth " 
 (Act v. sc. 1), as he sees Olivia approaching! It would have 
 been to his lips, and not to Viola's, that words laden with pas- 
 sion would have risen on discovering her sex, he would have 
 clasped her to his breast with irrepressible eagerness, instead of 
 coldly giving her his hand, with the chilling request 
 
 " Give me thy hand, 
 And let ine see thee in thy woman's weeds." 
 
 Eosalind was not one to care for being loved in this stately
 
 264 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 fashion, nor indeed for being taken up on any terms at second- 
 hand. In her eyes, one of the chief attractions of Orlando was 
 that his love was a first love, unsophisticated by any mixture of 
 personal vanity or of selfish interest. His feeling, as he thinks 
 of her, she sees, is the same as that of Helena in All's Well that 
 Ends Well 
 
 "'Twere all one, 
 
 That I should love a bright particular star 
 And think to wed it, she is so above me." 
 
 And this feeling is made more precious to Eosalind by her own 
 consciousness of the complete conquest he has made of her own 
 heart. Very woman as she is, she cannot help showing this in 
 the next scene in which we see her. Orlando has not kept a 
 promise to be with her that morning, and she is " in the very 
 height of heart-heaviness " in consequence. In vain Celia tries 
 to laugh her out of her depression. To Celia his absence is easily 
 to be accounted for. She has learned he is in attendance on the 
 banished Duke, and that, being so, he is not master of his own 
 time. But not till she has teased Rosalind by maintaining that 
 "there is no truth in him," that she does not think he is in 
 love, and, "besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the 
 word of a tapster : they are both the confirmer of false reckon- 
 ings," does she suggest such an explanation. In this Eosalind 
 manifestly finds some ease; she turns from the subject to tell 
 Celia 
 
 " I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked 
 me of what parentage I was ; I told him, of as good as he ; so he laughed, 
 and let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as 
 Orlando ? " 
 
 What a world of passionate emotion is concentrated in that last 
 sentence, and how important it is to bear this in mind in the 
 subsequent scenes with Orlando ! 
 
 At this point Rosalind's thoughts are turned into a new chan- 
 nel by the arrival of old Corin, who comes to tell them that " the 
 shepherd that complained of love," after whom they have often 
 inquired, is now with "the proud disdainful shepherdess that 
 was his mistress"; and that if they
 
 KOSALIND. 265 
 
 " Will see a pageant truly play'd, 
 Between the pale complexion of true love 
 And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain," 
 
 he will take them to the place. Rosalind jumps at the sugges- 
 tion, for 
 
 " The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. 
 
 Bring us to this sight, and you shall s&y, 
 
 I'll prove a busy actor in their play." 
 
 Herself loving deeply, and prizing a good man's love as her best 
 treasure, she is in no mood to be tolerant of the scornful cruelty 
 shown by Phebe to Silvius, of which in the scene that ensues she 
 is an unseen witness. At the same time, his love-sickness, which 
 has taken all the manhood out of him, inspires her with some- 
 thing not very far from contempt. But the poor fellow pleads 
 his cause well. His passion is genuine, and his words are echoes 
 of a feeling in her own heart : 
 
 " dear Phebe, 
 
 If ever (as that ever may be near) 
 You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, 
 Then shall you know the wounds invisible 
 That love's keen arrows make. " 
 
 They merited at least a gentle answer ; and when Phebe heart- 
 lessly replies 
 
 "But till that time, 
 
 Come thou not near me : and when that time comes, 
 
 Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not ; 
 
 As, till that time, I shall not pity thee" 
 
 Eosalind can restrain herself no longer, and breaks in upon the 
 speakers. In what ensues she seems to me to show something 
 of that quality, characteristic of princely blood and training, 
 which, without directly claiming deference, somehow commands 
 it, and which is frequently exemplified in the progress of the 
 play : 
 
 " Ros. And why, I pray you ? Who might be your mother, 
 That you insult, exult, and all at once, 
 Over the wretched ? What though you have some beauty, 
 (As, by my faith, I see no more in you, 
 Than without candle may go dark to bed, ) 
 Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? "
 
 266 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 How great must have been the charm of the seeming boy, when 
 the haughty rustic beauty does not fire up at such a rebuke as 
 this ! Yet there she stands, breathless, all eyes, all admiration. 
 Eosalind continues : 
 
 " Why, what means this ? Why do you look on me ? 
 I see no more in you than in the ordinary 
 Of nature's sale-work. 'Od's my little life, 
 I think she means to tangle my eyes too ! 
 No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it : 
 "Pis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, 
 Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, 
 That can entame my spirits to your worship." 
 
 With her wonted readiness of wit she follows up this vivid pic- 
 ture of commonplace beauty by words that, while giving encour- 
 agement to Silvius, are cleverly designed to take some of Phebe's 
 conceit out of her : 
 
 " You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her ? . . . 
 You are a thousand times a properer man 
 Than she a woman : 'tis such fools as you 
 That make the world full of ill-favoured children : 
 'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her. . . . 
 But, mistress, know yourself : down on your knees, 
 And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love : 
 For I must tell you friendly in your ear, 
 Sell when you can : you are not for all markets. " 
 
 Then with a softer tone, almost entreatingly she adds 
 
 " Cry the man mercy ; love him ; take his offer : . . 
 So take her to thee, shepherd : fare you well." 
 
 But Phebe has by this time " felt the power of fancy " too 
 strongly to let the interview break off so soon. " Sweet youth," 
 she exclaims, as she runs after to detain him, 
 
 " I pray you, chide a year together ; I had rather hear you chide than this 
 man woo." 
 
 The situation is becoming too absurd. The tables have indeed 
 been turned upon Phebe. With all her sense of humour Rosa- 
 lind, as a woman, could not but feel some pity for her, as Viola
 
 EOSALIND. 267 
 
 does for Olivia. She must be told at once, and in unmistakable 
 terms, to put all thought of Ganymede out of her head : 
 
 " fios. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, 
 For I am falser than vows made in wine. 
 Besides, I like you not. 
 
 Will you go, sister ? Shepherd [aside to him], ply her hard. 
 Come, sister. Shepherdess [aside to her], look on him better, 
 And be not proud : though all the world could see, 
 None could be so abused in sight as he." 
 
 I have already called attention to the picture of the boy Gany- 
 mede drawn for us by Phebe, after he has left her. It is not 
 merely the beauty of his person that strikes her ; she feels the 
 distinction of his bearing, the unconscious imperiousness of Rosa- 
 lind, the princess " Sure, he's proud ; and yet his pride becomes 
 him " and how this is blended with a strange tenderness, that 
 tempers the severity of his rebuke to herself, for 
 
 " Faster than his tongue 
 Did make offence, his eye did heal it up." 
 
 In this scene, as elsewhere, the woman's heart modifies the keen- 
 ness of Eosalind's wit, and the combination makes her ascendancy 
 over all those she cares for more complete. 
 
 But when we see her next, at the opening of the fourth act, 
 in colloquy with Jaques, her intellect alone is called into play, 
 and the cynic comes off second-best in the encounter. He, too, 
 feels the attraction of the young Ganymede, and would fain be 
 intimate with him; "I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better 
 acquainted with thee." To Eosalind this patronising address 
 would be far from agreeable. By a natural instinct she recoils, 
 as we have previously seen Orlando recoil, from the society of 
 a man who has exhausted the zest for life in years of sensual 
 indulgence, and who sees only the dark side of human nature 
 and of the world, because he has squandered his means and used 
 up his finest sensations. She has heard of him and his morbid 
 moralisings, and so replies 
 
 " They say you are a melancholy fellow."
 
 268 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Her healthy common-sense is roused by his answer, " that he is so, 
 and that he loves it better than laughing," and she replies 
 
 " Those that are" in the extremity of either are abominable fellows ; and 
 betray themselves to every modern censure worse than drunkards. 
 Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing. 
 Ros. Why, then, 'tis good to be a post." 
 
 Jaques then runs off into his famous definition of the varieties of 
 melancholy, winding up self-complacent egotist as he is, always 
 referring everything to himself and his own perverted experiences 
 with the intimation, that " indeed the sundry contemplation of 
 his travels, in which his often rumination wraps him, is a most 
 humorous sadness." This answer in no. way increases Rosalind's 
 respect. " A traveller ! " she exclaims 
 
 " By my faith, you have great reason to be sad : I fear you have sold your 
 own lands to see other men's ; then, to have seen much and to have nothing, 
 is to have rich eyes and poor hands. 
 
 Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 
 
 Ros. And your experience makes you sad : I had rather have a fool to 
 make me merry, than experience to make me sad ; and to travel for it 
 too ! " 
 
 unused to be picked to pieces in this way, for the 
 people about the banished Duke, though amused by this mop- 
 ing philosopher's churlish temper, seem to stand rather in awe 
 of it, is glad to take the opportunity afforded by Orlando's 
 appearance to escape from the "pretty youth," whom he has 
 found to be so unexpectedly formidable. But Rosalind cannot 
 refrain from sending after him some further shafts from her 
 quiver : 
 
 " Farewell, Monsieur Traveller : look you lisp and wear strange suits, dis- 
 able all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your nativity, 
 and almost chide Heaven for making you that countenance you are, or I 
 will scarce think you have swum in a gondola." 
 
 Not till she has seen Jaques fairly out of hearing does she turn 
 to Orlando, who has by this time thoroughly learned the first 
 lesson she had set him. He accosts her throughout the scene as 
 " dear Rosalind," " fair Rosalind," and never trips into speaking 
 to the boy otherwise than as the lady of his love. His visits
 
 ROSALIND. 269 
 
 to the sheepcote, we see, have been frequent, but the promised 
 cure has clearly made no progress. The feminine waywardness 
 with which the boy menaced him has served only to establish a 
 sweet, and, to him, mysterious control over his heart and will. 
 Again he has failed in coming at the appointed hour. See how 
 she punishes him for the little pang of disappointment he has 
 caused her ! 
 
 " Why, how now, Orlando ! where have you been all this while ? You a 
 lover ! An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more. 
 
 Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. 
 
 Ros. Break an hour's promise in love ! He that will divide a minute into 
 a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute 
 in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o' 
 the shoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole. 
 
 Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight : I had as lief be 
 wooed of a snail. 
 
 Orl. Of a snail ? 
 
 Ros. Ay, of a snail ; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on 
 his head ; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman." 
 
 And now we are to see how Rosalind carries out in practice her 
 own suddenly devised fiction of the way she once cured a lover 
 of his passion by being effeminate, changeable, "full of tears, 
 full of smiles, would now like him, now loathe him, now enter- 
 tain, now forswear him." She throws aside her first mood of 
 pouting and banter. Her own heart is brimful of happy love, 
 and only by variety of mood and volubility of utterance can she 
 keep down its emotion. " Come, woo me ! " she exclaims. See- 
 ing Orlando taken aback by the suddenness of this invitation, 
 she repeats it : " Woo me ; for now I am in a holiday humour, 
 and like enough to consent." Still he hangs back; but she is 
 not to be foiled in her determination to make him play the lover, 
 so she adds " What would you say to me now, an I were your 
 very very Rosalind 1 " This brings from him the laughing answer, 
 " I would kiss before I spoke." " Nay," she rejoins, " you were 
 better speak first, and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, 
 you might take occasion to kiss." After some more badinage on 
 this theme, Rosalind turns suddenly upon Orlando with the 
 question "Am not I your Rosalind?" and as she does so, her
 
 270 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 voice, I fancy, vibrates with feeling she finds it hard to conceal. 
 But this vein is dangerous ; and when Orlando answers, " I take 
 some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her," she 
 dashes off again into her playful mocking mood, with the words, 
 "Well, in her person I say I will not have you." This elicits 
 from Orlando the very avowal for which she yearns " Then in 
 mine own person I die ! " But the opening thus offered to her to 
 profess a disbelief, which she does not feel, in the sincerity of all 
 such protestations is not to be lost, and her fancy revels in throw- 
 ing ridicule upon the model heroes of romantic love : 
 
 "No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years 
 old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, 
 videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian 
 club ; yet he did what he could to die before ; and he is one of the patterns 
 of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year though Hero had 
 turned nun, if it had not been for a hot mid-summer night ; for, good youth, 
 he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and being taken with the 
 cramp was drowned : and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was 
 Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies : men have died from time to time, 
 and worms have eaten them, but not for love. 
 
 Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind : for, I protest, her 
 frown might kill me." 
 
 Eosalind's rejoinder, "By this hand, it will not kill a fly," 
 should, I think, be given with a marked change of intonation, 
 sufficient to indicate that, notwithstanding all the wild raillery 
 of her former speech, there is in herself a vein of tenderness 
 which would make it impossible for her to inflict pain deliber- 
 ately. We should be made to feel the woman just for the 
 moment, before she passes op. to her next words, which, playful 
 as they are, lead her on unawares to what I believe was regarded 
 by her as a very real climax to this sportive wooing : 
 
 " But come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition ; 
 and ask me what you will, I will grant it. 
 Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. Yes, faith, will I Fridays and Saturdays, and all. 
 Orl. And wilt thou have me ? 
 Ros. Ay, and twenty such. 
 Orl. What say'st thou ? 
 Ros. Are you not good ? 
 Orl. I hope so. 
 Ros. Why, then, can one desire too much of a good thing ? "
 
 KOSALIND. 271 
 
 Who does not feel through all this exuberance of sportive 
 raillery the strong emotion which is palpitating at the speaker's 
 heart 1 ? She has proved and is assured of Orlando's devotion, 
 and now she will plight her troth to him irrevocably, as she 
 knows, but as he does not know. Turning to Celia, she says : 
 
 "Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us. Give me your 
 hand, Orlando. What do you say, sister ? 
 Orl. Pray thee, marry us. ... 
 
 Ros. You must begin, 'Will you, Orlando ' 
 
 Cel. Go to. Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind ? 
 
 Orl. I will. 
 
 Ros. Ay, but when ? 
 
 Orl. Why now ; as fast as she can marry us. 
 
 Ros. Then you must say, ' I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. ' 
 
 Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. 
 
 Itos. I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband." 
 
 It is not merely in pastime, I feel assured, that Eosalind has 
 been made by Shakespeare to put these words into Orlando's 
 mouth. This is for her a marriage, though no priestly formality 
 goes with it ; and it seems to me that the actress should show 
 this by a certain tender earnestness of look and voice, as she 
 replies "I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband." I could 
 never speak these words without a trembling of the voice, and 
 the involuntary rushing of happy tears to the eyes, which made 
 it necessary for me to turn my head away from Orlando. But, 
 for fear of discovery, this momentary emotion had to be over- 
 come, and turned off by carrying his thoughts into a different 
 channel. Still Eosalind's gravity of look and intonation will not 
 have quite passed away for has she not taken the most solemn 
 step a woman can take 1 as she continues 
 
 "Ros. Now tell me how long you would love her, after you have pos- 
 sessed her ? 
 
 Orl. For ever and a day. 
 
 Ros. Say a day without the ever. No, no, Orlando ; men are April when 
 they woo, December when they wed : maids are May when they are maids, 
 but the sky changes when they are wives." 
 
 Here, however, Kosalind finds herself running into a strain of 
 serious earnest, with too much of the apprehensive woman in it ; 
 so she takes up her former cue of exaggerating the capriciousness 
 of her own sex :
 
 272 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHAKACTERS: 
 
 " I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen ; 
 more clamorous than a parrot against rain ; more new-fangled than an ape ; 
 more giddy in my desires than a monkey : I will weep for nothing, like 
 Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry ; 
 I will laugh like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to sleep. 
 
 Orl. But will my Rosalind do so ? 
 
 Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. 
 
 Orl. 0, but she is wise. 
 
 Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this : the wiser the way- 
 warder : make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the case- 
 ment ; shut that, and 'twill out at the keyhole ; stop that, 'twill fly with 
 the smoke out at the chimney." 
 
 Bosalind through all this scene is like the bird " that cannot 
 get out its song " for very joy. She dares not give direct vent 
 to the happiness that fills her heart, and so she seeks relief by 
 letting her fancy run riot in these playful exaggerations. We 
 feel how these flashes of sprightly fancy, that amuse even while 
 they bewilder him, all help to weave a spell of fascination 
 around Orlando's heart. Eosalind sees this, and revelling in her 
 triumph, pursues to the uttermost the course she had told him 
 would cure him of his passion. Observe how this is carried out, 
 when he tells her presently that he must leave her for two hours. 
 Here is an opportunity for showing what Ganymede has formerly 
 told Orlando a woman cannot choose, but must be. She is now 
 to "grieve, be effeminate, changeable." 
 
 " Ros. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours. 
 
 Orl. 1 must attend the Duke at dinner : by two o'clock I will be with 
 thee again. 
 
 Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways ; I knew what you would prove : 
 my friends told me as much, and I thought no less : that flattering tongue 
 of yours won me : 'tis but one cast away, and so, Come, death ! " 
 
 This is to be " full of tears " ; and when she has put a pang into 
 her lover's heart by this semblance of reproachful grief, she 
 suddenly floods it with delight by turning to him, her face 
 radiant with smiles, and saying, " Two o'clock's your hour ! " 
 This is to be "full of smiles," and the charm so works upon 
 him, that we see he has lost the consciousness that it is the 
 boy Ganymede, and not his own Eosalind, that is before him, 
 as he answers, " Ay, sweet Eosalind." And she too, in her
 
 ROSALIND. 273 
 
 parting adjuration to him, comes nearer than she has ever done 
 before to letting him see what is in her heart : 
 
 ' ' By my troth, and in good earnest, and so Heaven mend me, and by all 
 pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jot of your promise, 
 or come one minute behind your hour, I will think you the most pathetical 
 break -promise, and the most hollow lover, and the most unworthy of her you 
 call Rosalind, that may be chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful. 
 Therefore, beware my censure, and keep your promise. 
 
 Orl. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind : so, 
 adieu ! " 
 
 Celia who, admirable as she may be, is by no means of a 
 highly imaginative nature is no sooner alone with Eosalind 
 than she takes her to task for what appears to her the un- 
 favourable light in which her pictures of the waywardness of 
 women in courtship and in marriage have placed her sex. " You 
 have simply misused our sex in your love -prate," she says; 
 but this is a matter Rosalind is too full of her own emotions 
 to discuss. Her tongue has run wild in trying to conceal the 
 pressure at her heart ; and she has talked herself out of breath 
 only to get deeper in love. 
 
 "0 coz, coz, my pretty little coz," she replies, "that thou didst know 
 how many fathoms deep I am in love ! But it cannot be sounded. . . . 
 That same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot of thought, conceived 
 of spleen, and born of madness, that blind rascally boy that abuses every 
 one's eyes because his own are out, let him be judge how deep I am in love. 
 I'll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando : I'll go find 
 a shadow, and sigh till he come." 
 
 We see from this confession how great has been the constraint 
 she has been keeping upon her emotions through all her spark- 
 ling badinage in the interviews with Orlando. He was to be 
 but two hours absent, and had protested he should be with her 
 by two o'clock ; but when we next see her, two o'clock has 
 come, but not Orlando. "How say you now?" she says to 
 Celia. " Is it not past two o'clock ? and here much Orlando ! " 
 While she is in this state of disappointment and unrest, Silvius 
 arrives with the love-letter of which Phebe has made him the 
 bearer. Such is the rare elasticity of Eosalind's temperament, 
 and the activity of her intelligence, that she at once puts aside
 
 274 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 her own vexation which could not have been small and does 
 what she can to give something of a manly spirit to this most 
 forlorn of lovers. So far from thinking the letter he has brought 
 to be one of love, he is under the impression, from " the stern 
 brow and waspish action " of Phebe in writing it, that " it bears 
 an angry tenor," and apologises for being the bearer of it. 
 Eosalind at once follows out this idea, though she has of course 
 seen, by a glance at its contents, how very far this is from the 
 truth : 
 
 "Patience herself would startle at this letter 
 And play the swaggerer ; bear this, bear all : 
 She says I am not fair, that I lack manners ; 
 She calls me proud ; and that she could not love me, 
 Were man as rare as phoenix. 'Od's my will ! 
 Her love is not the hare that I do hunt : 
 Why writes she so to me ? Well, shepherd, well, 
 This is a letter of your own device." 
 
 In answer to his vehement protestations to the contrary, she 
 goes on to depict its contents with her wonted fertility of 
 fancy : 
 
 " Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style, 
 A style for challengers. . . . Women's gentle brain 
 Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention, 
 Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect 
 Than in their countenance. Will you hear the letter ? " 
 
 She then proceeds to read it, commenting on its evident avowals 
 of admiration in the same ironical spirit. But when she comes 
 to the lines 
 
 " He that brings this love to thee 
 Little knows this love in me," 
 
 followed by the request that Ganymede will use Silvius to bear 
 his answer back, she is revolted by Phebe's treachery, and 
 scarcely less by the pusillanimous insensibility of her suitor 
 to it. Celia, in her matter-of-fact way, exclaims, "Alas, poor 
 shepherd ! " But Rosalind, wiser and higher-hearted, takes a 
 different view : 
 
 "Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity. Wilt thou love such a 
 woman ? What, to make thee an instrument and play false strains upon 
 thee ! not to be endured ! "
 
 ROSALIND. 275 
 
 But not even this can rouse him; so she dismisses him in a 
 gentler strain : 
 
 ' ' Well, go your way to her, for I see love hath made thee a tame snake, 
 and say this to her : That if she love me, I charge her to love thee ; if she 
 will not, I will never have her unless thou entreat for her. " 
 
 Still Orlando comes not. The fond woman's heartache, into 
 which some shade of anxiety at his failure to keep his promise 
 would by this time be sure to steal, has not time to reassert 
 itself, when her attention is arrested by a stranger inquiring the 
 way to the " sheepcote fenced about with olive-trees," which is 
 her home. Attention deepens into interest as she finds from his 
 words that he is a messenger from Orlando : 
 
 " Orlando doth commend him to you both, 
 And to that youth he calls his Rosalind 
 He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he ? " 
 
 Interest now becomes apprehension, and she answers, "I am : 
 what must we understand by this 1 " With breathless eagerness 
 she listens as the stranger tells how Orlando had found his elder 
 brother asleep in the forest, doubly threatened with death by 
 "a green and gilded snake *" on the one hand, and on the other 
 by "a lioness with udders all drawn dry." The different natures 
 of Celia and Rosalind are well expressed by the ways, each so 
 different, in which they are affected by this narrative. Celia 
 exclaims : 
 
 " Oh, I have heard him speak of that same brother ; 
 And he did render him the most unnatural 
 That lived 'mongst men." 
 
 Eosalind's first thought is not of this brother's cruelty, but 
 whether her lover has forgot the past and interposed to save 
 his life. 
 
 " But, to Orlando : did he leave him there, 
 Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness ? " 
 
 How her heart leaps within her as she learns that, conquering 
 the first impulse to leave his brother to his fate, Orlando has 
 given " battle to the lioness, who quickly fell before him " ! 
 When the stranger goes on to tell them that he is that brother, 
 Eosalind's first impulse naturally is to turn with undisguised
 
 276 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 aversion from the man who had for years done Orlando such 
 grievous wrong. But his answer to her question, "Was't you 
 he rescued?" disarms her, 
 
 " Oli. 'Twas I, yet 'tis not I. I do not shame 
 To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
 So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am." 
 
 By the word " conversion," coupled with Oliver's downcast looks 
 and contrite tone, Rosalind is touched. She feels that she has 
 been ungenerous, and turning to him with a much gentler voice 
 and manner, almost as though asking pardon for the resentment 
 she had shown, she asks, " But for the bloody napkin 1 " And 
 here arises one of the many opportunities which are afforded in 
 this play for that silent suggestive acting which is required to 
 give effect to the purpose of the poet. " The woman, naturally 
 born to fears," has now to be indicated by the changing ex- 
 pression of Eosalind's look and manner, as she listens to Oliver's 
 narrative. Her lover, her more than lover her plighted 
 husband ever since she gave him her hand when they last met, 
 has still further proved his worthiness by making it his first 
 care to introduce his brother to the banished Duke. Still, what 
 does the bloody napkin imply ] And how much is there to rouse 
 her alarm, when Oliver goes on to say that, on leaving the Duke, 
 his brother led him to his own cave, 
 
 " There stripp'd himself, and here upon his arm 
 The lioness had torn some flesh away, 
 Which all this while had bled ; and now he fainted, 
 And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind " ? 
 
 The sweet feeling of admiration for her lover's courageous en- 
 durance, and of delight that his foremost thought had been of 
 his Rosalind, cannot keep her from thinking of his wound as 
 something more serious than it proves to be. A sick feeling 
 comes over her as Oliver proceeds : 
 
 " Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound ; 
 And, after some small space, being strong at heart, 
 He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 
 To tell this story, that you might excuse 
 His broken promise, and to give this napkin 
 Dyed in his blood unto the shepherd youth, 
 That he in sport doth call his Rosalind. "
 
 KOSALIND. 277 
 
 As he speaks, Bosalind's vivid imagination brings before her the 
 peril of the contest in which her lover had been engaged, and 
 how near she has been to losing him. The strain upon her 
 feelings is too much even for her powers of self-command, great 
 as they are, and she falls fainting into her cousin's arms. She 
 has borne up, however, so well, that Oliver has no suspicion of 
 her sex, and ascribes her fainting to the not uncommon ex- 
 perience, that "Many will swoon when they do look on blood." 
 When she recovers, and he says to her, "Be of good cheer, 
 youth ; you a man ! You lack a man's heart," she admits the 
 fact, but, ready and adroit as ever, tries to avert his suspicion 
 by affecting to have merely feigned to swoon. The rest of the 
 scene, with the struggle between actual physical faintness and 
 the effort to make light of it, touched in by the poet with ex- 
 quisite skill, calls for the most delicate and discriminating treat- 
 ment in the actress. The audience, who are in her secret, must 
 be made to feel the tender loving nature of the woman through 
 the simulated gaiety by which it is veiled ; and yet the character 
 of the boy Ganymede must be sustained. This is another of the 
 many passages to which the actress of comedy only will never 
 give adequate expression. How beautiful it is ! 
 
 "Ah, sirrah, a body would think this was well counterfeited! I pray 
 you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited. Heigh-ho ! 
 
 OIL This was not counterfeit : there is too great testimony in your com- 
 plexion that it was a passion of earnest. 
 
 Ros. Counterfeit, I assure you. 
 
 OH. Well, then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man. 
 
 Ros. So I do : but i'faith, I should have been a woman by right. 
 
 Cel. Come, you look paler and paler : pray you, draw homewards. Good 
 sir, go with us. 
 
 Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back, how you excuse my 
 brother, Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. I shall devise something : but, I pray you, commend my counter- 
 feiting to him. Will you go ? " 
 
 And that her quick wit did devise something to the purpose, 
 who can doubt ? for it is clear that Orlando's suspicions were not 
 aroused. But in the brief interval that elapses before she again 
 sees him, events have occurred which turn his thoughts into 
 another channel. In that charmed forest region, where every-
 
 278 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 thing is "as you like it," events move swiftly. Celia, who has 
 hitherto mocked at love, becomes, as such mockers often do, its 
 unresisting victim. She has met her fate in the repentant Oliver, 
 and he his fate in her. Making all allowance for the necessity 
 of bringing the action of the play to a speedy conclusion, the 
 readiness with which Celia succumbs to Oliver's suit is somewhat 
 startling. Shakespeare perhaps felt this himself, and so does his 
 best to take the edge off its apparent improbability. How wit- 
 tily has he made Kosalind discourse of it to Orlando ! 
 
 " There never was anything so sudden but the fight of two rams, and 
 Caesar's Thrasonical brag of ' I came, saw, and overcame : ' for your brother 
 and my sister no sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they 
 loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner sighed but they asked one 
 another the reason, no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy ; 
 and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage. 
 They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together ; clubs cannot 
 part them." 
 
 This is very amusing, but Orlando can only think how enviable 
 is his brother's case compared with his own. "They shall be 
 married to-morrow," he says, " and I will bid the Duke to the 
 nuptial. But, oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness 
 through another man's eyes ! " The sad earnestness with which 
 this is said finds an echo in Rosalind's own feelings, as she re- 
 plies, " "Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosa- 
 lind 1 " Can we wonder at his answer, " I can live no longer by 
 thinking " worked up to a very fever-heat of yearning devotion 
 as he has been to his ideal Rosalind by the hours and days he 
 has spent in playing the lover to the pretty youth who has borne 
 her name, and kept her image continually before him, fascinating 
 him hour after hour by all the qualities which he had dreamed 
 his ideal to possess 1 ? When Rosalind had herself got to the 
 point, that she " could not live out of the sight " of her lover, and 
 had learned, by what she suffered at the thought of his recent 
 danger, how essential he had become to her happiness, she was 
 not likely to be deaf to this outcry of Orlando's hungry heart. 
 The time has come for her to yield. But she will keep up a little 
 longer the illusion under which he labours, so she answers : 
 
 " I will weary you no longer then with idle talking. Know of me then, 
 for now I speak to some purpose, . . . that I can do strange things. I have,
 
 ROSALIND. 279 
 
 since I was three years old, conversed with a magician, most profound in his 
 art, and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as 
 your gesture cries it out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry 
 her. I know into what straits of fortune she is driven ; and it is not im- 
 possible for me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to set her before your 
 eyes, human as she is, and without any danger. 
 
 Orl. Speakest thou in sober meanings ? 
 
 Ros. By my life, I do ; which I tender dearly, though I say I am a magician. 
 Therefore, put you in your best array, bid your friends ; for, if you will be 
 married to-morrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you will." 
 
 Their colloquy is interrupted by the arrival of Phebe with Sil- 
 vius. Phebe tasks Ganymede with "much ungentleness " for 
 having shown Silvius her letter. With pretty imperiousness 
 Rosalind replies : 
 
 " I care not if I have : it is my study 
 To seem ungentle and despiteful to you : 
 You are there followed by a faithful shepherd ; 
 Look upon him, love him : he worships you." 
 
 The humbled Phebe can only answer by asking Silvius to " tell 
 this youth what 'tis to love." The charming scene which en- 
 sues, in which Silvius fulfils his task with a skill the most pas- 
 sionate lyrist might envy, gives Eosalind a further opportunity 
 of assuring herself of her lover's devotion. All that Silvius 
 protests he feels for Phebe, Orlando protests he feels for Eosa- 
 lind; and when at last, addressing Eosalind, he says, "If this 
 be so, why blame you me to love you 1 " he speaks as though it 
 were his " very very Eosalind " he was addressing. On this she 
 at once catches him up, saying 
 
 " Ros. Whom do you speak to ? ' Why blame you me to love you ? ' 
 Orl. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear. " 
 
 But Eosalind, finding the " homily of love," in which Orlando, 
 Silvius, and Phebe echo each other, grow tedious, breaks in upon 
 them with the words 
 
 " Pray you no more of this ; 'tis like the howling of Irish wolves against 
 the moon. I will help you [to Silvius] if I can : I would love you [to Phebe] 
 if I could. To-morrow meet we all together. I will marry you [to Phebe] 
 if ever I marry woman, and I'll be married to-morrow. I will satisfy you 
 [to Orlando] if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-morrow.
 
 280 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 I will content you [to Silvius], if what pleases you contents you, and you 
 shall be married to-morrow. As you [to Orlando] love Rosalind, meet ; as 
 you [to Sttvius] love Phebe, meet ; and as I love no woman, I'll meet. So 
 fare you well ; I have left you commands. " 
 
 The ascendancy which the hoy Ganymede has established over 
 all who come within his sphere is so complete, that Orlando, 
 Phebe, and Silvius part from him with a complete belief that 
 he will accomplish everything he has promised. Orlando reports 
 to the Duke the hope that has been held out to him ; and any 
 misgiving he may have had would be dispelled, when presently 
 he finds (Act v sc. 4) that the boy Ganymede comes to ask the 
 banished Duke if, when he shall bring in his daughter, he will 
 give her to Orlando. His answer, " That would I, had I king- 
 doms to give with her," removes the only obstacle which as a 
 dutiful daughter she would recognise. But not until she has 
 obtained a fresh assurance from Orlando, that he would marry 
 his Eosalind " were he of all kingdoms king," and from Phebe 
 that if she refuses to marry Ganymede she will give herself to 
 Silvius, does she go away " to make all doubts even " by appear- 
 ing forthwith in her own true character, along with Celia, and led 
 on by " Hymen." 
 
 It is Rosalind, of course, who has arranged the masque of 
 Hymen, keeping up to the last the film of glamour which she has 
 thrown around her lover and the other strangers to her secret. 
 Mr Macready, in his revival of the play at Drury Lane, with Mrs 
 ISTesbitt as Eosalind, restored it to the stage ; but beautiful as it 
 is in itself, and bringing this charming love-romance most appro- 
 priately to a close, yet it delays the action too much for scenic 
 purposes. Hymen's lines, as he leads in Rosalind and Celia in 
 their wedding-robes, are like a strain of sweet music, solemn but 
 not sad, as befits a bridal hymn : 
 
 " Then is there mirth in heaven, 
 When earthly things made even 
 
 Atone together. 
 
 Good Duke, receive thy daughter : 
 Hymen from heaven brought her, 
 
 Yea, brought her hither, 
 That thou might'st join her hand in his 
 Whose heart within her bosom is."
 
 ROSALIND. 281 
 
 How beautiful is this last line, and how fully does it express that 
 perfect union of the two lovers' hearts ! 
 
 With her masking guise, Eosalind drops the witty volubility 
 that has served her purpose so well. Her words are few, but 
 they are pregnant with feeling. Turning to her father, she says, 
 " To you I give myself, for I am yours ; " and while still hang- 
 ing on his breast, she holds out her hand to Orlando, repeating 
 the same words. What others could so well express the sur- 
 render which a loving daughter here makes of herself to the 
 lover "whose heart within her bosom is"? Her own heart is 
 too full to say much; her soul too much enwrapped in the 
 thoughts which the climax of marriage brings to a noble woman, 
 for her to sport with the surprise which this sudden revelation 
 produces : 
 
 " Duke. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter. 
 
 Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind. 
 
 Phcbe. If sight and shape be true, 
 Why, then, my love, adieu ! 
 
 Ros. I'll have no father, if you be not he ; 
 I'll have no husband if you be not he ; 
 
 Nor ne'er wed woman, if you [to Phebe] be not she. " 
 
 But the "conclusion of these most strange events" is not yet. 
 Oliver, we have been told, had determined to settle upon Or- 
 lando " all the revenue that was old Sir Rowland's, and live and 
 die a shepherd in the forest" with his Aliena. She, on the 
 other hand, had, as we have seen, long since told Eosalind that, 
 when Duke Frederick died, Eosalind should be his heir. But 
 now Eosalind is to resume her state by means more direct. The 
 usurping Duke, smitten with remorse, as we learn from Sir Eow- 
 land's second son, who at this point appears upon the scene, has 
 taken to a religious life 
 
 " His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother, 
 And all their lands restored to them again 
 That were with him exiled." 
 
 Thus is the wrong made right : this alone was wanted to com- 
 plete the story, As YWL Like, It. 
 
 No word escapes from Eosalind's lips, as we watch her there, 
 the woman in all her beauty and perfect grace, now calmly happy,
 
 282 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 beside a father restored to " a potent dukedom," and a lover 
 whom she knows to be wholly worthy to wield that dukedom, 
 when in due season she will endow him with it as her husband. 
 Happiest of women ! for who else ever had such means of testing 
 that love on which her own happiness depends ? In the days that 
 are before her, all the largeness of heart, the rich imagination, 
 the bright commanding intellect, which made her the presiding 
 genius of the forest of Arden, will work with no less beneficent 
 sway in the wider sphere of princely duty. With what delight 
 will she recur with her lover-husband to the strange accidents of 
 fortune Avhich " forced sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood," 
 and to the never-to-be-forgotten hours when he was a second time 
 "o'erthrown" by the wit, the playful wiles, the inexplicable 
 charm of the young Ganymede ! How, too, in all the grave 
 duties of the high position to which his alliance will raise him, 
 will Orlando not only possess in her an honoured, beloved, and 
 admired companion, but will also find wise guidance and support 
 in her clear intelligence and courageous will ! It is thus, at least, 
 that I dream of my dear Rosalind and her Orlando. 
 
 " 0, they will walk this world, 
 Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 
 And so through those dark gates across the wild 
 That no man knows." 
 
 Oliver's proposal to make over his estates to Orlando, and " to 
 live and die a shepherd in the forest," naturally falls to the 
 ground with the reinstatement of Rosalind's father in his duchy. 
 Oliver will resume his former position his "land and great 
 allies," as Jaques says and Rosalind and Celia will not be 
 separated. Is it likely that Rosalind should be outdone in 
 generosity? When the heavens were "at their sorrows pale," 
 Celia insisted upon sharing her banishment. Could Rosalind's 
 happiness be complete without the love and presence of that 
 constant dearest friend ? No ! If they might not henceforward 
 move, "like Juno's swans, still coupled and inseparable," yet 
 they must pass their lives near to each other, and in ever sweet 
 and loving communion. 
 
 Much as I have written, I feel how imperfectly I have brought
 
 ROSALIND. 283 
 
 out all that this delightful play has been and is to me. I can 
 but hope that I have said enough to show why I gave my heart 
 to Rosalind, and found an ever new delight in trying to imper- 
 sonate her. 
 
 Never was that delight greater than the last time I did so. 
 As it happened, it was the last time I appeared upon the stage. 
 The occasion was a benefit, in October 1879, for the widow of 
 Mr Charles Calvert, himself an excellent actor, who had spent 
 many years in producing Shakespeare worthily to the Manchester 
 public at the Prince's Theatre. In his revivals he had kept the 
 scene-painter and the costume-maker under wise control, insisting 
 that what they did should be subservient to the development of 
 character and of plot. His death was justly felt by the Man- 
 chester public to be a great loss to the dramatic art, and it was 
 a pleasure to me to join with them in doing honour to his mem- 
 ory. He told me once a pretty story of his wife. He had sent 
 her to see me in Rosalind, at the Theatre Royal for I never 
 acted in his theatre. On returning home, he found her in tears. 
 Upon inquiring the reason, she replied, " How could you ever 
 allow me to go upon the stage for Rosalind 1 I am ashamed of 
 myself, for I see I knew nothing about her." It reminded me of 
 what had been my own case, until I had made the loving study 
 of her which I have tried to describe. 
 
 I can never forget the warmth of my Manchester friends that 
 night, when I left my retirement to join in helping the widow 
 and children, whom their old manager had left behind him. I 
 had expected, and thought I had nerved myself to meet, a cordial 
 greeting, but this was so prolonged and so overwhelming, that it 
 took away my breath and my courage ; and even when at last it 
 ceased, I could not recover myself enough to speak. My agita- 
 tion quite alarmed the young lady by my side, who acted Celia, 
 Miss Kate Pattison, and we stood like a pair of mutes for a 
 moment or two, until the renewed plaudits of the audience 
 roused us to a sense of what was expected from us. The old 
 sensation of stage-fright, never completely lost, came back upon 
 me as freshly then as upon the night of my first appearance. 
 After a while, when this had somewhat passed away in the inter- 
 est of the scene, I was full of gratitude to find that I had not
 
 284 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 rusted in my privacy. I had found also in the rehearsal of the 
 previous day, which, from the large number attending it, became 
 almost a performance, that I had as much delight as ever in 
 depicting the life of one so dear to my imagination, and that 
 I could do so with as much freshness and elasticity as at the 
 beginning of my career. 
 
 I was very much interested in seeing the careful study which 
 the actors on this occasion, mostly amateurs, had given to all the 
 characters, great and small, in the play. It was a pleasure to 
 act beside so much intelligence and artistic talent. I felt quite 
 a keen regret when this not-to-be-repeated performance was 
 over. 
 
 How many good parts there are in this play, as indeed there 
 must be in every fine play, and how great would be the delight 
 of acting in it with every character adequately represented ! 
 How little do those who usually act what are called the smaller 
 parts in Shakespeare know the gems within their reach, and the 
 splendid opportunities they throw away ! I have tried in my 
 rehearsals to bring those who acted with me up to the highest 
 level I could, by calling their attention to these opportunities 
 (though not always with success), and by showing them the 
 value of the passages they had overlooked. Some were incapable 
 of seeing the author's meaning, some indifferent to it; others 
 have looked as though I were taking a liberty, and had no busi- 
 ness to leave my own character and interfere with theirs ; some 
 few, I am glad to say, have thanked me when they found the 
 audience recognise and appreciate the significance given to the 
 text by following my suggestions. 
 
 Out of London I never saw the play of As You Like It more 
 fully enjoyed or better acted than in Edinburgh. There, in the 
 first years of my visits, a fine illustration was given of the way 
 in which a minor part may be raised into importance by the 
 actor's skill. Mr Murray, the manager, was the William. Mght 
 after night I used to go to the side scene to see the only occasion 
 in which in the fifth act William appears with Touchstone. He 
 was the very man, one felt, whom Shakespeare had in his mind, 
 dress, voice, look, manner, were all life-like; just such a 
 blunder-headed, good-natured, staring, grinning, frightened oaf
 
 ROSALIND. 285 
 
 as at once provokes and falls an easy victim to the waggishness 
 of Touchstone. He had so little to say, and yet so much to 
 suggest. 
 
 The Touchstone of the same theatre in those days, a Mr Lloyd, 
 was almost the best I have ever seen ; and though wanting in the 
 courtly demeanour, which I think is one of Touchstone's charac- 
 teristics, he brought out the dry, quaint, sententious humour of 
 the man with the happiest effect. 
 
 One word about the Epilogue before I conclude. This, as it is 
 written, was fit enough for the mouth of a boy-actor of women's 
 parts in Shakespeare's time, but it is altogether out of tone 
 with the Princess Eosalind. It is the stage tradition to speak 
 it, and I, of course, had to follow the tradition never, however, 
 without a kind of shrinking distaste for my task. Some of the 
 words I omitted, and some I altered, and I did my best, in speak- 
 ing it, to make it serve to illustrate how the high-toned winning 
 woman reasserted herself in Rosalind, when she laid aside her 
 doublet and hose. I have been told that I succeeded in this. 
 Still, speaking the Epilogue remained the one drawback to my 
 pleasure. In it one addresses the audience neither as Ganymede 
 nor as Eosalind, but as one's own very self. Anything of this 
 kind was repugnant to me, my desire being always to lose my- 
 self in the character I was representing. When taken thus per- 
 force out of my ideal, I felt stranded and altogether unhappy. 
 Except when obliged, as in this instance, I never addressed an 
 audience, having neither the wish nor the courage to do so. 
 Therefore, as I advanced to speak the Epilogue, a painful shy- 
 ness came over me, a kind of nervous fear, too, lest I should for- 
 get what I had to say, a fear I never had at other times, and 
 thus the closing words always brought to me a sense of inexpres- 
 sible relief. 
 
 And now, my dear Mr Browning, you must be glad that I have 
 at last come to the end of what I have to say about my much- 
 loved Eosalind. Let me, then, set you free ; for which release 
 I hope you will kindly, in the words of that Epilogue, " when I 
 make curtsy, bid me farewell." Ever most sincerely yours, 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT MARTIN.
 
 VIII. 
 BEATRICE
 
 VIII. 
 BEATKIGE. 
 
 "There was a star danced, and under that was I born." 
 DEAR MR RUSKIN, 
 
 T AM glad to see by your letter that Beatrice is a favourite 
 with you. The heresy of Campbell and others, which de- 
 scribes her as a compound of tomboy, flirt, and shrew, "an 
 odious woman," I think, Campbell calls her, has manifestly 
 not enlisted you among its adherents. Whilst, therefore, I 
 am sure of your sympathy in trying to put into words the 
 conception of this brilliant and charming woman which I en- 
 deavoured to embody on the stage, still I must approach the 
 subject with great trepidation, as you tell me that you are 
 "listening with all your heart to what I shall say of her." I 
 cannot dare to hope I shall throw much light upon the char- 
 acter that will be new to you, who have shown, in so many 
 places, how thorough has been your study of Shakespeare's 
 heroines, and with what loving insight you have used them 
 to illustrate the part women have played, and are meant to 
 play, in bringing sweetness and comfort, and help and moral 
 strength, into man's troubled and perplexing life. The lesson 
 Shakespeare teaches seems to me to be entirely in accordance 
 with your own belief, expressed in many ways, "that no man 
 ever lived a right life who had not been chastened by a 
 T
 
 290 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 woman's love, strengthened by her courage, and guided by her 
 discretion." 
 
 Of Beatrice I cannot write with the same full heart, or with 
 the same glow of sympathy, with which I wrote of Eosalind. 
 Her character is not to me so engaging. We might hope to meet 
 in life something to remind us of Beatrice ; but in our dreams of 
 fair women Eosalind stands out alone. 
 
 Neither are the circumstances under which Beatrice comes 
 before us of a kind to draw us so closely to her. Unlike 
 Rosalind, her life has been and is, while we see her, one of 
 pure sunshine. Sorrow and wrong have not softened her nature, 
 nor taken off the keen edge of her wit. When we are intro- 
 duced to her, she is the great lady, bright, brilliant, beautiful, 
 enforcing admiration as she moves " in maiden meditation fancy 
 free" among the fine ladies and accomplished gallants of her 
 circle. Up to this time there has been no call upon the deeper 
 and finer qualities of her nature. The sacred fountain of tears 
 has never been stirred within her. To pain of heart she has 
 been a stranger. She has not learned tenderness or toleration 
 under the discipline of suffering or disappointment, of unsatisfied 
 yearning or failure. Her life has been 
 
 " A summer mood, 
 To which all pleasant things have come unsought," 
 
 and across which the shadows of care or sorrow have never 
 passed. She has a quick eye to see what is weak or ludicrous 
 in man or woman. The impulse to speak out the smart and 
 poignant things that rise readily and swiftly to her lips, is 
 irresistible. She does not mean to inflict pain, though others 
 besides Benedick must at times have felt that "every word 
 stabs." She simply rejoices in the keen sword-play of her wit, 
 as she would in any other exercise of her intellect, or sport of 
 her fancy. In very gaiety of heart she flashes around her the 
 playful lightning of sarcasm and repartee, thinking of them only 
 as something to make the time pass brightly by. " I was born," 
 she says of herself, "to speak all mirth and no matter." Again, 
 when Don Pedro tells her she has " a merry heart," she answers, 
 " Yea, my lord, I thank it ; poor fool, it keeps on the windy
 
 BEATRICE. 291 
 
 side of care." And what does her uncle Leonato say of 
 her? 
 
 " There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord : she is never 
 sad but when she sleeps ; and not ever sad then ; for I have heard my 
 daughter say she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with 
 laughing." (Act. ii. sc. 1.) 
 
 Wooers she has had, of course, not a few ; but she has 
 "mocked them all out of suit." Very dear to her is the in- 
 dependence of her maidenhood, for the moment has not come 
 when to surrender that independence into a lover's hands is more 
 delightful than to maintain it. But though in the early scenes 
 of the play she makes a mock of wooers and of marriage, with 
 obvious zest and with a brilliancy of fancy and pungency of 
 sarcasm that might well appal any ordinary wooer, it is my con- 
 viction that, although her heart has not as yet been touched, she 
 has at any rate begun to see in "Signor Benedick of Padua" 
 qualities which have caught her fancy. She has noted him 
 closely, and his image recurs unbidden to her mind with a fre- 
 quency which suggests that he is at least more to her than any 
 other man. The train is laid, and only requires a spark to 
 kindle it into flame. How this is done, and with what exquisite 
 skill, will be more and more felt the more closely the structure 
 of the play and the distinctive qualities of the actors in it are 
 studied. 
 
 Indeed, I think this play should rank, in point of dramatic 
 construction and development of character, with the best of 
 Shakespeare's works. It has the further distinction, that what- 
 ever is most valuable in the plot is due solely to his own inven- 
 tion. In this respect it differs signally from As You Like It. 
 In The Tale of Gamelyn, and more particularly in Lodge's Rosa- 
 lynde, Shakespeare found ready to his hand the main plot of 
 that play, and suggestions for several of the characters. With 
 his usual wonderful aptitude he assimilated everything that could 
 be turned to dramatic account. Yet his debt was after all of no 
 great amount. He had to discard far more than he adopted. 
 The story with the actors in it became a new creation ; and by 
 infusing into a pretty but tedious pastoral and some very unreal 
 characters a purpose and a life which were exclusively his own,
 
 292 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS-. 
 
 he transmuted mere pebbles into gems. But neither for plot 
 nor character was he indebted to any one in Much Ado About 
 Nothing. It is no doubt true, that in Ariosto and Bandello and 
 in our own Spenser he found the incident of an innocent lady 
 brought under cruellest suspicion by the base device of which 
 Hero is the victim. Here, however, his obligation ends; and 
 but for the skill with which this incident is interwoven with 
 others, and a number of characters brought upon the scene which 
 are wholly of his own creating, it would be of little value for 
 dramatic purposes. 
 
 How happy was the introduction of such men as Dogberry 
 dear, delightful Dogberry ! and his band, " the shallow fools 
 who brought to light " the flimsy villany by which Don Pedro 
 and Claudio had allowed themselves to be egregiously befooled ! 
 How true to the irony of life was the accident, due also to 
 Shakespeare's invention, that Leonato was so much bored by 
 their tedious prate, and so busy with the thought of his daugh- 
 ter's approaching marriage, that he did not listen to them, and 
 thus did not hear what would have prevented the all but tragic 
 scene in which that marriage is broken off! And how much 
 happier than all is the way in which the wrong done to Hero is 
 the means of bringing into view the fine and generous elements 
 of Beatrice's nature, of showing Benedick how much more there 
 was in her than he had imagined, and at the same time proving 
 to her, what she was previously quite prepared to " believe better 
 than reportingly," that he was of a truly "noble strain," and that 
 she might safely trust her happiness in his hands ! Viewed in 
 this light the play seems to me to be a masterpiece of construc- 
 tion, developed with consummate skill, and held together by the 
 unflagging interest which we feel in Beatrice and Benedick, and 
 in the progress of the amusing plot by which they arrive at a 
 knowledge of their own hearts. 
 
 I was called upon very early in my career to impersonate 
 Beatrice ; but I must frankly admit that, while, as I have said, 
 I could not but admire her, she had not taken hold of my heart 
 as my other heroines had done. Indeed there is nothing of the 
 heroine about her, nothing of romance or of poetic suggestion in 
 the circumstances of her life nothing, in short, to captivate the
 
 BEATRICE. 293 
 
 imagination of a very young girl, such as I then was. It caused 
 me great disquietude when Mr Charles Kemble, who was play- 
 ing a series of farewell performances at Covent Garden, where 
 I had made my debut on the stage but a few months before, 
 singled me out to play Beatrice to his Benedick on the night 
 when he bade adieu to his profession. That I who had hitherto 
 acted only the young tragic heroines was to be thus transported 
 out of my natural sphere into the strange world of high comedy, 
 was a surprise indeed. To consent seemed to me nothing short 
 of presumption. I urged upon Mr Kemble how utterly unquali- 
 fied I was for such a venture. His answer was, " I have watched 
 you in the second act of Julia in The Hunchback, and I know 
 that you will by-and-by be able to act Shakespeare's comedy. I 
 do not mean now, because more years, greater practice, greater 
 confidence in yourself, must come before you will have sufficient 
 ease. But do not be afraid. I am too much your friend to ask 
 you to do anything that would be likely to prove a failure." 
 This he followed up by offering to teach me the " business " of 
 the scene. What could I do? He had, from my earliest re- 
 hearsals, been uniformly kind, helpful, and encouraging how 
 could I say him " Nay " ? My friends, too, who of course acted 
 for me, as I was under age, considered that I must consent. I 
 was amazed at some of the odd things I had to say, not at all 
 from knowing their meaning, but simply because I did not even 
 surmise it. My dear home instructor, of whom I have often 
 spoken in these letters, said, " My child, have no fear, you will 
 do this very well. Only give way to natural joyousness. Let 
 yourself go free : you cannot be vulgar, if you tried ever so 
 hard." 
 
 And so the performance came, and went off more easily than 
 I had imagined, as so many dreaded events of our lives do pass 
 away without any of the terrible consequences which we have 
 tormented ourselves by anticipating. The night was one not 
 readily to be forgotten. The excitement of having to act a char- 
 acter so different from any I had hitherto attempted, and the 
 anxiety natural to the effort, filled my mind entirely. I had no 
 idea of the scene which was to follow the close of the comedy, so 
 that it came upon me quite unexpectedly.
 
 294 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 The " farewell " of a great actor to his admiring friends in the 
 arena of his triumphs was something my imagination had never 
 pictured, and all at once it was brought most impressively before 
 me, touching a deep sad minor chord in my young life. It 
 moved me deeply. As I write, the exciting scene comes vividly 
 before me, the crowded stage, the pressing forward of all who 
 had been Mr Kemble's comrades and contemporaries, the good 
 wishes, the farewells given, the tearful voices, the wet eyes, the 
 curtain raised again and again. Ah, how can any one support 
 such a trial ! I determined in that moment that, when my time 
 came to leave the stage, I would not leave it in this way. My 
 heart could never have borne such a strain. I need not say that 
 this resolve has remained unchanged. I could not have expected 
 such a demonstrative farewell ; but, whatever it might have been, 
 I think it is well the knowledge that we are doing anything for 
 the last time is kept from us. I see now those who had acted 
 in the play asking for a memento of the night, ornaments, 
 gloves, handkerchiefs, feathers one by one taken from the hat, 
 then the hat itself, all, in short, that could be detached from 
 the dress. I, whose claim was as nothing compared with that of 
 others, stood aside, greatly moved and sorrowful, weeping on my 
 mother's shoulder, when, as the exciting scene was at last draw- 
 ing to a close, Mr Kemble saw me, and exclaimed, " What ! My 
 Lady baby l Beatrice all in tears ! What shall I do to comfort 
 her 1 ? What can I give her in remembrance of her first Bene- 
 dick 1 " I sobbed out, " Give me the book from which you 
 studied Benedick." He answered, " You shall have it, my dear, 
 and many others ! " He kept his word, and I have still two 
 small volumes in which are collected some of the plays in which 
 he acted, and also some in which his daughter, Fanny Kemble, 
 who was then married and living in America, had acted. These 
 
 1 I must explain that "baby" was the pet name by which Mr Kemble 
 always called me. I cannot tell why, unless it were because of the contrast 
 he found between his own wide knowledge of the world and of art, and my 
 innocent ignorance and youth. Delicate health had kept me in a quiet 
 home, which I only left at intervals for a quieter life by the seaside, so that 
 I knew, perhaps, far less of the world and its ways than even most girls of 
 my age.
 
 BEATRICE. 295 
 
 came with a charming letter on the title-page addressed to his 
 "dear little friend." 1 
 
 He also told my mother to bring me to him, if at any time she 
 thought his advice might be valuable ; and on several occasions 
 afterwards he took the trouble of reading over new parts with me 
 and giving me his advice and help. One thing which he im- 
 pressed upon me I never forgot. It was, on no account to give 
 prominence to the merely physical aspect of any painful emotion. 
 Let the expression be genuine, earnest, but not ugly. He pointed 
 out to me how easy it was to simulate distortions for example, 
 to writhe from the supposed effect of poison, to gasp, to roll the 
 eyes, &c. These were melodramatic effects. But if pain or 
 death had to be represented, or any sudden or violent shock, let 
 them be shown in their mental rather than in their physical 
 signs. The picture presented might be as sombre as the darkest 
 Rembrandt, but it must be noble in its outlines ; truthful, pictur- 
 esque, but never repulsive, mean, or commonplace. It must sug- 
 gest the heroic, the divine, in human nature, and not the mere 
 everyday struggles or tortures of this life, whether in joy or 
 sorrow, despair or hopeless grief. Under every circumstance the 
 ideal, the noble, the beautiful, should be given side by side with 
 the real. 
 
 I have always felt what a happy circumstance it was for a shy 
 and sensitive temperament like mine, that my first steps in my 
 art should have been guided and encouraged by a nature so gen- 
 erous and sympathetic as Mr Kemble's. He made me feel that I 
 was on the right road to success, and gave me courage by speak- 
 ing warmly of my natural gifts, and praising my desire to study 
 and improve, and my readiness in seizing his meaning and profit- 
 ing by his suggestions. How different it was when, shortly after- 
 wards, I came under Mr Macready's influence ! Equally great in 
 their art, Nature had cast the men in entirely different moulds. 
 
 1 The letter was in these terms : 
 
 "11 PARK PLACE, ST JAMES'S. 
 
 " MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND, To you alone do these parts, which once were 
 Fanny Kemble's, of right belong ; for from you alone can we now expect 
 the most efficient representation of them. Pray oblige me by giving them a 
 place in your study ; and believe me ever your true friend and servant, 
 
 "C. KBMBLB."
 
 296 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Each helped me, but by processes wholly unlike. The one, while 
 pointing out what was wrong, brought the balm of encouragement 
 and hope ; the other, like the surgeon, who " cuts beyond the 
 wound to make the cure more certain," was merciless to the feel- 
 ings, where he thought a fault or a defect might so best be 
 pruned away. Both were my true friends, and both were most 
 kind to me, each in his own way of showing kindness. Yet it 
 was well for my self-distrustful nature that the gentler kindness 
 came first. 
 
 Mr Kemble never lost an opportunity of making you happy. 
 When Joanna Baillie's play, The Separation, was produced with- 
 in two months of my first appearance, I had, in the heroine Mar- 
 garet, a very difficult part quite unlike any I had previously 
 acted or even studied. The story turns upon a wife's hearing 
 that before their marriage her husband had murdered her brother. 
 The play opens with the wife's learning the terrible truth from a 
 dying servant, just as the tidings reach her that her husband has 
 returned safely from battle, and is close at hand. Of course 
 " the Separation " ensues. It must have been a great trouble to 
 Mr Kemble, who played Garcio, the husband, to study a new 
 part at that period of his career, and I wonder that he undertook 
 it. You may imagine how nervous and anxious I felt at attempt- 
 ing the leading character in a play never before acted, and one, 
 moreover, with which I had little sympathy. During the first 
 performance Mr Kemble also appeared very nervous, and at times 
 seemed at a loss for his words. He was deaf, too, not very 
 deaf, but sufficiently so to make the prompter's voice of no use to 
 him. Happily I was able on several occasions, being close to 
 him, to whisper the words. How I knew them I can hardly tell, 
 because we had not copies of the play to study from, but only 
 our own manuscript parts. But I had heard him repeat them 
 often at rehearsal, and so they had fixed themselves in my 
 memory. Naturally, I thought nothing of this at the time. 
 The next morning, when we met upon the stage to make some 
 little changes in the play, Mr Kemble spoke openly of the help 
 I had been to him, making very much more of it than it deserved, 
 and above all, marvelling at the self-command of the young 
 novice coming with so much readiness to support an old actor,
 
 BEATRICE. 297 
 
 who should have been on the look-out to do that office for her. 
 I felt much ashamed to be praised for so small a thing. But 
 how quietly glad was the little mouse when she found that she 
 had helped, ever so slightly, her good friend the noble lion ! l 
 
 Mr Kemble was before everything pre-eminently a gentle- 
 man ; and this told, as it always must tell, when he enacted 
 ideal characters. There was a natural grace and dignity in his 
 bearing, a courtesy and unstudied deference of manner in ap- 
 proaching and addressing women, whether in private society or 
 on the stage, which I have scarcely seen equalled. Perhaps it 
 was not quite so rare in his day as it is now. What a lover he 
 must have made ! What a Eomeo ! What an Orlando ! I got 
 glimpses of what these must have been in the readings which 
 Mr Kemble gave after he left the stage, and which I attended 
 diligently, with heart and brain awake to profit by what I heard. 
 How fine was his Mercutio ! What brilliancy, what ease, what 
 spontaneous flow of fancy in the Queen Mab speech ! The very 
 start of it was suggestive " 0, then, I see Queen Mab " (with 
 a slight emphasis on "Mab") "hath been with you!" How 
 exquisite was the play of it all, image rising up after image, one 
 crowding upon another, each new one more fanciful than the 
 last ! " Thou talk'st of nothing," says Eomeo ; but oh what 
 nothings ! As picture after picture was brought before you by 
 Mr Kemble's skill, with the just emphasis thrown on every 
 word, yet all spoken "trippingly on the tongue," what objects 
 
 1 I remember well my surprise, when, on going into the Soho Bazaar one 
 day, during the run of Separation, and coming to the doll-stall a never- 
 forgotten spot of interest for me I saw a doll, labelled " Miss Helen Faucit 
 as the Lady Margaret in Separation." Such things were very unusual 
 then, and I felt, oh such a throb of delight ! The doll's dress was exactly 
 mine copied most accurately. I am sure, if I had not thought it would 
 look like vanity, I should have liked to buy my waxen self. Moreover, my 
 funds at that time might not have permitted such extravagance, and I felt 
 too shy to ask the price. She was a grandly got-up lady ; and although my 
 salary was the largest ever given in those days, I was, as a minor, only 
 allowed by my friends a slight increase to the pocket-money which had 
 been mine before my ddbut. Happily for me, both then and since, money 
 has never been a matter of first importance in my regard. Success in my 
 art, and the preservation of the freshness and freedom of spirit which are 
 essential to true distinction in it, were always my first desire.
 
 298 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 that one might see or touch could be more real 1 ? I was dis- 
 appointed in his reading of Juliet, Desdemona, &c. His hero- 
 ines were spiritless, tearful creatures too merely tender, without 
 distinction or individuality, all except Lady Macbeth, into whom 
 I could not help thinking some of the spirit of his great sister, 
 Mrs Siddons, was transfused. But, in truth, I cannot think it 
 possible for any man's nature to simulate a woman's, or vice 
 versa. Therefore it is that I have never cared very much to 
 listen to " readings " of entire plays by any single person. I 
 have sometimes given parts of them myself ; but very rarely, 
 and only, like Beatrice, "upon great persuasion." 
 
 Pardon this digression. It was so much my way to live with 
 the characters I represented, that, when I sit down to write, my 
 mind naturally wanders off into things which happened to me 
 in connection with the representation of them. It was some 
 little while before I again performed Beatrice, and then I had 
 for my Benedick Mr James Wallack. He was by that time 
 past the meridian of his life; but he threw a spirit and grace 
 into the part, which, added to his fine figure and gallant bearing, 
 made him, next to Mr Charles Kemble although far beneath 
 him, the best Benedick whom I have ever seen. Oh for some- 
 thing of the fervency, the fire, the undying youthfulness of spirit, 
 the fine courtesy of bearing, now so rare, which made the acting 
 with actors of this type so delightful ! 
 
 By this time I had made a greater study of the play ; moved 
 more freely in my art, and was therefore more able to throw 
 myself into the character of Beatrice than in the days of my 
 novitiate. The oftener I played the character, the more it grew 
 upon me. The view I had taken of it seemed also to find 
 favour with my audiences. I well remember the pleasure I 
 felt, when some chance critic of my Beatrice wrote that she was 
 "a creature overflowing with joyousness, raillery itself being 
 in her nothing more than an excess of animal spirits, tempered 
 by passing through a soul of goodness." That she had a soul, 
 brave and generous as well as good, it was always my aim to 
 show. All this was easy work to me on the stage. To do it 
 with my pen is a far harder task ; but I must try. 
 
 It may be a mere fancy, yet I cannot help thinking that
 
 BEATRICE. 299 
 
 Shakespeare found peculiar pleasure in the delineation of Beat- 
 rice, and more especially in devising the encounters between her 
 and Benedick. You remember what old Fuller says of the wit- 
 combats between Ben Jonson and Shakespeare, in which he 
 likens Jonson to a Spanish galleon, " built high, solid, but 
 slow " ; and Shakespeare to an English man-of-war, " lesser in 
 bulk, but lighter in sailing, tacking about and taking advantage 
 of all winds by the quickness of his wit and invention." It is 
 just this quickness of wit and invention which is the special 
 characteristic of both Benedick and Beatrice. In their skir- 
 mishes, each vies with each in trying to outflank the other by 
 jest and repartee ; and, as is fitting, the victory is generally with 
 the lady, whose adroitness in " tacking about, and taking advan- 
 tage of all winds," gives her the advantage even against an 
 adversary so formidable as Benedick. 
 
 That Beatrice is beautiful, Shakespeare is at pains to indicate. 
 If what Wordsworth says was ever true of any one, assuredly it 
 was true of her, that 
 
 " Vital feelings of delight 
 Had reared her form to stately height." 
 
 Accordingly we picture her as tall, and with the lithe elastic 
 grace of motion which should come of a fine figure and high 
 health. We are made to see very early that she is the sunshine 
 of her uncle Leonato's house. He delights in her quaint, daring 
 way of looking at things ; he is proud of her, too, for with all 
 her sportive and somewhat domineering ways, she is every inch 
 the noble lady, bearing herself in a manner worthy of her high 
 blood and courtly breeding. He knows how good and sound she 
 is in heart no less than in head, one of those strong natures 
 which can be counted on to rise up in answer to a call upon 
 their courage and fertility of resource in any time of difficulty 
 or trouble. Her shrewd sharp sayings have only a pleasant 
 piquancy for him. Indeed, however much weak colourless 
 natures might stand in awe of eyes so quick to detect a flaw, 
 and a wit so prompt to cover it with ridicule, there must have 
 been a charm for him and for all manly natures in the very 
 peril of coming under the fire of her raillery. A young, beauti-
 
 300 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 ful, graceful woman, flashing out brilliant sayings, charged with 
 no real malice, but with just enough of a sting in them to pique 
 the self-esteem of those at whom they are aimed, must always, 
 I fancy, have a peculiar fascination for men of spirit. And so 
 we see, at the very outset, it was with Beatrice. Not only her 
 uncle, but Don Pedro and the Count Claudio also, have the 
 highest admiration of her. That she was either a vixen or a 
 shrew was the last idea that could have entered their minds. 
 " By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady ! " says Don Pedro ; and 
 the words express what was obviously the general impression of 
 all who knew her best. 
 
 How long Benedick and Beatrice have known each other 
 before the play begins is not indicated. I think we may fairly 
 infer that their acquaintance is of some standing. It certainly 
 did not begin when Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon, in passing 
 through Messina (on his way probably to attack the Turks, with 
 whom Spain, Austria, and Venice were at war about the period 
 to which we may reasonably assign the action of the play), 
 picked Benedick up, and attached him to his suite. They were 
 obviously intimate before this. At all events there had been 
 time for an antagonism to spring up between them, which was 
 natural, where both were witty, and both accustomed to lord it 
 somewhat, as witty people are apt to do, over their respective 
 circles. Benedick could scarcely have failed to draw the fire 
 of Beatrice by his avowed and contemptuous indifference to her 
 sex, if by nothing else. To be evermore proclaiming, as we may 
 be sure he did, just as much before he went to the wars as he 
 did after his return, that he rated all women cheaply, was an 
 offence which Beatrice, ready enough although she might be 
 herself to make epigrams on the failings of her sex, was certain 
 to resent. Was it to be borne that he should set himself up 
 as "a professed tyrant to her whole sex," and boast his freedom 
 from the vassalage to "love, the lord of all"? And this, too, 
 when he had the effrontery to tell herself, " It is certain I am 
 loved of all ladies, only you excepted." 
 
 It is true that Beatrice, when she is pressed upon the point, 
 has much the same pronounced notions about the male sex, and 
 the bondage of marriage. But she does not, like Benedick, go
 
 BEATRICE. 301 
 
 about proclaiming them to all comers ; neither does she denounce 
 the whole male sex for the faults or vices of the few. Besides, 
 there has clearly been about Benedick, in these early days, an 
 air of confident self-assertion, a tendency to talk people down, 
 which have irritated Beatrice. The name " Signor Montanto," 
 borrowed from the language of the Italian fencing-school, by 
 which she asks after him in the first sentence she utters, and 
 her announcement that she had "promised to eat all of his 
 killing," seem to point to the first of these faults. And may 
 we not take as an indication of the other her first remark to 
 himself, " I wonder you will still be talking, Signor Benedick ; 
 nobody marks you ; " and also the sarcasm in her description of 
 him to her uncle, as "too like my lady's eldest son, evermore 
 tattling " t 
 
 What piques Beatrice, also, is the undeniable fact that this 
 contemptuous Benedick is a handsome, gallant young soldier, a 
 general favourite, who makes his points with trenchant effect 
 in the give and take of their wit-combats, and, in short, has 
 more of the qualities to win the heart of a woman of spirit than 
 any of the gallants who have come about her. She, on the other 
 hand, has the attraction for him of being as clever as she is 
 handsome, the person of all his circle who puts him most upon 
 his mettle, and who pays him the compliment of replying upon 
 his sharp sayings with repartees, the brilliancy of which he 
 cannot but acknowledge, even while he smarts under them. 
 We can tell he is far from insensible to her beauty by what 
 he says of her to Claudio when contrasting her with Hero. 
 " There is her cousin, and she were not possessed with a fury, 
 exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the 
 last of December." No wonder, therefore, that, as we see, they 
 have often come into conflict, creating no small amusement to 
 their friends, and to none more than to Leonato. When Beat- 
 rice, in the opening scene of the play, says so many biting things 
 about Benedick, Leonato, anxious that the Messenger shall not 
 carry away a false notion of their opinion of him, says, "You 
 must not, sir, mistake my niece ; there is a kind of merry war 
 between Signor Benedick and her ; they never meet but there's 
 a skirmish of wit between them." Life, perhaps, has not been
 
 302 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 so amusing to Leonato since Signor Benedick went away. It 
 is conceivable that Beatrice herself may have missed him, if 
 for nothing else than for the gibes and sarcasm which had 
 called her own exuberance of wit into play. 
 
 I believe we shall not do Beatrice justice unless we form some 
 idea, such as I have suggested, of the relations that have sub- 
 sisted between her and Benedick before the play opens. It 
 would he impossible otherwise to understand why he should 
 be uppermost in her thoughts, when she hears of the successful 
 issue of Don Pedro's expedition, so that her first question to 
 the Messenger who brings the tidings is whether Benedick has 
 come back with the rest. Finding that he has returned un- 
 scathed " and as pleasant as ever he was," she proceeds to show 
 him under no very flattering aspect. Her uncle, knowing how 
 very different Benedick is from the man she wittily describes, 
 tries to stop her by saying, " Faith, niece, you tax Signor Bene- 
 dick too much ; but he'll be meet with you, I doubt not." This 
 only stimulates her to such further travesty of his character, that 
 the Messenger observes, "I see, lady, the gentleman, is not in 
 your books." In sheer enjoyment of her own humour, she 
 rejoins " No : an he were, I would burn my study. But I 
 pray you," she continues, insensibly betraying her interest in 
 him by the question, " who is his companion ? " And when 
 the Messenger answers, " The right noble Claudio," the humor- 
 ous exaggeration of her language gives a delightful foretaste of 
 what we may expect when she encounters Benedick himself : 
 
 " Lord ! He will hang upon him like a disease ; he is sooner caught 
 than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. Heaven help the 
 noble Claudio \ l If he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thou- 
 sand pound ere he be cured. 
 
 Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady. 
 
 Seat. Do, good friend. 
 
 Leon. You'll ne'er run mad, niece. 
 
 Beat. No, not till a hot January." 
 
 1 In some recent reproductions of Shakespeare's plays, the frequent rep- 
 etition of the name of the Deity has struck most painfully upon my ear. 
 I suppose, when Shakespeare wrote, the familiar use of this sacred name, 
 like many other things repugnant to modern taste, was not generally con- 
 demned. In this play the name of " God " occurs continually, and upon
 
 BEATKICE. 303 
 
 At this point Don Pedro enters with his suite, and Benedick 
 among them. It is not long before he draws upon himself, and 
 deservedly too, a shaft from the quiver of Beatrice's wit. When 
 Don Pedro, turning to Hero, says, " I think this is your daughter," 
 and Leonato rejoins, " Her mother hath many times told me so," 
 Benedick strikes in with the somewhat impertinent freedom of 
 a privileged jester, " Were you in doubt, Signor, that you asked 
 her 1 " Leonato retorts upon him, " Signor Benedick, no ; for 
 then were you a child." " You have it full, Benedick," exclaims 
 Don Pedro ; " we may guess by this what you are, being a man," 
 adding, " Truly, the lady fathers herself ; be happy, lady ! for 
 you are like an honourable father." Benedick, a little stung by 
 Leonato's repartee, now grows rude. " If Signor Leonato," he 
 says, "be her father, she would not have his head on her 
 shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is." The others 
 turn away to converse together, but Beatrice, indignant at what 
 she considers his impertinent speech to her uncle, addresses him 
 tauntingly with 
 
 " I wonder you will still be talking, Signor Benedick ; nobody marks you. 
 
 Bene. What, my dear Lady Disdain ! are you yet living ? 
 
 Beat. Is it possible disdain should die, while she hath such meet food to 
 feed it as Signor Benedick ? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you 
 come in her presence." 
 
 In the dialogue which ensues, Benedick falls at once into his 
 old habit of boasting that women love him, but that he cannot 
 love them. In what he says, he is unmannerly rather than 
 witty ; and finding very soon that he has the worst of the 
 encounter, he is glad to break off the interview, telling Beat- 
 rice, " I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so 
 good a continuer. But keep your way, o' heaven's name ; I have 
 
 the most trivial occasions. It so happens that it rises to Beatrice's lips 
 more often than to any other's. In the books from which I studied, 
 " Heaven " was everywhere substituted for it ; and I confess the word 
 sounds pleasanter and softer to my ear, besides being in the circumstances 
 less irreverent. I cannot help the feeling, though it may be considered 
 fastidious. The name of the Deity, I think, should never rise lightly to 
 the lips, or be used upon slight cause. There are, of course, occasions when, 
 even upon the stage, it is the right word to use. But these are rare, and 
 only where the prevailing strain of thought or emotion is high and solemn.
 
 304 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 done." She is ready with her retort, " You always end with a 
 jade's trick ; I know you of old." 
 
 When Beatrice leaves the scene, and Benedick remains behind 
 with Claudio, he can give full vent to his disparagement of all 
 womankind with no fear of rebuke. In vain does Claudio try 
 to extract from him some encouragement in his admiration of 
 Leonato's daughter Hero. " In mine eye," says Claudio, " she 
 is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on." But Benedick can 
 " see no such matter." Then it is he drops out the acknowledg- 
 ment, that Beatrice excels her cousin in beauty as " the first of 
 May doth the last of December," if only she were not "pos- 
 sessed with a fury " a qualification made in very soreness at 
 the triumph her superior skill in the carte and tierce of bad- 
 inage has so recently given her over him. Claudio, who, on 
 seeing Hero again, finds that the admiration he had felt for her 
 before going to the war has deepened into an absorbing passion, 
 writhes under the banter of his unsympathetic friend, and is 
 very glad to have the support of Don Pedro, who now joins 
 them. His coming is the signal for Benedick to start off afresh 
 into protestations of his indifference to the whole female sex, 
 and of his fixed determination to live a bachelor. When Don 
 Pedro, who knows human nature a great deal too well to take 
 such protestations for serious earnest, says, " I shall see thee, ere 
 I die, look pale with love," Benedick rejoins, " With anger, with 
 sickness, or with hunger, my lord, but not with love." Don 
 Pedro adheres to his opinion, quoting the line, "In time the 
 savage bull doth bear the yoke " ; and this draws from Benedick 
 the protest, on which so much of the humour of what happens 
 afterwards depends, 
 
 " Bene. The savage bull may ; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, 
 pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead : and let me be 
 vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write, ' Here is good horse 
 to hire, ' let them signify under my sign, ' Here you may see Benedick the 
 married man.' 
 
 D. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt 
 quake for this shortly. 
 
 Bene. I look for an earthquake too, then." 
 
 Benedick gone, Claudio is free to open the state of his heart
 
 BEATKICE. 305 
 
 to his patron and friend, Don Pedro. He fears his liking 
 
 may seem too sudden, and explains that it was of old standing. 
 
 Before he had gone with the Prince on the expedition just ended, 
 
 he had looked on Hero 
 
 " with a soldier's eye, 
 
 That liked, but had a rougher task in hand 
 Than to drive liking to the name of love. 
 But now I am return'd, and that war-thoughts 
 Have left their places vacant, in their rooms 
 Come thronging soft and delicate desires, 
 All prompting me how fair young Hero is, 
 Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars." 
 
 This heing the state of his heart, why should he not have urged 
 his suit in person 1 Instead of doing so, however, he unwisely 
 adopts Don Pedro's suggestion, that she should be wooed by 
 proxy : 
 
 " I know we shall have revelling to-night : 
 I will assume thy part in some disguise, 
 And tell fair Hero I am Claudio ; 
 And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart, 
 And take her hearing prisoner with the force 
 And strong encounter of my amorous tale." 
 
 Brides for princes have often been wooed by proxy, and with 
 results not always satisfactory to the princes, but here the order 
 of things is reversed. Surely the man who could leave another 
 to plead for him in such a cause can have no great strength of 
 character ; and that this is true of Claudio seems to me to be 
 very clearly shown by his subsequent conduct. Presently we 
 see how easily he allows himself to be swayed by what other 
 people say, as weak men will, when Don Pedro's brother, Don 
 John, to gratify the personal grudge he feels for having been 
 supplanted by Claudio in his brother's regard, persuades him 
 that Don Pedro is playing him false, and wooing Hero for him- 
 self. The discovery that this was merely a malicious fiction 
 would have put most men upon their guard against believing 
 any further innuendo from the same quarter. But Claudio is 
 still perfectly ready to give credence to Don John's subsequent 
 accusation against Hero, and to jump to the conclusion that it 
 is true, upon evidence which could have surely misled no manly 
 and generous mind. The very look, morose and vindictive, of 
 U
 
 306 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Don John ought to have inspired him with distrust. What 
 that look was, Beatrice puts vividly before us in a sentence 
 or two at the opening of the second act. The whole passage is 
 delightful. 
 
 " Leonato. Was not Count John here at supper ? 
 
 Antonio. I saw him not. 
 
 Beatrice. How tartly that gentleman looks ! I never can see him but I 
 am heart-burned an hour after. 
 
 Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition. 
 
 Beat. He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway 
 between him and Benedick ; the one is too like an image, and says nothing ; 
 and the other too like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling. 
 
 Leon. Then half Signer Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and 
 half Count John's melancholy in Signor Benedick's face 
 
 Beat. With a good leg, and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his 
 purse, such a man could win any woman in the world, if he could get her 
 good-will. 
 
 Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be 
 so shrewd of tongue. 
 
 Beat. . . . For the which blessing I am upon my knees every morn- 
 ing and evening. Lord ! I could not endure a husband with a beard on his 
 face. . . . 
 
 Leon. You may light upon a husband that hath no beard. 
 
 Beat. What should I do with him ? Dress him in my apparel, and make 
 him my waiting-gentlewoman ? He that hath a beard is more than a 
 youth ; and he that hath no beard is less than a man ; and he that is more 
 than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for 
 him." 
 
 Who does not see what a pleasant person Beatrice must have 
 been in her uncle's home, with all this power of saying the 
 quaint and unexpected things which bubble up from an uncon- 
 trollable spirit of enjoyment ] Her frankness must indeed have 
 been a pleasant foil to the somewhat characterless and over-gentle 
 Hero. See how fearlessly she presently tells Hero not to take a 
 husband of her father's choosing, unless he pleases herself. She 
 has just heard of the Prince's intention to make suit to Hero at 
 the coming masked ball ; and when Antonio tells Hero that he 
 trusts she will not follow Beatrice's creed, but " be ruled by her 
 father," Beatrice rejoins : 
 
 " Yes, faith ; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy, and say, ' As it please 
 you : ' but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else 
 make another curtsy, and say, ' Father, as it please me ! '"
 
 BEATRICE. 307 
 
 Leonato loves Beatrice too well to be angry at this instigation 
 to possible rebellion, and only answers her with the words, 
 "Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband." 
 Beatrice is by no means at the end of her resources. She is 
 bent on making light of all matrimonial projects. In what she 
 goes on to say we have the counterpart of what Benedick in the 
 previous scene had said to Don Pedro and Claudio ; and so the 
 groundwork is laid for the coming contrast between their pro- 
 testations of resolute celibacy and their subsequent engagement. 
 
 "Beat. Not till Heaven make men of some other metal than earth. 
 Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valiant 
 dust ? To make account of her life to a clod of wayward marl ? No, uncle, 
 I'll none. Adam's sons are my brethren ; and truly I hold it a sin to match 
 in my kindred. 
 
 Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you. If the Prince do solicit you 
 in that kind, you know your answer. 
 
 Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good 
 time. If the Prince be too importunate, tell him there is measure in every- 
 thing, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero ; wooing, wed- 
 ding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace. The 
 first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical ; the 
 wedding, mannerly-modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry ; and 
 then comes repentance, and, with his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace 
 faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. 
 
 Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. 
 
 Beat. I have a good eye, uncle : I can see a church by daylight." 
 
 Beatrice is now in the gayest spirits and in the very mood to 
 encounter her old enemy, Benedick. He appears forthwith at the 
 revel at Leonato's house, masked like the other guests. Bene- 
 dick has thrown himself in her way ; he has danced with her ; 
 and thinking she does not penetrate the disguise of his domino 
 and mask, and feigned voice, has been telling her he had been 
 informed that her wit was borrowed and her temper disdainful. 
 She knows him at once, but affects not to do so ; and thus in 
 the dialogue that follows between them the actress has the most 
 delightful scope for bringing out the address, the graceful move- 
 ment, the abounding joyousness which makes Beatrice the 
 paragon of her kind. With a plaintive, ill-used air she asks 
 him
 
 308 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so ? 
 Bene. (in a feigned voice). No, you shall pardon me. 
 Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are ? 
 Bene. Not now. 
 
 Beat. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of ' The 
 Hundred Merry Tales.' " 
 
 Then, as if the truth had just flashed upon her, she continues 
 
 ' ' Well, this was Signor Benedick that said so. 
 
 Bene. What's he ? 
 
 Beat. I am sure you know him well enough. 
 
 Bene. Not I, believe me. 
 
 Beat. Did he never make you laugh ? 
 
 Bene. I pray you, what is he ? " 
 
 By this time Benedick has begun to wish himself anywhere but 
 where he is. But his restlessness only stimulates Beatrice to 
 take her full revenge upon him, by presenting him in the light 
 which to a high-spirited man would be intolerable. Never again 
 shall he venture to say she had her wit out of ' The Hundred 
 Merry Tales.' 
 
 ' ' Beat. Why, he is the Prince's jester : a very dull fool ; only his gift is in 
 devising impossible slanders. None but libertines delight in him ; and the 
 commendation is not in his wit but in his villainy ; for he both pleases men 
 and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. . . ." 
 
 Benedick tries to break away from her, saying, " When I know 
 the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say;" but he is not yet 
 allowed to escape. 
 
 "Do, do ! " says Beatrice, mocking him. " He'll but break a comparison 
 or two on me ; which, peradventure, not marked, or not laughed at, strikes 
 him into melancholy ; and then there's a partridge wing saved, for the fool 
 will eat no supper that night." 
 
 "With this Beatrice lets him go ; but how deeply her barbed 
 shafts have pierced him is seen anon, when he returns to the 
 scene. He has been laughing at Claudio for, as he believes, 
 letting Don Pedro win his mistress Hero for himself; but no 
 sooner does Claudio leave him, enraged against the Prince, than 
 the gibes of the Lady Beatrice recur to his memory : 
 
 " That my lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me ! The 
 Prince's fool ! Ha ! it may be, that I go under that title, because I am
 
 BEATRICE. 309 
 
 merry. Yea ; but so ; I ain apt to do myself wrong. I am not so reputed. 
 It is nought but the bitter disposition of Beatrice, that puts the world into 
 her person, and so gives me out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may." 
 
 "As he may!" There is an amusing despair in the confession. 
 He feels that Beatrice has fairly driven him off the field. This 
 becomes more apparent when Don Pedro breaks in upon his 
 musing with these unwelcome words, "The lady Beatrice hath 
 a quarrel to you ; the gentleman that danced with her told her 
 she is much wronged by you." Poor Benedick at once lets out 
 the secret, which Beatrice had kept from the Prince, that the 
 gentleman in question was himself. Indignation makes him elo- 
 quent and witty even beyond his wont. 
 
 " 0, she misused me past the endurance of a block. An oak, but with 
 one green leaf on it, would have answered her. My very visor began to 
 assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been my- 
 self," ah, where then was his vaunted shrewdness ? " that I was the 
 Prince's jester, and that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon 
 jest, with such impossible conveyance upon me, that I stood like a man at 
 a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every 
 word stabs. ... I would not marry her, though she were endowed 
 with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed." 
 
 Not marry her ! Are we to read in this, that Benedick had 
 at some time nourished dreams about her, not wholly consistent 
 with his creed of celibacy] Not unlikely, if we couple this 
 remark with what he had said to Claudio about her beauty as 
 compared with Hero's. But, while they speak, Beatrice is seen 
 approaching with her Uncle, Claudio, and Hero, and in the same 
 spirit of exquisite exaggeration Benedick, who in his present 
 mood will not run the risk of a fresh encounter, asks Don Pedro 
 if he will not " command him any service to the world's end 1 " 
 offering to go anywhere, do anything, " rather than hold three 
 words' conference with this harpy," and makes his escape, ex- 
 claiming as he goes, "0 God, sir, here's a dish I love not; I 
 cannot endure my Lady Tongue." All this time Benedick quite 
 forgets that he was himself to blame, if Beatrice has dealt sharply 
 with him ; for had he not given her the severest provocation by 
 attacking her under the shelter of his mask 1 If volubility of 
 speech were her sin, how much greater was his ! Rich as her
 
 310 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 invention is, and fertile her vocabulary, Benedick excels her in 
 both. But what great talker ever knew his own weakness 1 
 
 Meanwhile Beatrice has been requested by Don Pedro to bring 
 Count Claudio. She has evidently found out, by the way, the 
 secret of his sullenness ; and when Don Pedro inquires the cause, 
 she puts the case with her usual aptness and pleasantry, "The 
 Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well : but civil 
 Count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous com- 
 plexion." He is speedily disabused of his suspicions, and made 
 happy by Don Pedro's assurance that Hero has been won for him, 
 and her father's " goodwill obtained." 
 
 Despite of all that she has said against marriage for herself, 
 Beatrice, who is in Hero's secret, is glad of a result which makes 
 her cousin happy. " Speak, Count," she says to Claudio, who 
 has scarcely recovered from his surprise, "'tis your cue." And 
 when he does speak, and very well too, she turns with a similar 
 adjuration to Hero. 
 
 " Seat. Speak, cousin ; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and 
 let him not speak neither. 
 
 D. Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. 
 
 Beat. Yea, my lord : I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of 
 care." 
 
 But she is for the moment too intent on watching the lovers to 
 think of herself, and she continues 
 
 " My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. 
 
 Claud. And so she doth, cousin. 
 
 Beat. Good Lord, for alliance ! Thus goes every one to the world but I, 
 and I am sunburnt ; I may sit in a corner, and cry, heigho ! for a husband. 
 
 D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. 
 
 Beat. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your grace 
 ne'er a brother like you ? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid 
 could come by them. 
 
 D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady ? 
 
 Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days. Your 
 grace is too costly to wear every day. " 
 
 Here, true lady as she is, it crosses her mind that her high spirits 
 may have carried her too far, and may lead the Prince to mis- 
 understand her. With the bright and innocent frankness which 
 obviously gives her a special charm in his eyes, she prays his 
 forgiveness.
 
 BEATRICE. 311 
 
 " I beseech'your grace, pardon me ! I was born to speak all mirth, and 
 no matter. 
 
 I). Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes 
 you ; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour." 
 
 With just the slightest inflection of pathos in her voice Beatrice 
 replies 
 
 "No, sure, my lord, my mother cry'd ; but then there was a star danced, 
 and under that was I born. Cousins, Heaven give you joy ! " 
 
 Her uncle now asks her " to look to some things he had told 
 her of." Be sure that Beatrice was the presiding spirit in his 
 household. How sweetly and readily does she go upon his bid- 
 ding ! " I cry you mercy, uncle ; " then curtseying to the Prince 
 of Aragon, " By your grace's leave ! " to excuse herself for leaving 
 thus abruptly. When she has gone, Don Pedro sums up his 
 impression of her in the words, " By my troth, a pleasant-spirited 
 lady." In answer to his remark that Beatrice "cannot endure 
 to hear tell of a husband," Leonato says, " 0, by no means : she 
 mocks all her wooers out of suit ! " Don Pedro has, however, 
 seen enough of the relations between her and Benedick to con- 
 clude that a worse thing might befall them, than that their witty 
 warfare should be turned to wooing. He has obviously a strong 
 regard for both, and he " would fain have it a match." She, he 
 says, " were an excellent wife for Benedick ; " and Benedick, a 
 man " of noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed honesty," 
 as he knows him to be, is " not the unhopefullest husband that 
 he knows." So, to beguile the week that is to elapse before 
 Claudio's marriage, he undertakes " to bring them into a mountain 
 of affection, the one with the other." Hero, acting upon the 
 suggestions Don Pedro will give her, is so to "humour" her 
 cousin, " that she shall fall in love with Benedick ; " while he 
 himself, along with Leonato and Claudio, are so to " practise on 
 Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach," 
 he shall fall in love with Beatrice. 
 
 While they are perfecting their little well-meant plot, Don 
 John and his retainer, Borachio, are hatching theirs for destroy- 
 ing Hero's reputation and breaking off her marriage, by making 
 Don Pedro and Count Claudio believe that, on the night before
 
 312 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 her wedding-day, they see Borachio leave her chamber by the 
 window. The way in which the temporary success of this second 
 plot is made to work most effectually for the permanent success 
 of the first, is one of the many proofs of Shakespeare's transcen- 
 dent skill in dramatic construction. 
 
 There is no need to speak at length of the admirable scene in 
 which Don Pedro, Leonato, and Count Claudio persuade Bene- 
 dick that Beatrice dotes upon him, while " she hath in all out- 
 ward behaviours seemed ever to abhor him," and " will die ere she 
 will make her love known." So cleverly is the dialogue man- 
 aged, that Benedick must have had a heart of stone, as well as 
 superhuman acuteness, had he not been moved by it. He does 
 not easily fall into the snare. Don Pedro alone could not have 
 deceived him. But how can he refuse to believe Leonato, " the 
 white-bearded fellow," whom he knows to be devoted to Beatrice 1 
 Was it conceivable that he, her uncle and guardian, should be 
 speaking pure fiction, when he says that "she loves Benedick 
 with an enraged affection, it is past the infinite of thought " 1 
 And why should Claudio, his own familiar and trusted friend, be 
 in the same tale, unless he had really learned from Hero, as he 
 says he has, the true state of Beatrice's affection, and " that she 
 will die ere she make her love known " ? 
 
 The conspirators have not spared Benedick, while extolling 
 Beatrice dwelling much on his scornful and contemptuous 
 spirit, Don Pedro, at the same time that he protests he " loves 
 him well," adding very craftily a wish, that Benedick "would 
 modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy 
 so good a lady." Benedick's first thought is not of his own 
 shortcomings. In this, as we presently see, he is very differ- 
 ent from Beatrice. He at once, with pardonable complacency, 
 accepts the fact that Beatrice loves him; in that belief all 
 his former invectives against her are forgotten, and he feels 
 her love " must be requited." She is no longer " Lady Disdain," 
 "the fury," "the harpy." On the contrary she is "fair," 
 "virtuous," "wise, but in loving him." In any case he "will be 
 horribly in love with her;" and, so possessed is he with the 
 triumphant feeling that he stands high in her regard, that when 
 she presently appears to tell him she is "sent against her
 
 BEATRICE. 313 
 
 will to bid him come in to dinner," he actually "spies some 
 marks of love in her," and finds a meaning flattering to the 
 thought in the very phrases which she studiously uses to prove 
 with what reluctance she had come upon the errand. He leaves 
 the scene, protesting, " I will go get her picture ! " 
 
 Now it is Beatrice's turn to fall into a similar snare. It is 
 laid for her by Hero and her gentlewoman Ursula ; and in the 
 very exuberance of a power that runs without effort into the 
 channel of melodious verse, Shakespeare passes from the terse 
 vivid prose of the previous scene into rhythmical lines, steeped 
 in music and illumined by fancy. Margaret is despatched to 
 tell Beatrice that her cousin and Ursula are talking about her, 
 and to 
 
 " bid her steal into the pleached bower, 
 
 Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, 
 
 Forbid the sun to enter." 
 
 And anon we see her, 
 
 " like a lapwing, run 
 Close by the ground, to hear their conference." 
 
 It is of course an overwhelming surprise to Beatrice to hear 
 that " Benedick loves her so entirely." She is at first incredu- 
 lous. Still her attention is fairly arrested. She listens with 
 eager curiosity; but begins to feel a tightening at the heart 
 when her cousin says 
 
 " But nature never framed a woman's heart 
 Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice : 
 Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, 
 Misprising what they look on ; and her wit 
 Values itself so highly, that to her 
 All matter else seems weak. She cannot love, 
 Nor take no shape nor project of affection, 
 She is so self-endeared. 
 
 Urs. Sure, I think so ; 
 
 And therefore, certainly, it were not good, 
 She knew his love, lest she make sport of it." 
 
 Hero with a power of witty and somewhat merciless sarcasm, 
 new to Beatrice in her gentle cousin, drives still further home the 
 charge of pride and scornfulness :
 
 314 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 ' ' Why, you speak truth : I never yet saw man, 
 How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured, 
 But she would spell him backward : if fair-faced, 
 She'd swear the gentleman should be her sister ; 
 If black, why nature, drawing of an antic, 
 Made a foul blot ; if tall, a lance ill-headed ; 
 If low, an agate very vilely cut ; 
 If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ; 
 If silent, why, a block moved with none." 
 
 All* this somewhat surprises and yet amuses Beatrice, for it re- 
 minds her of her own thoughts about some of her unsuccessful 
 wooers. But what follows sends the blood in upon her heart : 
 
 " So turns she every man the wrong side out ; 
 And never gives to truth and virtue that 
 Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. " 
 
 Why, why, if this be so, has not Hero let her hear of it from 
 herself ? The feeling of shame and bitter self-reproach deepens 
 as Hero goes on : 
 
 "To be so odd, and from all fashions, 
 As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable : 
 But who dare tell her so ? If I should speak, 
 She would mock me into air : 0, she would laugh me 
 Out of myself, press me to death with wit. 
 Therefore let Benedick, like covered fire, 
 Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly 
 It were a better death than die with mocks." 
 
 We know that all this is overstated for a purpose. But Beatrice 
 has no such suspicion. She is wounded to the quick, and Hero's 
 words strike deeper, because Beatrice up to this time has seen no 
 signs of her cousin having entertained this harsh view of her 
 character. The cup of self-reproach is full, as Hero proceeds : 
 
 " No, I will rather go to Benedick, 
 And counsel him to fight against his passion. 
 And, truly, I'll devise some honest slanders 
 To stain my cousin with : one doth not know 
 How much an ill word doth empoison liking." 
 
 This was too much, and it seemed to me, as I listened, as if I 
 could endure no more, but must break from my concealment and 
 stop their cruel words. Ursula's more kindly rejoinder is some 
 balm to Beatrice :
 
 BEATRICE. 315 
 
 " 0, do not do your cousin such a wrong. 
 She cannot be so much without true judgment, 
 (Having so swift and excellent a wit 
 As she is prized to have) as to refuse 
 So rare a gentleman as Signor Benedick." 
 
 What follows is not unwelcome to her ears, for it is all in praise 
 of Benedick as one who 
 
 " For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour, 
 Goes foremost in report through Italy." 
 
 When they are gone, and Beatrice comes from her hiding- 
 place in " the pleached bower," she has become to herself another 
 woman. It is not so much that her nature is changed, as that 
 it has been suddenly developed. She is dazed, astounded at 
 what she has overheard. " What fire is in mine ears 1 " she 
 exclaims ; " Can this be true 1 " Am I such a self - assured, 
 scornful, disdainful, vainglorious creature 1 ? Is it thus I appear 
 even to those who know me best, and Avhom I love the best 1 ? 
 Do I look down contemptuously on others from the height of my 
 own deserts? Am I so "self-endeared" that I see worth and 
 cleverness only in myself? Do I carry myself thus proudly? 
 Have I been living in a delusion ? Have my foolish tongue and 
 giddy humour presented me in a light so untrue to my real self? 
 What an awakening ! She does not blame others. She feels no 
 shade of bitterness against Hero, her reproaches are all against 
 herself. "Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?" 
 There must be an end to this, and quickly. 
 
 "Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu ! 
 No glory lives behind the back of such." 
 
 After this complete self-abasement comes fresh wonder, in the 
 remembrance of what Hero and Ursula have said of Benedick's 
 infatuation for her. That he likes her she has probably sus- 
 pected more than once ; and now she learns that it is her wicked 
 mocking spirit which has alone prevented him from making an 
 open avowal of his devotion. All this shall be changed. If, 
 despite the past, he indeed loves her, he must be rewarded. No 
 one knows his good qualities better than she does. She will 
 accept his shortcomings for what grave faults of her own has
 
 316 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 she not to correct 1 ? and for the future touch them so gently, 
 that in time they will either vanish, or she will hardly wish 
 them away. Henceforth she must give him such encouragement 
 as will make him happy in the avowal of his love. 
 
 "And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee, 
 Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand. 
 
 If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee 
 To tie our loves up in a holy band : 
 
 For others say thou dost deserve ; and I 
 
 Believe it better than reportingly." 
 
 It is now that for the first time we see the underlying nobleness 
 and generosity of Beatrice leap into view. If she were indeed 
 what Hero described still more, if this were, as Hero had said, 
 the general impression she might well be excused, had she asked 
 why Hero, her bosom friend, her "bedfellow," as we are sub- 
 sequently told, had never hinted at faults so serious 1 ? But 
 Beatrice neither reproaches her cousin nor seeks to extenuate 
 the defects laid to her charge. She trusts Hero's report implic- 
 itly, and being herself incapable of deceit or misrepresentation, 
 she regards Hero's heavy indictment as a thing not to be im- 
 pugned. The future, she resolves, shall make it impossible for 
 any one to entertain such a conception of her as Hero has 
 described. 
 
 This is the turning-point in Beatrice's life, and in the rep- 
 resentation it should be shown by her whole demeanour, and 
 especially by the way the lines just quoted are spoken, that a 
 marked change has come over her since, "like a lapwing," she 
 stole into the bower of honeysuckles. Thus the audience will 
 be prepared for the development of the high qualities which she 
 soon afterwards displays. 
 
 She is, then, one of the brilliant group that accompanies Hero 
 to the altar. When Claudio brings forward his accusation against 
 his bride, Beatrice is struck dumb with amazement. Indignation 
 at the falsehood of the charge, and at the unmanliness that could 
 wait for such a moment to make it, is mingled with the keenest 
 sympathy for Leonato as well as for Hero. I never knew exactly 
 for which of the two my sympathy should most be shown, and 
 I found myself by the side now of the one, now of the other.
 
 BEATKICE. 317 
 
 Hero had her friends, her attendants round her ; but the kind 
 uncle and guardian stands alone. Strangely enough, his brother 
 Antonio, who plays a prominent part afterwards, is not at the 
 wedding. 
 
 Beatrice's blood is all on fire at the disgrace thus brought 
 upon her family and herself. When she hears the vile slander 
 supported by Don Pedro ; and when Don John, that sour-visaged 
 hypocrite whom she dislikes by instinct, with insolent cruelty 
 throws fresh reproaches upon the fainting Hero, her eye falls 
 on Benedick, who stands apart bewildered, looking on the scene 
 with an air of manifest distress. In that moment, as I think, 
 Beatrice makes up her mind that he shall be her cousin's 
 champion. Were she not a woman, she would herself enter 
 the lists to avenge the wrong ; since she cannot do this directly, 
 she will do it indirectly by enlisting this new-found lover in her 
 cause. How happy a coincidence it is, that Hero has so lately 
 brought the fact of Benedick's devotion to her knowledge ! All 
 remembrance of the harsh, the unkind accusations against herself 
 with which the information was mixed up, has vanished from 
 her mind. It was Hero who revealed to her the unsuspected 
 love of Benedick, at least its earnestness and depth, and Hero 
 shall be the first to benefit by it. 
 
 Benedick is so present to her thoughts, that when Hero faints 
 in her arms, she calls to him, as well as to Leonato and the 
 Friar, to come to her assistance. " Help, uncle ! Hero ! why, 
 Hero ! Uncle ! Signer Benedick ! Friar ! " Nor is he unmoved 
 by what he has noted in Beatrice. Her deep emotion has 
 touched him, and he begins to waver in his belief in the charge 
 against Hero when he hears Beatrice exclaim, with a voice 
 resonant with the energy of assured conviction, " 0, on my soul, 
 my cousin is belied ! " He is not disinclined to accept the Friar's 
 suggestion that "there is some strange misprision in the princes," 
 and his instinct at once leads him to suspect that they have been 
 the dupes of Don John. 
 
 " Two of them have the very bent of honour ; 
 And if their wisdom be misled in this, 
 The practice of it lives in John the bastard, 
 Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies."
 
 318 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHAKACTERS: 
 
 Possessed as Benedick was with this idea of the man, it is obvious 
 that, if his friends had taken him into their counsels, they would 
 never have fallen into Don John's toils. Benedick's words were, 
 no doubt, the echo of Beatrice's own thought. She would be 
 grateful for them, and still more for the tone and manner of his 
 parting speech to Leonato, so well fitted as these are to raise him 
 in her esteem : 
 
 " Signer Leonato, let the friar advise you : 
 And though you know my inwardness and love 
 Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio, 
 Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this 
 As secretly and justly as your soul 
 Should with your body." 
 
 What a conflict of strong emotions used to come over me 
 when acting this scene ! It begins solemnly yet happily ; but 
 oh, how soon all is changed ! One may imagine that to the 
 marriage of the daughter of the Governor of Messina the whole 
 nobility of the place would be invited. Claudio, we have been 
 told, has an uncle living in Messina. This uncle, with all 
 Claudio's kinsfolk, would be present, and the people of the city 
 would naturally throng to the ceremony. Think what it was 
 for the bride to be brought to shame before such an assemblage, 
 to be given back into her father's hands, and branded with 
 unchastity ! What consternation to even the mere lookers-on 
 what dismay to those more directly concerned ! Hero is at first 
 so stunned, so bewildered, so unable to realise what is meant by 
 the accusation, that she cannot speak. When Claudio, assuming 
 conscious guilt from her silence, went on with his charge, I could 
 hardly keep still. My feet tingled, my eyes flashed lightning 
 upon the princes and Claudio. Oh that I had been her brother, 
 her male cousin, and not a powerless woman ! How I looked 
 around in quest of help, and gladly saw Benedick withdrawn 
 from the rest ! And how shame seemed piled on shame when 
 that hateful Prince John, as he left the scene, said to the victim 
 of his villainy 
 
 "Thus, pretty lady, 
 I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. " 
 
 Oh for a flight of deadly arrows to send after him ! Then
 
 BEATKICE. 319 
 
 Claudio's parting speech, with its flowery sentimentalism, so 
 out of place in one who had played so merciless a part, sickened 
 me with contempt. 
 
 How gladly I saw these shallow maligners disappear ! Some- 
 thing must now be learned or done to clear away their slander. 
 I felt with what chagrin Beatrice, when asked, was obliged to 
 confess that last night she was not by the side of Hero 
 
 " Although, until last night 
 I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow." 
 
 And yet how simple to myself was the explanation ! Each had 
 to commune with herself, Hero on the serious step she was 
 taking on the morrow a step requiring " many orisons to move 
 the heavens to smile upon her state ; " and Beatrice, to think on 
 what had been revealed to her of her own shortcomings, as well 
 as of Benedick's undreamed-of attachment to herself. At such 
 a time hours of perfect rest and solitary meditation would be 
 welcome and needful to them both. 
 
 But Beatrice is no dreamer. The Friar's plan of giving out 
 that Hero is dead, and so awakening Claudio's remorse, will not 
 wipe out the wrong done to her cousin or the indignity offered 
 to her kin. Therefore she lets her friends retire, lingering behind, 
 to the surprise, possibly, of some who might expect that she 
 would go with them to comfort Hero. She is bent on finding 
 for her a better comfort than lies in words. Benedick, she feels 
 sure, will remain if she does. And he, how could he do other- 
 wise? This beautiful woman, whom he has hitherto known all 
 joyousness, and seeming indifference to the feelings of others, has 
 revealed herself under a new aspect, and one that has drawn him 
 towards her more than he has ever been drawn before towards 
 woman. He has noted how all through this terrible scene she 
 has been the only one to stand by, to defend, to try to cheer 
 the slandered Hero. Her courage and her tenderness have roused 
 the chivalry of his nature. So deeply is he moved, that I believe, 
 even if he had not previously been influenced by what he had 
 heard of Beatrice's love, he would from that time have been her 
 devoted lover and servant. 
 
 There should be tenderness in his voice as he accosts her.
 
 320 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 "Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?" But it is only 
 when she hears him say, " Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is 
 wronged," that she dashes her tears aside, and can give voice to 
 the thought that has for some time been uppermost in her mind. 
 
 " Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her ! 
 Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship ? 
 Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. 
 Bene. May a man do it ? 
 Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours." 
 
 These words are not to be regarded, as by some they have been, 
 as spoken in Beatrice's usually sarcastic vein. She only means 
 that, being neither a kinsman, nor in any way connected with 
 Hero's family, he cannot step forward to do her right. In this 
 sense the words are understood by Benedick, who takes the most 
 direct way of removing the difficulty by the avowal of his love. 
 " I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that 
 strange ? " After what she has overheard, this makes her smile, 
 but it causes her no surprise. With the thought of Hero's vin- 
 dication uppermost in her heart, what can she do but answer 
 Benedick's avowal by her own ? And yet to make it is by no 
 means easy, as we see by her words, somewhat in the old vein : 
 
 ' ' As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I 
 loved nothing so well as you " (half confessing, and then withdrawing), 
 " but believe me not, and yet I lie not " (again yielding, and again falling 
 back). " I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing." 
 
 To extricate herself from her embarrassment she turns away from 
 the subject with the words, spoken with tremulous emotion, "I 
 am sorry for my cousin." But Benedick is impatient for a clearer 
 assurance. Observe how skilfully, even while she humours him, 
 she leads him on to the point on which she has set her mind : 
 
 " Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. 
 Beat. Do not swear by it, and eat it. 
 
 Bene. I will swear by it that you love me ; and I will make him eat it 
 that says I love not you. 
 
 Beat. Will you not eat your word ? 
 
 Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee. 
 
 Beat. Why, then, Heaven forgive me ! 
 
 Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice ?
 
 BEATRICE. 321 
 
 Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour ; I was about to protest I 
 loved you. 
 
 Bene. And do it with all thy heart. 
 
 Beat. I love you with so much of my heart, that none is left to protest. " 
 
 And now that their mutual confessions have been so wittily 
 and earnestly given, Beatrice recurs to what she has never for 
 a moment forgotten, the wrongs of her cousin, the outraged 
 honour of the house of which she is herself a scion, the stain on 
 its escutcheon. These must be avenged, and, if Benedick indeed 
 loves her, it must be he who shall stand forth as the avenger, 
 for, as her accepted lover, that will be his "office." So when he 
 says, " Come, bid me do any thing for thee ! " in a breath she 
 exclaims, " Kill Claudio ! " This demand, spoken with an inten- 
 sity which leaves no room to doubt that she is thoroughly in 
 earnest, staggers Benedick. Claudio is his chosen friend, they 
 have just gone through the perils of war together, and he replies, 
 " Ha ! not for the wide world ! " " You kill me to deny ; fare- 
 well," says Beatrice, and is about to leave him. In vain he 
 importunes her to remain ; and now he is made to see indeed the 
 strength and earnestness of her nature. All the pent-up passion, 
 that has shaken her during the previous scene, breaks out : 
 
 " Beat. In faith, I will go. 
 
 Bene. We'll be friends first. 
 
 Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. 
 
 Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ? 
 
 Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, 
 scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman ? that I were a man ! What ! bear 
 her in hand until they come to take hands ; and then with public accusation, 
 uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour, Heaven, that I were a man ! I 
 would eat his heart in the market-place ! 
 
 Bene. Hear me, Beatrice ; 
 
 Beat. Talk with a man out of a window ? A proper saying ! 
 
 Bene. Nay, but Beatrice ; 
 
 Beat. Sweet Hero ! She's wronged, she's slandered, she's undone. 
 
 Bene. Beat 
 
 Beat. Princes and Counties ! Surely a princely testimony, a good Count- 
 Confect, a sweet gallant surely ! that I were a man for his sake ! or that 
 I had any friend would be a man for my sake ! But manhood is melted into 
 courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, 
 and trim ones too. He is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie 
 and swears it ! I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a 
 woman with grieving." 
 
 X
 
 322 SHAKESPEAIIE'S FEMALE CHARACTEKS: 
 
 In her anger and distress Beatrice will not, cannot listen to 
 what Benedick would say. At last he has a chance, when her 
 tears are streaming, and her invectives are exhausted. " By this 
 hand, I love thee ! " he says, and he has been loving her more 
 and more all through her burst of generous and eloquent indig- 
 nation. " Use it for my love," she replies, still quivering with 
 emotion, " some other way than swearing by it ! " Then with 
 all seriousness he asks her, " Think you in your soul the Count 
 Claudio hath wronged Hero ? " As serious and solemn is her 
 answer, " Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul ! " His 
 rejoinder is all she could desire : 
 
 " Enough, I am engaged ; I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and 
 so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As 
 you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin. I must say she 
 is dead. And so, farewell." 
 
 And so they part, each with a much higher respect for the other 
 than before. Thanks to the poet's skill, the trouble that has 
 fallen on Leonato's house has served to bind them to each other 
 by the strongest tie, and to make their mutual regard and ulti- 
 mate union only in the very slightest degree dependent on the 
 plot devised by their friends. 
 
 It has been, I know, considered by some critics a blemish in 
 Beatrice, that at such a moment she should desire to risk her 
 lover's life. How little can such critics enter into her position, 
 or understand the feelings by which a noble woman would in 
 such circumstances be actuated ! What she would have done 
 herself, had she been a man, in order to punish the traducer of 
 her kinswoman and bosom friend, and to vindicate the family 
 honour, she has a right to expect her engaged lover will do for 
 her. Her own honour, as one of the family, is at stake ; and 
 what woman of spirit would think so meanly of her lover as 
 to doubt his readiness to risk his life in such a cause? The 
 days of chivalry were not gone in Shakespeare's time ; neither, 
 I trust and believe, are they gone now. I am confident that all 
 women who are worthy of a brave man's love will understand 
 and sympathise with the feeling that animates Beatrice. Think 
 of the wrong done to Hero, the unnecessary aggravation of it
 
 BEATRICE. 323 
 
 by choosing such a moment for publishing what Beatrice knows 
 to be a vile slander ! Benedick adopts her conviction, and, 
 having adopted it, the course she urges is the one he must him- 
 self have taken. Could he leave it to the only male members of 
 his adopted family, Leonato and Antonio, two elderly men, to 
 champion the kinswoman of the lady of his love? 
 
 The manner in which he bears himself in the scene where he 
 challenges Count Claudio proves that, under the gaiety of his 
 general demeanour, lies, just as in Beatrice, a high and earnest 
 and generous spirit. In parting from her he had said, " As you 
 hear of me, so think of me." Had she seen with what dignity 
 and quiet courage he meets the gibes and sarcasms of Don Pedro 
 and Claudio, her heart must have gone out towards him with 
 its inmost warmth. How much it cost him to renounce their 
 friendship is very delicately shown. He has heard, by the way, 
 that Don John has fled from Messina, an incident calculated 
 to strengthen his suspicions that it was he who had hatched the 
 plot against Hero. But however this may be, they are not with- 
 out reproach ; so, turning to Don Pedro, he says : 
 
 "My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you. I must discontinue 
 your company. Your brother, the bastard, is fled from Messina. You have, 
 among you, killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, 
 he and I shall meet ; and, till then, peace be with him. " 
 
 Knowing that Beatrice will be all impatience to learn what 
 has passed between himself and Claudio, Benedick hastens to 
 seek her. He longs to be again with her, for he is by this time 
 "horribly in love," as he said he would be. Not Leander, he 
 tells us, nor Troilus, nor " a whole bookful of these quondam 
 carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road 
 of a blank verse, were ever so truly turned over and over as my 
 poor self in love." When Beatrice hears from Margaret that he 
 desires speech of her, how readily does she answer to the sum- 
 mons ! Once fairly satisfied that Claudio has undergone Bene- 
 dick's challenge, her heart is lightened, and she can afford to 
 resume some of her natural gaiety, and let herself be wooed. 
 Then follows the charming dialogue in which the problem how 
 they came to fall in love with each other is discussed. How
 
 324 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 much there is here for the actress to express ! What pretty 
 sarcasms and humorous sadness ! quite impossible to explain in 
 words. 
 
 " Bene. And, I pray thee now, tell me for which of my bad parts didst 
 thou first fall in love with me ? 
 
 Beat. For them all together ; which maintained so politic a state of evil 
 that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for 
 which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me ? 
 
 Bene. ' Suffer love ' ? A good epithet ! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love 
 thee against my will. 
 
 Seat. In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart ! If you spite it 
 for my sake, I will spite it for yours ; for I will never love that which my 
 friend hates. . . . 
 
 Bene. And now tell me, how doth your cousin ? 
 
 Beat. Very ill. 
 
 Bene. And how do you ? 
 
 Beat. Very ill too. 
 
 Bene. Serve Heaven, love me, and mend ! There will I leave you too, for 
 here comes one in haste." 
 
 This is Ursula with the tidings that the plot against Hero has 
 been unmasked, " the Prince and Claudio mightily abused, and 
 Don John, the author of all, fled and gone." " Will you go hear 
 this news, signor ? " says Beatrice. His rejoinder shows him all 
 the happy lover. " I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and 
 be buried in thine eyes ; and, moreover, I will go with thee to thy 
 uncle's." How quaintly comes in the "moreover " here ! 
 
 When we see them again, they are with Leonato, Hero, and 
 the others, who are met to receive Don Pedro and Claudio, and 
 to seal the reconciliation which has been arranged by the marriage 
 of Claudio with the lady whom he believes to be Hero's cousin. 
 Marriage being in the air, Benedick has decided that the good 
 friar shall have double duty to perform on the occasion. Leon- 
 ato's consent to his wedding Beatrice is granted freely ; and in 
 giving it he bewilders Benedick by obscure references to the plot 
 for bringing the two together. Before an explanation can be 
 given, the Prince and Claudio arrive. Although well pleased 
 that he is no longer required to call his old friend to account, 
 Benedick takes care to show, by his coldness and reserve, that he 
 considers their behaviour to have been unjustifiable, even had
 
 BEATK1CE. 325 
 
 the story been true which Don John had beguiled them into 
 believing. When the Prince rallies him about his "February 
 face," he makes no rejoinder. But when Claudio, with infinite 
 bad taste, at a moment when his mind should have been full of 
 the gravest thoughts, attacks him in the same spirit, Benedick 
 turns upon him with caustic severity. The entrance of Hero, 
 with her ladies, masked, arrests what might have grown into hot 
 words. Hero is given to Claudio, and accepts him with a ready 
 forgiveness, which, I feel very sure, Beatrice's self-respect, under 
 similar circumstances, would not have permitted her to grant. 
 Such treatment as Claudio's would have chilled all love within 
 her. She would never have trusted as her husband the man 
 who had allowed himself to be so easily deceived, and who had 
 openly shamed her before the world. Hero, altogether a feebler 
 nature, neither looks so far into the future, nor feels so intensely 
 what has happened in the past. But, to my thinking, her pros- 
 pect of lasting happiness with the credulous and vacillating 
 Claudio is somewhat doubtful. 
 
 I have no misgivings about the future happiness of Benedick 
 and Beatrice, even although they learn how they have been mis- 
 led into thinking that each was dying for the other, and up to 
 the moment of going to the altar keep up their witty struggles 
 to turn the tables on each other. How delightful is the last 
 glimpse we get of them ! Beatrice, to tease Benedick, has been 
 holding back among the other ladies, when he expects that she 
 would be ready to go with him to the altar ; and when at last, 
 fairly puzzled, he asks, " Which is Beatrice 1 " and she unmasks, 
 with the words, " What is your will 1 " he inquires, with an air 
 of surprise, " Do not you love me ? " What follows gives us 
 once more the bright, joyous, brilliant Beatrice of the early 
 scenes : 
 
 " Seat. Why, no ! No more than reason. 
 
 Benc. Why, then, your uncle, the Prince, and Claudio, have been de- 
 ceived ; they swore you did. 
 
 Heat. Do not you love me ? 
 
 Bene. Troth, no ! No more than reason. 
 
 Beat. Why, then, my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula, are much deceived, 
 for they did swear you did. 
 
 Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me.
 
 326 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me. 
 Bene. "Tis no such matter : Then you do not love me ? 
 Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. " 
 
 And they break away from each other, as if all were over be- 
 tween them. But when their love-sonnets each to the other are 
 produced by Claudio and Hero, there can be but one end. Still, 
 however, the war of wit goes on : 
 
 " Bene. A miracle ! here's our own hands against our hearts ! Come, I 
 will have thee ; but, by this light, I take thee for pity ! 
 
 Beat. I would not deny you ; but, by this good day, I yield upon great 
 persuasion ; and, partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a con- 
 sumption." 
 
 Beatrice, as usual, has the best of it in this encounter, but 
 Benedick is too happy to care for such defeat. He knows he 
 has won her heart, and that it is a heart of gold. He can there- 
 fore well afford to smile at the epigrams of "a college of wit- 
 crackers," and the quotation against himself of his former smart 
 sayings about lovers and married men. His home, I doubt not, 
 will be a happy one all the happier because Beatrice and he 
 have each a strong individuality, with fine spirits and busy 
 brains, which will keep life from stagnating. They will always 
 be finding out something new and interesting in each other's 
 character. As for Beatrice, at least, one feels sure that Benedick 
 will have a great deal to discover and to admire in her as he 
 grows to know her better. She will prove the fitness of her 
 name as Beatrice (the giver of happiness), and he will be glad to 
 confess himself blest indeed (Benedictus) in having won her. 
 
 One might go on writing of this delightful play for ever. 
 But it is not for me to go further into its merits. Such 
 criticism has, I dare say, been often written by abler hands. 
 I have but to do with Beatrice, and I can only hope that in 
 impersonating her I have given one -half the pleasure to my 
 audience that I have had in taking upon me her nature for the 
 time. Such representations were to me a pure holiday. How- 
 ever tired I might be when the play began, the pervading joy- 
 ousness of her character soon took hold of me, and bore me 
 delightedly on. The change to this bright, high-spirited, 
 gallant-hearted lady from the more soul-absorbing and pathetic
 
 BEATRICE. 327 
 
 heroines which on most occasions I had to represent, was wel- 
 come to my often wearied spirits as a breeze from the sea. 
 
 I have told you of my first performance of Beatrice. Before 
 I conclude, let me say a word as to my last. It was at Strat- 
 ford-upon-Avon, on the opening, on 23rd of April 1879 (Shake- 
 speare's birthday), of the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre. I had 
 watched with much interest the completion of this most appro- 
 priate tribute to the memory of our supreme poet. The local 
 enthusiasm, which would not rest until it had placed upon the 
 banks of his native stream a building in which his best plays 
 might be from time to time presented, commanded my warm 
 sympathy. It is a beautiful building; and when, standing 
 beside it, I looked upon the church wherein all that was mortal 
 of the poet is laid, and, on the other hand, my eyes rested on 
 the site of New Place, where he died, a feeling more earnest, 
 more reverential, came over me than I have experienced even 
 in Westminster Abbey, in Santa Croce, or in any other resting- 
 place of the mighty dead. It was a deep delight to me to be 
 the first to interpret on that spot one of my great master's 
 brightest creations. Everything conspired to make the occasion 
 happy. From every side of Shakespeare's county, from London, 
 from remote provinces, came people to witness that performance. 
 The characters were well supported, and the fact that we were 
 acting in Shakespeare's birthplace, and to inaugurate his memo- 
 rial theatre, seemed to inspire us all. I found my own delight 
 doubled by the sensitive sympathy of my audience. Every turn 
 of playful humour, every flash of wit, every burst of strong feeling 
 told ; and it is a great pleasure to me to think, that on that spot 
 and on that occasion I made my last essay to present a living por- 
 traiture of the Lady Beatrice. 
 
 The success of this performance was aided by the very 
 judicious care which had been bestowed upon all the accessories 
 of the scene. The stage, being of moderate size, admitted of no 
 elaborate display. But the scenes were appropriate and well 
 painted, the dresses were well chosen, and the general effect was 
 harmonious satisfying the eye, without distracting the spec- 
 tator's mind from the dialogue and the play of character. It 
 was thus possible for the actors to engage the close attention of
 
 328 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 the audience, and to keep it. This consideration seems to me 
 now to be too frequently overlooked. 
 
 The moment the bounds of what is sufficient for scenic 
 illustration are overleaped, a serious wrong is, in my opinion, 
 done to the actor, and, as a necessary consequence, to the spec- 
 tator also. With all good plays this must, in some measure, be 
 the case ; but where Shakespeare is concerned, it is so in a far 
 greater degree. How can actor or actress hope to gain that hold 
 upon the attention of an audience by which it shall be led to 
 watch, step by step, from the first scene to the last, the develop- 
 ment of a complex yet harmonious character, or the links of a 
 finely adjusted plot, if the eye and ear are being overfed with 
 gorgeous scenery, with dresses extravagant in cost, and not un- 
 frequently quaint even to grotesqueness in style, or by the bustle 
 and din of crowds of people, whose movements unsettle the 
 mind and disturb that mood of continuous observation of dia- 
 logue and expression, without which the poet's purpose can 
 neither be developed by the performer nor appreciated by his 
 audience 1 
 
 For myself, I can truly say I would rather the mise en scene 
 should fall short of being sufficient, than that it should be over- 
 loaded. However great the strain and I have too often felt it 
 of so engaging the minds of my audience as to make them 
 forget the poverty of the scenic illustration, I would rather at 
 all times have encountered it, than have had to contend against 
 the influences which withdraw the spectator's mind from the 
 essentials of a great drama to dwell upon its mere adjuncts. 
 When Juliet is on the balcony, it is on her the eye should be 
 riveted. It should not be wandering away to the moonlight, or 
 to the pomegranate-trees of Capulet's garden, however skilfully 
 counterfeited by the scene-painter's and the machinist's skill. 
 The actress who is worthy to interpret that scene requires the 
 undivided attention of her audience. I cite this as merely one 
 of a host of illustrations that have occurred to my mind in 
 seeing the lavish waste of merely material accessories upon the 
 stage in recent years. How often have I wished that some 
 poetic spirit had been charged with the task of fitting the 
 framework to the picture, which would have kept the resources
 
 BEATRICE. 329 
 
 of the painter's and costumier's art subordinate to the poet's 
 design, and have furnished a harmonious and complete yet un- 
 obtrusive background for the play of character, emotion, pas- 
 sion, humour, and imagination, which it was his object to set 
 before us ! 
 
 Of course there are plays where very much must depend upon 
 the setting in which they are placed. Who that saw it, for 
 example, can ever forget Stanfield's scene in Ads and Galatea, 
 when produced by Mr Macready 1 ? The eye never wearied of 
 resting upon it, nor the ear of listening to the rippling murmur 
 of the waves as they gently washed up and broke upon the shore 
 of that sun -illumined sea. Such a background enriched the 
 charm of even Handel's music, and blended delightfully with 
 the movements of the nymphs and shepherds by whom the 
 business of the scene was carried on. 
 
 Xor, as I have been told, was his revival of the Comus less 
 admirable. You may have seen it, dear Mr Kuskin ; and, 
 if you have, you can judge of its merits far better than I. For 
 as I acted " the Lady," I can, of course, speak only of the scenes 
 in which she took part. These impressed me powerfully, and 
 helped my imagination as I acted. The enchanted wood was 
 admirably presented, with its dense, bewildering maze of trees, 
 so easy to be lost in, so difficult to escape from, with the fitful 
 moonlight casting deep shadows, and causing terrors to the 
 lonely, bewildered girl, whose high trust and confidence in 
 Supreme help alone keep her spirits from sinking under the 
 wild "fantasies" that throng into her memory, "of calling 
 shapes, and beckoning shadows dire." It seemed to me the 
 very place the poet must have pictured to himself. Xot less 
 so appeared to me the Hall of Comus so far as I could see it 
 from the enchanted chair, in which the Lady sits spell-bound. 
 It was a kind of Aladdin's garden, all aglow with light and 
 colour. And then the rabble -rout, so gay, so variously clad, 
 some like Hebes, some like hags ; figures moving to and fro, 
 some beautiful as Adonis, others like Fauns, and bearded 
 Satyrs. Add to this the weird fascination of the music, the 
 rich melody, the rampant joyousness, the tipsy jollity ! All 
 served to quicken in me the feeling with which the poet has
 
 330 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 inspired the lonely "Lady," when she sees herself, without 
 means of escape, surrounded by a rabble-rout full of wine and 
 riot, and abandoned to shameless revelry. I lost myself in the 
 reality of the situation, and found the poet's words flow from 
 me as though they had sprung from my own heart. The blan- 
 dishments of Comus's rhetoric, enforced with all the fervour and 
 persuasiveness of delivery of which Mr Macready was master, 
 seemed as it were to give the indignant impulse needed to make 
 the Lady break her silence : 
 
 " I had not thought to have unlocked my lips 
 In this unhallowed air, but that this juggler 
 Would think to charm my judgment, as mine eyes, 
 Obtruding false rules pranked in reason's garb. 
 
 To him that dares 
 
 Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words 
 
 Against the sun-clad Power of chastity, 
 
 Fain would I something say ; yet to what end ? 
 
 Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric, 
 
 That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence : 
 
 Thou art not fit to hear thyself convinced ; 
 
 Yet, should I try, the uncontrolled worth 
 
 Of this pure cause would kindle my rapt spirits 
 
 To such a flame of sacred vehemence, 
 
 That dumb things should be moved to sympathise, 
 
 And the brute earth would lend her nerves, and shake, 
 
 Till all thy magic structures, reared so high, 
 
 Were shattered into heaps o'er thy false head ! " 
 
 I could never speak these lines without a thrill that seemed to 
 dilate my whole frame, and to give an unwonted fulness and 
 vibration to the tones of my voice. Given, as they were, with 
 intense earnestness, they no doubt impressed the actors of the 
 rabble-rout, and made them feel with Comus, when he says 
 
 " She fables not ; I feel that I do fear 
 Her words set off by some superior power." 
 
 It was somewhat difficult for me to speak the lines, with my 
 whole frame thrilling, yet unable to move a muscle, for the Lady 
 is bound by a spell that paralyses all her limbs. It was a good 
 experience for me, for at that time I was rather given to redun- 
 dancy of action. One of the most difficult things to acquire in
 
 BEATRICE. 331 
 
 the technical part of the actor's art is repose of manner, to be 
 able, in fact, to stand still, and yet be undergoing and expressing 
 the strongest mental emotion. What the effect may have been 
 upon the audience I do not know ; but the revellers near my 
 chair upon the stage told me, the morning after the first repre- 
 sentation, that they were struck with awe; that my whole 
 appearance seemed to become so completely transfigured under 
 the influence of my emotion, that they would not have been 
 amazed if the chair with the Lady in it had been swept upwards 
 out of sight to some holier sphere. 
 
 Here was a case in which the poet's purpose was aided by the 
 skilful use of scenic adjuncts, without which the performer could 
 not hope to produce the desired impression on the minds of the 
 spectators. I can easily imagine other situations where they are 
 of the greatest value. Indeed I can vividly recall, as the very 
 perfection of scenic illustration, Henry V. and Kiny John, as 
 they were produced by Mr Macready at Drury Lane. In these 
 revivals, as they were called, the predominating mind of a man 
 who knew the due proportion to be preserved in such matters, 
 so as not to drown but to heighten the dramatic interest, was 
 conspicuously apparent. In plays of this class, moreover, fulness 
 of scenic illustration is appropriate, and in skilful hands it is 
 never allowed to place the actors at a disadvantage. But, as 
 a rule, it seems to me that in dramas of " high action and high 
 passion," such things ought to be sparingly applied. The aim 
 should be, while keeping scenic accessories in stern subordina- 
 tion, to economise neither pains nor money in getting every 
 character acted with all the finish that trained ability and con- 
 scientious care can give. 
 
 Foremost of all, care should be taken that the actors of all 
 grades have been educated to speak blank verse correctly, to 
 know the laws of its construction, and while giving the mean- 
 ing, to give the music of it also. It is sad to see the reckless 
 ignorance on all these points which now prevails, and to note to 
 what a level of feebleness and commonplace the representation of 
 Shakespeare has with some notable exceptions been reduced 
 by that nerveless and colourless thing, mistakenly called " natural 
 acting." Thus it is that Shakespeare's plays are continually re-
 
 332 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 produced with their very essence left out, unheeded by the actors, 
 and, alas ! to all appearance, as little missed by the audience. 
 Of what account is elaborate scenery, or dresses that will satisfy 
 the most fastidious archaeologist, if those who wear the one or 
 move about in the other are untrue to the characters they profess 
 to represent, and dead to the significance and the beauty of the 
 language they have to speak ? 
 
 There is much talk in these days about realism, and keeping 
 up scenic illusion. But how inconsistent with this talk is the 
 practice, once happily confined to the Continent and the Opera- 
 house, of calling on the performers at the end of an act or a 
 scene or, as sometimes happens, of the performers obtruding 
 themselves, when there is nothing that deserves the name of a 
 call to bow and curtsey to the audience ! Surely, just in pro- 
 portion as the acting has been of a quality to excite genuine en- 
 thusiasm, is it unmeet that the effect produced should be dis- 
 turbed by the actor's personality being interposed between one 
 scene and another. How offensive to right feeling, as well as to 
 every rule of art, it is, for example, to see Claude Melnotte lead 
 on Pauline, when the curtain has just descended on their separa- 
 tion, she in despair and fainting in her parents' arms, he rushing 
 away to " redeem his honour " as a soldier, with the prospect that 
 there " shall not be a forlorn-hope without him " : or, more in- 
 tolerable still, where Juliet has taken the potion, been mourned 
 over by her kindred as dead, and Eomeo is, as we think, far 
 away in Mantua, to see her advance hand in hand with him at 
 the end of the act in answer to the summons of the unthinking 
 few ! Who can care what becomes of them after ? The spell is 
 broken, the interest destroyed. 
 
 For myself, I can truly say that I never cared for the character 
 I was representing, after having been forced to yield to a call 
 during the progress of the play. On the occasions when the 
 long-continued and not-to-be-silenced clamour of the audience 
 left me no choice, and I have gone before them (I fear very un- 
 graciously), I have never been the same afterwards, never able 
 to lose myself in full measure in the illusion of the story, never 
 again for that night been the same Pauline, Rosalind, or what- 
 ever else I was acting, that I was before this interruption. It
 
 BEATRICE. 333 
 
 was ever my desire to forget my audience. Little did they, who 
 only meant kindness, know how much they took from my power 
 of working out my conceptions when they forced me in this way 
 out of my dream-world. 
 
 \A r hen the play is over, when the picture is, as it were, com- 
 plete, and the character assumed has been laid down, there is 
 something to be said in favour of a recall ; for, when genuine and 
 general, it may be a natural expression of the sympathy and, 
 may I say, gratitude 1 of the audience. Such calls as these, in 
 the days not very remote, when they sprang only from an irresist- 
 ible feeling in the whole audience, were a distinction. ]X r ow, 
 from being far too common and too indiscriminately given, they 
 have lost this character. Having lost it, any inspiriting influence 
 which they may once have had upon the actor has necessarily 
 passed away, and he can only look upon being summoned to 
 appear before the curtain as a very irksome concession to a mean- 
 ingless custom, which, if he could, he would be glad to avoid. 
 It lies with actors themselves, and with the public, to effect the 
 necessary reform. But let us not hear of the importance of scenic 
 illusion while the present system for to a system it seems to 
 have been reduced is tolerated and continued. 
 
 The interest I know you, dear Mr Ruskin, feel in these ques- 
 tions must be my excuse for touching upon them here. May I 
 hope that my views in regard to them, as well as my estimate of 
 the character of Beatrice, are in harmony with yours ; and that 
 you will not think I have kept you too long " listening with all 
 your heart " to what I have had to say 1 
 
 Believe me always, with sincere esteem, most truly yours, 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT MAKTIN. 
 
 31 ONSLOW SQUARE, 6th January 1885. 
 To JOHN RUSKIN, Esq. 
 
 [It has pleased me greatly to read, in a letter (27th February 
 1885) to Sir Theodore Martin from M. Eegnier, formerly the 
 well-known and distinguished member of the Comedie Franfaise, 
 a warm approval of my remarks in the preceding paragraphs upon 
 certain characteristics of the contemporary stage :
 
 334 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 " Quant aux critiques," he writes, " que Lady Martin fait de 
 ces orgies de mise en scene, qui etouffent la pensee du poete sous 
 le pretexte de la mieux mettre en lumicre ; quant a ces rappels 
 idiots des acteurs pendant le cours d'une representation, quant a 
 toutes ces extravagances engendrees par la vanite des acteurs ou la 
 cupidite des directeurs, je les approuve toutes, et je dis comme un 
 des medecins de M. de Pourceaugnac : ' Manibus et pedibus de- 
 scendo in tuam sententiam.' Ce Latin de cuisine me fait souvenir 
 qu'un temps ou Ton jouait a Eome Plaute, Terence, et les grands 
 tragiques, Horace, que vous connaissez si bien, a dit quelque part ; 
 que les plus beaux vers du monde sont mis en d^route par un 
 passage de chevaux et d'ours traversant la scene. 1 C'est ce qui se 
 fait encore aujourd'hui."] 
 
 1 Horace, Epistles II. 1, lines 184-186.
 
 IX. 
 HERMIONE
 
 IX. 
 H E E M I N E. 
 
 " How may full-sail'd verse express, 
 How may measured words adore 
 
 The full-flowing harmony 
 Of thy swan-like stateliness ?" 
 
 DEAR LORD TENNYSON, 
 
 VOU looked more than kindly on my attempts to describe 
 what was in my mind as to some of Shakespeare's women, 
 in the days when it was my privilege to impersonate them upon 
 the stage. Now you no less kindly tell me, that you will be 
 glad to hear what I have to say about a near relation of theirs 
 the noble Hermione of The Winter's Tale. 
 
 I remember when, at the conclusion of my letter on Imogen, 
 I gave expression to my idea that she was not likely long to 
 survive the cruel strain upon mind and body to which she had 
 been subjected, you wrote to me that you liked to think just 
 the contrary, and that she lived long and happily ever after 
 with her Posthumus, just like all the good people in the fairy 
 tales. Do not fear that I shall distress you with any such 
 conjectures about the wife of Leontes, although she of a truth 
 was made more unhappy 
 
 " Than history can pattern, though devised 
 And play'd to take spectators." 
 
 In accordance with his wellnigh uniform practice, Shakespeare 
 Y
 
 338 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 borrowed the main incidents of this play from one of the popular 
 stories of his day. Strangely enough, in this instance he had 
 recourse to a tale by Robert Greene, the dramatist and romance 
 writer, who in 1592 had attacked him as "an upstart crow, 
 beautified Avith our feathers," and " in his own conceit the only 
 Shakescene in a countrie." How indifferent the poet was to 
 charges of this nature is shown in the well-known sonnet called 
 " The Poet Ape " by Ben Jonson, which is commonly believed 
 to have been directed against Shakespeare, before the days when 
 Jonson profited by his friendship, and grew familiar with his 
 genius. "Now grown," the sonnet says, 
 
 " To a little wealth and credit in the scene, 
 He takes up all, make's each man's wit his own, 
 And, told of this, he slights it." 
 
 Well might he slight such attacks, knowing how much that was 
 absolutely his own he put into every play which he recast, or for 
 which he had taken hints from stories told by other men. So 
 far from bearing Shakespeare a grudge for using his tale, ' Pan- 
 dosto, or the Triumphs of Time,' as the foundation of The Winter's 
 Tale, Greene might rather have been grateful to him for so beauti- 
 fying it with his own feathers that he redeemed the work, excel- 
 lent of its kind though it is, from the oblivion into which other- 
 wise it would probably have fallen. 
 
 Greene had long been dead, however, before TJie Winter's 
 Tale was written. For there is no record of it before 1611, 
 when Dr Simon Forman mentions in his Diary that he saw it 
 acted at the Globe Theatre on the 15th of May in that year. 
 Thus it may fairly be assumed that it was one of the poet's 
 latest works, if indeed this were not clear, from the internal evi- 
 dence of matured power in every element of thought, pathos, 
 humour, and dramatic construction, for which in their combina- 
 tion Shakespeare in his later works stands without a peer. 
 
 To you, who have done for the characters in Sir Thomas 
 Malory's ' History of King Arthur ' what Shakespeare did for the 
 tales from which he took suggestions for so many of his plots, it 
 would be idle to dwell upon the folly of disputing his claim to 
 originality because others had gone over the same ground before. 
 Hundreds, thousands, go over the same ground in a beautiful
 
 HERMIONE. 339 
 
 country, who are dead to its beauties, until some man with eyes 
 to see, and a soul to illuminate the impressions made upon him 
 by what he sees, calls attention to those beauties, and, on the 
 canvas, or in words that are pictures, glorifies them with 
 
 " The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration, and the poet's dream." 
 
 It is the same with the heroes and heroines of history and 
 fiction. It is only the great poet who sees what scope they offer 
 for inspiring them with life, and for placing them under conditions 
 in which character, emotion, and passion may be portrayed under 
 ideal forms, but still with a truth to nature which makes them 
 even more real, more intimately familiar to us, than the people 
 whom we have longest known. 
 
 So is it that in ' The Idylls of the King ' we find such pictures 
 of true knightliness, tenderness, beauty, and pathos, as are no- 
 where to be found in the wild, quaint, but assuredly tedious and 
 not unfrequently coarse incidents and legends which are chron- 
 icled in Sir Thomas Malory's book. 
 
 JSTo better illustration can be found of how the shaping spirit 
 of imagination turns prose into poetry than by comparing The 
 Winter's Tale with Greene's 'Pandosto,' or, as in later editions 
 it was called, 'The Pleasant History of Dorastus and Fawnia.' 
 In both we find the sudden outbreak in Pandosto (the Leontes 
 of the play) of an insane jealousy of his lifelong friend Egistus 
 (Polixenes), the flight of Egistus with the king's cup-bearer 
 Franion (Camillo), the sending away by Pandosto of the new-born 
 babe to be destroyed, the trial of Bellaria (Hermione), the judg- 
 ment of the oracle in her favour, and the death of her son Ger- 
 inter (Mamillius). But the Bellaria of the story dies, and the 
 subsequent history of her daughter Fawnia (Perdita), and Dorastus 
 (Florizel), in other respects much the same as in the play, is made 
 peculiarly unpleasant by the passion Pandosto conceives for his 
 own child, when she seeks refuge with her lover at his Court, 
 and the winding up of the story with his suicide in a fit of 
 remorse for having entertained this passion. Obviously an im- 
 practicable story this for the purpose of a play ! But how skil- 
 fully has Shakespeare bridged over all difficulty by the invention
 
 340 SHAKESPEAEE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 of incidents, and the introduction of characters the wittiest of 
 rogues, Autolycus, one of them which give life, coherence, and 
 probability to the action of the play, while they enable him to 
 bring it, as with a strain of noble music, to a perfect close, by 
 making Hermione live to see her daughter restored to her arms 
 and to be herself reunited to her husband ! 
 
 So much for the outlines of the plot ; but it is in the delinea- 
 tion of the characters that the marked difference is seen between 
 Greene, the man of talent, and Shakespeare, the myriad-minded 
 man of genius. How clear the lines with which they are drawn ; 
 with what precision and delicacy of touch are they individualised ; 
 what wonders of light and shade are shown in their grouping ; 
 what richness of imagination, what power, what beauty, what 
 pathos, what humour in what they have to say ! 
 
 Shakespeare shows his usual constructive skill in the very first 
 scene, by bringing into prominence in the dialogue between 
 Camillo and Archidamus the remarkable attachment between 
 Leontes and Polixenes, and the winning ways of Hermione's 
 little son Mamillius. In speaking of the affection of the two 
 kings, Camillo says, " They were trained together in their child- 
 hood. Since their more mature dignities, and royal necessities, 
 made separation of their society," they had kept the intimacy 
 unbroken by such interchange of letters and of gifts, " that they 
 have seemed to be together, though absent. The heavens con- 
 tinue their loves ! " To which Archidamus replies : "I think 
 there is not in the world either malice or matter to alter it." 
 Then he goes on to praise Leontes' young son : " You have 
 an unspeakable comfort of your young prince Mamillius; it 
 is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came into my 
 note." 
 
 Here two notes are struck which reverberate in the heart, 
 when these bright anticipations are soon afterwards turned to 
 anguish and dismay by the wholly unexpected jealous frenzy 
 of Leontes. They prepare us for seeing Leontes in the next 
 scene urging his friend, who has already lingered nine months at 
 the Sicilian Court, still further to prolong his stay. Hermione is 
 by, but she is silent, until Leontes, who appears surprised at her 
 silence, says to her, "Tongue-tied, our queen? Speak you!"
 
 HERMIONE. 341 
 
 Thus appealed to, she shows that her intercession had been 
 reserved until her husband had put still harder pressure upon 
 their guest. 
 
 " I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until 
 You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir, 
 Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure 
 All in Bohemia's well. . . . Say this to him, 
 He's beat from his best ward. 
 Leon. Well said, Hermione ! " 
 
 Then note how the mother, to whom her own boy was inexpress- 
 ibly dear, speaks in her illusion to the son of Polixenes, of whom 
 no word has hitherto been said : 
 
 " To tell, he longs to see his son, were strong ; 
 But let him say so then, and let him go ; 
 But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, 
 We'll thwack him hence with distaffs." 
 
 Polixenes does not avail himself of the plea thus suggested, and 
 
 Hermione continues 
 
 " When at Bohemia 
 
 You take my lord, I'll give him my commission 
 To let him there a month behind the gest 
 Prefix'd for's parting." 
 
 Then, that Leontes may not think she could bear his absence 
 lightly, she turns to him, saying 
 
 "Yet, good deed, Leontes, 
 I love thee not a jar of the clock behind 
 What lady-she her lord." 
 
 A sweet assurance that might have warmed the coldest husband's 
 heart ! And with the winning smile playing about her sensitive 
 mouth, and the loving light in her eyes, those "full eyes," 
 which live in Leontes' memory long years after, as "stars, stars, 
 and all else dead coals," she turns to Polixenes with the words, 
 "You'll stay]" Hard it must have been for him to answer, 
 " No, madam ! " But she is not to be put off, for now she is 
 intent on carrying her point, and so accomplishing what she 
 believes to be her husband's earnest desire.
 
 342 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " Her. Nay, but you will ? 
 
 Pel. I may not, verily. 
 
 Her. Verily! 
 
 You put me off with limber vows ; but I, 
 Though you would seek to unsphere the stars with oaths, 
 Should yet say, ' Sir, no going ! ' Verily, 
 You shall not go ; a lady's ' verily ' is 
 As potent as a lord's." 
 
 Finding Polixenes makes no sign of yielding, she continues 
 
 "Will you go yet? 
 Force me to keep you as a prisoner, 
 Not like a guest ; so you shall pay your fees 
 When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you ? 
 My prisoner or my guest ? By your dread ' Verily,' 
 One of them you shall be. 
 
 Pol. Your guest, then, madam ! 
 
 To be your prisoner would import offending, 
 Which is for me less easy to commit, 
 Than you to punish. 
 
 Her. Not your jailer, then, 
 
 But your kind hostess. Come, I'll question you 
 Of my lord's tricks, and yours, when you were boys." 
 
 On this follows as sweet a picture of innocent boyhood as was 
 ever painted : 
 
 ' ' Pol. We were, fair queen, 
 
 Two lads that thought there was no more behind 
 But such a day to-morrow as to-day, 
 And to be boy eternal. 
 
 Her. Was not my lord the verier wag of the two ? 
 
 Pol. We were as twinn'd lambs, that did frisk i' the sun, 
 And bleat the one at the other ; what we changed 
 Was innocence for innocence ; we knew not 
 The doctrine of ill-doing, neither dreamed 
 That any did. Had we pursued that life, 
 And our weak spirits ne'er been higher raised 
 With stronger blood, we should have answered heaven 
 Boldly, ' Not guilty ! ' 
 
 Her. By this we gather, 
 
 You have tripped since." 
 
 Polixenes' first words in reply show the reverence with which 
 the serene purity of Hermione had inspired him : 
 
 " Oh, my most sacred lady ! 
 Temptations have since then been boi;n to us ; for
 
 HERMIONE. 343 
 
 In those unfledged days was my wife a girl ; 
 Your precious self had not then cross'd the eyes 
 Of my young playfellow." 
 
 Playfully rallying Polixenes upon the suggestion here implied, 
 that his queen and herself have been their tempters to evil, 
 Hermione rejoins : 
 
 " Grace to boot ! 
 
 Of this make no conclusion, lest you say 
 
 Your queen and I are devils. Yet, go on ; 
 
 The offences we have made you do we'll answer." 
 
 At this point Leontes breaks in with " Is he won yet 1 " 
 
 "Her. He'll stay, my lord. 
 
 Leon. At my request he would not. 
 
 Hermione, my dearest, thou ne'er spok'st 
 To better purpose." 
 
 Strange words from one who so directly afterwards finds cause 
 for jealousy in the success of his wife's pleading ! Still stranger 
 is it, and more suggestive of the disturbance already at work in 
 the brain of Leontes, that he could possibly doubt Hermione's 
 faith, after what she says in the dialogue that follows, in which 
 she so sweetly challenges his remark that she had never spoken 
 to better purpose. In acting, how much should be indicated in 
 the tone of Hermione's " Never " ? Have you forgotten, it asks, 
 your long wooing, and the consent it at last won from me 1 Will 
 not the words I then spoke rank for ever the highest in your 
 regard 1 Leontes, quite taking her meaning, but liking to be 
 entreated, only says, ' ' Never but once." Then comes her charm- 
 ing rejoinder, so pretty, so coaxing, something like Desdemona's 
 to Othello, when pleading for a gentle answer to Cassio's suit 
 (Act iii. sc. 3) : 
 
 " Her. What ! have I twice said well ? When was't before ? 
 I prithee tell me : 
 
 One good deed dying tongueless 
 Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. 
 Our praises are our wages : you may ride us, 
 With one soft kiss, a thousand furlongs, ere 
 With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal ! 
 My last good deed was to entreat his stay ;
 
 344 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 What was my first ? It has an elder sister, 
 Or I mistake you : oh, would her name were Grace ! 
 But once before I spoke to the purpose : When ? 
 Nay, let me hav't : I long. 
 
 Leon. Why, that was when 
 
 Three crabbed months had soured themselves to death, 
 Ere I could make thee open thy white hands, 
 And clap thyself my love ; then did'st thou utter 
 ' I am yours for ever ! ' 
 
 Her. It is Grace indeed. 
 
 Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice. 
 The one for ever earn'd a royal husband," 
 
 giving, as she speaks, her left hand with the marriage symbol 
 upon it to Leontes. Then with the words 
 
 " The other for some while a friend," 
 
 she offers her right hand in token of friendship to Polixenes, who 
 retains it while talking apart with her for a while, amusing her, 
 we may imagine, with pleasant stories of the youthful frolics and 
 fancies of Leontes and himself, when they were "as twinn'd 
 lamhs, that did frisk i' the sun," and making her smile in pure 
 joyousness of heart to hear what Leontes was in the days before 
 she knew him, little dreaming the while, as, leaving her hand 
 in that of Polixenes, he leads her along, that in the eyes of 
 Leontes this natural evidence of friendship is being construed into 
 " paddling palms and pinching fingers," and " making practised 
 smiles as in a looking-glass." 
 
 What must have been the condition of his mind, when room 
 could be found in it for unholy distrust of the woman who the 
 moment before had dwelt with such loving tenderness upon the 
 time when he wooed and won her, and this, too, in the presence 
 of the very man whom his disordered fancy believes to have 
 supplanted him in her affections ! A sudden access of madness 
 can alone account for the debasing change in the nature of 
 Leontes, who until now has shown himself not unworthy of his 
 queen. Such inexplicable outbreaks of jealousy, I have been 
 told, do occasionally occur in real life. While they last, the very 
 nature of their victims is transformed, and their imagination, 
 wholesome and cleanly till then, becomes, like that of Leontes, 
 "foul as Vulcan's stithy."
 
 HERMIONE. 345 
 
 It was easy for Greene, with the greater latitude which the 
 narrative form allows, to lead up to and explain the ultimate 
 explosion of Pandosto's jealousy, which had been silently grow- 
 ing through the protracted stay of Egistus at his Court, until at 
 last he began to put a vile construction upon his wife's simplest 
 acts of courtesy and hospitality. But drama allows no scope for 
 slow development. Shakespeare has therefore dealt with Leontes 
 as a man in whom the passion of jealousy is inherent ; and shows 
 it breaking out suddenly with a force that is deaf to reason, and 
 which, stimulated by an imagination tainted to the core, finds 
 evidences of guilt in actions the most innocent. How different is 
 such a nature from Othello's! He was "not easily jealous"; 
 but, having become " perplexed in the extreme " by lago's per- 
 version of circumstances innocent in themselves, " trifles light 
 as air," he loses for a while his faith in the being he loved as 
 his very life. Even then, grief for the fall of her whom he had 
 made his idol, " Oh the pity of it, the pity of it, lago ! " surges 
 up through the wildest paroxysms of his passion. Tenderness for 
 a beauty so exquisite that " the sense ached at it," stays his up- 
 lifted dagger. In his mind Desdemona is, to the last, the " cun- 
 ning'st pattern of excelling nature." As the victim of craftily 
 devised stratagem, he never himself quite forfeits our sympathy. 
 
 Of the jealousy that animates Leontes, the jealousy that needs 
 no extraneous prompting to suspicion, Emilia, in Othello, gives a 
 perfect description. In answer to the hope which she expresses 
 to Desdemona that Othello's harsh bearing towards her is due to 
 state affairs, and to "no conception, nor no jealous toy concern- 
 ing you," Desdemona replies, " Alas the day, I never gave him 
 cause ! " To this Emilia rejoins 
 
 ' ' But jealous souls will not be answered so ; 
 They are not ever jealous for the cause, 
 But jealous, for they are jealous ; 'tis a monster 
 Begot upon itself, born on itself." 
 
 This is the jealousy which Shakespeare has portrayed in Leontes, 
 a jealousy without excuse, cruel, vindictive, and remorseless 
 almost beyond belief. 
 
 Othello, moreover, had been wedded, so far as we see, but a 
 few brief weeks. He had not had time to prove how deeply
 
 346 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Desdemona loved him. But years of happy wedlock had assured 
 Leontes of Hermione's affection, years in which he had tested 
 the inward nobility which expressed itself in that majestic bear- 
 ing, of which he speaks again and again, long after he has reason 
 to believe her to be dead. Maintaining through all her life the 
 charm of royal graciousness and dignity, she has inspired the 
 chivalrously enthusiastic admiration and devotion of every mem- 
 ber of the Court ; a woman, in short, with whom no derogatory 
 thought could be associated, being, as she is described by one of 
 them to be, "so sovereignly honourable." 
 
 That Leontes' brain is by this time unsettled is manifest in the 
 broken dialogue which he holds with his darling Mamillius. His 
 altered looks and manner attract the attention of both Hermione 
 and Polixenes. " You look," says Hermione 
 
 ' ' As if you held a brow of much distraction : 
 Are you moved, my lord ?" 
 
 With something of the secretiveness and cunning of a man 011 
 the brink of madness, he evades the inquiry by saying that his 
 boy's face had made him think of the days when, twenty-three 
 years back, he was a child of the same age. Then, turning to 
 Polixenes with seemingly all the old friendliness, he asks 
 
 " Are you as fond of your young prince as we 
 Do seem to be of ours ? " 
 
 This draws from Polixenes a delightful description of the boy, 
 whom we are afterwards to know as Florizel. 
 
 "If at home, sir, 
 
 He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter ; 
 Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy ; 
 My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all : 
 He makes a July's day short as December ; 
 And with his varying childness, cures in me 
 Thoughts that would thick iny blood. 
 
 Leon. So stands this squire 
 
 Officed with me." 
 
 With this Leontes leaves Polixenes and Hermione to what he 
 calls their "graver steps," while he walks away ostensibly to 
 make sport with his boy. We know from what he says later on
 
 HERMIONE. 347 
 
 that, instead of this, he is on the watch, in hopes to find in their 
 demeanour a confirmation of his suspicions. 
 
 " I am angling now, 
 Though you perceive me not, how I give line." 
 
 But with the madman's shallow cunning he enjoins Hermione, 
 as he goes, to show how she loves himself "in our brother's 
 welcome," adding 
 
 " Next to thyself and my young rover, he's 
 Apparent to my heart." 
 
 Poor Hermione ! How little does she dream of the canker 
 that is even now eating away all that is noble in the character of 
 her Leontes ! Her happiness would appear to be without alloy. 
 Blest, as she thinks herself, in her husband's love and trust ; 
 blest in a child more than usually bright, loving, and attractive ; 
 happy in the friendship of a man whose high qualities she cannot 
 fail to admire and esteem, and whom she is enjoined by her 
 husband to trust as a brother, her life is already flooded with 
 sunshine; and in her mother's heart there is still another bud- 
 ding hope that in the near future will complete the measure of 
 her joy. 
 
 How swiftly all is changed ! Utterly losing self - control, 
 Leontes summons his chamber - councillor Camillo, and pours 
 out a flood of invectives upon the queen, so gross as to provoke 
 the rebuke 
 
 " I would not be a stander-by, to hear 
 My sovereign mistress clouded so, without 
 My present vengeance taken. 'Shrew my heart, 
 You never spoke what did become you less 
 Than this." 
 
 Remonstrance, however, is useless. Camillo quickly sees that 
 his only course is to humour the passion which has suddenly 
 transformed the master he had loved into a furious madman. 
 Not, however, for one instant does he waver in his belief in the 
 purity of his "dread mistress." Thus, while making a show of con- 
 senting to the demand of Leontes that he shall poison Polixenes 
 a demand peculiarly shameful, as Leontes has appointed him
 
 348 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 the cup-bearer of his guest (whom therefore he was especially 
 bound to protect) he does so only 
 
 " Provided, that when he's removed, your highness 
 Will take again your queen, as yours at first, 
 Even for your son's sake, and thereby, for sealing 
 The injury of tongues, in courts and kingdoms 
 Known and allied to yours." 
 
 Leontes professes that this is his intention, adding, to deceive 
 Camillo, " I'll give no blemish to her honour none." At such 
 a crisis to gain time was everything, and with this view Camillo 
 urges the king to show no change in his demeanour towards 
 Polixenes and Hermione. Promising to follow his advice, 
 Leontes goes away. Camillo, however, foresees nothing but 
 sorrow for his beloved mistress in the future. " Oh, miserable 
 lady ! " is his first exclamation when left alone. But he has to 
 consider his own position, and having pledged himself to the 
 king to an act from which his soul recoils, no course is left him 
 but to leave the country. In his present mood, Leontes, he feels, 
 is no longer a responsible being. How baseless were his assur- 
 ances that he would continue to " seem friendly " to the object of 
 his jealousy is promptly shown upon the entry of Polixenes, who 
 complains that Leontes has passed him without speaking, and 
 with " such a countenance 
 
 " As he had lost some province and a region 
 Loved as he loves himself. Even now I met him 
 With customary compliment ; when he, 
 Wafting his eyes to the contrary, and falling 
 A lip of much contempt, speeds from me ; and 
 So leaves me to consider what is breeding, 
 That changes thus his manners." 
 
 Urged by Polixenes to throw light, if he can, upon what has 
 caused this sudden change, Camillo at first does no more than 
 urge him for his own safety to leave the court at once, as he 
 means himself to do. On being pressed to say why, he confesses 
 to Polixenes that he has been appointed to murder him, because 
 he is suspected by Leontes of having "touched his queen for- 
 biddenly." " Oh, then," Polixenes exclaims,
 
 HERMIONE. 349 
 
 "My best blood turn 
 To an infected jelly ; and my name 
 Be yoked with his that did betray the Best ! " 
 
 and in his every word shows how impossible it was for him ever 
 to have entertained any feeling towards Hermione but that of 
 reverential admiration. His instinct as a man of honour would 
 have led him to remain and confront Leontes. But from what 
 Camillo tells him, he sees that this course would endanger his 
 own life, and possibly bring further indignity upon the queen. 
 At the same time he sadly divines into what excesses of vindictive 
 passion Leontes was likely to be driven. " This jealousy," he 
 says, 
 
 " Is for a precious creature : as she's rare, 
 Must it be great ; and, as his person's mighty, 
 Must it be violent ; and as he does conceive 
 He is dishonour'd by a man which ever 
 Profess'd to him, why, his revenges must 
 In that be made more bitter." 
 
 Therefore, with the aid of Camillo, who escapes with him, he 
 secretly and swiftly returns to his own kingdom of Bohemia, and 
 sixteen years elapse before we hear of either of them again. 
 
 Meanwhile Shakespeare shows us Hermione again under an 
 aspect that brings her home still more closely to our sympathies, 
 while it deepens the pathos of the terrible burden that is pres- 
 ently to be laid upon her. 
 
 Is there, even in Shakespeare, any passage more charming in 
 itself, or more cunningly devised to reveal to an audience the 
 main purpose of the play, than the brief scene with which the 
 second act opens ? The boy Mamillius, of whom Archidamus had 
 spoken as the "gallant child," the "gentleman of the greatest 
 promise that ever came into his note," unconscious of the delicate 
 condition of his mother, has fatigued her with his caresses and 
 the eager importunity of his questions. " Take the boy to you," 
 she says to her ladies-in-waiting, 
 
 " He so troubles me, 
 "Tis past enduring. 
 
 1st Lady. Come, my gracious lord, 
 
 Shall I be your playfellow ? 
 
 Mam. No, I'll none of you.
 
 350 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTEKS: 
 
 1st Lady. Why, my sweet lord ? 
 
 Mam. You'll kiss me hard ; and speak to me as if 
 I were a baby still. I love you better. 
 
 2nd Lady. And why so, my lord ? 
 
 Mam. Not for because 
 
 Your brows are blacker ; yet black brows, they say, 
 Become some women best ; so that there be not 
 Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, 
 Or half -moon made with a pen. 
 
 2nd Lady. Who taught you this ? 
 
 Mam. I learn'd it out of women's faces." 
 
 What mother could long keep such a darling from her side? 
 Hermione could not, and presently she calls him back to her 
 from the circle of her ladies, who have gathered round him, 
 delighted with his precocious prattle. 
 
 " Her. Come, sir, now 
 
 I am for you again : pray you, sit by us, 
 And tell's a tale. 
 
 Mam. Merry, or sad, shall't be ? 
 
 Her. As merry as you will. 
 
 Mam. A sad tale's best for winter." 
 
 [in these words suggesting the name for the play, with its saddest 
 of tales.] 
 
 " I have one of sprites and goblins. 
 
 Her. Let's have that, good sir. 
 
 Come on, sit down. Come on, and do your best 
 To fright me with your sprites ; you're powerful at it. 
 
 Mam. There was a man, 
 
 Her. Nay, come, sit down ; then on ! 
 
 Mam. Dwelt by a churchyard. I will tell it softly ; 
 Yond crickets shall not hear it. 
 
 Her. Come on, then, 
 
 And give't me in mine ear." 
 
 But that tale is never to he told. It is arrested by the abrupt 
 entrance of Leontes with his suite. He has heard of the secret 
 departure of Polixenes and Camillo, which confirms his worst 
 surmises. 
 
 " Camillo was his help, his pander : 
 There is a plot against my life, my crown ; " 
 
 and his queen is privy to it. Turning to her in fury, he drags 
 Mamillius from her side :
 
 HERMIONE. 351 
 
 " Give me the boy ! I am glad you did not nurse him ; 
 Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you 
 Have too much blood in him." 
 
 In complete bewilderment Hermione exclaims, "What is this? 
 Sport 1 " At first she seems unable to regard Leontes as in 
 earnest, even when his answer to her question is 
 
 " Bear the boy hence. He shall not come about her. 
 Away with him ! " 
 
 and in the coarsest terms charges her with disloyalty to his bed. 
 In a kind of stupor she listens to his vituperations, until he brands 
 her, to the wonder-stricken circle of his lords, as "an adultress." 
 Upon this the indignant denial leaps to her lips - 
 
 " Should a villain say so, 
 The most replenish'd villain in the world, 
 He were as much more villain ! " 
 
 But here she checks herself. The name of villain must not be 
 coupled with his, her husband, and a king, and with a voice 
 softened, but resolute, she adds, " You, my lord, do but mistake." 
 Unmoved by her gentleness, Leontes reiterates his accusations 
 with redoubled vehemence. The blood is sent back upon her 
 heart, speaking as these do of the overthrow of the love of years 
 in the inexplicable delusion by which he is possessed. Humiliat- 
 ing as her position is, thus to be reviled by her husband and be- 
 fore the Court, she never loses for a moment her queenly dignity 
 and self-command. Even in the midst of her anguish, her para- 
 mount thought is for him, to whom, as he had so lately reminded 
 her, she had vowed herself "for ever." We seem to hear the 
 sad, calm, solemn tones of her voice as she speaks. 
 
 " How will this grieve you, 
 
 When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that 
 You have thus published me ! Gentle my lord, 
 You scarce can right me truly then, to say 
 You did mistake." 
 
 Insane though he is for the time, yet Leontes feels that, if she 
 speaks true if he should be wrong his error would be inexpi- 
 able. " No," he replies ; 
 
 " If I mistake 
 In these foundations that I build upon,
 
 352 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 The centre is not big enough to bear 
 
 A school-boy's top. Away with her to prison ! " 
 
 Hermione attempts no remonstrance. She accepts her fate 
 meekly. 
 
 " There's some ill planet reigns : 
 
 I must be patient, till the heavens look 
 
 With an aspect more favourable." 
 
 As she is about to leave, she sees the lords regarding her with 
 mournful faces. They cannot surely believe her guilty ; yet men 
 look for women's tears in hours of trial. She has none to give ; 
 her heart is too " sorely charged " for that. But from her dry 
 eyes they must draw no false conclusions. "Good my lords," 
 she says, 
 
 " I am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
 Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew 
 Perchance shall dry your pities. But I have 
 That honourable grief lodged here, which burns 
 Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords, 
 With thoughts so qualified as your charities 
 Shall best instruct you, measure me ; and so 
 The king's will be performed." 
 
 No one stirs; and Leontes, made more and more angry and 
 excited by her presence, says roughly, "Shall I be heard 1 ?" 
 Upon this Hermione, suddenly reminded by a painful throb 
 of her impending trial, is affrighted by the thought that jailers 
 are to be her sole attendants. Who can read without emotion 
 what follows 1 ? 
 
 " Beseech your highness, 
 
 My women may be with me ; for, you see, 
 
 My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools ; 
 
 There is no cause ; when you shall know your mistress 
 
 Has deserved prison, then abound in tears, 
 
 As I come out : this action I now go on 
 
 Is for my better grace." 
 
 Then, bending with a low reverence to the king, she continues 
 
 ' ' Adieu, my lord : 
 
 I never wished to see you sorry ; now 
 I trust I shall."
 
 HERMIONE. 353 
 
 What a parting, what a prophecy ! And in our common life 
 to how many a sad heart does the infinite pathos of these words 
 strike home ! 
 
 JSTo sooner has the queen withdrawn with her ladies than the 
 lords, who have heen restrained by her presence, break forth into 
 passionate remonstrances with Leontes, heedless of his words, 
 
 " He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty, 
 But that he speaks." 
 
 " Beseech your highness," says one, " call the queen again ! " and 
 Antigonus, who is afterwards to play a material part in the story, 
 speaks with a solemn voice of warning 
 
 " Be certain what you do, sir ; lest your justice 
 Prove violence ; in the which three great ones suffer, 
 Yourself, your queen, your son." 
 
 Later on, he points out to the king how far more seemly it would 
 have been for him to have tested his suspicions silently before 
 blazoning them to the world. So absolute is the belief of all 
 the lords in the queen's innocence, that they are not deterred by 
 the angry resistance of Leontes from loudly protesting that he 
 is under a delusion. It is some saving grace in him that he 
 argues the matter with them, instead of ordering them to prison 
 for their boldness, and tells them that, while himself assured of 
 the queen's guilt, 
 
 " Yet, for a greater confirmation, 
 For, in an act of this importance, 'twere 
 Most piteous to be wild," 
 
 he has despatched two of the leading members of his Court to 
 obtain the opinion of the Oracle at Delphi, "whose spiritual 
 counsel had shall stop or spur him." He has done this ob- 
 viously not for his own satisfaction but to "give rest to the 
 minds of others." Neither Antigonus nor any of the lords have 
 any misgivings as to the issue. The oracle will surely show their 
 monarch's folly, " if the good truth were known." 
 
 The next scene introduces us to Paulina, the wife of Antig- 
 onus, a lady of high position, who henceforth fills a most import- 
 ant part in the drama, and who should be impersonated in any 
 Z
 
 354 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 adequate representation of the play by an actress of the first 
 order. She is a woman of no ordinary sagacity, with a warm 
 heart, a vigorous brain, and an ardent temper. Her love for 
 Hermione has its roots in admiration and reverence for all the 
 good and gracious qualities of which the queen's daily life has 
 given witness. She has been much about her royal mistress, 
 and much esteemed and trusted by her. Leontes, knowing 
 this, obviously anticipates that she will not remain quiet when 
 she hears of the charge he has brought against the queen, and 
 that he has thrust her into prison. Accordingly, he has given 
 express orders that Pauliua is not to be admitted to the prison, 
 and this fresh act of cruelty she learns from the governor only 
 when she arrives there in the hope of being some comfort to 
 her much- wronged mistress. " Good lady," 'she exclaims, to 
 herself, 
 
 " No court in Europe is too good for thee ; 
 What dost thou, then, in prison ? " 
 
 The privilege of access to the queen is resolutely denied to 
 her. She prevails, however, on the governor to permit her to see 
 the queen's chief woman, Emilia, and from her she learns that, 
 "on her frights and griefs," Hermione has been prematurely de- 
 livered of a daughter, " a goodly babe, lusty and like to live." 
 
 " The queen receives 
 
 Much comfort in't ; says ' My poor prisoner, 
 I am innocent as you.' " 
 
 How Paulina's heart must have been stirred as these words 
 brought before her the image of the forlorn mother and her 
 child ! In hot anger she exclaims, " I dare be sworn ! " and 
 in the words that follow shows the clear common -sense and 
 fearless courage of which she gives remarkable proofs at a later 
 stage. From first to last she regards the conduct of Leontes 
 as simple madness. 
 
 "These dangerous lunes i' the king, beshrew them ! 
 He must be told on't, and he shall : the office 
 Becomes a woman best. I take't upon me. 
 If I prove honey-mouthed, let my tongue blister, 
 And never to my red-looked anger be 
 The trumpet any more."
 
 HERMIONE. 355 
 
 But here a plea that may soften the king's heart flashes upon 
 her. If the queen will trust her with the babe, she will show it 
 to the king, " and undertake to be her advocate to the loud'st." 
 
 " We do not know 
 
 How he may soften at the sight o' the child ; 
 The silence often of pure innocence 
 Persuades, when speaking fails." 
 
 The idea of such an appeal, Emilia says, had occurred to the 
 queen herself ; 
 
 " Who, but to-day, hammered of this design, 
 But durst not trust a minister of honour, 
 Lest she should be denied. " 
 
 "There is no lady living," Emilia adds, "so meet for this great 
 errand." She anticipates " a thriving issue " for it. Presently 
 we find that Hermione parts with her child, in the hope that the 
 sight of its sweet face, the touch of the baby fingers, its likeness 
 to himself 
 
 " Although the print be little, the whole matter 
 And copy of the father" 
 
 may turn his heart, and break the frightful spell by which he is 
 mysteriously bound. 
 
 Under that spell Leontes is kept upon the rack. " Nor night 
 nor day, no rest ! " are his first words when next we see him. 
 His thoughts are all of vengeance. " The harlot king," he says, 
 " is quite beyond mine arm ; " but Hermione is in his grasp. 
 
 " Say, that she were gone, 
 Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest 
 Might come to me again." 
 
 He has still another bitter grief, one for which he can take 
 vengeance upon no one, neither thrust aside, a grief which will 
 haunt him to his grave. His boy, his darling Mamillius, is sick. 
 " How does the boy ? " he asks eagerly of an attendant whom he 
 has summoned, who answers 
 
 " He took good rest to-night ; 
 'Tis hoped his sickness is discharged. 
 
 Leon. To see his nobleness ! 
 Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,
 
 356 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 He straight declined, droop'd, took it deeply ; 
 Fastened and fixed the shame on't in himself ; 
 Threw oft his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, 
 And downright languished. Leave me solely ; go, 
 See how he fares." 
 
 But Leontes is no sooner alone than he relapses into his dreams 
 of vengeance. In these he becomes absorbed, until his attention 
 is aroused by the voice of Paulina in loud talk with his attendants, 
 who are trying to keep her from making her way to him with 
 Hermione's baby in her arms. Of all the ladies of the court she 
 is the one he has most feared to see. " I charged thee," he says 
 to her husband, Antigonus, "that she should not come about me. 
 I knew she would." But neither Antigonus nor the king can 
 shake her determination to speak her mind. 
 
 " I say, I come 
 From your good queen. 
 
 Leon. Good queen ! 
 
 Paul. Good queen, my lord, good queen : I say, good queen ; 
 And would by combat make her good, so were I 
 A man, the worst about you. 
 
 The good queen, 
 
 For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter ; 
 Here 'tis ; commends it to your blessing. 
 
 [Laying down the, child." 
 
 In a paroxysm of rage, Leontes calls her by names the most 
 opprobrious, orders her " out o' door," and commands Antigonus 
 to "take up the bastard" and give it to his "crone." "For 
 ever," she exclaims to her husband, 
 
 " Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou 
 Tak'st up the princess, by that forced baseness 
 Which he has put upon't." 
 
 Maddened still further by her indifference to his anger, Leontes 
 exclaims 
 
 " This brat is none of mine ; 
 It is the issue of Polixenes : 
 Hence with it ! And together with the dam 
 Commit them to the fire ! . . . 
 (To Paulina) I'll have thee burn'd. 
 Paul. I care not : 
 
 It is an heretic that makes the fire, 
 Not she which burns in't. I'll not call you tyrant ;
 
 HERMIONE. 367 
 
 But this most cruel usage of your queen 
 
 Not able to produce more accusation 
 
 Than your own weak-hinged fancy something savours 
 
 Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, 
 
 Yea, scandalous to the world." 
 
 " Out of the chamber with her ! " cries the king. Paulina, 
 eeeing that further remonstrance in impossible, retires ; but not 
 without some further words of warning. "Look to your babe, 
 my lord ; 'tis yours. Jove send her a better guiding spirit ! " 
 How dangerous, how unsafe the king's frenzy has become, is seen 
 in the way he turns upon Antigonus. 
 
 " Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. 
 My child ! Away with't ! Even thou, that hast 
 A heart so tender o'er it, take it hence, 
 And see it instantly consumed with fire ; 
 Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight ; 
 Within this hour bring me word 'tis done, 
 And by good testimony, or I'll seize thy life, 
 And what thou else call'st thine. If thou refuse, 
 And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so ; 
 The bastard's brains with these my proper hands 
 Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire ! " 
 
 Stricken with horror, the attendant lords kneel, beseeching the 
 king to "change this purpose," so "horrible, so bloody." Feeling 
 obviously some misgiving within himself, he exclaims, " I am a 
 feather in each wind that blows," and calls to Antigonus : 
 
 " You, sir, come you hither ! 
 
 You, that have been so tenderly officious . . . 
 To save this bastard's life ; for 'tis a bastard 
 So sure as thy beard's grey, what will you adventure 
 To save this brat's life ? 
 
 Ant. Anything, my lord, 
 
 That my ability may undergo, 
 And nobleness impose ; at least thus much, 
 I'll pawn the little blood that I have left, 
 To save the innocent, anything possible." 
 
 " It shall be possible ! " cries Leontes, and straightway enjoins 
 him to bear the child 
 
 " To some remote and desert place, quite out 
 Of our dominions ; and that there thou leave it,
 
 358 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Without more mercy, to its own protection 
 
 And favour of the climate. . . . 
 
 Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up." 
 
 The gentle, kindly, elderly Antigonus, upon whom the plain 
 speaking of his younger warm-tempered wife has brought this 
 terrible task, swears to ohey his sovereign's order, "Though a 
 present death," he says, " had been more merciful " ; and taking 
 up the child, with the words, 
 
 " Come on, poor babe ; 
 
 Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens 
 To be thy nurses. . . . Sir, be prosperous 
 In more than this deed doth require ! And blessing 
 Against this cruelty fight on thy side, 
 Poor thing, condemned to loss ! " 
 
 he sets out upon his cruel errand. 
 
 Scarcely has he gone when tidings arrive that Cleomenes and 
 Dion, the messengers despatched to the Delphic Oracle, have 
 returned, and are "hasting to the court." Now, thinks Leontes, 
 the gods will prove him to be in the right. That their answer 
 should be such as to stay his hand from destroying his queen he 
 believes to be impossible. He orders, indeed, a session to be 
 forthwith summoned 
 
 " That we may arraign 
 Our most disloyal lady ; for as she hath 
 Been publicly accused, so shall she have 
 A just and open trial." 
 
 But that it will result in her condemnation he is completely as- 
 sured, for he adds 
 
 " While she lives, 
 My heart will be a burthen to me." 
 
 Miserable man ! He had yet to learn how much heavier a burden 
 his heart will have to bear. 
 
 Here follows one of those exquisite scenes with which Shake- 
 speare so often enriches his plays, in the creative exuberance of 
 his imagination, and prompted by the subtle sense of what is 
 wanted to put his audience in the right mood for what is next 
 to follow. After all the prophetic vehemence of Paulina and 
 the insane passion of Leontes, he seems to have felt that some-
 
 HERMIONE. 359 
 
 thing in a gentler strain was needed to calm the emotions of his 
 hearers, and lift them into a serener air, before showing Hennione 
 upon her trial. This he has done by a brief dialogue between 
 Cleomenes and Dion, which takes us with them to the temple at 
 Delphi, chosen by Apollo as the mouthpiece of his oracles : 
 
 " Cleo. The climate's delicate ; the air most sweet ; 
 Fertile the isle ; the temple much surpassing 
 The common praise it bears. 
 
 Dion. I shall report, 
 
 For most it caught me, the celestial habits, 
 Methinks I so should term them, and the reverence 
 Of the grave wearers. Oh, the sacrifice ! 
 How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly 
 It was i' the offering ! 
 
 Cleo. But, of all, the burst 
 
 And the ear-deafening voice o' the oracle, 
 Kin to Jove's thunder, so surprised my sense, 
 That I was nothing. 
 
 Dion. If the event o' the journey 
 
 Prove as successful to the queen, oh, be't so ! 
 As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, 
 The time is worth the use on't. 
 
 Cleo. Great Apollo, 
 
 Turn all to the best ! These proclamations, 
 So forcing faults upon Hermione, 
 I little like. 
 
 Dion. The violent carriage of it 
 
 Will clear or end the business, when the oracle, 
 Thus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up, 
 Shall the contents discover, something rare 
 Even then will rush to knowledge. Go ! Fresh horses ! 
 And gracious be the issue ! " 
 
 How much does this scene suggest, and in such brief compass ! 
 What a prelude, also, to the great scene, in which we are pre- 
 sently to see Hermione pleading her cause before the assembled 
 judges, and all " who please to come and hear " ! This is a scene 
 which makes a large demand upon the resources of the actress, 
 both personal and mental. With enfeebled health, and placed 
 in a most ignominious position, Hermione must be shown to 
 maintain her queenly dignity, and to control her passionate 
 emotion under an outward bearing of resigned fortitude and 
 almost inconceivable forbearance.
 
 360 SHAKESPE ABE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 In my early studies for the impersonation of Hermione, and 
 in my acting of the character, I used to find myself imagining 
 the procession of the queen and her suite through the streets, " i' 
 the open air," from the prison, where she had spent the last few 
 weeks, to the Hall of Justice. Her ladies are by her side, not 
 weeping now, for their mistress had shown them how to bear 
 affliction. The fragile form, the sad, far away looking eyes, the 
 pale but lovely face, so stricken with suffering, reveal too well all 
 that she has been passing through. Whatever impression of the 
 queen's guilt may have been raised in the people's mind by the 
 sudden flight of Polixenes and his followers, her look and bearing, 
 I felt, must dispel every thought save that of the cruel indignity 
 with which she had been treated. No taunting voice would be 
 raised. The rumour would have gone abroad that the young 
 Prince Mamillius had been denied access to her, that the newly 
 born babe, her one solace in her prison, had been taken from her 
 and cast out to die a cruel death. The people would think, too, 
 of the indecent haste which was now hurrying her to her trial 
 before the Court of Justice, with no allowance for the time of 
 rest, which, after the pains of maternity, '"longs to women of 
 all fashion." Had she turned her head towards the crowd, she 
 would have seen the men with bowed heads and looks of rev- 
 erence and pity, the women with streaming eyes bent tenderly 
 and sympathisingly upon her. But, no ! her thoughts were away 
 upon the scene that awaited her. Would her strength avail for 
 the strain which she knew was presently to be put upon it, when 
 alone, unaided, she must plead her cause, with more than her life 
 her honour at stake, and with him for her accuser, who 
 should best have known how her whole nature belied his accusa- 
 tion 1 Sorely, indeed, does she need that the heavens shall look 
 " with an aspect more favourable " upon her. 
 
 In the Hall of Justice, Leontes, seated, surrounded by the lords 
 of his Court, opens the proceedings by protestations how insin- 
 cere, we know of his grief at being constrained to bring his 
 queen to trial in person. In obedience to his command, Hermione 
 is brought in guarded, attended by Paulina and her ladies. She 
 bows respectfully to the king, and is conducted to a dais, on 
 which a cushioned chair has been allotted to her opposite to the
 
 HERMIONE. 361 
 
 king. What a contrast do the royal pair present? Leontes, 
 restless, feverish, irritable, trying to mask his intention to hear 
 nothing that runs counter to his foregone conclusion, under the 
 transparently unreal semblance of a simple desire for justice; 
 Hermione, self-controlled, queenly, calm with the quiet courage 
 of the martyr, prepared to lose her life, but resolute to vindicate 
 her honour. The indictment is read, charging her with adultery 
 with Polixenes, and with conspiring with him and Camillo 
 against her husband's life. Rising from her seat, and with a 
 voice in which the effects of her recent sufferings may be heard, 
 she begins by expressing how bootless it must be for her to plead 
 "not guilty," since the denial must rest solely upon her own 
 testimony. Then, her voice deepening in tone as she proceeds, 
 she enters on her defence 
 
 " But thus ; if powers divine 
 Behold our human actions, as they do, 
 I doubt not then but innocence shall make 
 False accusation blush, and tyranny 
 Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know, 
 Who least will seem to do so, my past life 
 Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, 
 As I am now unhappy ; which is more 
 Than history can pattern, though devis'd 
 And play'd to take spectators. For, behold me, 
 A fellow of the royal bed, which owe 
 A moiety of the throne, a great king's daughter, 
 The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing 
 To prate and talk for life and honour 'fore 
 Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it 
 As I weigh grief, which I would spare : for honour, 
 'Tis a derivative from me to mine, 
 And only that I stand for. I appeal 
 To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes 
 Came to your court, how I was in your grace, 
 How merited to be so ; since he came, 
 With what encounter so uncurrent I 
 Have strain'd to appear thus : if one jot beyond 
 The bound of honour, or in act or will 
 That way inclining, harden'd be the hearts 
 Of all that hear me, and my uear'st of kin 
 Cry fie upon my grave ! " 
 
 This noble pleading, however, brings from Leontes no response 
 but this
 
 362 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " I ne'er heard yet, 
 
 That any of these bolder vices wanted 
 Less impudence to gainsay what they did, 
 Than to perform it first." 
 
 How temperate, how forbearing is her reply ! 
 
 " That's true enough ; 
 Though 'tis a saying, sir, not due to me." 
 
 "You will not own it 1 ?" exclaims Leontes, in a transport of 
 anger. More than may be laid to her charge in name of fault, 
 Hermione replies, " she must not acknowledge. For Polixenes," 
 she continues 
 
 " With whom I am accus'd, I do confess, 
 I lov'd him, as in honour he required, 
 With such a kind of love as might become 
 A lady like me ; with a love, even such, 
 So, and no other, as yourself commanded ; 
 Which not to have done, I think, had been in me 
 Both disobedience and ingratitude 
 To you, and towards your friend, whose love had spoke 
 Even since it could speak, from an infant, freely, 
 That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy 
 I know not how it tastes ; . . . 
 
 All I know of it, 
 
 Is that Camillo was an honest man ; 
 
 And why he left your court the gods themselves, 
 
 Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. 
 
 Leon. You knew of his departure, as you know 
 What you have underta'en to do in's absence. 
 
 Her. Sir, 
 
 You speak a language that I understand not. 
 My life lies in the level of your dreams, 
 Which I'll lay down." 
 
 Upon this Leontes reiterates his charge against her honour in 
 language outrageous in its coarseness and cruelty, telling her 
 "she shall feel his justice," 
 
 " In whose easiest passage 
 Look for no less than death. " 
 
 To this, with a voice trembling with emotion, and in it also 
 something of impatience, Hermione replies 
 
 " Sir, spare your threats : 
 The bug which you would fright me with I seek.
 
 HERMIONE. 363 
 
 To me life can be no commodity. 
 
 The crown and comfort of my life, your favour, 
 
 I do give lost ; for I do feel it gone, 
 
 But know not how it went. " 
 
 Hitherto she has borne with submission the insults and 
 outrages heaped upon her, forbearing directly to charge her 
 wrongs upon Leontes. But now, as the thought of all she has 
 been robbed of flashes upon her mind, her tones, laden with the 
 anguish so long suppressed, vibrate with impassioned intensity. 
 
 " My second joy 
 
 And first-fruits of my body, from his presence 
 I am barr'd [icith a stifled sob in her voice] like one infectious. 
 
 My third comfort, 
 
 Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast, 
 The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth, 
 Haled out to murder ; myself on every post 
 Proclaim'd a strumpet ; with immodest hatred 
 The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs 
 To women of all fashion ; lastly, hurried 
 Here to this place, i' the open air, before 
 I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, 
 Tell me what blessings I have here alive, 
 That I should fear to die ? Therefore proceed." 
 
 Then summoning all her remaining strength, which is slowly 
 ebbing, and with more vehemence than she has yet shown, and 
 some indignation, she adds 
 
 " But yet hear this ! Mistake me not : no life, 
 I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour, 
 Which I would free, if I shall be condemn'd 
 Upon surmises , all proofs sleeping else 
 But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 
 'Tis rigour and not law ! " 
 
 These are the last words spoken by her. to Leontes in the play. 
 Turning from him, unjust judge as he has throughout shown 
 himself, she addresses herself directly to the members of the 
 court. 
 
 "Your honours all, 
 I do refer me to the oracle : 
 Apollo be my judge ! " 
 
 Leontes is awed into silence. The hush is broken by the first
 
 364 SHAKESPE ABE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Lord, who, like all his fellows, was, we must think, by this time 
 glad that judgment had been thus taken out of the hands of 
 their king ; 
 
 " This your request 
 
 Is altogether just : thereforth bring forth, 
 
 And in Apollo's name, his oracle." 
 
 Hermione, exhausted, has sunk back upon her chair. At this 
 moment the ignominious humiliation of her position comes over- 
 whelmingly over her, and she says, half to herself : 
 
 " The Emperor of Russia was my father : 
 Oh, that he were alive, and here beholding 
 His daughter's trial ! that he did but see 
 The flatness of my misery ! " 
 
 Then thinking with what direful vengeance he would have 
 smitten her accuser, she adds with her accustomed merciful ten- 
 derness, 
 
 ' ' Yet with eyes 
 Of pity, not revenge ! " 
 
 The response of the oracle is brought in, solemnly opened, and 
 read aloud. It runs : 
 
 " Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true 
 subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten, 
 and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not 
 found." 
 
 A burst of satisfaction breaks from the lords and the assembled 
 crowd. Hermione receives the judgment of the oracle without sur- 
 prise, only with simple gratitude and thanksgiving, and the one 
 word " Praised ! " The powers divine " have made false accusa- 
 tion blush." " Tyranny," however, does not even yet " tremble at 
 patience." Baffled on every point, Leontes exclaims 
 
 "There is no truth at all i' the oracle ! 
 The sessions shall proceed : this is mere falsehood." 
 
 At this moment a servant enters hurriedly in great consternation, 
 calling, " My lord the king, the king ! " 
 
 " Leon. What is the business ? 
 
 Servant. Oh, sir, I shall be hated to report it !
 
 HERMIONE. 365 
 
 The prince, your son, with mere conceit and fear, 
 Of the queen's speed, is gone. 
 
 Leon. How ! gone ! 
 
 Serv. Is dead." 
 
 Upon this a cry echoes through the hall like a death-knell ; the 
 cry of a soul from which all happiness, all hope, are gone ; the 
 cry of a broken heart, which shakes every other in the assembled 
 crowd; a cry that will ring in the ears of Leontes ever after, 
 and that even now chases from his brain every mad delusion. 
 Upon the instant his senses return to him, and all his monstrous 
 distrust and cruelty and their consequences are seen by him in 
 their true light : 
 
 " Apollo's angry ; and the heavens themselves 
 Do strike at my injustice." 
 
 Then, as he sees a commotion around Hermione, she has fallen 
 back in a swoon into the arms of her women, who are crowding 
 around her, he cries, " How now there ? " The answer comes 
 from Paulina, the lady whose warnings he had repelled with con- 
 tumely : 
 
 " This news is mortal to the queen : look down, 
 And see what death is doing." 
 
 Death ! He will not believe it. " Her heart is but o'ercharged ; 
 she will recover." Fly to her side he dare not he, unworthy 
 to touch her whom he had so foully slandered. But as she is 
 carried from the hall in the arms of her ladies, he says to them 
 
 '' Beseech you, tenderly apply to her 
 Some remedies for life. " 
 
 Then follows a burst of contrition, in which those better 
 qualities are seen, which had won and kept for him until now 
 the love of his pure, high-hearted queen. They come back as 
 suddenly as they had left him. He beseeches Apollo to forgive 
 his great profaneness " 'gainst his oracle " ; he will " new woo 
 his queen," be reconciled to Polixenes, recall the good Camillo ; 
 avowing at the same time his own guilty attempt to make him 
 poison Polixenes. In the midst of these confessions he is inter- 
 rupted by the return of Paulina with tidings of the yet heavier 
 punishment which has overtaken him. She will not spare him.
 
 366 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Into her lips Shakespeare seems as if he wished to put, as the 
 Greek tragedians put into those of the Chorus, the concentrated 
 judgment of every man and woman in his kingdom : 
 
 " Thy tyranny, 
 
 Together working with thy jealousies, 
 Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle 
 For girls of nine, oh, think what they have done, 
 And then run mad indeed, stark mad ! " 
 
 She reminds him of his inconstancy and ingratitude to Polixenes, 
 of his baseness in trying to poison good Camillo's honour. But 
 these are only " poor trespasses, more monstrous standing by " 
 the casting forth to crows his baby-daughter, the death of the 
 young prince 
 
 " Whose honourable thoughts, 
 
 Thoughts high for one so tender, cleft the heart 
 
 That could conceive a gross and foolish sire 
 
 Blemish'd his gracious dam. . . . 
 
 But the last oh lords! 
 
 When I have said, cry ' Woe ! ' the queen, the queen, 
 
 The sweetest, dearest creature's dead ; and vengeance for't 
 
 Not dropp'd down yet. 
 
 First Lord. The higher powers forbid ! 
 
 Paul. I say she's dead. I'll swear't. If word nor oath 
 
 Prevail not, go and see. If you can bring 
 
 Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye, 
 
 Heat outwardly or breath within, I'll serve you 
 
 As I would do the gods. But oh, thou tyrant ! 
 
 Do not repent these things, for they are heavier 
 
 Than all thy woes can stir ; therefore, betake thee 
 
 To nothing but despair. A thousand knees, 
 
 Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting 
 
 Upon a barren mountain, and still winter, 
 
 In storm perpetual, could not move the gods 
 
 To look that way thou wert." 
 
 Leontes accepts his chastisement ! Again he hears the piteous 
 cry of his queen's broken heart, that cry which sleeping or wak- 
 ing will haunt him all his days. " Go on, go on ! " he says, 
 
 " Thou canst not speak too much. I have deserv'd 
 All tongues to talk their bitterest." 
 
 Paulina sees the anguish of the bowed and hopelessly bereaved 
 man. "He is touched," she says, "to the noble heart," and, the
 
 HERMIONE. 367 
 
 passion of her grief having found vent, there is now room for her 
 womanly compassion to reassert itself. 
 
 " Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman ! 
 
 The love I bore your queen [here her tears choice her} lo, fool again ! 
 I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children. 
 I'll not remember you of my own lord, 
 Who is lost too. Take your patience to you, 
 And I'll say nothing. 
 
 Leon. Thou didst speak but well, 
 
 When most the truth ; which I receive much better, 
 Than to be pitied of thee." 
 
 Surest sign of a sincere remorse. Neither reproof nor sympathy 
 can meet a case like his. Only when alone with his dead can his 
 penitence and grief find full vent 
 
 " Prithee, bring me 
 
 To the dead bodies of my queen, and son : 
 One grave shall be for both. Upon them shall 
 The causes of their death appear, unto 
 Our shame perpetual. Once a-day I'll visit 
 The chapel where they lie : and tears, shed there, 
 Shall be my recreation. So long as nature 
 Will bear up with this exercise, so long 
 I daily vow to use it. Come, and lead me 
 To these sorrows." 
 
 And so we leave him with the woman whom but lately he had 
 feared and spurned, but who, through the long years that were to 
 pass before we meet them again, is to be the stay and comfort of 
 his sorrow-stricken life. 
 
 The scene now changes to " a desert country near the sea in 
 Bohemia." Shakespeare has been much blamed for giving to 
 Bohemia a sea-coast. But it was not he who first did this. He 
 simply followed Greene, apparently not thinking it worth while 
 to deviate in this matter from the old tale, with which many of 
 his audience must have been familiar. And, indeed, what neces- 
 sity was there for minute geographical accuracy? The poet's 
 business is to present human beings under conditions which give 
 scope for the play of character and passion. If he so draws them 
 that his audience becomes absorbed in the interest of the action, 
 if he makes them feel that what his characters say and do is true
 
 368 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS : 
 
 to nature, under the circumstances in which he has placed them, 
 of what moment is it whether Bohemia has a sea-coast or not ? 
 
 To this lonely spot Antigonus has come with his baby charge, 
 accompanied by one of the sailors of the ship that has brought 
 him from Sicily. A storm is rolling up. " In my conscience," 
 says the seaman, 
 
 " The heavens with what we have in hand are angry, 
 And frown upon us." 
 
 He leaves Antigonus, urging him to make his best haste, and not 
 to venture inland, for the place is haunted by beasts of prey. 
 Left to himself, Antigonus gives the description of a dream, a 
 passage which Milton must, I think, have had in his mind when 
 writing his sonnet " On his Deceased Wife." " Come, poor babe ! " 
 he says : 
 
 " I have heard, but not believ'd, the spirits of the dead 
 May walk again. If such thing be, thy mother 
 Appear'd to me last night ; for ne'er was dream 
 So like a waking. To me comes a creature, 
 Sometimes her head on one side, some another ; 
 I never saw a vessel of tike sorrow, 
 So ftt'd, and so becoming : in pure white robes 
 Like very sanctity she did approach 
 My cabin where I lay ; 1 thrice bowed before me, 
 And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes 
 Became two spouts. The fury spent, anon 
 Did this break from her : ' Good Antigonus, 
 Since fate, against thy better disposition, 
 Hath made thy person for the thrower-out 
 Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, 
 Places remote enough are in Bohemia, 
 There weep, and leave it crying ; and, for the babe 
 Is counted lost for ever, Perdita, 
 I prithee, call it. For this ungentle business, 
 Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see 
 Thy wife Paulina more ! ' And so, with shrieks 
 She melted into air." 
 
 A dream so vivid naturally makes Antigonus believe that Her- 
 
 1 " Methought I saw my late espoused Saint 
 Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, 
 And vested all in white, pure as her mind." MILTON.
 
 HERMIONE. 369 
 
 mione is dead, and that he has been visited by her spirit. He 
 will follow her behest to leave the child in Bohemia, all the more 
 because he thinks now, contrary to all his previous convictions, 
 that it " being indeed the issue of Polixeues," Apollo wills that 
 it should be left " either for life or death, upon the earth of its 
 right father." For this conclusion he is scarcely to be forgiven. 
 But his tenderness for the child is very sweet and touching. His 
 words, " Blossom, speed thee well ! " show how the babe has 
 wound itself about his heart. It is wrapped in a warm rich 
 mantle, and he places in a bundle a paper with its name, Perdita, 
 upon it, and a large sum in gold with some costly baby dresses, 
 
 ' ' Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee pretty, 
 And still rest thine." 
 
 Scarcely has he laid down his charge when he has to fly, pur- 
 sued by a bear, into whose deadly clutches he presently falls, 
 while the ship that brought him to Bohemia founders in the 
 storm. 
 
 This we learn from an old shepherd and his son, in a scene 
 where Shakespeare exhibits delightfully his familiarity with the 
 talk and ways of country folks of that class. The shepherd ex- 
 claims on finding the babe : " Mercy on's ! a barne, a very pretty 
 barne ! A boy or a child, I wonder ? A pretty one, av ery 
 pretty one ! " Clearly, he thinks it is of gentle birth, though he 
 suspects not honestly come by. He is a kindly man. " I'll take 
 it up for pity ! " he says, and waits to open the bundle until his 
 son joins him, bringing news of the death of Antigonus and the 
 shipwreck of his companions. " Heavy matters ! " he says, 
 " heavy matters ! But look thee here, boy here's a sight for 
 thee ! Look thee, a bearing-cloth [a christening mantle] for a 
 squire's child ! " He tells his son to open the bundle 
 
 " So, let's see. It was told me I should be rich by the fairies. This is 
 some changeling. What's within, boy ? 
 
 Clown. You're a made old man. . . . Gold, all gold ! 
 
 Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so. Up with it, keep it 
 close ; home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy, and to be so still 
 requires nothing but secrecy." 
 
 And home he goes with the precious charge and the rich belong- 
 2 A
 
 370 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 ings, which are years after to be the means of proving Perdita's 
 parentage, while his clownish, good-natured son stays behind to 
 bury so much of Antigonus as the bear has left. "That's a good 
 deed," says his father ; "Tis a lucky day, and we'll do good deeds 
 on't." 
 
 The poet had now to leap over an interval of sixteen years, a 
 novelty in drama so daring, that he prepared his audience for it 
 by a Soliloquy of Time as Chorus, in which he asks them to trans- 
 port themselves to Bohemia and to remember well, 
 
 " I mention'd a son of the king's, which Florizel 
 I now name to you. And with speed so pace 
 To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace 
 Equal with wondering. ... A shepherd's daughter." 
 
 More than this he will not tell them. They are to " let Time's 
 news be known when 'tis brought forth," and, having thus kin- 
 dled the curiosity of the audience as to how Florizel and Perdita 
 are to work out the conclusion of the sad events which have gone 
 before, the Chorus retires. 
 
 By the conversation of Polixenes and Camillo in the next scene, 
 they are early put in the way to hope that it will work out hap- 
 pily, through the loves of Florizel and Perdita. Camillo, full of 
 home-sickness, longs to go back to Sicily. " Besides," he says, 
 " the king, my master, has sent for me ; to whose feeling sorrows 
 I may be some allay, or I o'erween to think so, which is another 
 spur to my departure." Camillo has proved himself so valuable, 
 however, as councillor and statesman, that Polixenes cannot agree 
 to part with him, and begs him to speak no more of " that fatal 
 Sicilia, whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of 
 that penitent and reconciled king, my brother, whose loss of his 
 most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh 
 lamented." The conversation then turns to the subject of the 
 king's son Florizel, who has of late been in the habit of absenting 
 himself from Court. His movements have been watched, and a 
 report brought to Polixenes, " that he is seldom from the house 
 of a most homely shepherd ; a man, they say, that from very 
 nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown 
 into an unspeakable estate." Camillo, too, has heard " of such a 
 man, who hath a daughter of most rare note. The report of her
 
 HERMIONE. 371 
 
 is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cot- 
 tage." The matter is one which must be seen to, and Camillo 
 agrees to go with Polixenes in disguise to the shepherd, from 
 whom it is thought it will be easy to learn the reason of Florizel's 
 frequent visits to his farm. 
 
 We now see that the shepherd has acted in accordance with 
 what he said of his good luck, that it " wanted nothing but 
 secrecy." He has kept his secret well, and so, too, have his wife, 
 now dead, and his clownish son. Little by little he has made 
 use of some of the gold he found with Perdita, managing it so as 
 not to raise surmises among his neighbours, while growing by 
 slow degrees into a well-to-do sheep-farmer. When we next see 
 him, he is keeping the festival of the sheep-shearing, which, it 
 appears, he has celebrated handsomely for many years. He 
 speaks of his wife's active part in these festivals in days gone by, 
 and how pleasant is the picture ! She is no Bohemian house- 
 wife, but a true English dame, such as Shakespeare had no doubt 
 seen in many a country homestead 
 
 "When my old wife liv'd, upon 
 This day she was both pantler, butler, cook, 
 Both dame and servant ; welcom'd all, serv'd all ; 
 Would sing her song, and dance her turn ; now here, 
 At upper end of the table, now in the middle ; 
 On his shoulder, and his ; her face o' fire 
 With labour ; and the thing she took to quench it, 
 She would to each one sip." 
 
 Such a woman, we may be sure, would be a good mother to the 
 poor foundling so strangely cast upon her care. As the child 
 grew older, these kindly folks would use the means which came 
 with her to give her the best education that was to be had. By- 
 and-by they would see something about her superior to the other 
 country lasses something that so commanded their respect and 
 admiration, that she would be spared the rough work of their 
 household and farm. She took, we see, her share of herding the 
 sheep, and the lighter work of their simple home. But she 
 would live the while in a world of observation, thought, and 
 fancy, in which they had no share, and so she became in person 
 and mind and manner such as we imagine Hermione to have been
 
 372 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 in her happy days of girlhood. Especial pains indeed seem to 
 have been taken to make us see the mother in the child. Al- 
 though placed amid surroundings so widely different, we can trace 
 in her the same nature, the same gentle dignity of manner, the 
 same thoughtful spirit, the same unstudied grace of movement, 
 the same refined beauty of both face and form. 
 
 "Well may Florizel " bless the time, when his good falcon made 
 his flight across" the ground of the old shepherd's farm. The 
 moment his eye rests upon Perdita, he is drawn by an irresistible 
 instinct towards her. She is thenceforth the ruler of his life. 
 He cannot be, to use his own words, " his own, nor anything to 
 any, if he be not hers." Their story in this respect is like that 
 of Ferdinand and Miranda in The Tempest, and it is hard to say 
 which of these tales of love at first sight Shakespeare has in- 
 vested with the greater charm. From the first moment, we learn 
 from Prospero, Ferdinand and Miranda " are both in cither's 
 power." It is not so said expressly of Perdita, yet it was prob- 
 ably no less true of her than of her princely lover. Unlike Mir- 
 anda, she had seen many men ; but what a vision of noble manly 
 beauty must Florizel have presented to her eyes ! Being what he 
 was in person and in mind, he must, in contrast with the rustics 
 around her, have been as much a delightful revelation as Ferdi- 
 nand was to Miranda, when, thinking him a being of another 
 world, she calls him " a thing divine, for nothing natural I ever 
 saw so noble." Such natures must have been quickly drawn 
 together. It was impossible for Perdita, with her inborn sym- 
 pathies with all that was refined and noble, to withhold her heart 
 from one in every way fitted to awake the slumbering soul within 
 her, touched, as she must have been, to find herself approached 
 with reverential homage by one so different from all her eyes had 
 ever seen. From the first he has made no secret of his royal 
 blood ; but, come what may, she is to be his queen. Perdita, 
 who believes the shepherd to be her father, though dwelling 
 more than her lover upon their difference in rank, and apprehen- 
 sive that this must disunite them, yet cannot in her frank sim- 
 plicity hide from him that their love is mutual. 
 
 At every successive meeting he finds fresh graces in her. He 
 sees that in spite of her superior beauty her companions are not
 
 HEEMIONE. 373 
 
 envious. Their submission to her sway the influence of native 
 dignity is involuntary. She is as unconscious of it as they are. 
 She is chosen by them as their queen in all their sports, and with 
 most queenly graciousness she distributes her flowers and other 
 simple favours among them, Florizel watching her every move- 
 ment. He is as much amazed as attracted by the poetic turn of 
 her thoughts, by the way she gives expression to them, by the 
 wisdom, the winning humility of a creature who, in all she does 
 and says, fascinates him with sweet surprises. In her soft voice, 
 her words, her mien, there is something that speaks unmistakably 
 of the royal blood within her. This it is left to the impersonator 
 of Perdita to suggest. The audience should be made to feel as 
 well as to see the princess. Florizel does so; and hence it is 
 that not his heart only is enthralled, but his judgment also 
 nay, his whole being. He is her subject, and she is his queen- 
 elect, worthy, most worthy, to share his present state and future 
 royalty, and to do grace and honour to them both. 
 
 He has won her consent to be his bride, when the poet intro- 
 duces them to us at the sheep-shearing festival. Florizel en- 
 treats her to cast aside all misgiving as to what his father may 
 attempt, and to receive her guests with a light heart : 
 
 " Lift up your countenance, as it were the day 
 Of celebration of that nuptial, which 
 We two have sworn shall come. 
 
 Your guests approach, 
 
 Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, 
 And let's be red with mirth." 
 
 Among the guests are Polixenes and Camillo in disguise. They 
 are quickly attracted by the pre-eminence among the rustic 
 revellers of one strikingly unlike them, both in look and in 
 demeanour. Florizel has persuaded Perdita to wear a costly 
 dress which he has provided for her, as more befitting the queen 
 of the feast, and more worthily setting off her most rare beauty. 
 She has yielded reluctantly, as we infer from what she says : 
 
 " Your high self , 
 
 The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscur'd 
 With a swain's wearing ; and me, poor lowly maid, 
 Most goddess -like prankt up."
 
 374 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 But it is her beauty and the distinction of her bearing, and not 
 her dress, which rivet the attention of Polixenes and his friend. 
 Her greeting deepens their surprise, as, taking flowers from one 
 of her companions, she says : 
 
 " Reverend sirs, 
 
 For you there's rosemary and rue ; these keep 
 
 Seeming, and savour, all the winter long : 
 
 Grace, and remembrance be to you both, 
 
 And welcome to our shearing ! 
 
 Pol. Shepherdess, 
 
 A fair one are you, well you fit our ages 
 
 With flowers of winter." 
 
 How his wonder must have grown as she replied 
 
 " Sir, the year growing ancient, 
 Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
 Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers of the year 
 Are our carnations, and streak'd gillyvors, 
 Which some call nature's bastards ; of that kind 
 Our rustic garden's barren, and I care not 
 To get slips of them. 
 
 Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden, 
 
 Do you neglect them ? 
 
 Per. For I have heard it said, 
 
 There is an art which, in their piedness, shares 
 With great creating nature. 
 
 Pd. Say there be ; 
 
 Yet nature is made better by no mean, 
 But nature makes that mean ; so over that art 
 Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art 
 That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 
 A gentler scion to the wildest stock ; 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 By bud of nobler race. This is an art 
 Which does mend nature, change it rather : but 
 The art itself is nature. 
 
 Per. So it is. 
 
 Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, 
 And do not call them bastards." 
 
 But she loves the simple flowers she has watched since childhood 
 too well to have them spoiled for her by an artificial training. 
 Do our gardens not sometimes make us think she was right when 
 she replies ? 
 
 " I'll not put 
 The dibble in earth to set one slip of them ;
 
 HERMIONE. 375 
 
 No more than, were I painted, I would wish 
 This youth should say, 'twere well." 
 
 Camillo, like Polixenes, has come under her "strong toil of 
 grace " a grace that wakens a haunting memory of the much- 
 wronged queen. She offers flowers to him also, with words so 
 winning that he says 
 
 " I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, 
 And only live by gazing. " 
 
 How pretty is her answer ! 
 
 " Out, alas ! 
 
 You'd be so lean that blasts of January 
 Would blow you through and through. " 
 
 She has now to think of her friends the shepherdesses, and of 
 Florizel, who are waiting for smiles and posies from their queen. 
 She longs for spring flowers, as more suited to their youth, and 
 bursts into that exquisite enumeration of the gems of an old 
 English garden, Avhich can never be too often read : 
 
 ' ' Oh, Proserpina, 
 
 For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall 
 From Dis's waggon ! Daffodils, 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phoebus in his strength ; . . . 
 
 bold oxlips, and 
 
 The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds, 
 
 The flower-de-luce being one ! Oh, these I lack, 
 
 To make you garlands of ! " 
 
 This is spoken to the young girls about her then, turning to 
 Florizel 
 
 " And, my sweet friend, 
 To strew him o'er and o'er. . . ." 
 
 Surprised at her own vivacity, which she fears may perhaps have 
 made her too liberal in her speech, she adds 
 
 " Methinks I play as I have seen them do 
 In Whitsun' pastorals ; sure this robe of mine 
 Does change my disposition."
 
 376 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHAEACTEES: 
 
 This draws from Florizel words even more beautiful than her 
 own: 
 
 ' ' What you do 
 
 Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, 
 
 I'd have you do it ever ; when you sing, 
 
 I'd have you buy and sell so ; so give alms, 
 
 Pray so, and for the ordering of your affairs, 
 
 To sing them, too. When you do dance, 
 
 I wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do 
 
 Nothing but that ; move still, still so, 
 
 And own no other function. Each your doing, 
 
 So singular in each particular, 
 
 Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, 
 
 That all your acts are queens." 
 
 From her reply we learn that Florizel has called himself 
 Doricles, although neither his rank nor name were withheld 
 from Perdita, lest his own name might raise suspicion among 
 her rustic friends that the handsome stranger was the king's son, 
 whose uncommon name would naturally be known to them. 
 What answer could maiden make to such eloquence as Florizel's 1 
 "0 Doricles," she says, "your praises are too large," and but 
 for her faith in his honour, she might fear he "woo'd her the 
 false way." For that fear, he smilingly answers, she has no 
 cause, and leads her away to the dance, where they are waited 
 for. Polixenes has from a distance been watching them. " This," 
 he says to Camillo, 
 
 " is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
 Ean on the green-sward : nothing she does or seems, 
 But smacks of something greater than herself, 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 Cam. He tells her something 
 
 That makes her blood look out : good sooth, she is 
 The queen of curds and cream." 
 
 While the dancing is going on, Polixenes sounds the shepherd 
 as to the swain that dances with his daughter, but only learns 
 that he calls himself Doricles, " boasts himself to have a worthy 
 feeding," that he loves the maid, is beloved by her, and that 
 " if young Doricles do light upon her, she shall bring him that 
 which he not dreams of." After this Polixenes could have been 
 in no doubt as to his son's intentions. " Is it not too far gone 1 "
 
 HERMIONE. 377 
 
 lie says to Camillo. " 'Tis time to part them." But when 
 Florizel and Perdita approach him, he seems to have desired to 
 learn from his son's own lips how matters stood. " How now," 
 he says, "fair shepherd? "- 
 
 " Your heart is full of something that does take 
 Your mind from feasting ; " 
 
 then telling him, that when he himself was young, and " handled 
 love as you do," he was wont "to load his she with knacks," he 
 asks how it is that Florizel has let the pedlar, Autolycus, go, 
 without buying anything for his mistress? 
 
 " If your lass 
 
 Interpretation should abuse, and call this 
 Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited 
 For a reply , at least, if you make a care 
 Of happy holding her. 
 
 Fl&r. Old sir, I know 
 
 She prizes not such trifles as these are. 
 The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd 
 Up in my heart, which I have given already, 
 But not deliver'd." 
 
 Turning to Perdita, he continues 
 
 " Oh, hear me breathe my life 
 Before this ancient sir, who, it would seem, 
 Has sometime lov'd : I take thy hand ; this hand 
 As soft as dove's down, and as white as it, 
 Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow, 
 That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er. 
 Pol. What follows this?" 
 
 Florizel makes no answer. He is lost in the delight of holding 
 in his the fair white hand, which from the first had spoken to 
 him, even more plainly than aught else about Perdita's person, 
 of her refined, gentle, sensitive nature, as he watched its move- 
 ments, always with delighted surprise. Polixenes mutters to 
 himself 
 
 " How prettily the young swain seems to wash 
 The hand was fair before ! (Aloud) I have put you out. 
 But to your protestation ! Let me hear 
 What you profess.
 
 378 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Flor. That, were I crown'd the most imperial monarch, 
 Thereof most worthy ; were I the fairest youth 
 That ever made eye swerve, had force, and knowledge, 
 More than was ever man's, I would not prize them, 
 Without her love, for her employ them all, 
 Commend them, and command them, to her service, 
 Or to their own perdition." 
 
 At this avowal Polixenes might have been expected to interfere, 
 but he refrains. In answer to the old shepherd's question, " But, 
 my daughter, say you the like to him 1 " Perdita replies 
 
 " I cannot speak 
 
 So well, nothing so well ; no, nor mean better : 
 By the pattern of my own thoughts I cut out 
 The purity of his. 
 
 Shep. Take hands, a bargain ! 
 
 And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to't. " 
 
 He is about to join the lovers' hands, when Polixenes interrupts 
 him, and asks Florizel if his father is alive, and knows of this 
 purposed marriage, urging, that in a matter of such grave import- 
 ance, his counsel should be taken. Florizel admits the force of 
 his reasons. There are others, however, why he cannot make a 
 confidant of his father. In vain Polixenes and the shepherd en- 
 treat him to let his father know. " Come, come, he must not," 
 Florizel impatiently rejoins ; " mark our contract." " Mark your 
 divorce, young sir ! " exclaims Polixenes, throwing off his disguise, 
 and pouring out a vehement invective upon the lovers, and also 
 upon the shepherd, who now learns to his dismay that the king's 
 son is his daughter's lover. Of Perdita Polixenes is especially 
 unsparing. " Thou piece of excellent witchcraft," as he calls her, 
 
 " I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briars, and made 
 More homely than thy state ! ... If ever, henceforth, thou 
 These rural latches to his entrance open, 
 Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, 
 I will devise a death as cruel for thee 
 As thou art tender to't. " 
 
 With these words he goes away, commanding Florizel to follow 
 him to the Court. Meanwhile his son has maintained a dutiful 
 silence. He does not interrupt his father, and indeed does not 
 speak for some time after he lias gone, fully recognising the
 
 HERMIONE. 379 
 
 difficulty of his position, but resolved to remain true to his troth- 
 plight. Perdita, however, resigns herself to lose him. His 
 father's words have stung her, and her princely spirit has nearly 
 made her meet his menaces with the rebuke they merited. She 
 is the first to speak : 
 
 " I was not much afeard ; for once or twice, 
 I was about to speak, and tell him plainly, 
 The self -same sun that shines upon his court 
 Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 
 Looks on alike. (To Florizel.} Will't please you, sir, begone ! 
 I told you what would come of this. Beseech you, 
 Of your own state take care. This dream of mine, 
 Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther, 
 But milk my ewes, and weep." 
 
 Florizel now shows what has occupied his thoughts "Why 
 look you so upon me?" he says to Camillo, who has remained 
 behind the king : 
 
 " I am but sorry, not afeard ; delay'd 
 But nothing alter'd. What I was, I am." 
 
 Camillo, who has not thrown off his disguise, but whom Florizel 
 now recognises, urges him not to come before his father until 
 "the fury of his highness settle." This Florizel has already 
 resolved. The vow he has given to Perdita shall not be broken. 
 Without her, life would not be life. He tells Camillo 
 
 " Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may 
 Be thereat glean'd, for all the sun sees, or 
 The close earth wombs, or the profound sea hides 
 In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath 
 To this my fair beloved. Therefore, I pray you, 
 As you have ever been my father's honour'd friend, 
 When he shall miss me, as, in faith, I mean not 
 To see him any more, cast your good counsels 
 Upon his passion. Let myself and fortune 
 Tug for the life to come. " 
 
 He has a vessel hard by, and he means to put to sea " with her, 
 whom here he cannot hold on shore." This design, it occurs to 
 Camillo, may also serve his own turn, while saving the prince 
 from danger, by enabling him to see his loved Sicilia again,
 
 380 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 "And that unhappy king, my master, whom 
 I so much thirst to see." 
 
 Let Florizel then make for Sicily, and present himself and his 
 " fair princess, for so, I see, she must be," to Leontes, who will 
 welcome them with open arms. He is to say, that he is sent by 
 his father to greet Leontes, " and to give him comforts." Camillo 
 will give him written instructions what he is to report as from his 
 father, "things known betwixt us three," so 
 
 " He shall not perceive, 
 
 But that you have your father's bosom there, 
 And speak his very heart." 
 
 Other reasons personal to the lovers he urges, concluding with 
 
 " Besides, you know, 
 Prosperity's the very bond of love ; 
 Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together 
 Affliction alters." 
 
 Perdita has hitherto been silent. Now she speaks in words that, 
 in their grave sincerity, remind us of Hermione, 
 
 " One of these is true : 
 I think affliction may subdue the cheek, 
 But not take in the mind." 
 
 How beautiful is what follows ! 
 
 " Cam,. Yea, say you so ? 
 
 There shall not, at your father's house, these seven years 
 Be born another such. 
 
 Flo. My good Camillo, 
 
 She is as forward of her breeding, as 
 She is *i the rear of our birth. 
 
 Cam. I cannot say, 'tis pity 
 
 She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress 
 To most that teach. 
 
 Per. Your pardon, sir ; 
 
 For this I'll blush you thanks." 
 
 There is still the difficulty as to the attire in which the fugi- 
 tives are to appear at the Sicilian Court. But Camillo assures 
 them that, as his fortunes all lie in Sicily, he will take care they 
 are "royally appointed." His letters will be there, too, when
 
 HERMIONE. 381 
 
 they arrive, and " shall clear all doubt," while his influence will 
 also be used to procure letters from Leontes which shall secure 
 their pardon from Polixenes. He aids them to get aboard so 
 disguised as to escape observation. For this purpose he makes 
 Florizel exchange garments with Autolycus, who has opportunely 
 come that way. This quick-witted gentleman's first thought is, 
 how he may turn to his own profit his suspicions of " the piece of 
 iniquity" which his former young master Florizel "is about." 
 But he argues himself into a resolution most appropriate to such 
 an engrained rogue. " If I thought it were a piece of honesty to 
 acquaint the king withal, I would not do't ; I hold it the more 
 knavery to conceal it ; and therein am I constant to my profes- 
 sion." At this point the shepherd and his son are seen approach- 
 ing. " Aside, aside ; here is more matter for a hot brain. Every 
 lane's end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful 
 man work." 
 
 And work he quickly finds in the simplicity of the new-comers. 
 They are talking of going to the king and turning aside his wrath 
 against themselves by telling him that Perdita is none of their 
 flesh and blood, and producing the things which were found with 
 her. " There is that in this fardel will make him scratch his 
 beard." Autolycus at this pricks up his ears. " I know not," he 
 says, " what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of 
 my master. Though I am not naturally honest, I am so some- 
 times by chance." And then in a scene of the rarest humour he 
 frightens the rustics into placing themselves in his hands. He 
 promises to take them to the king, but carries them instead to the 
 prince's ship, where what they have to tell will, he hopes, " do 
 the prince his master good," and at the same time minister to his 
 own advancement. 
 
 The scene now returns to the palace of Leontes, where we find 
 him with Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina, and others. Such expiation 
 as sixteen years of suffering could make for wrong he has made. 
 In vain his courtiers urge him to forget the evil he had wrought. 
 His remembrance of his chief victim is too vivid for that his loss 
 too terrible in having 
 
 " Destroy'd the sweet' st companion that e'er man 
 Bred his hopes out of."
 
 382 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 The thought of Mamillius, also, haunts him, and when Paulina 
 makes an allusion to the boy, he implores her to spare him. 
 " Thou know'st," he tells her, " he dies to me again when talked 
 of," and warns her, that her words may " bring him to consider 
 that, which may unfumish him of reason." Paulina, his sharpest 
 monitress in his hours of frenzy, has stood loyally by him in his 
 affliction. " Oh grave and good Paulina, the comfort I have had 
 of thee ! " he exclaims in the fulness of his heart, at a time when, 
 unknown to him, she is preparing for him a solace beyond all he 
 could have dreamed of ; and we can see that, while she has sus- 
 tained him by her sympathy, she has strengthened him by her 
 vigorous judgment, on which he has wisely been fain to lean. 
 
 When he is importuned by his courtiers to make a second mar- 
 riage and give an heir to the throne, Paulina stands alone in 
 maintaining that this must not be, reminding them that the 
 oracle had declared that he should have no heir till his lost child 
 was found. Her argument prevails. " Oh," says Leontes, 
 
 " that ever I 
 
 Had squar'd me to thy counsel ! Then, even now 
 I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes, 
 Have taken treasure from her lips 
 
 Paul. And left them 
 
 More rich for what they yielded. 
 
 Leon. Thou speak'st truth. 
 
 No more such wives ; therefore no wife. 
 
 My true Paulina. 
 
 We shall not marry till thou bidd'st us. 
 
 Paul. That 
 
 Shall be when your first queen's again in breath ; 
 Never till then." 
 
 It is here the first hint is given that Hermione is still alive. 
 How this could be, and how the secret could have been so well 
 kept, Shakespeare gives no hint. One is thus driven to work 
 out the problem for one's self. My view has been always this. 
 The death-like trance into which Hermione fell on hearing of her 
 son's death lasted so long, and had so completely the semblance 
 of death, that it was so regarded by her husband, her attendants, 
 and even by Paulina. The suspicion that animation was only 
 suspended may have dawned upon Paulina, when, after the boy
 
 HERMIONE. 383 
 
 Mamillius had been laid by his mother's side, the inevitable 
 change began to appear in him and not in Hermione. She would 
 not give voice to her suspicion for fear of creating a false hope, 
 but had the queen conveyed secretly to her own home, making 
 arrangements, which her high position and then paramount power 
 would enable her to make, that only the boy, and his mother's 
 empty coffin, should be carried to the tomb. When after many 
 days the trance gave way, Paulina would be near to perceive the 
 first nickering of the eyelids, the first faint flush of blood return- 
 ing to the cheek. Who can say how long the fearful shock to 
 nerves and brain may have left Hermione in a state of torpor, 
 hardly half alive, unconscious of everything that was passing 
 around her, with a piteous look in those full eyes, so dear to 
 Paulina, of a wounded, stricken, voiceless animal 1 ? And so the 
 uneventful years would pass away, as such years do somehow pass 
 with those whose lives are blanks. Gradually, as time wore on, 
 Hermione would recognise her faithful Paulina, and such of her 
 other ladies as were in the secret. Their tender care would 
 move her in time to wish to live, because they wished it, and 
 because Paulina could comfort her with the hope the oracle had 
 given, that her lost daughter might one day be found. Upon 
 this slender hope the words are her own she " preserved her- 
 self to see the issue." The name of Leontes is not mentioned. 
 For a while he appears to be mercifully swept from her remem- 
 brance. She is not unforgiving, but her heart is dead towards 
 him. Paulina feels that she dares not speak his name. It might 
 awake too terribly the recollection of the misery he had brought 
 upon her mistress, and in her enfeebled state prove fatal. The 
 secret that then 1 queen was still alive had been marvellously kept ; 
 although it had not escaped notice that Paulina had " privately, 
 twice or thrice a-day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited 
 the removed house," to which she had been secretly conveyed. 
 Seeing the genuine contrition of Leontes, Paulina would not 
 abandon the hope that Hermione might in time be reconciled to 
 him. She had therefore the strongest reason to protest against 
 the projects of marriage which were pressed upon him by his 
 ministers. 
 
 And an event was now at hand, which could not fail to bring
 
 384 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 about this reconciliation, the arrival at the palace of the fugitive 
 lovers. The impression produced by Perdita upon the gentlemen 
 of the Court makes him who speaks for them too eloquent in her 
 praise to please Paulina. Loyal to her love for Hermione, she 
 rebukes him by reminding him, when he calls this new beauty 
 " the most peerless piece of earth that e'er the sun shone bright 
 on," that he had said and written more than this of his lost 
 queen. Manfully he adheres to what he has said, in words that 
 show how well Shakespeare knew the feeling of all true women 
 towards those of their own sex who do honour to it. 
 
 " Women will love her, that she is a woman, 
 More worth than any man ; men, that she is 
 The rarest of all women." 
 
 The arrival of Florizel with Perdita is quickly followed by that 
 of his father in pursuit, and Leontes learns from one of his lords 
 that there is no truth in the tale Florael had told of bearing 
 messages to him from Polixenes, and of Perdita's royal birth, 
 the tale which Camillo had directed him to tell. But the fugi- 
 tives have so won upon his heart, Perdita especially, who by 
 her looks has reminded him of his lost queen, that he deter- 
 mines to plead their cause with Polixenes. 
 
 This is soon after made an easy task by the confession of the 
 shepherd and his son as to the finding of Perdita, and by the 
 production of the mantle of Hermione, the letter of Antigonus, 
 and the gold and other things which were found with her. 
 These proofs, as we are told by one of the lords who was present, 
 together with "the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the 
 mother; the affection of nobleness which nature shows above 
 her breeding, and many other evidences, proclaimed her with 
 all certainty to be the king's daughter." The whole of this 
 scene, which is of necessity omitted in the acted play, is of rare 
 beauty. The meeting of the two kings is depicted with remark- 
 able power. How exquisite is the stroke of pathos when, speak- 
 ing of Leontes, " ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found 
 daughter," he is described as crying out, as if that joy were now 
 become a loss, " Oh, thy mother ! thy mother ! " Not less graphic 
 is the picture of Paulina.
 
 HEEMIONE. 385 
 
 " But oh, the noble combat that, 'twixt joy and sorrow, was fought in 
 Paulina ! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another 
 elevated that the oracle was fulfilled ; she lifted the princess from the earth, 
 and so locks her in embracing as if she would pin her to her heart, that she 
 might no more be in danger of losing." 
 
 Paulina now has no longer any reason for withholding from Le- 
 ontes the secret of his wife's existence. She ingeniously prepares 
 a mode of revealing it by presenting Hermione to him in the 
 semblance of a statue, on which she tells him a rare artist has 
 been for years at work, and which he has slightly coloured to give 
 it a more lifelike look. It was necessary to lay emphasis on this 
 colouring, as the living Hermione, however skilfully arranged, 
 must of necessity be very different from an ordinary statue. My 
 dress in acting this scene was arranged to carry out this effect. 
 It was composed of soft white cashmere, the draperies and edges 
 bordered with the royal purple enriched with a tracery in gold, 
 and thus harmonising with the colouring of the lips, eyes, hair, 
 &c., of the statue. 
 
 To see this peerless work of art Leontes comes to what Shake- 
 speare describes as " a chapel in Paulina's house," accompanied by 
 Polixenes, their children, Camillo, and other members of the 
 Court. They have passed through a gallery of works of art, but, 
 says Leontes 
 
 " We saw not 
 
 That which my daughter came to look upon, 
 The statue of her mother. 
 
 Paul. As she liv'd peerless, 
 
 So her dead likeness, I do well believe, 
 Excels whatever yet you look'd upon, 
 Or hand of man hath done. Therefore, I keep it 
 Lonely, apart. But here it is. Prepare to see 
 The life as lively mock'd as ever 
 Still sleep mock'd death. Behold, and say, 'tis well." 
 
 At the back of the stage, when I acted in this play, was a dais 
 which was led up to by a flight of six or eight steps, covered with 
 rich cloth of the same material and crimson colour as the closed 
 curtains. The curtains when gradually opened by Paulina dis- 
 closed, at a little distance behind them, the statue of Hermione, 
 with a pedestal of marble by her side. 
 2 B
 
 386 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 Here let me say, that I never approached this scene without 
 much inward trepidation. You may imagine how difficult it must 
 be to stand in one position, with a full light thrown upon you, 
 without moving an eyelid for so long a time. I never thought to 
 have the time measured, but I should say that it must be more 
 than ten minutes it seemed like ten times ten. I prepared my- 
 self by picturing what Hermione's feelings would be when she 
 heard Leontes' voice, silent to her for so many years, and listened 
 to the remorseful tender words addressed to what he believed to 
 be her sculptured semblance. Her heart hitherto has been full 
 only of her lost children. She has thought every other feeling 
 dead, but she finds herself forgetting all but the tones of the 
 voice, once so loved, now broken with the accents of repentance 
 and woe- stricken desolation. To her own surprise her heart, 
 so long empty, loveless, and cold, begins to throb again, as she 
 listens to the outpourings of a devotion she had believed to be 
 extinct. She would remember her own words to him, when the 
 familiar loving tones were turned to anger and almost impreca- 
 tion, " I never wished to see you sorry ; now I trust I shall." 
 
 Of the sorrow she had thus wished for him she is now a witness, 
 and it all but unnerves her. Paulina had, it seemed to me, be- 
 sought Hermione to play the part of her own statue, in order that 
 she might hear herself apostrophised, and be a silent witness of 
 the remorse and unabated love of Leontes before her existence 
 became known to him, and so be moved to that forgiveness 
 which, without such proof, she might possibly be slow to yield. 
 She is so moved ; but for the sake of the loving friend to whom 
 she has owed so much she must restrain herself, and carry through 
 her appointed task. 
 
 But, even although I had fully thought out all this, it was 
 impossible for me ever to hear unmoved what passes in this 
 wonderful scene. My first Leontes was Mr Macready, and, as 
 the scene was played by him, the difficulty of wearing an air of 
 statuesque calm became almost insuperable. As I think over the 
 scene now, his appearance, his action, the tones of his voice, the 
 emotions of that time, come back. There was a dead awe-struck 
 silence, when the curtains were gradually drawn aside by Paulina. 
 She has to encourage Leontes to speak.
 
 HERMIONE. 387 
 
 " I like your silence, it the more shows off 
 Your wonder. But yet speak first you, my liege, 
 Conies it not something near ? " 
 
 Then with what wonderful tenderness of tone Mr Macready an- 
 swered 
 
 " Her natural posture ! 
 
 Chide me, dear stone ; that I may say, indeed, 
 
 Thou art Hermione ; or, rather, thou art she 
 
 In thy not chiding ; for she was as tender 
 
 As infancy and grace." 
 
 His eyes seemed to devour the figure before him, as the scene 
 
 proceeded, and he said 
 
 " Oh, thus she stood, 
 
 Even with such life of majesty, warm life, 
 As now it coldly stands, when first I woo'd her ! 
 I am ashamed. Does not the stone rebuke me, 
 For being more stone than it ? Oh, royal piece, 
 There's magic in thy majesty, which has 
 My evils conjured to remembrance, and 
 From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, 
 Standing like stone with thee. 
 
 Per. And give me leave 
 
 And do not say, 'tis superstition, that 
 I kneel, and then implore her blessing. Lady 
 Dear queen, that ended when I but began, 
 Give me that hand of yours to kiss." 
 
 But the time for this has not arrived, and Paulina prevents her, 
 saying, the colour on the statue is not yet dry. Leontes stands 
 so broken down with the bitter remembrances the statue calls up, 
 that he is urged by Polixenes and Camillo to subdue his grief. 
 Paulina, also deeply moved, exclaims 
 
 " Indeed, my lord, 
 
 If I had thought the sight of my poor image 
 Would thus have wrought you, for the stone is mine, 
 I'd not have show'd it ; " 
 
 and is about to close the curtain. Never can I forget the manner 
 in which Mr Macready here cried out, " Do not draw the curtain ! " 
 and, afterwards", when Paulina says 
 
 " No longer shall you gaze on't, lest your fancy 
 May think anon it moves "
 
 388 SHAKESPEAKE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 " Let be, let be ! " in tones irritable, commanding, and impossible 
 to resist. "Would I were dead," he continues, "but that, me- 
 
 thinks already " Has he seen something that makes him 
 
 think the statue lives? Mr Macready indicated this, and hur- 
 riedly went on 
 
 " What was he that did make it ? See, my lord, 
 Would you not deem it breathed ? And that those veins 
 
 Did verily bear blood 
 
 The fixture of her eye has motion in't, 
 As we are mocked with art. 
 
 Paul. I'll draw the curtain. 
 
 My lord's almost so far transported, that 
 He'll think anon it lives. 
 
 Leon. Oh sweet Paulina, 
 
 Make me to think so twenty years together ; 
 No settled senses of the world can match 
 The pleasure of that madness. Let it alone ! 
 
 Paul. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you : but 
 I could afflict you further. 
 
 Leon. Do, Paulina, 
 
 For this affliction has a taste as sweet 
 As any cordial comfort. " 
 
 His eyes have been so riveted upon the figure, that he sees, what 
 the others have not seen, that there is something about it beyond 
 the reach of art. He continues 
 
 " Still, methinks, 
 
 There is an air comes from her : What fine chisel 
 Could ever yet cut breath ? Let no man mock me, 
 For I will kiss her." 
 
 Paulina again interposes with the same suggestion as before, that 
 "the ruddiness on the lip being wet," "he would mar the work," 
 adding, " Shall I draw the curtain 1 " 
 
 " Leon. No, not these twenty years. 
 
 Per. So long could I 
 
 Stand by a looker on." 
 
 Paulina sees that the strain upon Hermione and all present must 
 not be prolonged ; and she tells them 
 
 " If you can behold it, 
 I'll make the statue move indeed. . . .
 
 HERMIONE. 389 
 
 It is required 
 
 You do awake your faith. Then, all stand still. 
 . . . Music awake her, strike ! (Music.) 
 'Tis time, descend, be stone no more : approach ! 
 Strike all that look upon with marvel ; come." 
 
 You may conceive the relief I felt, when the first strain of 
 solemn music set me free to breathe ! There was a pedestal 
 by my side on which I leant. It was a slight help during the 
 long strain upon the nerves and muscles, besides allowing me 
 to stand in that "natural posture" which first strikes Leontes, 
 and which therefore could not have been rigidly statuesque. 
 By imperceptibly altering the poise of the body, the weight 
 of it being on the forward foot, I could drop into the easiest 
 position from which to move. The hand and arm still resting 
 quietly on the pedestal materially helped me. Towards the 
 close of the strain the head slowly turned, the "full eyes" 
 moved, and at the last note rested on Leontes. 
 
 This movement, together with the expression of the face, 
 transfigured as we may imagine it to have been by years of 
 sorrow and devout meditation, speechless, yet saying things 
 unutterable, always produced a startling, magnetic effect upon 
 all the audience upon the stage as well as in front of it. 
 After the burst of amazement had hushed down, at a sign 
 from Paulina the solemn sweet strain recommenced. The arm 
 and hand were gently lifted from the pedestal ; then, rhyth- 
 mically following the music, the figure descended the steps 
 that led up to the dais, and advancing slowly, paused at a 
 short distance from Leontes. Oh, can I ever forget Mr Mac- 
 ready at this point ! At first he stood speechless, as if turned 
 to stone ; his face with an awe-struck look upon it. Could this, 
 the very counterpart of his queen, be a wondrous piece of mech- 
 anism 1 Could art so mock the life ? He had seen her laid out 
 as dead, the funeral obsequies performed over her, with her dear 
 son beside her. Thus absorbed in wonder, he remained until 
 Paulina said, " Nay, present your hand." Tremblingly he ad- 
 vanced, and touched gently the hand held out to him. Then, 
 what a cry came with, " 0, she's warm ! " It is impossible 
 to describe Mr Macready here. He was Leontes' very self !
 
 390 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 His passionate joy at finding Hermione really alive seemed 
 beyond control. Now he was prostrate at her feet, then en- 
 folding her in his arms. I had a slight veil or covering over 
 my head and neck, supposed to make the statue look older. 
 This fell off in an instant. The hair, which came unbound, 
 and fell on my shoulders, was reverently kissed and caressed. 
 The whole change was so sudden, so overwhelming, that I 
 suppose I cried out hysterically, for he whispered to me, 
 " Don't be frightened, my child ! don't be frightened ! Con- 
 trol yourself ! " All this went on during a tumult of applause 
 that sounded like a storm of hail. Oh, how glad I was to be 
 released, when, as soon as a lull came, Paulina, advancing 
 with Perdita, said, "Turn, good lady, our Perdita is found." 
 A broken trembling voice, I am very sure, was mine, as I said 
 
 "You gods, look down, 
 And from your sacred vials pour your graces 
 Upon my daughter's head ! Tell me, mine own, 
 Where hast thou been preserved ? Where lived ? How found 
 Thy father's court ? For thou shalt hear, that I, 
 Knowing by Paulina, that the oracle 
 Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved 
 Myself to see the issue. " 
 
 It was such a comfort to me, as well as true to natural feeling, 
 that Shakespeare gives Hermione no words to say to Leontes, 
 but leaves her to assure him of her joy and forgiveness by look 
 and manner only, as in his arms she feels the old life, so long 
 suspended, come back to her again. 
 
 I was called upon to play Hermione very soon after my debut. 
 I was still very young, and by my years and looks most unfit even 
 to appear as the mother of the young Mamillius. Why Mr Mac- 
 ready selected me for the task I could not imagine, and most 
 gladly would I have declined it. But his will was law. Any 
 remonstrance or objection was met by reasons and arguments so 
 broad and strong, you were so earnestly reminded of your duty 
 to sacrifice yourself to the general good, and the furtherance of 
 the effort he was making to regenerate the drama, that there 
 was nothing left but to give way. All you could urge seemed so 
 small, so merely personal. Therefore play Hermione I must, even 
 as I had not long after to play Constance of Bretagne, a still
 
 HERMIONE. 391 
 
 severer trial and much greater strain upon my young shoulders. 
 Hermione was a character that had not then come within the 
 circle of my favourite Shakespearian heroines. It was, therefore, 
 quite new to me. Mrs Warner had been for years the recognised 
 Hermione of the London stage. On this occasion she was cast for 
 Paulina, a character for which nature had eminently fitted her 
 by a stately figure, fine voice, and firm, earnest manner. How 
 admirably she acted Emilia in Othello I must ever remember, 
 especially the way she turned on Othello in the last scene, in 
 which Mr Macready was also very grand. On the audience, who 
 could see their looks and gestures, the impression they made must 
 have been very great indeed. I, as the smothered Desdemona, 
 could hear only. 
 
 My first appearance as Hermione is indelibly imprinted on my 
 memory by the acting of Mr Macready as I have described it in 
 the statue scene. Mrs Warner had rather jokingly told me, at 
 one of the rehearsals, to be prepared for something extraordinary 
 in his manner, when Hermione returned to life. But prepared I 
 was not, and could not be, for such a display of uncontrollable 
 rapture. I have tried to give some idea of it ; but no words of 
 mine could do it justice. It was the finest burst of passionate 
 speechless emotion I ever saw, or could have conceived. My 
 feelings being already severely strained, I naturally lost some- 
 thing of my self-command, and as Perdita and Florizel knelt at 
 my feet I looked, as the gifted Sarah Adams x afterwards told me, 
 " like Niobe, all tears." Of course, I behaved better on the repe- 
 tition of the play, as I knew what I had to expect and was some- 
 what prepared for it ; but the intensity of Mr Macready's passion 
 was so real, that I never could help being moved by it, and feel- 
 ing much exhausted afterwards. 
 
 The Winter's Tale makes heavy demands upon the resources 
 of a theatre both in actors and mise en scene. It was therefore 
 only in such cities as Dublin, Glasgow, and Edinburgh that I was 
 
 1 This sweet accomplished lady wrote many poems and hymns. Her 
 drama in blank verse, founded on the story of " Vivia Perpetua," one of the 
 first Christian martyrs, was greatly admired in a wide literary circle. Her 
 beautiful hymn ' ' Nearer, my God, to Thee," we all know, and are moved 
 by, when sung in our churches as it often is.
 
 392 SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE CHARACTERS: 
 
 able to have it acted. But in all these cities, even with such in- 
 adequate resources as they supplied, the play used to produce a 
 profound impression. The sympathies of my audience for the 
 suffering Hermione were reflected back upon me so warmly as to 
 make me feel that they entered into my conception of her beauti- 
 ful nature, such as I have here endeavoured to present it. There, 
 as in London, the statue scene always produced a remarkable 
 effect. This I could feel in the intense hush, as though every 
 one present "held his breath for the time." In Edinburgh, upon 
 one occasion, I have been told by a friend who was present that, 
 as I descended from the pedestal and advanced towards Leontes, 
 the audience simultaneously rose from their seats, as if drawn out 
 of them by surprise and reverential awe at the presence of one 
 who bore more of heaven than of earth about her. I can only 
 account for this by supposing that the soul of Hermione had for 
 the time entered into mine, and " so divinely wrought, that one 
 might almost say," with the old poet, my "body thought." Of 
 course I did not observe this movement of the audience, for 
 my imagination was too full of what I felt was then in Her- 
 mione's heart, to leave me eyes for any but Leontes. You may 
 judge of the pleasure it was to play to audiences of this kind. 
 As " there is a pleasure in poetic pains, which only poets know," 
 so there is a pleasure in the actor's pains, which only actors know, 
 who have to deal with the " high actions and high passions " of 
 which Milton speaks. Unless they know these pains, and feel a 
 joy in knowing them, their vocation can never rise to the level of 
 an art. 
 
 I fear, my dear Lord Tennyson, I have tried your patience with 
 this long letter. But in this fine play I have had to write of 
 three exquisite types of womanhood the mother, the maiden, 
 and the friend. In what other play or story do we find three such 
 women 1 In lingering over their excellences I may have lost ac- 
 count of time and thus wearied you. If I have, pray forgive me 
 this once, and believe me to be ever, with deep admiration and 
 gratitude, very sincerely yours, 
 
 HELENA FAUCIT MARTIN. 
 
 1st November 1890, 
 BRTNTYSILIO, LLANGOLLBN.
 
 APPENDIX
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 MR BROWNING'S "BLOT ON THE SCUTCHEON," p. 51. 
 
 rPHE comparative non-success of this fine play was probably quite 
 -* as much due to Mr Macready not playing the part of Lord 
 Tresham as to the circumstances mentioned in the text. He had 
 promised Mr Browning conditionally that he would undertake it, but 
 in the meanwhile had given the part to Mr Phelps to study and re- 
 hearse. The drama was brought out in a great hurry, and after 
 insufficient rehearsals. At nearly the eleventh hour Mr Macready 
 proposed to assume the part of Tresham ; but to this change Mr 
 Browning demurred, as not being fair to Mr Phelps. Accordingly 
 Mr Phelps was left to play it, a serious misfortune, for he was not 
 fitted for such a character, whereas it was one in which Mr Macready 
 must have excelled. As it was, the play, though well received, was 
 only performed a few times. Had it been strengthened by Mr Mac- 
 ready's personal aid, the result would most probably have been differ- 
 ent. The incident caused, I believe, a serious estrangement for the 
 time, as Mr Browning considered he had not been frankly dealt with 
 by Mr Macready. I played Mildred Tresham, as I had formerly 
 played Lucy Percy, Countess of Carlisle, in Mr Browning's Strafford. 
 With his wonted generosity Mr Browning spoke of what I had done 
 for his heroines in the following lines, written in my album soon 
 after the production of The Blot on the Scutcheon. On the opposite 
 page were some verses, in which flowers played a prominent part. 
 This circumstance, and the particulars above given, will explain allu- 
 sions in the lines, which might otherwise be obscure.
 
 396 APPENDIX. 
 
 " There's a sisterhood in words 
 Still along with 'flowers' go 'birds.' 
 Is it but three weeks to-day 
 Since they played a luckless play, 
 And ' the Treshams,' like a band 
 Of full-fledged nestlings, left my hand 
 To flutter forth, the wide world over ? 
 Just three weeks ! yet see each rover 
 Here, with more or less unsteady 
 Winglets, nearly reached already, 
 In the Past, so dim, so dim, 
 A place where Lucy, Strafford, Pym, 
 My elder brood of early years, 
 Wait peacefully their new compeers. 
 Then, good voyage ! shall it grieve me 
 Vastly, that such ingrates leave me ? 
 Why, this March, this very morning 
 Hatched my latest brood, take warning, 
 Each one worth you put together ! 
 April sees them full in feather 
 And how we'll welcome May's glad weather ! 
 
 Helen Faucit, you have twice 
 
 Proved my Bird of Paradise ! 
 
 He, who would my wits inveigle 
 
 Into boasting him my eagle, 
 
 Turns out very like a Raven : 
 
 Fly off, Blacky, to your haven ! 
 
 But you, softest dove, must never 
 
 Leave me, as he does, for ever 
 
 I will strain my eyes to blindness, 
 
 Ere lose sight of you and kindness. 
 
 ' Genius ' is a common story ! 
 
 Few guess that the spirit's glory, 
 
 They hail nightly, is the sweetest, 
 
 Fairest, gentlest, and completest 
 
 Shakespeare's-Lady's, ever poet 
 
 Longed for ! Few guess this : / know it." 
 
 "HATCHAM, SURREY, March 4, "43." 
 These lines were accompanied by the following letter : 
 
 "My DEAR Miss FAUCIT, Here is your album, with my best 
 thanks for the honour you have done me by asking some rhymes
 
 ANECDOTE OF CHARLES DICKENS. 397 
 
 for it : and here are the rhymes themselves poor enough, most 
 probably, but sincere, quite as certainly. I wish from my soul it were 
 in my power to find some worthier way of proving the admiration 
 and gratitude with which I remain, my dear Miss Faucit, yours ever 
 faithfully, 
 
 "ROBERT BROWNING." 
 
 ANECDOTE OF CHARLES DICKENS, p. 129. 
 
 THE words quoted in the text bring back to me an evening in Mr 
 Macready's drawing-room. The party was a mixed one of grown-up 
 people and children. We had gone through many games and dances, 
 when some one suggested the game of "Proverbs." "The devil is 
 never so black as he is painted " was selected. The questioner, Mr 
 Maclise, the painter, challenged me for the second word, and I had to 
 get it into my answer. Imagine my confusion, which, alas ! every one 
 seemed to enjoy. I was on the point of giving up, as I could think of 
 no suitable reply to bring in the word. But when the general merri- 
 ment and my nervousness were at their height, some one behind my 
 chair whispered, " What did you say to the nurse last night, when 
 she was keeping you in that cruel suspense ? " In an instant I sprung 
 up and said, " What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus ? " I 
 suppose quotations were allowed, for I was applauded, and a great 
 deal of merriment followed. I looked round for my friendly helper, 
 and saw Mr Charles Dickens stealing away unsuspected by any one, 
 and looking as though he had casually left his seat for no especial 
 purpose. When I thanked him afterwards for his help, he turned it 
 off, saying, " Oh, the words must have come into your own head, 
 how should I have thought of them ? " This was the way he did his 
 kindnesses never so happy as when doing them. 
 
 ACTING OF "ANTIGONE" IN DUBLIN. Note p. 158. 
 
 I POSSESS a very delightful souvenir of my performances of Antigone 
 in Dublin. It is a gold fibula presented by the heads of the Univer- 
 sity, the leading men of science, physicians, lawyers, painters, and 
 literary men of that city ; and it was accompanied by the following 
 Address, to which their signatures, thirty -five in number, were 
 attached :
 
 398 APPENDIX. 
 
 "To Miss HELEN FAUCIT. 
 
 " MADAM, We beg to give expression to the unalloyed and sus- 
 tained satisfaction which we have derived from your late performances 
 at our national theatre. 
 
 " We have each and all endeavoured to promote the cultivation of 
 classic literature and the study of ancient art in this our city ; and 
 we feel that your noble representation of Antigone has greatly ad- 
 vanced these important objects, by creating a love and admiration of 
 the beauty and grandeur of ancient Greece. 
 
 " With the writings of the Grecian dramatists, it is true, we have 
 long been familiar ; but their power and their beauty have come 
 down to us through books alone. ' Mute and motionless ' that drama 
 has heretofore stood before us ; you, Madam, have given it voice, 
 gesture, life ; you have realised the genius, and embodied the inspi- 
 rations, of the authors and of the artists of early Greece ; and have 
 thus encouraged and instructed the youth of Ireland in the study of 
 their immortal works. 
 
 " We offer the accompanying testimonial to the virtues and talents 
 of one, whose tastes, education, and surpassing powers have justly 
 placed her at the summit of her profession. 
 
 "GEORGE PETRIE, V.P.R.I.A., Chairman. 
 JOHN ANSTER, LL.D., M.R.I.A., ) ~ 
 JOHN FRANCIS WALLER, lULLA*/ 
 "DUBLIN, 1845." 
 
 The fibula, in itself an exquisite specimen of the goldsmith's art, 
 was designed by Sir Frederic Burton. 1 Within an outer chaplet of 
 olive-leaves, it presents the Cadmean serpent, which includes within 
 its folds masks of Creon and Antigone, wrought in gold, and within 
 the central coil, upon a white enamel ground, the figure of Antigone 
 kneeling over a cinerary urn. Three large pear-shaped emeralds, 
 skilfully disposed, relieve the chasing of the groundwork. The gold, 
 I was told, was Irish ; the workmanship, like the design, Irish ; and 
 nothing, I am sure, was wanting to satisfy the enthusiastic spirit of 
 the donors, but that the emeralds should also have been native to 
 the Emerald Isle. On the reverse side is the Theban shield, with the 
 inscription 
 
 EAENH 
 
 MOTSOAHIITn 
 
 TH2 ANTITONHS 
 
 EHA0AA. 
 
 1 It has now been deposited, by Lady Martin's desire, along with the Address, 
 in the Dublin Museum.
 
 "LADY OF LYONS." 399 
 
 "THE LADY OF LYONS," p. 165. 
 
 IT would be difficult to overstate the enthusiasm which this play 
 excited, when once it came to be known. As in all such cases, 
 there was no lack of tributes from friends, unknown as well as 
 known, to the actress, who had been the first to introduce the heroine 
 to their notice. The only one of these which I seem to have pre- 
 served was from Mr Laman Blanchard, who, unknown to me, having 
 borrowed my album from a friend, sent it back with the addition of 
 the following lines : 
 
 "TO HELEN FAUCIT. 
 (THE LADY OF LYONS.) 
 
 " What need I, oh Helen, comparisons draw 
 
 'Twixt thee and the belles of Circassia and Cadiz ? 
 Since first the sweet Lady of Lyons I saw, 
 I swear I have deemed thee the Lion of Ladies. 
 
 Start not ! I would give thee no terrible shape 
 A lion dove- voiced like the poet's, I mean ; 
 
 Though such are my chains, I might sooner escape 
 From the leonine paw, than from you as Pauline. 
 
 Oh Lady of Lyons what lions of his, 
 
 Van Amburgh's, could move us like thee to applaud ? 
 While he is avoiding a scratch on the phiz, 
 
 We, seeing you, wish yes, we wish to be Claude. 
 
 Yes, lady, the pride and the rapture of Claude, 
 
 Though at first his love-garden was wofully weedy, 
 
 In winning by faith what he'd captured by fraud, 
 Oh, it does make one long to be Mr Macready ! 
 
 Whilst hearing from your lips the truths he has written, 
 Whilst watching the thoughts your deep eyes are revealing, 
 
 I : m sure there must often steal over Sir Lytton 
 A pleasant Pygmalionish sort of a feeling. 
 
 Oh Helen of Lyons ! Not she of old Troy, 
 
 The Helen of Paris, is Helen to me, 
 Nor Helen the brave-minded rib of Rob Roy, 
 
 Nor Helen Miss Edgeworth's the best of the three !
 
 400 APPENDIX. 
 
 Nor Shakespeare's fond Helen, who felt 'twas affliction 
 To love, and not wed, some ' particular star ' ; 
 
 Though stars they may be, shining sweetly, in fiction, 
 You glisten in fact more enchantingly far ! 
 
 " LAMAN BLANCHAKD." 
 
 On another page of my album, not long afterwards, the author of 
 The Lady of Lyons inscribed to me the following lines : 
 
 " Thou canst not slight the wreath I lay before thee, 
 Since thou hast given wreaths, not mine, to me ; 
 Sweet Violet, 1 passionate Juliet, bright Pauline, 
 Lending a Helen's shape to words of air, 
 As Faustus called from air the shape of Helen : 
 So ever thus art has exchanged with art, 
 Each still by each inspiring and inspired ; 
 As thou hast given thine own fair form and voice 
 To many a dream by poet's heart conceived, 
 So from that form and voice may poets yet 
 Take dreams for future Helens to embody. 
 
 "E. L. B." 
 
 LADY MACBETH, p. 233. 
 
 MANY friends have made requests to me to write of Lady Macbeth 
 in a separate letter, treating her character with the same fulness of 
 analysis and exposition which I have bestowed on the other heroines 
 of Shakespeare included in this volume. It has reached me in many 
 ways that the view I presented of Lady Macbeth in my impersonation 
 of her has been welcomed by Shakespearian scholars of eminence, not 
 only here but on the Continent, as having a special value in bringing 
 back people's minds to a careful study of the character, and removing 
 the mistaken impressions of it which had been produced by the genius 
 of great actresses of a former period. Were I to yield to the wishes 
 thus expressed, I could do little more than expand the brief sugges- 
 tions which I have made in the text. From what is there said, it 
 will be seen that such a critical examination of the play as would be 
 required, in order to explain fully my conception of Lady Macbeth, 
 would be a task of great labour, because it would not be prompted by 
 
 1 The heroine of Lord Lytton's play of The Sea Captain.
 
 LADY MACBETH. 401 
 
 the love for my subject which has made the writing about my favour- 
 ite heroines comparatively easy. I am content to be judged by the 
 recorded impressions produced by Lady Macbeth, as I acted her, upon 
 the minds of men of high authority. The character I intended to 
 portray has been so well described by the late William Carleton, the 
 author of Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, in a letter to my 
 much-valued friend, the late Dr William Stokes of Dublin, that I 
 trust I may be forgiven, if, notwithstanding the too warm eulogium 
 upon myself, I quote it in further explanation of what I have said of 
 Lady Macbeth in the text. 
 
 "2 CRESCENT, CLONTARF, November 11 , 1846. 
 
 " MY DEAR DOCTOR, When I saw you yesterday, I inadvertently 
 proposed a task to myself during our conversation about Miss Faucit, 
 which I now feel to be one of great difficulty, and, I may add, of 
 humiliation. In accordance with my promise to you, I went last 
 night and witnessed for the first time her performance of Lady Mac- 
 beth. I went, certainly, without any prejudices existing against her 
 powers as an accomplished representative of those brilliant creations 
 of female heroism and tenderness which have emanated from the im- 
 aginations of our great dramatists, but, in this particular instance, 
 with a very different theory upon the subject of that histrionic im- 
 personation which I have hitherto conceived best calculated to por- 
 tray those elements which constitute the character of Lady Macbeth. 
 You, from our conversation of yesterday, understand what I mean. 
 In plain terms, I thought Miss Faucit's reading of Lady Macbeth's 
 character, as detailed by you, and as I had heard before, at variance 
 with the terrible inhumanities which are bodied forth in it. ... 
 
 " Be this as it may, I promised to give you a true account of the 
 impression which her delineation of the character might make upon 
 me, and I proceed now to keep my word as well as I can, premising 
 that I fear I may still be too much under the influence of the impres- 
 sions she produced, to take what I say as the result of cool and purely 
 judicial opinion. It is not an easy thing to call in philosophy to our 
 aid when we are glowing with the emotions of enthusiasm and natural 
 partiality, which the genius of such a woman is certain to excite. 
 Philosophy is a very good old fellow in his way, but I have always 
 found that whenever I stood most in need of his guardianship and 
 aid, whenever my feelings or my heart were likely to run away with 
 my judgment, the faithless old villain has uniformly neglected his 
 post and abandoned me. But seriously, whether Miss Faucit's con- 
 ception of the character be right or wrong, she has, so far as I am con- 
 cerned, most signally triumphed by the impression which I carried 
 home from her impersonation of it. I know it has been said that the 
 2 C
 
 402 APPENDIX. 
 
 heart does not reason ; but although this may be true in a general 
 sense, I am conscious that there is in the operation or exercise of our 
 feelings some nameless principle of truth which instinctively teaches 
 us what is right, and upon which it is a thousand times safer to rely 
 than upon the cooler codes of conventional opinion, by which we are 
 too often unwittingly influenced. After all, this is no more than 
 Nature simply recognising herself in the human heart through the 
 medium of her own sympathies. 
 
 " The first thing that began gradually to creep upon me last night 
 was an unaccountable yet irresistible sense of propriety in Miss 
 Fauci t's management of the character. This argued, you will tell 
 me, neither more nor less than the force of truth. Perhaps it is 
 so ; but, be it what it may, it soon gained upon me so powerfully, 
 that I began to feel as if I had never seen Lady Macbeth's true 
 character before. I said to myself : this woman, it seems to me, 
 is simply urging her husband forward through her love for him, 
 which prompts her to wish for the gratification of his ambition, to 
 commit a murder. This, it would appear, is her sole object, and in 
 working it out, she is naturally pursuing a terrible course, and one of 
 singular difficulty. She perceives that he has scruples ; and it is 
 necessary that she should work upon him so far as that he should 
 commit the crime, but at the same time prevent him from feeling 
 revolted at the contemplation of it ; and this she effects by a san- 
 guinary sophistry that altogether hardens his heart. But this closes 
 her lessons of cruelty to him. In such a case it is not necessary that 
 she should label herself as a murderess, and wantonly parade that 
 inhuman ferocity by which she has hitherto been distinguished. Her 
 office of temptress ceases with the murder, and the gratification of 
 what she had considered her husband's ambition. This, as I felt it, 
 is the distinction which Miss Faucit draws, the great discovery she 
 has made. It unquestionably adds new elements to the character, 
 and not only rescues it from the terrible and revolting monotony in 
 which it has heretofore appeared, but keeps it within the category of 
 humanity, and gives a beautiful and significant moral to the closing 
 scenes of the queen's life. 
 
 " Indeed the character from this forward is represented by Miss 
 Faucit with wonderful discrimination and truth. I felt this strongly, 
 for I had never before observed the harmony between her acting and 
 the language of Shakespeare. In this, however, I have only laboured, 
 with the public, under the disadvantage of being misled by the au- 
 thority of Mrs Siddons as to the true estimate of Lady Macbeth's 
 character ; and I do not know a greater triumph than that achieved 
 by the fair and great reformer of bringing us back to Shakespeare and 
 to truth.
 
 LADY MACBETH. 403 
 
 " In another point of view, it appears to me that Miss Faucit stands 
 alone, proving that she possesses the grand and original simplicity 
 which belongs to true genius. She has dared to cast aside all the 
 antiquated forms of the stage all those traditionary appendages to 
 character, which in acting were common property, and are still too 
 much so. It is evident that all her motions on the stage result, nat- 
 urally and without effort, from such a full and glowing conception 
 of the character as occasions, without any such traditionary mem- 
 ories, the spontaneous and appropriate action only. It naturally 
 follows, therefore, that she never moves nor looks upon the stage 
 without conveying some truth or sentiment, or expressing some 
 passion. 
 
 " This faculty is almost peculiar to herself. For instance, in fol- 
 lowing her husband after the supper scene : simple and without sig- 
 nificance as this act has been in others, she exhibited in it an aston- 
 ishing manifestation of genius, for in that act all might read the awful 
 agonies that were at work in her heart. Her conduct in this scene 
 was different from anything I have witnessed before. In others there 
 was displayed the predominant passion or passions, now without a 
 motive namely, a hardened and bloodthirsty ferocity, mingled with 
 a wish to conceal her husband's crime. In Miss Faucit's acting, there 
 was visible the latter motive, which was indeed natural, together with 
 the ill-suppressed anguish of a gentle spirit, and a perceptible struggle 
 to subdue the manifestations of that guilt, whilst attempting to encour- 
 age and sustain her husband. All this I felt again to be the triumph 
 of Shakespeare and of truth, and, let me add, of Helen Faucit. 
 
 " In the sleep-walking scene she crowned the performance of the 
 night. To witness it is worth a thousand homilies against murder. 
 There is in it such a frightful reality of horror such terrible revela- 
 tions of remorse such struggles to wash away, not the blood from 
 the hand, but the blood from the soul, as made me shudder from head 
 to foot, and the very hair to stand upon my head. How the deadly 
 agonies of crime were portrayed by the parched mouth, that told of 
 the burning tortures within ! And when you looked on those eyes, or 
 those corpse-like hands, now telling their unconscious tale of crime, 
 and thought of their previous energy in urging on its perpetration, 
 you could not help looking fearfully for a moment into your own 
 heart, and thanking God you were free from the remorse of murder-. 
 This scene is, indeed, beyond criticism it is above it."
 
 404 APPENDIX. 
 
 NOTE TO LETTER ON ROSALIND, p. 234. 
 
 I AM happy to learn from my valued friend, M. Regnier, that I was 
 right in thinking the Parisian actors had neither the desire nor the 
 power to stop the English performances at the Salle Ventadour. He 
 writes (15th October 1884) to Sir Theodore Martin " Je ne veux pas 
 laisser un doute dans 1'esprit de Lady Martin sur ce fait, que les 
 acteurs parisiens auraient en 1845 fait appel aux autorites ' to pre- 
 vent the prolongation of the English performances.' Le fait est im- 
 possible. Les autorites auraient envoye promener les acteurs rnal- 
 avise"s qui auraient fait une telle demande ; les autorites n'avaient 
 aucun droit pour y satisfaire, et tous les come"diens fran9ais dont je 
 faisais partie alors, suivaient avec trop de curiosite les repr6sentations 
 anglaises pour desirer qu'on les discontinuat." 
 
 May I be forgiven if I quote with natural pride the opinion of one 
 whose words carry so much weight, from a letter of M. Regnier's to 
 the same correspondent about my performances in Paris : 
 
 " Je n'ai jamais revu ou relu Othello ou Hamlet sans me rappeler ce 
 que Lady Martin fut dans Desdemona et dans Ophelia ; et tou jours 
 j'ai conserve dans mon esprit, comme un de mes plus frappants 
 souvenirs dramatiques, la representation ou, pour la premiere fois 
 (a Paris du moins), elle joua le role de Lady Macbeth. Elle sut y 
 montrer une autorite, une maturity de talent, qui cadrait peu avec 
 ses jeunes ann6es, et je fus heureux alors, comme il me semble qu'elle 
 en dut etre flatte'e, de lui voir recueillir des eloges si justes et si 
 eclatants, tant de la part du public qui sent, que de la part du 
 public qui juge." 1 
 
 The warmth with which the Paris public received me, and to which 
 allusion has been made more than once in the text, was the more gratify- 
 ing, that I had come among them as a complete stranger, with no pre- 
 liminary intimation of the position which I had held since my first 
 appearance upon the English stage. Of the numerous criticisms which 
 appeared in the journals at the time, none gave me greater satisfac- 
 tion and encouragement than a paper by M. Edouard Thierry, after- 
 wards for many years the Director of the Come'die Franfaise, in the 
 Messager of 20th January 1845. That my estimate of its value was 
 well grounded has been confirmed by M. Regnier in a recent letter 
 (2 March 1885). " Parmi les dloges," he writes, " que la Presse fran- 
 9aise a faits de vous, vous devez faire un cas particulier de ceux de M. 
 
 1 I learn to-day (29th April 1885), with great regret, the death of this fine 
 artist and accomplished and amiable gentleman.
 
 PARISIAN DRAMATIC CRITICISMS. 405 
 
 Ed. Thierry, qui est comptd dans notre literature comme un critique 
 de premier ordre, d'un jugement tres sur, et d'un gout difficile ; sa 
 louange n'a jamais etc banale, et est d'un grand prix." 
 
 As a specimen of what dramatic criticism in Paris used to be, and 
 of the spirit and knowledge which made it precious to artists, as it 
 was instructive to tlie public, the following extracts may not be un- 
 interesting : 
 
 " Lorsque 1'on annonca les representations des artistes anglais sur 
 la scene au Theatre Italien, nous ne connaissions ici que deux noms 
 de la troupe nouvelle, celui de Macready, celui de Bennett ; car on se 
 rappelait aussi avoir vu M. Bennett durant le premier sdjour que 
 firent k Paris les acteurs venus de Londres. Quant a Miss Helen 
 Faucit, le bruit de son talent n'avait jamais ete assez loin pour passer 
 le detroit, et lorsque la troupe de"buta par Othello, des premieres 
 scenes de 1'ouvrage, a voir manoeuvrer 1'entourage du celebre comedien, 
 on pensa, c'etait presque raison, qu'il serait seul 1'interet et la curi- 
 osite du nouveau theatre ; je n'ai pas besoin d'ajouter, apres Shake- 
 speare. 
 
 " Miss Helen, en effet, n'a pas ces dehors, ces enseignes, si 1'on veut, 
 de 1'actrice, que attirent des 1'abord les regards du spectateur, prepar- 
 ent sa bienveillance, et quelque chose de plus que sa bienveillance, 
 lui font ddsirer enfin de trouver le talent ou ils aiment la beaute. 
 Miss Helen, pour qui la voit en passant, est une jeune femme de 
 formes greles, mais non pas dedicates, grande, et a laquelle manque 
 la fleur de la chair. 1 Cependant, aussi tot qu'elle marche, aussi tot 
 qu'elle fait un geste, qu'elle prend une attitude, une grace charmante 
 se revele. Cette jeune femme, qui ne semblait pas avoir la adduction 
 necessaire de 1'actrice, a tout 1'attrait mais 1'attrait irresistible de la 
 femme. Elle est femme, en un mot ; sa grace particuliere ne saurait 
 s'expliquer par aucune autre expression ; et quand elle parle, c'est en- 
 core la voix qui convient a cette grace, c'est la douceur d'organe qui 
 sied bien a cette harmonie de la demarche et de toute la personne, 
 c'est le son caressant qui accompagne a souhait cette caresse, pour 
 ainsi parler, du regard et des manieres decentes. 
 
 " Aussi, avant la fin de la soir6e, le public partageait deja son atten- 
 tion entre Othello et Desdemona. II savait que Londres lui avait 
 envoye" plus qu'un grand tragedien, qu'il avait envoye aussi une grande 
 tragedienne. 
 
 1 An unintended compliment. It surprised a French critic to see an actress 
 trust mainly to her natural complexion. The abuse of cosmetics on the French 
 stage, which was then habitual, has since been carried, in many instances, to 
 an excess upon our own. When the skin is covered with what is in effect a 
 painted mask, the natural colour, which under strong emotion would come and 
 go, is hidden under it, and the expression of the countenance destroyed.
 
 406 APPENDIX. 
 
 " Ce n'est pas la un succks de surprise. Kien n'avait pu prevenir 
 les esprits. La petite industrie de la reclame n'avait pas re"pandu 
 a propos 1'eloge officieux, aucune anecdote n'avait ete inventee, pas la 
 moindre historiette mise en circulation, pas le moindre commence- 
 ment de biographic. L'affiche mme, si fleurie en 6pithetes et en 
 amenites oratoires, n'avait pas ajoute au nom de Miss Helen Faucit 
 la plus simple de ses insinuations, et la caractere avait et6 scrupu- 
 leusement mesure' de maniere a ce que la seconde vedette n'affectat pas 
 la prevention de rivaliser avec la premiere ; mais le talent veritable 
 n'a pas besoin de ces habilites d'editeur ou de directeur de spectacle : 
 inconnue avant la representation, Miss Faucit ne 1'etait plus des le 
 quatrieme acte. Apres le cinquieme, elle fut rappelee avec Macready. 
 . . . Miss Faucit devenait comme une de nos actrices, comme une 
 actrice franaise. 
 
 " II est vrai que son talent avait dej'a pour nous quelque chose de 
 raoins Stranger et de plus ami. II etait nouveau, et pourtant nous lui 
 trouvions je ne sais quelle ressemblance avec nos souvenirs. Cette 
 grace si fine, si spirituelle et si na'ive, c'etait de la grace anglaise 
 assurement, c'etait aussi de la grace allemande. Mais ou avions 
 nous vu cette grace allemande ? Nous Pavions vue sur la scene de 
 1'Opera, nous 1'avions vue dans nos ballets, dans la Gipsy, dans le 
 Liable Boiteux, dans la Tarentule; elle s'appelait alors Fanny Elsler, 
 et qu'y a-t-il d'dtonnant que nous ayons aime Miss Faucit, que nous 
 1'ayons reconnue, que le public francais 1'ait adopted pour cette 
 ressemblance ? 
 
 " Ajoutez une voix comme celle de Mile. Mars, et une maniere de 
 reciter qui se rapproche surtout de notre maniere. En ge"ne"ral, les 
 artistes anglais ont retenu 1'emphase de la tragedie, telle que la jouait 
 Lafont, telle qu'on la de"clamait a c6te" de Talma. Macready lui- 
 mme a conserve par momens ce de"bit pompeux, qu'il accentue d'ail- 
 leurs a la fagon anglaise en appuyant sur toutes les syllabes. Miss 
 Helen Faucit parle simplement, naturellement ; la phrase coule 
 limpide de ses levres, et s'echappe d'une seule 6mission, comme dans 
 notre recitation frangaise. . . . 
 
 " Apres Othello, sont venus successivement Hamlet, Virginius, Mac- 
 beth, Eome'o et Juliette. A chacun de ces drames, le succes de Miss 
 Faucit s'est accru sans autres artifices. L'actrice jouait, et la public 
 applaudissait." 
 
 OPHELIA. 
 
 " On n'avait imagine Ophelia ni plus touchante, ni plus gracieuse. 
 Notre parterre franais est demeure surpris devant cette pantomime 
 pleine de sens, pleine d'idees, pleine de bonte, pleine de tendresses,
 
 PARISIAN DRAMATIC CRITICISMS. 407 
 
 pleine de passion meme, mais surtout pleine de mesure et pleine de 
 modestie. Car c'est la une qualite rare ; aussi je reviens sur cet eloge ; 
 il y a dans Miss Faucit, et a un degre eminent, ce que j'appelle la 
 modestie de 1'artiste, ce dcsinteressement precieux par lequel 1'artiste 
 prefere Fart a lui-merne, et le succes du drame a son propre succes. 
 Quel que soit le role, quelle que soit la scene, Miss Faucit prend sa 
 place dans la perspective du tableau, dans 1 'ensemble de 1'oeuvre, et 
 cette place elle la garde jusqu'a la fin, sans chercher a sortir de la 
 demi-teinte necessaire ; disparaissant m6me au besoin dans 1'ombre 
 que le poete a menage'e." 
 
 VIRGINIA. 
 
 "Dans Virginius le role de Virginie n'est pour ainsi dire que le 
 fond oblige" du drame. Toute Faction repose sur ce role, mais en y 
 pesant de son poids et en 1'ecrasant. Le drame ne saurait etre qu'a 
 cette condition. Timide, elevee dans le secret du foyer domestique, 
 Virginie aime Icilius, et son amour est celui d'une jeune fille, un 
 amour qui se trahit, sans parler, qui se decele en se cachant. Lorsque 
 le client d'Appius entraine Virginie sur le Forum, Virginie se couvre 
 de son voile, et le peuple dispute au Decemvir une victime sans de- 
 fense. Lorsque Virginius a son tour revient de Farmee en tout hate, 
 se presente au tribunal d'Appius, et reconnait avec dcsespoir que sa 
 fille n'est deja plus a lui, lorsqu'il en appelle au peuple, lorsqu'il 
 prend les dieux a temoin, lorsque de la priere il passe a la menace, 
 lorsqu'il rugit comme un lion blesse, lorsqu' eufin il se jette sur le 
 couteau qui fera de la fille une morte, et de cette morte une vierge 
 inviolee, Virginie n'appartient deja plus a la vie, ses forces Font 
 abandonnee ; elle ne voit rien, n'entend rien, ne se soutient qu'en 
 s'appuyant sur la poitrine de son pere, et lorsque ce malheureux pere 
 oublie un moment sa fille pour se de"tourner vers le peuple ou le 
 Decemvir, Virginie se laisse aller a terre, et se rattache a peine au 
 bord du manteau paternel. 
 
 " C'est la un de ces roles que nos artistes n'accepteraient pas volon- 
 tiers. Ecrit, il contient a peine soixante lignes. Joue, il assiste a la 
 duree des quatre premiers actes, pour disparattre au cinquieme, et 
 lorsqu'il est present a Faction, il n'y sert encore qu'a, fournir aux autres 
 roles leurs effets dramatiques. Miss Faucit le remplit avec ce devoue- 
 nient dont je parlais tout a Fheure ; elle s'abandonne au talent de 
 Macready, comme si ce talent dtait sa propre gloire. Macready est 
 Fame de ce corps qui n'a plus d'autre volonte que la volonte du 
 tragedien, d'autres intentions que ses intentions, d'autre ambition que 
 la faiblesse, que la passivite", que Finertie. Faiblesse, passivite, inertie 
 intelligente toutefois, car Factrice trouve dans cette sorte d'abndgation
 
 408 APPENDIX. 
 
 d'elle-mSme un de ses plus 16gitimes triomphes, et le public aait bien 
 1'applaudir en voyant Virginie si douce, si malheureuse, si digne de 
 pitie." 
 
 LADY MACBETH. 
 
 " Entre Virginie et Lady Macbeth il y a toute la gamme de 1'art a 
 parcourir. Ce sont la deux figures si diverges, qu'une m6me nature 
 ne semble pas devoir suffire a representer 1'une et 1'autre ; mais le 
 sentiment du vrai supple'e dans un artiste a bien des conditions phy- 
 siques, et Miss Faucit, dans la scene du sommeil, s'est elevde jusqu'aux 
 effets les plus saississants de la terreur. On se rappellera toujours le 
 geste impatient et inquiet avec lequel Lady Macbeth appelle son mari 
 absent, et se retire elle-meTne en lui disant, ' Au lit ! au lit ! ' " 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 " Mais enfin nous avons vu le r61e de Juliette, et comment avons- 
 nous vu ? Comment nous a-t-il ete donne 1 A coup sur la direction 
 de la troupe anglaise n'avait pas songe des 1'abord a garder un frag- 
 ment de Shakespeare, et Miss Faucit seule, dans ce fragment du poete, 
 pour sa representation d'adieux. C'est le succes qui a valu cet hon- 
 neur a la tragedienne, et a nous la bonne fortune d'une semblable 
 soiree. Je regrette profonde"ment que Rome'o de Juliette ne soit pas 
 joud une seconde fois. ... II n'est pas possible que M. Mitchell 
 n'essaie pas de nouveau une representation qui a si vivement e"mu 
 toute la Salle. . . ." 
 
 After describing the entrance of Romeo in the balcony scene, and 
 the first words of Juliet's reverie, M. Edouard Thierry continues : 
 
 " C'est le malheur de nos tragediennes que toute notre theatre ne 
 contienne pas une scene de ce charme et de cette po^sie. Est-ce la 
 Conservatoire ? Est-ce Corneille ? Est-ce Racine Im-m^me qui leur 
 apprendrait a jouer de telles choses ? Plus heureuse, par la du moins, 
 Miss Faucit a trouve dans le poete classique de 1'Angleterre des situa- 
 tions comme le cceur les reve, ou la grande science de 1'acteur est de 
 savoir sentir et de savoir aimer. Miss Faucit a-t-elle jamais regu 
 d'autres legons 1 Elle est femme ; je ne suppose pas que Shakespeare 
 ait demande" autre chose a sa Juliette. 
 
 " Quel maltre, si ce n'est le coeur, enseignera le bonheur de confier 
 le secret d'un premier amour a la nuit silencieuse, et ces e"lans ou 
 1'ame se sent assez grande pour remplir 1'espace infini, et cette pudeur 
 d'amante de qui 1'amant inapercu a surpris la delicieuse confidence, et 
 cette rougeur voilde par 1'ombre, et cette honte qui n'est ni de la honte
 
 PARISIAN DRAMATIC CRITICISMS. 409 
 
 ni meme du regret, et ce regret, s'il en est un, qui ne sait lui-rafime 
 s'il ne s'appelle pas du bonheur, et cette f^licite* de deux ames qui 
 echangent le serment d'amour, et cette promptitude d'enfant a donner 
 toutes ses pensees, toute sa vie, et ce desir d'enfant qui veut les re- 
 prendre, et ces naivetes d'enfant qui se hatent de rendre plus encore 
 qu'on n'a repris, plus qu'on n'avait donnd ; et ces adieux sans fin, et ce 
 courage nouveau qui se sent plus fort que la mort, mais non pas que 
 la separation et que 1'absence ? . . . Oui, il y a tout cela dans cette 
 scene de Shakespeare, qui est presque un poeme, et il n'y a rien de 
 moins dans le jeu de Miss Helen Faucit. On ecoutait et on admirait. 
 En ce moment tout le monde comprenait Shakespeare, comme tout le 
 monde comprend 1'amour. Et puis, c'est un des caracteres du talent 
 de Miss Faucit, sa physionomie explique tout, raconte tout, apprend 
 tout ; c'est un livre ouvert, un livre merveilleux, si vous voulez, ou 
 chacun peut lire dans sa langue. J'en appelle aux souvenirs de ceux 
 qui assistaient a la representation de Romtfo, aux souvenirs de notre 
 public qui ne sait pas 1'anglais : Est-il un seul mot de cet admirable 
 dialogue, un seul mot de ce charmant aveu de Juliette, qui n'ait e'te' 
 entendu, comme s'il eut e'te dit dans une langue universelle, au sortir 
 des levres de Miss Helen ? 
 
 " II en a e'te de m&ne de la scene entre Juliette et sa nourrice, 
 lorsque la bonne vieille revient lui rendre la re*ponse de Romeo, et 
 que, soit malice, soit faiblesse de 1'age, 1'un et 1'autre peut-etre, elle ne 
 veut pas cesser de se plaindre et de s'interrompre, en se recriant sur sa 
 fatigue, sur ses douleurs de te"te, sur ses douleurs de reins. Je le 
 repete, notre theatre ne nous habitue pas a ces inge'nuite's charmantes ; 
 a ces bouderies, a ces impatiences, a ces calineries ; et le public battait 
 les mains a voir Miss Faucit appuyer si doucement sa joue centre la 
 joue de sa nourrice, se mettre a genoux aupres d'elle, lui prendre le 
 menton dans ses deux mains, la plaindre avec sa gentilesse enfantine, 
 la bercer sur son fauteuil, la cajoler, la flatter, la dorloter, impatiente 
 cependant, et avide d'entendre parler de Borneo, mais patiente a force 
 d'impatience et de de"sir. 
 
 "Miss Faucit a encore eu une scene admirable, celle-ci d'un autre 
 genre, la scene tragique ou elle prend le breuvage qui doit lui donner 
 les apparences de la mort. Ainsi composed, une scene se deVeloppe 
 comme un drame complet. Rien n'y est omis. A partir du moment 
 ou la Signora Capulet se retire, et ou sa fille lui baise la main a 
 genoux, avec la tendresse passionne"e d'un dernier adieu, Juliette passe 
 par tous les degrds de la terreur ! Elle est seule, elle s'effraie de la 
 solitude, et elle songe a rappeler sa nourrice, puis elle essaie a se 
 rassurer elle-meme et a sourire a son effroi. Elle s'excite au courage 
 par 1'aversion qu'elle 6prouve pour le Comte, et, si le breuvage ne 
 produit pas son effet, elle se dit, qu'elle a toujours un poignard pour 
 
 2 D
 
 410 APPENDIX, 
 
 se soustraire a la contrainte. Si pourtant ce breuvage etait re"ellement 
 un poison 1 ... Crainte singuliere de la mort par le poison, pour une 
 femme qui vient de regarder son poignard comme une consolation et 
 comme une force. Crainte naturelle toutefois, car le poignard c'est 
 la mort volontaire, le poison c'est la mort involontaire, et la mort 
 mysterieuse, inconnue. 
 
 " Apres un moment de reverie, tous ces secrets de la mort viennent 
 epouvanter la jeune fille. Place"e vivante dans le tombeau, elle s'y 
 reveillera ; mais que Borneo tarde a venir, et 1'air doit manquer sous 
 les voutes de ces caveaux funebres. Et la poussiere des tre'passe's que 
 1'on respire comme la cendre, et les ombres de ceux qui ne sont plus 
 qui voltigent sans cesse dans les tenebres, et Tybalt frappe par Rome'o, 
 Tybalt sanglant, mort de la veille, que ne manquera pas de se reunir a 
 cette assemble invisible de spectres seculaires ! . . . A ce moment 
 Miss Faucit a e'te' reellement sublime. Le public partageait son 6pou- 
 vante, et cette e"pouvante s'est prolonged jusqu'a la fin du monologue, 
 tant 1'actrice a su varier, par sa pantomime, par 1'expression de ses 
 traits, ces tableaux, cette suite d'horribles et e"tranges visions. 
 
 "Apres cette scene, le dernier acte ne pouvait plus rien aj outer 
 a 1'emotion du spectateur. . . . Miss Faucit a e'vite' les eclats trop 
 violens, et de la joie de Juliette en revoyant Rome'o, et de son de"sespoir 
 en le revoyant avec la mort dans ses yeux. Elle a conserve" jusqu'a 
 la fin l'e"tonnement vague de la lethargic. Peut-gtre, en effet, y a-t-il 
 la un sentiment plus vrai de la situation ; mais au theatre il faut que 
 les effets s'ajoutent les uns aux autres dans une progression mathe'- 
 matique, et le cinquieme acte doit frapper le spectateur d'une impres- 
 sion plus vive que le quatrieme. 
 
 "Quoi qu'il en soit, Miss Faucit a e'te' rappele"e par d'unanimes 
 acclamations, et, quand elle a reparu, les bouquets pleuvaient a ses 
 pieds." 
 
 PRINTBD BT WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONft
 
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