The Collected Plays of George Bernard Shaw - 60 Titles in One Edition (Illustrated Edition). GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

into absurd exaggerations of the value of that content. Even poets fall under the spell. Ben Jonson described Marlowe’s line as “mighty”! As well put Michael Angelo’s epitaph on the tombstone of Paolo Uccello. No wonder Jonson’s blank verse is the most horribly disagreeable product in literature, and indicates his most prosaic mood as surely as his shorter rhymed measures indicate his poetic mood. Marlowe never wrote a mighty line in his life: Cowper’s single phrase, “Toll for the brave,” drowns all his mightinesses as Great Tom drowns a military band. But Marlowe took that very pleasant-sounding rigmarole of Peele and Greene, and added to its sunny daylight the insane splendors of night, and the cheap tragedy of crime. Because he had only a common sort of brain, he was hopelessly beaten by Shakespear; but he had a fine ear and a soaring spirit: in short, one does not forget “wanton Arethusa’s azure arms” and the like. But the pleasant-sounding rigmarole was the basis of the whole thing; and as long as that rigmarole was practised frankly for the sake of its pleasantness, it was readable and speakable. It lasted until Shakespear did to it what Raphael did to Italian painting; that is, overcharged and burst it by making it the vehicle of a new order of thought, involving a mass of intellectual ferment and psychological research. The rigmarole could not stand the strain; and Shakespear’s style ended in a chaos of half-shattered old forms, half-emancipated new ones, with occasional bursts of prose eloquence on the one hand, occasional delicious echoes of the rigmarole, mostly from Calibans and masque personages, on the other, with, alas! a great deal of filling up with formulary blank verse which had no purpose except to save the author’s time and thought.

      When a great man destroys an art form in this way, its ruins make palaces for the clever would-be great. After Michael Angelo and Raphael, Giulio Romano and the Carracci. After Marlowe and Shakespear, Chapman and the Police News poet Webster. Webster’s specialty was blood: Chapman’s, balderdash. Many of us by this time find it difficult to believe that pre-Ruskinite art criticism used to prostrate itself before the works of Domenichino and Guido, and to patronize the modest little beginnings of those who came between Cimabue and Masaccio. But we have only to look at our own current criticism of Elizabethan drama to satisfy ourselves that in an art which has not yet found its Ruskin or its pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, the same folly is still academically propagated. It is possible, and even usual, for men professing to have ears and a sense of poetry to snub Peele and Greene and grovel before Fletcher and Webster — Fletcher! a facile blank verse penny-a-liner: Webster! a turgid paper cutthroat. The subject is one which I really cannot pursue without intemperance of language. The man who thinks The Duchess of Malfi better than David and Bethsabe is outside the pale, not merely of literature, but almost of humanity.

      Yet some of the worst of these post-Shakespearean duffers, from Jonson to Heywood, suddenly became poets when they turned from the big drum of pseudo-Shakespearean drama to the pipe and tabor of the masque, exactly as Shakespear himself recovered the old charm of the rigmarole when he turned from Prospero to Ariel and Caliban. Cyril Tourneur and Heywood could certainly have produced very pretty rigmarole plays if they had begun where Shakespear began, instead of trying to begin where he left off. Jonson and Beaumont would very likely have done themselves credit on the same terms: Marston would have had at least a chance. Massinger was in his right place, such as it was; and one would not disturb the gentle Ford, who was never born to storm the footlights. Webster could have done no good anyhow or anywhere: the man was a fool. And Chapman would always have been a blathering unreadable pedant, like Landor, in spite of his classical amateurship and respectable strenuosity of character. But with these exceptions it may plausibly be held that if Marlowe and Shakespear could have been kept out of their way, the rest would have done well enough on the lines of Peele and Greene. However, they thought otherwise; and now that their freethinking paganism, so dazzling to the pupils of Paley and the converts of Wesley, offers itself in vain to the disciples of Darwin and Nietzsche, there is an end of them. And a good riddance, too.

      Accordingly, I have poetasted The Admirable Bashville in the rigmarole style. And lest the Webster worshippers should declare that there is not a single correct line in all my three acts, I have stolen or paraphrased a few from Marlowe and Shakespear (not to mention Henry Carey); so that if any man dares quote me derisively, he shall do so in peril of inadvertently lighting on a purple patch from Hamlet or Faustus.

      I have also endeavored in this little play to prove that I am not the heartless creature some of my critics take me for. I have strictly observed the established laws of stage popularity and probability. I have simplified the character of the heroine, and summed up her sweetness in the one sacred word: Love. I have given consistency to the heroism of Cashel. I have paid to Morality, in the final scene, the tribute of poetic justice. I have restored to Patriotism its usual place on the stage, and gracefully acknowledged The Throne as the fountain of social honor. I have paid particular attention to the construction of the play, which will be found equal in this respect to the best contemporary models.

      And I trust the result will be found satisfactory.

      ACT I

       Table of Contents

      A glade in Wiltstoken Park

      Enter Lydia

      Lydia. Ye leafy breasts and warm protecting wings

       Of mother trees that hatch our tender souls,

       And from the well of Nature in our hearts

       Thaw the intolerable inch of ice

       That bears the weight of all the stamping world.

       Hear ye me sing to solitude that I,

       Lydia Carew, the owner of these lands,

       Albeit most rich, most learned, and most wise,

       Am yet most lonely. What are riches worth

       When wisdom with them comes to show the purse bearer

       That life remains unpurchasable? Learning

       Learns but one lesson: doubt! To excel all

       Is, to be lonely. Oh, ye busy birds,

       Engrossed with real needs, ye shameless trees

       With arms outspread in welcome of the sun,

       Your minds, bent singly to enlarge your lives,

       Have given you wings and raised your delicate heads

       High heavens above us crawlers.

      [A rook sets up a great cawing; and the other birds

       chatter loudly as a gust of wind sets the branches

       swaying. She makes as though she would shew them

       her sleeves.

      Lo, the leaves

       That hide my drooping boughs! Mock me — poor maid! —

       Deride with joyous comfortable chatter

       These stolen feathers. Laugh at me, the clothed one.

       Laugh at the mind fed on foul air and books.

       Books! Art! And Culture! Oh, I shall go mad.

       Give me a mate that never heard of these,

       A sylvan god, tree born in heart and sap;

       Or else, eternal maidhood be my hap.

      [Another gust of wind and bird-chatter. She sits on

       the mossy root of an oak and buries her face in her

       hands. Cashel Byron, in a white singlet and

       breeches, comes through the trees.

      CASHEL. What’s this? Whom have we here? A woman!

      LYDIA [looking up]. Yes.

      CASHEL. You have no business here. I have. Away!

       Women distract me. Hence!

      LYDIA. Bid you me hence?

       I am upon mine own ground. Who are you?

       I take you for a god, a sylvan god.