CHAPTER VIII.

MAD FOLK IN COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.

(vi.) THE PRETENDERS.

“I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.”

(“_Hamlet._”)

Last of all in the long train of madmen which has now almost passed us come the Pretenders—characters who have feigned insanity for some purpose. We need not, of course, devote much space here to pseudo-lunatics like Morose in “The Silent Woman,” Bellamont in “Northward Ho,” Malvolio and Christopher Sly. These are all sane enough and have no wish to be thought otherwise. They are victimised by the pretences of others, and shew none of the signs which were supposed to characterise insanity. Thus they have small interest for us and no place in the present section.

A somewhat different example may be taken from Day’s “Law Tricks,”[167:1] where Polymetes, son of the reigning Duke, pretends, on his father’s sudden return from a long journey, to be deeply immersed in his studies, in order to avert the Duke’s reproaches for his neglect and loose living. His page, a boy “worth his weight in pearl,” comes to the Duke with a cock-and-bull story about an “English poet” who is with the Prince. This is presently supplemented by Julio, who explains that “the boy is lunatic.” His description of the supposed origin of the lunacy is most interesting. “Coming abruptly to the Prince’s chamber about some ordinary service, I found him in his study and a company of bottle-nosed devils dancing the Irish hay about him, which on the sudden so started the poor boy as he clean lost his wits, and ever since talks thus idle as your Excellence hath heard him.” The “studies” of Polymetes, it later appears, are in astrology!

The “true Pretenders”—if the term may be allowed—have on the other hand considerable interest, and are well worthy of attention. Among other things we may take into consideration the intention with which they are portrayed, how far they fulfil that intention, how closely they counterfeit insanity—if any such attempt is really made,—and what worth they have as characters—how nearly, in other words, they resemble men and women.

Beginning at the bottom of the scale, let us take Middleton’s “Changeling,” a play already studied, in which Antonio, the “Changeling” of the piece, counterfeits idiocy, and Franciscus his companion, pretends to be a madman. Their devices, which form the substance of a somewhat coarse underplot, are not successful. This would surprise nobody; the intention of the author (or authors) being mainly comic relief, little care is shewn and the characters are almost worthless. Franciscus says in the last scene, “I was changed from a little wit to be stark mad”; and Antonio, “I was changed too from a little ass as I was to a great fool as I am!”[169:1] The last statement we can take literally. For, after all, idiocy is fairly easy to counterfeit, and he would be a fool indeed who could not do at least equally well. Franciscus is rather better, and might really be very effective on the stage. He is supposed to have “run mad for love,” and was a “pretty poet” till the muses forsook him. He discourses most appropriately of “Titania” and “flowery banks,” invokes his imaginary mistress, and pledges her in imaginary wine.[169:2] He succeeds in extorting the pity of Isabella with his ravings. The least spark sets him alight; the mere mention of “Luna” is sufficient for him to rhapsodise upon, and he works himself up to a state of violence which has to be calmed by the whip. His snatches of song are equally true to life. But he does not re-appear for any length of time after this scene, and he never again reaches the same level of excellence. Apart from this skill in counterfeit Franciscus appears to have no character worthy of the name, and is therefore of small importance.

Something has already been said of the shopkeeper’s wife, Tormiella, of Dekker’s tragi-comedy “Match me in London”; here, as in “The Changeling,” and as in many another minor play, the feigned madness is utilised for the plot and makes little difference to the character. We have seen that Dekker has shewn considerable skill in weaving this pretended madness into the plot as well as in introducing it at a favourable place. But the scene is so short, and its place in the play of such relatively small importance, that we need do no more here than repeat that the “feigning” is well done and serves its purpose.

Space may also be found for Dol in Jonson’s “Alchemist.” She goes mad for the benefit of Sir Epicure Mammon in the fourth act of the play, but unfortunately the learned dramatist infuses little probability into her feigning. She is not so successful a lunatic as Quarlous, though her task is certainly less simple. She appears before Mammon “in her fit of raving” to discourse of “Alexander’s death,” the “communion of vowels and consonants,” “Pythagoras,” “the tongue of Eber and Javan” and so forth. The alleged reason for this is given us earlier in the play in a speech by Face already quoted.[170:1]

In the “Honest Whore,”[171:1] Bellafront, for her own purposes, feigns madness. Her pretence is skilful, though Friar Anselmo does not consider her dangerous. “How now, huswife,” he says good-humouredly, “whether gad you?” “A-nutting forsooth,” answers Bellafront, “How do you, gaffer? How do you, gaffer? there’s a French curt’sy for you too.” “Do you not know me?” she enquires. “No,” reply all. “What are they?” asks Anselmo, “come tell me, what are they?” Her answer reminds us of “Hamlet.” “They’re fish-wives,” she says, “will you buy any gudgeons?” At a later stage in the proceedings, she is anxious to tell everyone’s fortunes and demands sugar-plums as a reward. This madness, however, is not without method, for the fortune-telling leads to discoveries and explanations. When at last Matheo, whom Bellafront wishes to marry, declares that if her wits are restored he will consent, she at once reveals her sanity:

“Matheo, thou art mine. I am not mad; but put on this disguise Only for you.”

We now come without any further slips of prolixity to the only two pretenders for whom we can entertain the least enthusiasm—to the classical examples of feigned madness in English Drama, Edgar and Hamlet.

Edgar is represented as simulating “Poor Tom” of Bedlam, one of the lunatics who roamed about the countryside, possessed by the “foul fiend,” and dependent upon such charity as kindly hearts might prompt. How well he counterfeits need only be suggested. It is, after all, an easy matter for an author to portray feigned madness for a scene or two with something like accuracy. But what a genius is required to lead his pretender, so to say, “through fire and through flame,” place him in all kinds of situations, cause him to change his disguise from lunatic to peasant, then back to lunatic again, marking all the time by subtle touches the most delicate shades of expression. The burthen of his cry, as one would expect, is “Poor Tom’s a-cold. . . . The foul fiend follows me.” Persistently he raves and consistently, but at times “the natural touch” overcomes him,

“My tears begin to take his part so much They mar my counterfeiting.”[172:1]

An even more wonderful effect of art is pointed out by Mr. Cowden Clarke. Gloster, now blind, would seem to recognise amidst the wild ravings of his son “some tone or inflection in Edgar’s voice . . . and he links (his son’s conduct) with that of Lear’s daughters. Edgar, instinctively feeling this, perseveres with his Bedlam cry, to drown the betrayed sound of his own voice and maintain the impression of his assumed character.” If this is really Shakespeare’s art and not the imagination of the critic—as some might think it to be—it is but one more illustration of his dramatic genius.

Apart from such details as these, the character of Edgar, especially during his feigned madness, is a genuine masterpiece. At times during the play he has certainly some of the frigidity—closely allied to a quality which is dangerously like self-righteousness—which marks Shakespeare’s own Isabella. But in these scenes of madness he is all tenderness and forgiveness. His compassion on his blinded father we feel the more keenly in contrast with Gloster’s own conduct and the ingratitude of Lear’s children. Edgar is Shakespeare at his best and truest—he rings true—we may even say that he stands for Truth itself. And thus his feigned madness is no ordinary stage-device requisitioned by an unmanageable plot. It has uses connected with the plot, indeed, but beyond these it brings out characteristics of the man which endear him to the most hostile spectator.

Lastly we come to Hamlet and his feigned madness. Like most of the Pretenders he is introduced into a play where real madness also plays a part, but unlike any of them he is actually in a condition verging on madness. Possibly it is by a kind of self-preservative instinct that he chooses that disguise for his purpose of deceiving the King. Fortunately he is able to prevent his mind actually giving way, and so he defeats the King’s designs, seeing “a cherub that sees them.” He shrinks from nothing; his demeanour towards those whom he loves, and especially towards Ophelia, fully bears out his supposed affliction. He appears with doublet all unbraced,

“No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d, Ungarter’d and down-gyved to his ancle; Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors.”[174:1]

His attitude and his words seem to confirm the judgment of Polonius: “This is the very ecstasy of love.”[174:2] He is caught in no trap. The presence of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern does not suffice to

“Get from him why he puts on this confusion Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy.”[174:3]

Only the faithful Horatio knows that; elsewhere Hamlet “keeps aloof” from the topic with true madman’s instinct, whenever his state is mentioned. The King pretends to Polonius that while the disease is not so serious as it seems, only Hamlet’s absence from Denmark can prevent it from becoming so. In this way he gets him removed. But throughout the play, whether in his attempts to deceive the Court or in his foiling of the King’s design, Hamlet acts with what might be called the craft of true madness.

It is unnecessary to insist on the complexity and the lifelike truth of Hamlet’s character. No personage in the world’s drama has excited more criticism. The Prince of Denmark is on all sides acknowledged to be supreme. And for that reason it is needless to attempt to prove what otherwise would be the main contention of this chapter—that Hamlet is in every way the greatest of the Pretenders whom we have studied, and, indeed, of the madmen, true and false, who form the subject of this essay.

FOOTNOTES:

[167:1] Act iv., scene 2.

[169:1] “The Changeling,” v., 3.

[169:2] Ibid., iii., 3.

[170:1] Page 14, note 2.

[171:1] “Honest Whore,” v., 13.

[172:1] “King Lear,” iii., 6, 63-4.

[174:1] “Hamlet,” ii., 1, 78, etc.

[174:2] Ibid., l. 102.

[174:3] Ibid., iii., 1, 2-4.