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William Godwin: his Friends and Contemporaries

Ch. III. 1800

INTRODUCTION & INDEXES

DOCUMENT INFORMATION

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Preface

Contents Vol. I

Ch. I. 1756-1785

Ch. II. 1785-1788

Ch. III. 1788-1792

Ch. IV. 1793

Ch. V. 1783-1794

Ch. VI. 1794-1796

Ch. VII. 1759-1791

Ch. VII. 1791-1796

Ch. IX. 1797

Ch. X. 1797

Ch. XI. 1798

Ch. XII. 1799

Ch. XIII. 1800

Contents Vol. II

Ch. I. 1800

Ch. II. 1800

‣ Ch. III. 1800

Ch. IV. 1801-1803

Ch. V. 1802-1803

Ch. VI. 1804-1806

Ch. VII. 1806-1811

Ch. VIII. 1811-1814

Ch. IX. 1812-1819

Ch. X. 1819-1824

Ch. XI. 1824-1832

Ch. XII. 1832-1836

Index

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WILLIAM GODWIN

CHAPTER III.

TRAGEDY OF ANTONIO. 1800.

The letters from Charles Lamb which belong to this year are, as well as the criticism which follows the earliest which are found among the Godwin papers. The acquaintance between them had been one of some standing, which had now ripened into great intimacy. “Cooper,” named in this and some other letters, is not our friend “Tom,” who was still in America, but Godwin’s maid-servant.

The object of the meeting on the Sunday evening of which the letter speaks was to re-read the play of “Antonio” before its representation, and may therefore fitly introduce the whole subject of that drama.

[Dec. 4.]

“Dear Sir,—I send this speedily after the heels of Cooper (O! the dainty expression) to say that Mary is obliged to stay at home on Sunday to receive a female friend, from whom I am equally glad to escape. So that we shall be by ourselves. I write, because it may make some difference in your marketting, &c.

“C. L.”

PLOT OF ANTONIO.

37

“Thursday morning.

“I am sorry to put you to the expense of twopence postage. But I calculate thus: if Mary comes she will

eat Beef 2 plates,	4d.
Batter Pudding 1 do.	2d.
Beer, a pint,	2d.
Wine, 3 glasses,	11d.	I drink no wine!
Chesnuts, after dinner,	2d.
Tea and supper at moderate calculation,	9d.
	———
	2s. 6d.
From which deduct	2d.	postage
	———
	2s. 4d.

You are a clear gainer by her not coming.

The chief literary work of the year 1800 was the “Tragedy of Antonio,” and so little do authors know their own powers, that to the latest day of his life Godwin considered it his best work. To us, looking at it with calmer minds, it seems an extremely poor production.

The plot is of the simplest. Helena was betrothed, with her father’s consent, to her brother Antonio’s friend, Roderigo. While Antonio and Roderigo were at the wars, Helena fell in love with, and married, Don Gusman. She was the king’s ward, who set aside the pre-contract. Antonio, returning, leaves his friend behind; he has had great sorrows, but all will be well when he comes to claim his bride. When Antonio finds his sister is married, the rage he exhibits is ferocious. He carries his sister off from her husband’s house, and demands that the king shall annul the marriage with Gusman. There is then talk of Helena’s entrance into a convent. At last the king, losing patience, gives judgment, as he had done before,

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WILLIAM GODWIN

that the pre-contract with Roderigo was invalid, and the marriage to Gusman valid. Whereupon Antonio bursts through the guards, and kills his sister.

Yet Godwin had taken more pains with this drama than with perhaps any other work which had ever proceeded from his pen. The diary records constant and laborious work on it, continual revisions and polishings. Poetry, it will be remembered, had been the delight of his early years, and with that blindness to the true nature of his powers, which is the characteristic of many another writer, he considered poetry the pursuit in which his maturer manhood was destined to excel. Such was not altogether the opinion of his friends. Lamb sent him an elaborate criticism, which should have made him suspect that all was not as it should be in his great work, and Colman’s rejection of it should have satisfied him that it was not a play which would be acceptable to the public. But Lamb was so genuinely kind, and even affectionate in his criticism, so anxious to see all the beauty that he could, that Godwin did not perceive the real disapproval of which Lamb himself was scarce aware.

Of other friends Holcroft was, as has been seen, in Germany.

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Marshal regarded the productions of which he had witnessed the begetting and watched the gestation with a feeling amounting to veneration. Godwin had, moreover, made up his mind that the play, if damned at all—a possibility he could hardly contemplate—would be so only because the public knew that he was the author, and would be venting their scorn on him through his play. Hence the authorship was to be kept profoundly secret, and in all those who were in the secret, there grew up a certain feeling as of conspirators bound to carry through their undertaking, which by that very fact appeared nobler in their esteem.

Though constantly afterwards retouched, the play was yet sufficiently finished in June to be submitted to Colman, then Manager of the Haymarket, not as Godwin’s own, but as a composition of which he approved, and which he highly recommended. Colman replied that—

It is not unlikely that the refusal was peculiarly mortifying from Colman, who had given evidence already that he recognized a certain dramatic, if not poetical, power in his correspondent; Colman’s play of “The Iron Chest” being adapted from the novel of “Caleb Williams.”

The play was again carefully revised, and was submitted to Curran and Sheridan, the latter of whom—whose taste may well be thought less unquestionable in tragedy than in comedy—mentioned it to Kemble, on whom, at his request, Godwin called with a portion of the MS, urging that the earlier acts should at once be put in rehearsal, and pro-

CORRESPONDENCE WITH KEMBLE.

41

mising to send the rest—still in want of revision—within a month. To this somewhat strange demand Kemble at first consented, and promised suggestions, but soon after wrote as follows:—

When the play was completed and in Kemble’s hands, he did not think it would succeed, but Godwin claimed a promise made to him by Sheridan that it should be represented, and that he was himself “prepared cheerfully to encounter any theatrical gauntlet which the rules of your play-house may be thought to prescribe.”

Godwin, however, again reclaimed the MS. for further revision.

Some unfinished drafts of letters from Godwin to Kemble remain, which it is not always easy to date, but it would seem that quite late in the correspondence, apparently towards the end of November, Kemble again expressed his dislike to undertake the character of Antonio, which had been from the first almost forced upon him by the author’s importunity. He placed his objection on the somewhat strange ground of the villainy of the character he had to represent, as though he had played none but model heroes, but his object was no doubt to save the author and himself also the humiliation of failure, by inducing him to

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withdraw the play. The following extracts from a draft of one of Godwin’s voluminous letters, in so great contrast to Kemble’s notes, are curious as showing Godwin’s own estimate of his tragedy, of Kemble’s acting, and of some favourite plays.

Kemble’s objections, though not removed, were over-

KEMBLE ON THE FREE LIST.

47

ruled, the play was put in rehearsal, and the rehearsals were attended by Godwin’s friend, Mr Tobin, in the hope that he might be supposed the author of the piece. The following letter shows that Godwin was not without his grave anxieties, although ‘Antonio’ was cast as he had desired.

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WILLIAM GODWIN

The epilogue was written by C. Lamb, and is printed among his collected works.

The play was presented on Saturday, December 13th, and damned finally and hopelessly. Godwin’s Diary was as usual almost passionless, though the rare underlining represents that he was more moved than was his wont. The entry for the day runs thus:—

CAST OF THE PLAY.

49

“A prologue and epilogue were spoken by Mr C. Kemble and Miss Heard—both productions well suited to the piece, too bad to pass without censure except when they pass without observation.”—Morning Post, Dec. 15th, 1800.

Kemble’s final letter on the subject was written next day.

At supper at Lamb’s after the Play, it was decided to publish immediately, and Lamb took the MS. home for revision. The verbal criticism which accompanied the following letter has now no interest, unless it be these few lines—

“‘Enviable’ is a very bad word. I allude to ‘Enviable right to bless us.’ For instance, Burns, comparing the ills of manhood with the state of infancy, says, ‘Oh! enviable early days;’ here ’tis good, because the passion lay in comparison. Excuse my insulting your judgment with an illustration. I believe I only wanted

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to beg in the name of a favourite Bardie, or at most to confirm my own judgment.”

The catastrophe was recorded by C. Lamb many years afterwards, in the London Magazine [April 1, 1822] in a paper entitled “The Old Actors.” The portion relating to Antonio, deserves quotation here, especially since this part of the paper has rarely been re-printed in Lamb’s collected Essays. Godwin did not resent the fun which his friend made of him and of Marshal, for the pages, endorsed with the date in his own hand, were carefully preserved among his papers. Perhaps time had softened the blow, and he could afford to jest at what once he felt so keenly, or, and this is more likely, the ridicule bestowed on Kemble disguised and palliated that which was directed against himself.

“John Kemble had made up his mind early, that all the good tragedies which could be written had been written; and he resented any new attempt. His shelves were full. The old standards were scope enough for his ambition. He ranged in them absolute—and ‘fair in Otway, full in Shakspeare shone.’ He succeeded to the old lawful thrones, and did not care to adventure bottomry with a Sir Edward Mortimer, or any casual speculator that offered. I remember, too acutely for my peace, the deadly extinguisher which he put upon my friend G.’s ‘Antonio.’ G., satiate with visions of political justice (possibly not to be realized in our time), or willing to let the sceptical worldlings see, that his anticipations of the future did not preclude a warm sympathy for men as they are and have been—wrote a tragedy. He chose a story, affecting, romantic, Spanish—the plot simple, without being naked—the incidents uncommon, without being overstrained. Antonio, who gives the name to the piece, is a sensitive young

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Castilian, who, in a fit of his country honour, immolates his sister—

“The conception was bold, and the denouement—the time and place in which the hero of it existed, considered—not much out of keeping; yet it must be confessed, that it required a delicacy of handling both from the author and the performer, so as not much to shock the prejudices of a modern English audience. G., in my opinion, had done his part.

“John, who was in familiar habits with the philosopher, had undertaken to play Antonio. Great expectations were formed. A philosopher’s first play was a new æra. The night arrived. I was favoured with a seat in an advantageous box, between the author and his friend M——. G. sate cheerful and confident. In his friend M.’s looks, who had perused the manuscript, I read some terror. Antonio, in the person of John Philip Kemble, at length appeared, starched out in a ruff which no one could dispute, and in most irreproachable mustachios. John always dressed most provokingly correct on these occasions. The first act swept by, solemn and silent. It went off, as G. assured M., exactly as the opening act of a piece—the protasis—should do. The cue of the spectators was to be mute. The characters were but in their introduction. The passions and the incidents would be developed hereafter. Applause hitherto would be impertinent. Silent attention was the effect all-desirable. Poor M. acquiesced—but in his honest friendly face I could discern a working which told how much more acceptable the plaudit of a single hand (however misplaced) would have been than all this reasoning. The second act (as in duty bound) rose a little in interest; but still John kept his forces under—in policy, as G. would have it—and the audience were most complacently attentive. The protasis, in fact, was scarcely unfolded. The interest would warm in the next act, against which a special incident was provided. M. wiped his cheek, flushed with a friendly perspiration—’tis M.’s way of show-

GODWIN’S PHILOSOPHIC CALM.

53

ing his zeal—‘from every pore of him a perfume falls—.’ I honour it above Alexander’s. He had once or twice during this act joined his palms in a feeble endeavour to elicit a sound—they emitted a solitary noise without an echo—there was no deep to answer to his deep. G. repeatedly begged him to be quiet. The third act at length brought on the scene which was to warm the piece progressively to the final flaming forth of the catastrophe. A philosophic calm settled upon the clear brow of G. as it approached. The lips of M. quivered. A challenge was held forth upon the stage, and there was promise of a fight. The pit roused themselves on this extraordinary occasion, and, as their manner is, seemed disposed to make a ring,—when suddenly Antonio, who was the challenged, turning the tables upon the hot challenger, Don Gusman (who by the way should have had his sister) baulks his humour, and the pit’s reasonable expectation at the same time, with some speeches out of the new philosophy against duelling. The audience were here fairly caught—their courage was up, and on the alert—a few blows, ding dong, as R——s the dramatist afterwards expressed it to me, might have done the business—when their most exquisite moral sense was suddenly called in to assist in the mortifying negation of their own pleasure. They could not applaud for disappointment; they would not condemn, for morality’s sake. The interest stood stone still; and John’s manner was not at all calculated to unpetrify it. It was Christmas time, and the atmosphere furnished some pretext for asthmatic affections. One began to cough—his neighbour sympathized with him—till a cough became epidemical. But when, from being half-artificial in the pit, the cough got frightfully naturalized among the fictitious persons of the drama; and Antonio himself (albeit it was not set down in the stage directions) seemed more intent upon relieving his own lungs than the distresses of the author and his friends,—then G. ‘first knew fear’ and mildly turning to M., intimated that he had not been aware that Mr K. laboured under a cold; and that the performance might possibly have been postponed with advantage for some nights further—still keeping the same serene countenance, while M. sweat like a bull. It would

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be invidious to pursue the fates of this ill-starred evening. In vain did the plot thicken in the scenes that followed, in vain the dialogue wax more passionate and stirring, and the progress of the sentiment point more and more clearly to the arduous development which impended. In vain the action was accelerated, while the acting stood still. From the beginning John had taken his stand; had wound himself up to an even tenor of stately declamation, from which no exigence of dialogue or person could make him swerve for an instant. To dream of his rising with the scene (the common trick of tragedians) was preposterous; for from the onset he had planted himself, as upon a terrace, on an eminence vastly above the audience, and he kept that sublime level to the end. He looked from his throne of elevated sentiment upon the under-world of spectators with a most sovran and becoming contempt. There was excellent pathos delivered out to them: an they would receive it, so; an they would not receive it, so. There was no offence against decorum in all this; nothing to condemn, to damn. Not an irreverent symptom of a sound was to be heard. The procession of verbiage stalked on through four and five acts, no one venturing to predict what would come of it, when towards the winding up of the latter, Antonio, with an irrelevancy that seemed to stagger Helena herself—for she had been coolly arguing the point of honour with him—suddenly whips out a poniard, and stabs his sister to the heart. The effect was, as if a murder had been committed in cold blood. The whole house rose up in clamorous indignation demanding justice. The feeling rose far above hisses. I believe at that instant, if they could have got him, they would have torn the unfortunate author to pieces. Not that the act itself was so exorbitant, or of a complexion different from what they themselves would have applauded upon another occasion in a Brutus or an Appius—but for want of attending to Antonio’s words, which palpably led to the expectation of no less dire an event, instead of being seduced by his manner, which seemed to promise a sleep of a less alarming nature than it was his cue to inflict upon Helena, they found themselves betrayed into an accompliceship of

MARSHALL’S REGRET.

55

murder, a perfect misprision of parricide, while they dreamed of nothing less. M., I believe, was the only person who suffered acutely from the failure; for G. thenceforward, with a serenity unattainable but by the true philosophy, abandoning a precarious popularity, retired into his fasthold of speculation,—the drama in which the world was to be his tiring room, and remote posterity his applauding spectators at once, and actors.