Consequently, in place of the supreme picture of womanly purity he intended, he produced what is no better than a grotesque caricature. His cynical indifference is not only evident from many of his other works, but constantly forces itself upon our attention even in the present play. The falsity of his whole position appears in the unconvincing conventionality of the patterns of chast.i.ty themselves, and in the unreality of the characters which serve them as foils--Cloe being utterly preposterous except as a study in pathlogy, and Amarillis essentially a tragic figure who can only be tolerated on condition of her real character being carefully veiled. It appears again in the utterly irrational conversion and purification of these characters, and we may further face it in the profound cynicism, all the more terrible because apparently unconscious, with which the author is content to dismiss Thenot, cured of his altruistic devotion by the shattering at one blow of all that he held most sacred in woman.

In this antagonism between Fletcher's own sympathies and the ideal he set before him seems to me to lie the key to the enigma of his play. Only one other rational solution is possible, namely that he intended the whole as an elaborate satire on all ideas of chast.i.ty whatever. It is hardly surprising, under the circ.u.mstances, that one of the most persistent false notes in the piece is that indelicacy of self-conscious virtue which we have before observed in the case of Ta.s.so. If on the other hand we have to p.r.o.nounce Fletcher free of any taint of seductive sentiment, we must nevertheless charge him with a considerable increase in that cynicism with regard to womankind in general which had by now become characteristic of the pastoral drama. We have already noticed it in the case of Ta.s.so's 'Or, non sai tu com' e fatta la donna?' and of the words in which Corisca describes her changes of lovers, to say nothing of its appearance at the close of the _Orfeo_. In English poetry we find Daniel writing:

Light are their waving vailes, light their attires, Light are their heads, and lighter their desires; (_Queen's Arcadia_, II. iii.)

while with Fletcher the charge becomes yet more bitter. Thenot, contemplating the constancy of Clorin, is amazed

that such virtue can Be resident in lesser than a man, (II. ii. 83,)

or that any should be found capable of mastering the suggestions of caprice

And that great G.o.d of women, appet.i.te. (ib. 146.)

Amarillis, courting Perigot, asks in scorn:

Still think'st thou such a thing as chast.i.ty Is amongst women? (III. i. 297.)

The Sullen Shepherd declares of the wounded Amoret:

Thou wert not meant, Sure, for a woman, thou art so innocent; (ib. 358.)

and sums up his opinion of the s.e.x in the words:

Women love only opportunity And not the man. (ib. 127.)

So Fletcher wrote, and in the same mood the arch-cynic of a later age exclaimed:

ev'ry Woman is at heart a Rake!

But it is high time to inquire how it is, supposing the objections we have been considering to be justly chargeable against the _Faithful Shepherdess_, that it should ever have come to be regarded as a cla.s.sic of the language, that it should be by far the most widely known of its author's works, and that we should find ourselves turning to it again and again with ever-fresh delight. The reader has doubtless already answered the question. Fletcher brought to the composition of his play a gift of easy lyric versification, a command of varied rhythm, and a felicity of phrase, allusion, recollection, and echo, such as have seldom been surpa.s.sed. The wealth of pure poetry overflowing in every scene is of power to make us readily forget the host of objections which serious criticism must raise, and revel with mere delight in the verbal melody.

The play is literally crowded with incidental sketches of exquisite beauty which suggest comparison with the more set descriptions of Ta.s.so, and flash past on the speed of the verse as the flowers of the roadside and glimpses of the distant landscape through breaks in the hedge flash for an instant on the gaze of the rider[269].

Before pa.s.sing on, and in spite of the fact that the play must be familiar to most readers, I here transcribe a few of its most fascinating pa.s.sages as the best defence Fletcher has to oppose to the objections of his critics. It is in truth no lame one[270].

In the opening scene Clorin, who has vowed herself to a life of chast.i.ty at the grave of her lover, is met by the satyr, who at once bows in worship of her beauty. He has been sent by Pan to fetch fruits for the entertainment of 'His paramour the Syrinx bright.' 'But behold a fairer sight!' he exclaims on seeing Clorin:

By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair, thou art divine, Sprung from great immortal race Of the G.o.ds, for in thy face Shines more awful majesty Than dull weak mortality Dare with misty eyes behold And live. Therefore on this mould Lowly do I bend my knee In worship of thy deity.[271] (I. i. 58.)

The next scene takes place in the neighbourhood of the village. At the conclusion of a festival we find the priest p.r.o.nouncing blessing upon the a.s.sembled people and purging them with holy water[272], after which they disperse with a song. As they are going, Perigot stays Amoret, begging her to lend an ear to his suit. He addresses her:

Oh you are fairer far Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star That guides the wandering seaman through the deep, Straighter than straightest pine upon the steep Head of an aged mountain, and more white Than the new milk we strip before day-light From the full-freighted bags of our fair flocks, Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks Of young Apollo! (I. ii. 60.)

They agree to meet by night in the neighbouring wood, there to bind their love with mutual vows. The tryst is set where

to that holy wood is consecrate A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes Their stolen children, so to make them free From dying flesh and dull mortality.

By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn, And given away his freedom, many a troth Been plight, which neither envy nor old time Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given In hope of coming happiness.

By this fresh fountain many a blushing maid Hath crown'd the head of her long-loved shepherd With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung Lays of his love and dear captivity. (I. ii. 99.)

Cloe, repulsed by Thenot, sings her roguishly wanton carol:

Come, shepherds, come!

Come away Without delay, Whilst the gentle time doth stay.

Green woods are dumb, And will never tell to any Those dear kisses, and those many Sweet embraces, that are given; Dainty pleasures, that would even Raise in coldest age a fire And give virgin blood desire

Then if ever, Now or never, Come and have it; Think not I Dare deny If you crave it. (I. iii. 71.)

Her fortune with the modest Daphnis is scarcely better, and she is just lamenting the coldness of men when Alexis enters and forthwith accosts her with his fervent suit. She agrees, with a pretty show of yielding modesty:

lend me all thy red, Thou shame-fac'd Morning, when from t.i.thon's bed Thou risest ever maiden! (ib. 176.)

The second act opens with the exquisite evensong of the priest:

Shepherds all and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up, for the air 'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course hath run.

See the dew-drops how they kiss Every little flower that is, Hanging on their velvet heads Like a rope of crystal beads; See the heavy clouds low falling, And bright Hesperus down calling The dead night from under ground, At whose rising mists unsound, Damps and vapours fly apace, Hovering o'er the wanton face Of these pastures, where they come Striking dead both bud and bloom. (II. i. 1.)

In the following scene Thenot declares to Clorin his singular pa.s.sion, founded upon admiration of her constancy to her dead lover. He too can plead his love in verse of no ordinary strain:

'Tis not the white or red Inhabits in your cheek that thus can wed My mind to adoration, nor your eye, Though it be full and fair, your forehead high And smooth as Pelops' shoulder; not the smile Lies watching in those dimples to beguile The easy soul, your hands and fingers long With veins enamell'd richly, nor your tongue, Though it spoke sweeter than Arion's harp; Your hair woven in many a curious warp, Able in endless error to enfold The wandering soul; not the true perfect mould Of all your body, which as pure doth shew In maiden whiteness as the Alpen snow: All these, were but your constancy away, Would please me less than the black stormy day The wretched seaman toiling through the deep.

But, whilst this honour'd strictness you do keep, Though all the plagues that e'er begotten were In the great womb of air were settled here, In opposition, I would, like the tree, Shake off those drops of weakness, and be free Even in the arm of danger. (II. ii. 116.)

The last lines, however fine in themselves, are utterly out of place in the mouth of this morbid sentimentalist. They breath the brave spirit of Chapman's outburst:

Give me a spirit that on this life's rough sea Loves t'have his sails fill'd with a l.u.s.ty wind, Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, And his rapt ship run on her side so low That she drinks water and her keel plows air.

(_Byron's Conspiracy_, III. i.)

Into the details of the night's adventures there is no call for us to enter; it will be sufficient to detach a few pa.s.sages from their setting, which can usually be done without material injury. The whole scenery of the wood, in the densest thicket of which Pan is feasting with his mistress, while about their close retreat the satyr keeps watch and ward, mingling now and again in the action of the mortals, is strongly reminiscent of the _Midsummer Night's Dream_. The wild-wood minister thus describes his charge in the octosyllabic couplets which const.i.tute such a characteristic of the play:

Now, whilst the moon doth rule the sky, And the stars, whose feeble light Give a pale shadow to the night, Are up, great Pan commanded me To walk this grove about, whilst he, In a corner of the wood Where never mortal foot hath stood, Keeps dancing, music and a feast To entertain a lovely guest; Where he gives her many a rose Sweeter than the breath that blows The leaves, grapes, berries of the best; I never saw so great a feast.

But to my charge. Here must I stay To see what mortals lose their way, And by a false fire, seeming-bright, Train them in and leave them right. (III. i. 167.)

Perigot's musing when he meets Amoret and supposes her to be the transformed Amarillis is well conceived; he greets her:

What art thou dare Tread these forbidden paths, where death and care Dwell on the face of darkness? (IV. iv. 15.)

while not less admirable is the pathos of Amoret's pleading; how she had

lov'd thee dearer than mine eyes, or that Which we esteem our honour, virgin state; Dearer than swallows love the early morn, Or dogs of chase the sound of merry horn; Dearer than thou canst love thy new love, if thou hast Another, and far dearer than the last; Dearer than thou canst love thyself, though all The self-love were within thee that did fall With that coy swain that now is made a flower, For whose dear sake Echo weeps many a shower!...

Come, thou forsaken willow, wind my head, And noise it to the world, my love is dead! (ib. 102.)

Then again we have the lines in which the satyr heralds the early dawn:

See, the day begins to break, And the light shoots like a streak Of subtle fire; the wind blows cold Whilst the morning doth unfold.

Now the birds begin to rouse, And the squirrel from the boughs Leaps to get him nuts and fruit; The early lark, that erst was mute, Carols to the rising day Many a note and many a lay. (ib. 165.)

The last act, with its obligation to wind up such loose threads of action as have been spun in the course of the play, is perhaps somewhat lacking in pa.s.sages of particular beauty, but it yields us Amarillis' prayer as she flies from the Sullen Shepherd, and the final speech of the satyr.

However out of keeping with character the former of these may be, it is in itself unsurpa.s.sed:

If there be Ever a neighbour-brook or hollow tree, Receive my body, close me up from l.u.s.t That follows at my heels! Be ever just, Thou G.o.d of shepherds, Pan, for her dear sake That loves the rivers' brinks, and still doth shake In cold remembrance of thy quick pursuit; Let me be made a reed, and, ever mute, Nod to the waters' fall, whilst every blast Sings through my slender leaves that I was chaste!

(V. iii. 79.)