Anna Brownell Jameson (1794-1860)
in
Characteristics of Women, Moral, Poetical, and
Historical (1832; 1893)
I come now to Rosalind, whom I should have ranked before Beatrice, inasmuch as the greater degree of her sex's softness and sensibility, united with equal wit and intellect, give her the superiority as a woman; but that as a dramatic character she is inferior in force. The portrait is one of infinitely more delicacy and variety, but of less strength and depth. It is easy to seize on the prominent features in the mind of Beatrice, but extremely difficult to catch and fix the more fanciful graces of Rosalind. She is like a compound of essences, so volatile in their nature, and so exquisitely blended, that on any attempt to analyse them they seem to escape us. To what else shall we compare her, all-enchanting as she is? — to the silvery summer clouds, which, even while we gaze on them, shift their hues and forms, dissolving into air, and light, and rainbow showers? — to the May-morning, flush with opening blossoms and roseate dews, and "charm of earliest birds"? — to some wild and beautiful melody, such as some shepherd boy might "pipe to Amaryllis in the shade"? — to a mountain streamlet, now smooth as a mirror in which the skies may glass themselves, and anon leaping and sparkling in the sunshine — or rather to the very sunshine itself? for so her genial spirit touches into life and beauty whatever it shines on!
[2] But this impression, though produced by
the complete development of the character, and in the end possessing the whole
fancy, is not immediate. The first
introduction of Rosalind is less striking than interesting; we see her a
dependant, almost a captive, in the house of her usurping uncle; her genial
spirits are subdued by her situation, and the remembrance of her banished
father: her playfulness is under a
temporary eclipse.
I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry!
is an adjuration
which Rosalind needed not when once at liberty, and sporting "under the
greenwood tree." The
sensibility and even pensiveness of her demeanour in the first instance, render
her archness and gaiety afterwards, more graceful and more fascinating.
[3] Though Rosalind is a princess, she is a
princess of Arcady; and, notwithstanding the charming effect produced by her
first scenes, we scarcely ever think of her with a reference to them, or
associate her with a court and the artificial appendages of her rank. She was not made to "lord it o'er
a fair mansion," and take state upon her, like the all-accomplished
Portia; but to breathe the free air of heaven, and frolic among green
leaves. She was not made to stand
the siege of daring profligacy, and oppose high action and high passion to the
assaults of adverse fortune, like Isabel; but to "fleet the time
carelessly as they did i' the golden age." She was not made to bandy wit with lords, and tread courtly
measures with plumed and warlike cavaliers, like Beatrice; but to dance on the
greensward, and "murmur among living brooks a music sweeter than their
own."
[4] Though sprightliness is the
distinguishing characteristic of Rosalind, as of Beatrice, yet we find her much
more nearly allied to Portia in temper and intellect. The tone of her mind is, like Portia's, genial and
buoyant: she has something too of
her softness and sentiment; there is the same confiding abandonment of self in
her affections but the characters are otherwise as distinct as the situations
are dissimilar. The age, the
manners, the circumstance, in which Shakspeare has placed his Portia, are not
beyond the bounds of probability; nay, have a certain reality and
locality. We fancy her a
cotemporary of the Raffaelles and the Ariostos; the sea-wedded Venice, its
merchants and Magnificos, the Rialto and the long canals, — rise up before us
when we think of her. But Rosalind
is surrounded with the purely ideal and imaginative; the reality is in the
characters and in the sentiments, not in the circumstances or situation. Portia is dignified, splendid, and
romantic; Rosalind is playful, pastoral, and picturesque both are in the
highest degree poetical, but the one is epic and the other lyric.
[5] Everything about Rosalind breathes of
"youth and youth's sweet prime." She is fresh as the morning, sweet as the dew-awakened
blossoms, and light as the breeze that plays among them. She is as witty, as voluble, as
sprightly as Beatrice; but in a style altogether distinct. In both the wit is equally
unconscious: but in Beatrice it
plays about us like the lightning, dazzling but also alarming; while the wit of
Rosalind bubbles up and sparkles like the living fountain, refreshing all
around. Her volubility is like the
bird's song; it is the outpouring of a heart filled to overflowing with life, love,
and joy, and all sweet and affectionate impulses. She has as much tenderness as mirth, and in her most
petulant raillery there is a touch of softness — "By this hand, it will
not hurt a fly." As her
vivacity never lessens our impression of her sensibility, so she wears her
masculine attire without the slightest impugnment of her delicacy. Shakspeare did not make the modesty of
his women depend on their dress, as we shall see further when we come to Viola
and Imogen. Rosalind has in truth
"no doublet and hose in her disposition." How her heart seems to throb and flutter under her page's
vest! What depth of love in her
passion for Orlando! whether
disguised beneath a saucy playfulness, or breaking forth with a fond,
impatience, or half betrayed in that beautiful scene where she faints at the
sight of the kerchief stained with his blood! Here her recovery of her self-possession — her fears lest
she should have revealed her sex — her presence of mind, and quick-witted
excuse:
I pray you, tell your brother how well I counterfeited—
and the
characteristic playfulness which seems to return so naturally with her
recovered senses — are all as amusing as consistent. Then how beautifully is the dialogue managed between herself
and Orlando! how well she assumes
the airs of a saucy page, without throwing off her feminine sweetness! How her wit flutters free as air over
every subject! with what a
careless grace, yet with what exquisite propriety!
For innocence hath a privilege in her
To dignify arch jests and laughing eyes.
And if the
freedom of some of the expressions used by Rosalind or Beatrice be objected to,
let it be remembered that this was not the fault of Shakspeare or the women,
but generally of the age. Portia,
Beatrice, Rosalind, and the rest, lived in times when more importance was
attached to things than to words; now we think more of words than of
things: and happy are we in these
later days of super-refinement, if we are to be saved by our verbal
morality. But this is meddling
with the province of the melancholy Jaques, and our argument is Rosalind.
[6] The impression left upon our hearts and
minds by the character of Rosalind — by the mixture of playfulness,
sensibility, and what the French (and we for lack of a better expression) call
na•vetˇ — is like a delicious strain of music. There is a depth of delight, and a subtlety of words to
express that delight, which is enchanting. Yet when we call to mind particular speeches and passages,
we find that they have a relative beauty and propriety, which renders it
difficult to separate them from the context without injuring their effect. She says some of the most charming
things in the world, and some of the most humorous: but we apply them as phrases rather than as maxims, and
remember them rather for their pointed felicity of expression and fanciful
application, than for their general truth and depth of meaning. I will give a few instances:—
I was never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time — that I was an
Irish rat — which I can hardly remember.
Good my complexion!
Dost thou think, though I am caparisoned like a man, that I have a
doublet and hose in my disposition?
We dwell here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a
petticoat.
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.
A traveller! 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.
Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the
benefits of your own country; he out of love with your nativity, and almost
chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you
have swam in a gondola.
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 clapp'd him o' the shoulder, but I'll
warrant him heart-whole.
Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them — but
not for love.
I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel, and to cry
like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought
to show itself courageous to petticoat.
[7] Rosalind has not the impressive
eloquence of Portia, nor the sweet wisdom of Isabella. Her longest speeches are not her best;
nor is her taunting address to Phebe, beautiful and celebrated as it is, equal
to Phebe's own description of her.
The latter, indeed, is more in earnest.
[8] Celia is more quiet and retired; but
she rather yields to Rosalind than is eclipsed by her. She is as full of sweetness, kindness,
and intelligence, quite as susceptible, and almost as witty, though she makes
less display of wit. She is
described as less fair and less gifted; yet the attempt to excite in her mind a
jealousy of her lovelier friend by placing them in comparison—
Thou art a fool; she robs Vice of thy name;
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more virtuous,
When she is gone—
fails to
awaken in the generous heart of Celia any other feeling than an increased
tenderness and sympathy for her cousin.
To Celia, Shakspeare has given some of the most striking and animated
parts of the dialogue; and in particular, that exquisite description of the
friendship between her and Rosalind—
If she be a traitor,
Why, so am I; we have still slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together,
And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans.
Still we were coupled and inseparable.
[9] The feeling of interest and admiration
thus excited for Celia at the first, follows her through the whole play. We listen to her as to one who has made
herself worthy of our love, and her silence expresses more than eloquence.
[10] Phebe is quite an Arcadian coquette;
she is a piece of pastoral poetry.
Audrey is only rustic. A
very amusing effect is produced by the contrast between the frank and free
bearing of the two princesses in disguise and the scornful airs of the real
shepherdess. In the speeches of
Phebe, and in the dialogue between her and Sylvius, Shakspeare has anticipated
all the beauties of the Italian pastoral, and surpassed Tasso and Guarini. We find two among the most poetical
passages of the play appropriated to Phebe — the taunting speech to Sylvius,
and the description of Rosalind in her page's costume; which last is finer than
the portrait of Bathyllus in Anacreon.