SHAKSPEARE DONE INTO FRENCH.
In the first place, it really was an immense success, and Shylock, or Sheeloque, as they dubbed him, was called before the curtain seven times, and in most appropriate humility nearly laid his nose on his insteps as he bowed, and quite showed his spine.
It certainly was like Shakspeare in this, that it had five acts; but when I have made that concession, and admitted that Sheeloque was Le Juif de Venise, I think I have named all the cardinal points of similarity in the "Merchant of Venice" and "Le Juif" of that same unwholesome place. To be sure, there is a suspicion of le devin Williams, as they will call him, continually cropping out; but a conscientious man would not swear to one line of it, and I do not think Shakspeare would be justified in suing the French author for compensation under the National Copyright-Act. I speak of Shakspeare as existing, because it is my belief he does, in a manner so to speak.
I have intimated that "Le Juif" has five acts; but I have not yet committed myself to the assertion that he was in seven tableaux, and possessed a prologue.
It is now my pleasing duty to force you through the five acts, and the one prologue, and the seven tableaux,—every one of them.
This prologue is divided as to the theatre into two parts: to left, Sheeloque's domestic interior,—to right, a practicable canal. In the very first line out crops Shylock's love of good bargains; and I give the reader my word, the little Frenchmen saw that this was characteristic, and applauded vehemently. "Bon," said I,—"if they applaud the first line, what will they do with the last act?"
It need not be said that Shylock dabbles in those bills which Venetian swells of the fifteenth century, in common with those of a later age and more western land, will manipulate, in spite of all the political economy from Confucius down to Mr. Mill; and in this particular instance and prologue the names of the improvidents are Leone and Ubaldo, neither of which, if my memory serve me, is Shakspearian. These gentlemen considerably shake my traditional respect for sixteenth-century Venetian Aristos, for they insult that Jew till I wonder where a count and a duke have learnt such language: but they serve a purpose; they trot Shylock out, so to speak, and give our author an opportunity of doing his best with A 1. Shylock's great speech. Here is the apostrophe:—
"But yesterday—no later past than yesterday—thou didst bid thy mistress call at me from her balcony; thy servants by thy will did cast mud on me, and thy hounds sped snapping after me,'"—whereby we may infer they went hunting in Venice, in the fifteenth century. It must have been rather dangerous running. Nor could the Venetian nobles of that good old time have been very proper; for Leone and Ubaldo justify themselves by saying they were drunk.
It is after this pretty excuse that Shylock has a soliloquy as long as his beard,—and I hear really loud opposition to this didacticism in the pit; but, however, this slow work soon meets compensation in violent action. Shylock won't renew, and the nobles get indignant; so they propose to pay Shylock with more kicks than halfpence. Here the action begins; for Shylock protests he will bite a bit out of them; and though one of these long-sleeved swells warns him that all threats by Jews against Christians are an imprisonment manner, Shylock rashly prepares for a defence. Away fly the lords after Shylock, over go the chairs, down goes the table, and I suppose Shylock does hit "one of them"; for the two lords go off quite triumphantly, with the intimation that he will be in prison in one hour from that.
Then the Jew calls for—Sarah; and this same comes in on tiptoe, for fear of waking the baby. This Shylock fils Sarah proceeds to describe as equally beautiful with Abel and Moses, which seems to give Shylock père great comfort,—though I am bound to admit the lowly whispered doubt on the part of a pit-neighbor of mine as to Sarah's capability of judging in the matter.
Shylock is preparing for prison, it seems, and one little necessity is a prayer for said son. Sarah comes in with a response, Shylock leaves off praying "immediate," to tell Sarah she is no vulgar servant, which assurance is received in the tearful manner. And here it comes a little faint whiff of the real play. In leaving home, Shylock's French plagiarizes the Jew's speech to Jessica, even down to the doubt the Jew has about leaving his house at all.
There has been no necessity for stating that Sara supposes herself the widow of a libel on his sex, a man unspeakable; and the moment I hear he is, or was, a man of crime unspeakable, I know he will turn up. Shylock having gone away,—I do not know where,—up comes a gondola to the front-door, and, of course, in walks Sarah's husband. "Good evening, Ma'am," says he. "God of Israel!" says she. And then such an explanation as this infamous husband gives! He puts in, that he is a pirate; that his captain, whom he describes as a Vénus en corsaire, has lost a son, and wants another; hence speaker, name Arnheim, wants that little Israelite who is so much like Abel and Moses at one and the same moment: though how Arnheim should know of that little creation, or how he should know him to be also like the lost infantile pirate as well as Abel and Moses, does not sufficiently appear,—as, indeed, my neighbor, who is suggestive of a Greek Chorus in a blue blouse, discovers in half a dozen disparaging syllables.
Of course, when the supposed widow hears this, her cries ought to wake up all hearing Venice, but not one Venetian comes to her aid; and though she uses her two hands enough for twenty, she has not got her way when thoroughly breathed.
"Sarah," says that energetic woman's husband, "Sarah, don't be a fool!"
Then I know the baby is coming: there never yet was a French prologue without a baby,—it seems a French unity; sometimes there are two babies, who always get mixed up. But to our business.
Out comes the baby, (they never scream,) and—alas that for effect he should thus commit himself!—Arnheim rips Sarah up, and down she goes as dead as the Queen of Sheba.
Then comes a really fine scene. Shylock enters, learns all; in come soldiers for Shylock, and, of course, accuse him of the murder; whereupon Shylock shows on the blade a cross. "Doth a Jew wear a knife with a cross on it?" says he. "Go to!—'tis a Christian murder."
To this the soldier-head has nothing to say; so he hurries Shylock off to prison, and down comes the curtain.
"Hum!" says the Greek Chorus,—"it might be worse."
ACT I.
It is clear there must be lady characters, or I am quite sure the Greek Chorus would find fault wofully,—and the only one we have had, Sarah, to wit, can't decently appear again, except in the spiritual form. Well, there is the original Portia,—alas for that clever, virtuous, and noble lady!—how is she fallen in the French!—she is noble-looking and clever,—but the third quality, oh, dear me! This disreputable is named Imperia, and the real Bassanio becomes one Honorius, who is, as he should be, the bosom friend of one Andronic, which is Antonio, I would have you know. I have thought over it two minutes, and have come to the conclusion that the less I say about Imperia the better, and I know the Anglo-Saxon would not agree with Imperia,—but, as the Frenchman does, I offer you one, or part of one of Imperia's songs, as bought by me for two disgraceful sous.
"Déjà l'aube rayonne et luit,
La nuit
Finit;
Maîtresse,
L'heure enchanteresse
Passe et fuit…
A ton arrêt je dois me rendre.
Sort jaloux! (bis.)
Hâtons-nous,
Il faut descendre
Sans réveiller son vieil époux!…"
Well,—what do you think of it? Now I will not mention her again,—I will refer to her, when I shall have vexatious occasion, as "that woman." And, indeed, "that woman" and Honorius set us up in comprehension of matters progressing. It seems that quite twenty years have passed since Sarah's soul slid through a knife-gash; that Honorius and Andronic, who have come from Smyrna, (why?) are almost brothers; that Honorius is good in this fact only, that he knows he is really bad; and that Andronic is the richest and most moral man in Venice,—though why, under those circumstances, he should be friendly with such a rip as Honorius, Honorius does not inform us.
I shall pass over the next scenes, and come to that in which all the creditors of all the lords are brought on to the stage in a state which calls for the interference of the Doge: they are all drunk,—except Shylock. This scene really is a startler. Shylock, now dashed with gray, and nearly double, comes up to "that woman" and calls her sister; whereupon she demanding that explanation which I and the Greek Chorus simultaneously want, Shylock states that he is Usury and she Luxury, "and they have one father."
"Queer old man!!!" says "that woman."
Here follow dice, in which the Jew is requested to join, all of which naturally brings about a discussion on the rate of usage, which that dog Andronic is bringing down, and a further statement that that imprisonment lasted two years. Then comes a coup d'théâtre: Shylock reminds everybody that a just Doge reigns now, (nor can I help pointing out the Frenchman's ingenuity here: in the play, the Doge must be just, or where would the pound of flesh be?—while, if the Doge of the prologue were just, Shylock would not have been committed for two years,—ergo, kill No. 1. Doge, install No. 2.)—Shylock reminds everybody that a just Doge reigns. Shylock has it all his own way, and Honorius is arrested before the very eyes of "that woman." Then comes the necessary Deus ex machina in the shape of Andronic, who pays everybody everything, saves his friend, and play proceeds. Andronic reproaches Jew touching his greed, whereon the Jew offers this not profound remark,—"I am—what I am,"—and goes on counting his money.
Oh, if you only knew the secret!
This cash payment winds up the act.
ACT II.
Decidedly, the beginning of Act Second proves Andronic is no fool, for he advises Honorius to flee that creature,—and what better advice in those matters is there than that of retreating? Decidedly, too, the virtuous Doge is worth having,—really a Middle-Age electric telegraph,—for he gives all about him such a dose of news as in this day would sell every penny-paper printed: and such bad news!—Venice down everywhere, and a loan wanted. Here comes a fine scene for Andronic, (for, after all, the lords have "hitched out" of the proposed loan, whereby I take it they are not such fools as people take them to be,)—Andronic declares, that, if he were rich enough, the Doge should not ask for money, but ships are but frail and his have gone to pieces. Here, you see, comes another faint whiff of the real original play.
Then, clearly, the Doge can only apply to the Jews. Enter Shylock à propos. The next scene is so awful to the Greek Chorus, who may be of a business turn, that I am charitable enough not to reproduce it here; but the percentage the Jew wants for the loan seems to be quite a multiplication-table of tangible securities, and I only wonder the Doge does not order him into the Adriatic. Amongst other demands, the Jew procures all the Dogic jewels,—and then he wants all the jewels of the Doge's daughter; indeed, Shylock becomes a most unreasonable party.
No sooner does he speak of the daughter, Ginevra by name, than in she comes, jewel-casket in hand,—which leads the cynical Greek Chorus to suppose that Mademoiselle is either clairvoyante or prefers going about with a box. The way in which that best of her sex offers up the jewels on the patriotic shrine is really worthy of the applause bestowed on the act; but when that pig of a Jew is not satisfied, when he insists upon the diamond necklace Ginevra wears, as another preliminary to the loan, people in the theatre quite shake with indignation.
Now the jewel has been the pattern young lady's mother's; and here comes an opening for that appeal to the filial love of Frenchmen which is never touched in vain. It is really a great and noble trait in the French character, that filial love, not too questionable to be demonstrative,—'tis a sure dramatist's French card, that appeal to the love of mothers and fathers by their children.
Having procured the weight of this chain, which has caused Shylock the loss of many friends in the house who have been inclined to like him consequent upon the loss of that Abel-Moses-photograph,—Shylock departs with this information, that he will bring the money to-morrow: which assertion proves Shylock to be a strong man, if a hundred thousand marks are as heavy as I take them to be.
Upon what little things do dramas, in common with lives, turn!
That necklace is the brilliant groundwork of the rest of the plot.
Why—why—why—WHY didn't Shakspeare think of the necklace?
And as I always must tell love-affairs as soon as I hear of them,—for, as a rule, I live in country towns,—I may at once state that Ginevra loved Andronic, and latter loved former, and they would not tell each other, and the Doge knew nothing about it.
Yes, decidedly, the necklace is the first character in "Le Juif de Venise." You see, Ginevra loved the necklace, and Andronic loved Ginevra; so he is forced to procure that charming necklace for her, coûte qui coûte, and so he goes to Shylock for it. And here you will see its value: Shylock will sell it only for a large sum. Andronic, seeing his losses, hasn't the money,—but will have;—glorious opening for the clause about the pound of flesh! Signed, sealed, and delivered. How superior is Andronic to Antonio, the old ——! This latter pawns his breast for a friend only: the great Andronic risks the flesh about his heart for sacred love. Io Venus!
Yet, nevertheless, notwithstanding, it is the opinion of the Greek Chorus that Andronic is a joli fool,—which choral remark I hear with pain, as reflecting upon unhesitating love, and especially as the remarker has been eminently touched at the abduction.
ACT IV.
As for the Fourth Act,—it is very tender and terrible.
I need not say that the tenderness arises through the necklace,—and indeed, for that matter, so also does the terror. Touching the first, of course it is the discovery by Ginevra of the return of those maternal diamonds,—which are handed to her by a femme-de-chambre, who has had them from Andronic's valet-de-chambre, who is in love with the femme-de-chambre, who reciprocates, etc., etc., etc.
But touching the terrible,—"that woman" hears of the necklace, and sends Honorius for it to Shylock. Bad job!—gone! Well, then, Honorius falls out with his old friend Andronic because latter will not yield up the necklace. Honorius demands to know who has it. Andronic will not name Ginevra's name before "that woman" and all the lofty lords, and then there's a grand scene.
In the first place, it seems that in Shylock's Venetian time, the Venetian lords, when obliging Venice with a riot, called upon Venetians to put out their lights, and this the lords now do, (we are on the piazza,) and out go all the lights as though turned off at one main.
Then there is such a scrimmage! Honorius lunges at Andronic; this latter disarms former; then latter comes to his senses, flies over to his old friend, and all the Venetian brawlers are put to flight.
Then Honorius says,—and pray, pray, mark what Honorius says, or you will never comprehend Act V.,—then Honorius says, taking Andronic's previous advice about flying, "I will go away, and fight the Adriatic pirates." Now, pray, don't forget that. I quite distress myself in praying you not to forget that,—to wit,—"Honorius goes away to fight the Adriatic pirates."
Oh, if you only knew the big secret!
ACT V.
This, of course, is the knifing act.
Seated is Shylock before an hour-glass, and trying to count the grains of sand as they glide through.
Oh, if you only knew the big secret!
You remember that in that original play Antonio's ships are lost merely. Bah! we manage better in this matter: the ships come home, but they are empty,—emptied by the pirates; though why those Adriaticians did not confiscate the ships is even beyond the Greek Chorus, who says, "They were very polite."
At last all the sand is at rest.
Crack,—as punctual as a postman comes Andronic; and as the Venetians are revolting against the flesh business, about which they seem to know every particular, Andronic brings a guard of the just Doge's soldiers to keep the populace quiet while the business goes on;—all of which behavior on the merchant's part my friend the Chorus pronounces to be stupid and suicidal.
Then comes such a scene!—Andronic calling for Ginevra, and the Jew calling for his own.
Breast bared.
Then thus the Jew:—
"Feeble strength of my old body, be centred in this eye and this arm! Thou, my son, receive this sacrifice, and tremble with joy in thy unknown tomb!"
Knife raised.
Oh, if you only knew the big secret!
And I do hope you have not forgotten that Honorius went away to fight the Adriatic pirates.
For, if you have forgotten that fact, you will not comprehend Honorius's rushing in at this moment from the Adriatic pirates.
Yes,—but why did he go amongst them?
The big secret, in fact. If Honorius had not gone, why, I suppose
Shylock would have had his pound of man.
As it is, Honorius and his paper—which latter has also come from the pirates—do the business.
Why, the whole thing turns on the paper. How lucky it was Honorius went amongst the pirates!
Honorius has vanquished the chief of the pirates,—who was named Arnheim,—and that disreputable widower, just before his last breath, gave Honorius the said paper,—though why, it is not clear. And—and this paper shows that ANDRONIC IS THAT SON STOLEN AWAY FROM SARAH, DECEASED, AND SHYLOCK,—THAT SON, NOT ONLY THE IMAGE OF ABEL, BUT OF MOSES, TOO.
Great thunderbolts!
Then, very naturally, (in a play,) in come all the characters, and follows, I am constrained to say, a very well-conceived scene,—'tis another appeal to filial love. The Jew would own his son, but he remembers that it would injure the son, and so he keeps silent. I declare, there is something eminently beautiful in the idea of making the Jew yield his wealth up to Andronic, and saying he will wander from Venice,—his staff his only wealth. And when, as he stoops to kiss his son's hand, Ginevra (who of course has come on with the rest) makes a gesture as though she feared treachery, the few words put into the Jew's mouth are full of pathos and poetry.
And so down comes the curtain,—the piece meeting with the full approval of Chorus, who applauded till I thought he would snap his hands off at the wrists.
"A very moral play," said a stout gentleman behind me,—who had done little else all night but break into the fiercest of apples and pears,—"a very moral play,"—meaning thereby, probably, that it was very moral that a Jew's child should remain a Christian.
Now there were some good points in that play; but, oh, thou M. Ferdinand Dugué, thou,—why didst thou challenge comparison with a man who wrote for all theatres for all times?
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