WITWOUD: He has brought me a letter from the fool my brother, etc. etc.
MIRABEL: A fool, and your brother, Witwoud?
WITWOUD: Ay, ay, my half-brother. My half-brother he is; no nearer, upon my honour.
MIRABEL: Then ’tis possible he may be but half a fool.
By evident preparation. This is a sort of wit one remembers to have heard at school, of a brilliant outsider; perhaps to have been guilty of oneself, a trifle later. It was, no doubt, a blaze of intellectual fireworks to the bumpkin squire, who came to London to go to the theatre and learn manners.
Where Congreve excels all his English rivals is in his literary force, and a succinctness of style peculiar to him. He had correct judgement, a correct ear, readiness of illustration within a narrow range, in snapshots of the obvious at the obvious, and copious language. He hits the mean of a fine style and a natural in dialogue. He is at once precise and voluble. If you have ever thought upon style you will acknowledge it to be a signal accomplishment. In this he is a classic, and is worthy of treading a measure with Molière. The Way of the World may be read out currently at a first glance, so sure are the accents of the emphatic meaning to strike the eye, perforce of the crispness and cunning polish of the sentences. You have not to look over them before you confide yourself to him; he will carry you safe. Sheridan imitated, but was far from surpassing him. The flow of boudoir Billingsgate in Lady Wishfort is unmatched for the vigour and pointedness of the tongue. It spins along with a final ring, like the voice of Nature in a fury, and is, indeed, racy eloquence of the elevated fishwife.
Millamant is an admirable, almost a lovable heroine. It is a piece of genius in a writer to make a woman’s manner of speech portray her. You feel sensible of her presence in every line of her speaking. The stipulations with her lover in view of marriage, her fine lady’s delicacy, and fine lady’s easy evasions of indelicacy, coquettish airs, and playing with irresolution, which in a common maid would be bashfulness, until she submits to ‘dwindle into a wife,’ as she says, form a picture that lives in the frame, and is in harmony with Mirabel’s description of her:
‘Here she comes, i’ faith, full sail, with her fan spread, and her streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders.’
And, after an interview:
‘Think of you! To think of a whirlwind, though ’twere in a whirlwind, were a case of more steady contemplation, a very tranquillity of mind and mansion.’
There is a picturesqueness, as of Millamant and no other, in her voice, when she is encouraged to take Mirabel by Mrs. Fainall, who is ‘sure she has a mind to him’:
MILLAMANT: Are you? I think I have—and the horrid man looks as if he thought so too, etc. etc.
One hears the tones, and sees the sketch and colour of the whole scene in reading it.