The Golden Ass and bowdlerisation

Having learnt that I read a bowdlerised translation of The Golden Ass (William Adlington), I got hold of the Penguin translation by E. J. Kenney and checked out a few chapters and have now realised that Apuleius’s original novel is much more graphic, much more sexual and brutal than the version I read. 

If people think Shakespeare’s plays*—compared to classical plays—are lowbrow because they have silly puns and sexual innuendos and filthy jokes, The Golden Ass is much more vulgar. In fact, it may be the crudest, most vulgar of the classic literary works I’ve read. But I never would have known, because I read the 1924 edition—not only was The Golden Ass tamed down by William Adlington in 1566, it was further expurgated by the editor F. J. Harvey Darton. 

Let me give you an example, from the story of the lascivious and evil woman who desires her stepson: 

“For by and by she sent a messenger after her husband to tell him the great misfortune which happened after his departure. And when he came home the wicked woman declared that his son had poisoned his brother because he would not consent to his will, and told him divers other leasings, adding in the end that he threatened to kill her likewise because she discovered the fact.

Then the unhappy father was stricken with double dolour of the death of his two children, for on the one side he saw his younger son slain before his eyes, on the other side he seemed to see the elder condemned to die for his offence.” (Adlington and Darton) 

Versus: 

“She immediately sent a courier to find her husband and announce to him the ruin of his house; and when he returned, which he did at once, she put on a breathtakingly bold front and charged her stepson with the crime of poisoning her son. This was not totally untrue, in so far as the one boy had anticipated the death meant for the other; but she pretended that her stepson had made away with his younger brother because she had refused to yield to his criminal lust and resisted his attempt to rape her. Even these monstrous lies did not satisfy her: she added that he had also threatened her with his sword for denouncing his crime. The wretched father, reeling from the loss of two sons, was tossed to and fro on a stormy sea of suffering. His younger son he had to see buried before his eyes, and the elder must inevitably, it seemed, be condemned to death for incest and fratricide.” (Kenney) 

By censoring the rape accusation (why?), they’re cutting what is a clear reference to the Phaedra and Hippolytus myth. 

Lots of things are removed: a stepmother’s accusation that her stepson, whom she unrequitedly desired, attempted to rape her is cut; a husband’s punishment of his wife’s lover by raping him is scrubbed; the scene of the fake priests having a romp with a “robust young peasant, finely equipped in loin and groin” (Kenney’s translation) is expurgated, etc. I compared the 1639 text (on Gutenberg, presumably not much different from the first edition in 1566) and the 1924 text against Kenney’s 2004 text (revised from his own translation in 1998).  

With the double censorship, the entire bestiality episode is thrown out of the window, but all the passages about the master’s spectacle plan and the story of the woman condemned to be thrown to the beasts are removed. The bowdlerisation presents The Golden Ass as a very different book! Apuleius depicts all the hardships and suffering experienced by a donkey, which range from physical abuse (such as exploitation and starvation and beatings and torture) to sexual abuse—the 1924 edition gets rid of the sexual abuse. It also removes some brutal passages, but they are part of Apuleius’s depiction of the world, part of his vision of humanity. 

But don’t think that I only picked up Kenney’s translation to look for the smutty passages (all right, you caught me)—I also reread the final chapter and now see the conversion in a different light. Now I see why Robert Graves calls The Golden Ass a religious novel, as the entire story is about how “in the unsteadiness of [his] green youth [Lucius] lowered [himself] to servile pleasures and reaped a bitter reward for [his] ill-starred curiosity” (Kenney), about how Lucius grows spiritually—through suffering and through witnessing the depravity and cruelty of mankind—and finally turns to the goddess of Isis. The final chapter is in a different tone, even if Lucius hesitates at first. 

And yet, I agree with Kenney when he writes in the introduction: 

“That glory of revelation and rebirth tails off into a workaday account of successive initiations and the shifts to which Lucius has to resort to meet the necessary expenses.” 

And: 

“Will he fare any better as a devotee of Isis than he did as a devotee of witchcraft?”

That is also my question. 

“Is he as much of an ass as ever?” 

How effective is The Golden Ass as a religious novel? I’m rather curious about the contemporary reception. To modern readers, the main moral messages that resonate are probably about the treatment of animals and the conditions of workers and servants. The Golden Ass has survived since the 2nd century because it’s a delight, because it’s funny** and inventive and captivating. 

*: isn’t it funny that the word “bowdlerise” we now use—to remove or change words from a book/ play/ film that are considered vulgar or offensive—come from Thomas Bowdler, who was doing that with Shakespeare? 

**: I should add a few good words about William Adlington. Despite the expurgations, it’s a funny and charming translation. His phrasing is funnier than Kenney’s. 

The Golden Ass: “I had seen the experience of many things, and was become more wise” [updated]

1/ I generally read classic literature in modern translations (for obvious reasons), so one fascinating thing about reading William Adlington’s 1566 translation of The Golden Ass (when Shakespeare was 2 years old) is coming across many phrases that I thought were just the language of the King James Bible: “it comes to pass”, “play the harlot”, “yield/ give up the ghost”, etc. 

2/ As written in the previous blog post, at roughly mid-point, Apuleius interrupts the main story to tell the story of Cupid and Psyche, which is about 50 pages or so. 

I’m surely not the only one who read that story and thought Psyche’s biggest problem was that she’s overly curious and couldn’t obey orders—I understand wanting to find out the husband’s identity, but why on earth does she have to open Persephone’s box for Venus? 

That however is something she shares with Lucius, the narrator of the main plot: both are overly curious; both must endure many trials; both are transformed at the end. 

3/ Apuleius’s novel and Ovid’s narrative poem are both named Metamorphoses—the name Asinus aureus (The Golden Ass) came from Augustine of Hippo and Apuleius’s novel is known by that name to this day. 

I don’t read Latin and can’t tell who’s better on the sentence level, but Apuleius’s Metamorphoses is more like my thing for multiple reasons. 

Firstly, as Ovid moves from one myth to another—over 250 myths in the book—there is no sense of forward movement and sometimes it drags (probably doesn’t help that I read it in translation). This is not a problem with Apuleius: he meanders; he digresses; he once interrupts the story for about 50 pages or so; but there is one character in the centre of the book and the story moves forward, with a clear goal that Lucius must transform back to being a human. 

Secondly, it’s funnier and bawdier (though I’m going to have to reread it in a different translation, as I suspect our Elizabethan translator to have bowdlerised it a bit). 

Thirdly, Ovid retells Greek/ Roman mythology and depicts many types of transformations (generally gods putting on disguises, or human beings getting turned into things, bodies of water, trees, animals, the other sex, or gods) and there are physical metamorphoses in The Golden Ass (witches changing shape, hapless Lucius getting accidentally transformed into a donkey, some animal hides getting turned into men through enchantment, and so on), but more importantly, the novel depicts a spiritual metamorphosis. As a donkey, Lucius experiences the suffering of animals and also meets many kinds of people that he otherwise may not have met—he meets thieves and murderers and charlatans and adulterers and sadists, etc.—and changes as a person. 

(The quote in the headline comes from B.9, ch.39) 

As I have written before, every single Shakespeare play features some kind of disguise and transformation: it could be literal (women disguising as men, kings pretending to be commoners…) but it could also be figurative (Iago acting like an honest and concerned friend as he poisons Othello’s ear, Richard III putting on various masks, Edmund playing a role and deceiving his brother and his father…)—the latter interests me more, because I’m interested in human nature. And The Golden Ass also has both.   

4/ The Golden Ass has a rather strange and puzzling ending: is it a genuine religious conversion, or does Lucius, having escaped the servitude of a donkey, now enter another servitude as a priest for the goddess Isis? I do not know—it’s hard to tell about a literary work written in the 2nd century.

However, (I can’t help that) I am modern, so I’m going to note that: a) Lucius hesitates and doesn’t seem particularly religious (to me) in the final part of the book; b) we see lots of witches and enchantresses throughout the story but the gods seem absent for the large part; c) when Lucius accidentally turns into a donkey (instead of a bird as he wishes), Fotis already says roses are the antidote, and there’s no indication that he wouldn’t be able to transform back to his human shape by eating the roses, without any intervention from Isis. 

I’m going to have to think some more about it, but The Golden Ass is probably my favourite work so far that was originally written in Latin. 

Addendum on 19/8: Now that I’ve finished reading Apuleius’s novel, I’ve realised that it was bowdlerised. How irritating! Gonna have to find another translation. 

The Golden Ass: “I will tell thee a pleasant tale to put away all thy sorrow and to revive thy spirits”

1/ Officially titled Metamorphoses by Lucius Apuleius but now mostly known as The Golden Ass (Asinus aureus), this novel is interesting to me for multiple reasons. Firstly, I keep hearing people call The Tale of Genji the first novel but that’s obviously not true—The Tale of Genji was written in the 11th century—The Golden Ass was from the 2nd century, and there were other ancient novels. But what are the differences between ancient novels and novels since Don Quixote? 

Secondly, it’s one of the books that inspired or influenced Shakespeare (most obviously in A Midsummer Night’s Dream). In fact, I’m reading the translation by William Adlington (1566), the first English translation and the one that Shakespeare (must have) read. 

 “You perhaps are of an obstinate mind and gross ears, mock and contemn those things which are reported for truth; but know you not that a thing which is accounted untrue by the wild opinion of men, which either is rarely seen, seldom heard, or passes the capacity of man’s reason, will, if it be more narrowly scanned, you shall not only find it evident and plain, but also very easy to be brought to pass.” (B.1, ch.1) 

The copy I’ve got from the library is a 1924 edition, edited (and helpfully modernised) by F. J. Harvey Darton. 

2/ There’s a sequence in The Golden Ass in which Lucius attacks and kills some thieves, who later turn out to be animal hides—“blown bladders” or “blown goat skins” in Adlington’s translation but apparently “wineskins” in some other translations—it must be an allusion to this scene when Cervantes depicts Don Quixote stabbing some wineskins, thinking they’re giants. It also helps me understand Don Quixote’s “logic”: the goatskins in The Golden Ass are transformed into men through a witch’s enchantment. 

The Golden Ass makes me think of Don Quixote often: it has witchcraft and enchantments and metamorphoses; it has digressions, stories-within-the-story; it is episodic, a picaresque novel. Did Cervantes have the novel of Apuleius in mind, or did The Golden Ass heavily influence the romances mocked and parodied by Don Quixote?

The central difference between The Tale of Genji, Don Quixote, etc. and The Golden Ass—to go back to the question previously raised—is that The Tale of Genji and Don Quixote are realistic—depicting the real world—whereas The Golden Ass depicts a world in which a man sneaks into a witch’s room and tries to turn into a bird but ends up transforming into a donkey. That probably makes it close to the romances that were popular in the medieval period, but then I have never read romances and don’t know the differences between them and modern non-realistic novels (allegory novels, fantasy novels, monster smut, etc). As far as I know, the definition of the novel says nothing about realism (“an invented prose narrative of considerable length and a certain complexity that deals imaginatively with human experience, usually through a connected sequence of events involving a group of persons in a specific setting” in Britannica; “an invented prose narrative that is usually long and complex and deals especially with human experience through a usually connected sequence of events” in Merriam-Webster…): there’s no reason to reject the novel label for The Golden Ass. 

However, it’s obvious that Don Quixote marked something different, hence the “first modern novel” (as well as “first postmodern novel”). It’s fascinating to read Don Quixote, then the novels influenced by it (Joseph Andrews, The Female Quixote…), and now the novel that influenced it (at least indirectly). 

3/ I’m fascinated by literary development and influence. Novels all trace back to The Golden Ass, the only ancient Roman novel to survive in its entirety. Picaresque novels in the West (Don Quixote, Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones…) all trace back to The Golden Ass. Literary works depicting society through the perspective of an animal (“Kholstomer”, The Heart of a Dog, I am a Cat…) all trace back to The Golden Ass. 

I’m aware of two films that tell the story through the eyes of a donkey—Au Hasard Balthazar (1966) and EO (2022)—and now will have to watch them (even though it’s probably unlikely that they allude to Apuleius).   

It’s also interesting that Apuleius’s not Italian: he was born in the Roman province of Numidia, which is now Algeria; he’s North African. However, he studied in Athens and travelled widely, and the book is full of references to Greek/ Roman mythology. There’s even a Socrates, who becomes a witch’s sex slave. 

4/ As a fan of War and Peace and Moby-Dick, I am used to digressions and this is not a complaint, but it’s rather curious that at roughly midpoint, The Golden Ass has a rather long interruption: the story of Cupid and Psyche—by my calculation—takes up about 15% of the novel! I also didn’t know that the myth of Cupid and Psyche was from here, whether it originated here or Apuleius was retelling the myth and it’s the earliest extant version.  

The story is about Psyche, who is so beautiful that people worship her and neglect Venus. That enrages Venus, as one would expect, so she goes to her son Cupid and wants her revenge: 

““I pray thee” (quoth she), “my dear child, by motherly bond of love, by the sweet wounds of thy piercing darts, by the pleasant heat of thy fire, revenge the injury which is done to thy mother, by the false and disobedient beauty of a mortal maiden, and I pray thee without delay, that she may fall in love with the most miserable creature living, the most poor, the most crooked, and the most vile, that there may be none found in all the world of like wretchedness.”” (B.4, ch.12) 

Cupid doesn’t obey her, but let’s leave that for now—what does that make you think of? Oberon taking petty revenge on Titania by using love potion on her: 

“OBERON […] The next thing then she waking looks upon, 

Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, 

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,

She shall pursue it with the soul of love…” 

(A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 2 scene 1) 

Titania falls in love with Bottom, who has now got an ass’s head. In other words, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare gets inspiration not only from the main plot of The Golden Ass, but also from the framed narrative: there are obvious allusions (Oberon mentioning “young Cupid’s fiery shaft” and “the bolt of Cupid) and, more importantly, the entire play is about love, the unpredictability and almost randomness of love, jealousy, etc. 

5/ A few fairytales seem to trace back to the Cupid and Psyche story in The Golden Ass, especially “Beauty and the Beast” and “Cinderella”. I see the similarities. 

The quote in the headline comes from the old woman who’s part of the gang of thieves, as she begins telling the story of Cupid and Psyche to Lucius (now a donkey) and a captive maiden. 

Reading the Bible: the Books of Kings

1/ The Books of Kings immediately follow the Books of Samuel: as David is old and stricken in years, his son Adonijah assumes the throne; however, David gets told about it and gives the throne instead to Solomon, his son with Bathsheba.

“And he had seven hundred wives, princesses, and three hundred concubines: and his wives turned away his heart.” (1 Kings 11:3) 

Even worse than Genji. Much worse. 

(Where does Solomon get the energy?) 

As “his wives turned away his heart after other gods: and his heart was not perfect with the LORD his God”, God is angry and rends the kingdom away from Solomon. After his death, his son Rehoboam becomes king but the people depart him, all except the tribe of Judah, so Rehoboam is king of Judah; Jeroboam, a servant of Solomon, becomes the king of Israel and rules over ten tribes, though after a while he also displeases God. The narrative then tells us about various kings of Judah and kings of Israel—how they worship false idols and break the commandments and anger God—it must be no surprise to you, considering what I wrote in the previous blog post, that I find most of 1 Kings rather repetitive and tedious. 

2/ The book however has my interest with the appearance of king Ahab. 

“And Ahab the son of Omri did evil in the sight of the LORD above all that were before him.

And it came to pass, as if it had been a light thing for him to walk in the sins of Jeroboam the son of Nebat, that he took to wife Jezebel the daughter of Ethbaal king of the Zidonians, and went and served Baal, and worshipped him.

And he reared up an altar for Baal in the house of Baal, which he had built in Samaria.

And Ahab made a grove; and Ahab did more to provoke the LORD God of Israel to anger than all the kings of Israel that were before him.” (1 Kings 16:30-33) 

Melville gives the name Ahab to the captain of Pequod, the madman who sees all evil personified in a white whale and drives the whole crew to their deaths in pursuit of a dumb brute, the heretic who hangs out with a fire worshipper and tempers his harpoon in human blood, the one who says “Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me” (Moby-Dick, chapter 36). Knowing the biblical story of king Ahab helps me see another layer of meaning in Moby-Dick. 

Not only so, Melville gives the name Elijah—the man of God who tries to warn king Ahab in the Bible—to the sailor who tries to warn the narrator and Queequeg about Ahab and the expedition. Chapter 19 “The Prophet”. Both fail.

The biblical story of Ahab isn’t particularly interesting on its own though: we don’t know Ahab’s thoughts; we don’t know the thoughts of his wife Jezebel. The Bible tells us that David is a good king who keeps the commandments (and only displeases God in one thing), and Ahab is a bad king who “did more to provoke the LORD God of Israel to anger than all the kings of Israel that were before him”, but when Jezebel sets up a trial and gets false witnesses to have Naboth killed so that Ahab can have his vineyard, that to me isn’t particularly different from David arranging the death of Uriah so that he can possess his wife Bathsheba. 

3/ The end of 1 Kings and the beginning of 2 Kings talk about many miracles of God/ Elijah the prophet/ Elisha the prophet: bringing back the dead, making fire appear in wet wood, making poisonous food harmless, curing a leper, striking the Syrians blind when they invade, and so on. Quite fun to read.

My favourite image is possibly at the end of the leper story—Naaman offers gifts to Elisha for curing him of leprosy and the prophet refuses, but his servant Gehazi gets greedy and runs after Naaman and lies to him and receives gifts in Elisha’s name, and Elisha knows. 

“The leprosy therefore of Naaman shall cleave unto thee, and unto thy seed for ever. And he went out from his presence a leper as white as snow.” (2 Kings 5:27) 

Striking image. And strange. 

4/ After narrating the miracles, the Bible returns to telling us about the kings and I’m sorry to say that I couldn’t care less about any of them. All these names are blurred together—Jeroboam and Rehoboam and Jehoram and Joram and Jehu and Joash and Jehoahaz and Jehoash and so on—after a while, I don’t know and don’t care who’s who, who’s related to whom, who does what.  

The Books of Kings are also very repetitive, the same phrases used over and over again: “and he did that which was evil/ right in the sight of the LORD”, “and [king’s name] slept with his fathers” … over and over again, which I suppose is to reinforce and emphasise the point. Then once in a while, the Bible breaks the monotony with some shocking violence. 

For instance, Jehu, appointed king of Israel, kills Ahaziah, the king of Judah. 

“So Jehu slew all that remained of the house of Ahab in Jezreel, and all his great men, and his kinsfolks, and his priests, until he left him none remaining.

[…] Jehu met with the brethren of Ahaziah king of Judah, and said, Who are ye? And they answered, We are the brethren of Ahaziah; and we go down to salute the children of the king and the children of the queen.

And he said, Take them alive. And they took them alive, and slew them at the pit of the shearing house, even two and forty men; neither left he any of them.” (2 Kings 10-11-14)

But no, he doesn’t stop there: he lays a trap to kill all the Baal worshippers. 

“And the LORD said unto Jehu, Because thou hast done well in executing that which is right in mine eyes, and hast done unto the house of Ahab according to all that was in mine heart, thy children of the fourth generation shall sit on the throne of Israel.” (2 Kings 10-30) 

That’s very disturbing, is it not? 

I’m going to take a break from the Bible and read something else for a while.  

Reading the Bible: the Books of Samuel

I suppose one day I will read the whole of the King James Bible, but at the moment I’m prioritising the parts that I think have had the most influence on Western literature and culture. 

1/ This is how the first book begins: 

“Now there was a certain man of Ramathaimzophim, of mount Ephraim, and his name was Elkanah, the son of Jeroham, the son of Elihu, the son of Tohu, the son of Zuph, an Ephrathite:

And he had two wives; the name of the one was Hannah, and the name of the other Peninnah: and Peninnah had children, but Hannah had no children.” (1 Samuel 1:1-2)

Hannah is barren, like Sarai (Abram’s wife) and Rachel (Jacob’s wife), until God grants their wishes: Sarai has Isaac, Rachel has Joseph and some more children, Hannah now has Samuel. Do women all have the same affliction in the Bible? 

2/ God punishes Eli the priest, because “his sons made themselves vile, and he restrained them not.” 

The first sentence of 1 Samuel 2:25 is interesting: 

“If one man sin against another, the judge shall judge him: but if a man sin against the LORD, who shall intreat for him?”

Whatever you think about the Bible, the writing in the King James Bible—on the sentence level—is beautiful. 

3/ Samuel makes his sons judges over Israel (nepotism!) but they walk not in his ways, so the people of Israel demand a king. 

“And the LORD said unto Samuel, Hearken unto the voice of the people in all that they say unto thee: for they have not rejected thee, but they have rejected me, that I should not reign over them.

According to all the works which they have done since the day that I brought them up out of Egypt even unto this day, wherewith they have forsaken me, and served other gods, so do they also unto thee.

Now therefore hearken unto their voice: howbeit yet protest solemnly unto them, and shew them the manner of the king that shall reign over them.” (1 Samuel 8:7-9)

Quite a strange response when the judges are corrupt, but okay. God, through Samuel, appoints Saul as the king (I didn’t realise that “God save the king” came from this book!).  

One of my troubles with the Bible is that we don’t often know the characters’ thoughts—I know the Bible is a religious text, not a novel, but there are narratives and there are people—I want to know their thoughts. How does Saul feel about going around looking for his donkeys then suddenly being made the king of Israel, for example? We’re not told. How does Isaac feel about his father Abram’s willingness to sacrifice him to God? We’re not told. What do Leah and Rachel think about the way their father Laban tricks Jacob into sleeping with Leah and making her his first wife, when he only wants Rachel? Again, we’re not told.  

Saul becomes king, but after some time, falls out of favour with God. 

“Now go and smite Amalek, and utterly destroy all that they have, and spare them not; but slay both man and woman, infant and suckling, ox and sheep, camel and ass.” (1 Samuel 15:3)

Saul and the people don’t go so far. 

“But Saul and the people spared Agag, and the best of the sheep, and of the oxen, and of the fatlings, and the lambs, and all that was good, and would not utterly destroy them: but every thing that was vile and refuse, that they destroyed utterly.” (1 Samuel 15:9) 

And that angers God: 

“And Samuel said, Hath the LORD as great delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the LORD? Behold, to obey is better than sacrifice, and to hearken than the fat of rams.

For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the LORD, he hath also rejected thee from being king.” (1 Samuel 15:22-23)

Is this not a violent God, a bloodthirsty God, a tyrannical God? 

The story of Saul however becomes interesting when David appears, as it’s a story of obsessive envy and blind hatred. 

“And David fled from Naioth in Ramah, and came and said before Jonathan, What have I done? what is mine iniquity? and what is my sin before thy father, that he seeketh my life?” (1 Samuel 20:1) 

Stories of God speaking to someone and giving them aid, or punishing someone for sinning against the Lord, don’t personally appeal to me; but this is drama, this is a human story. Has David not been loyal to Saul? Has he not killed Goliath and saved Israel? Has he not been a good friend to Saul’s son Jonathan? Wherefore is this intense hatred that Saul wants David dead? I can’t help thinking that this story must have also fascinated Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky, as Dostoyevsky constantly writes about spite, and Shakespeare also likes to explore the kind of violent hatred that seems to appear out of nowhere—the best example of “motiveless malignity” in Shakespeare is Iago, but we also see that in Leontes in The Winter’s Tale, Don John in Much Ado About Nothing, Oliver in As You Like It, and perhaps some others.   

On another note, David feigning madness to protect himself reminds me of two characters in Shakespeare: Hamlet and Edgar. 

4/ The beginning of the second book is quite tedious—Saul dying, David becoming the king of Judah and then the king of the whole of Israel, David waging wars and conquering Jerusalem, David having multiple wives and numerous children, etc.—but the story becomes interesting again when king David, who so far has been a good man, takes Bathsheba and arranges the death of her husband Uriah so he can have her. Is it rape? Coercion? Or just adultery? It isn’t clear—of course I know Bathsheba isn’t in the position to say no to a king—but the Bible doesn’t give us her thoughts the way it later gives us a glimpse of Tamar’s suffering, after she’s raped by her half-brother Amnon. 

One of my favourite parts is when David speaks to Nathan the prophet, and God, through Nathan, tells him a parable about a rich man and a poor man: 

“And David’s anger was greatly kindled against the man; and he said to Nathan, As the LORD liveth, the man that hath done this thing shall surely die:

[…] And Nathan said to David, Thou art the man…” (2 Samuel 12:5-7) 

Good one. 

David has to pay for his sin though, and the stories of his children are tragic: the loss of David’s child with Bathsheba; his eldest son Amnon’s rape of Tamar; Amnon’s death by Absalom, Tamar’s brother and another son of David; Absalom’s revolt, even when he has been forgiven by David, etc. All these stories are great material for retellings. 

This line is particularly moving: 

“And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!” (2 Samuel 18:33) 

It is heartrending (and I’m always in tears) when Lear cries over the dead body of Cordelia, but I don’t think there’s anything in Shakespeare like this moment in the Bible—a father weeps over the death of a son who turned against him. 

I’m starting to see why some people see the Bible as their favourite book, or the greatest book: not just religious ideas and messages, the book contains so many great stories—stories that have shaped (Western) literature and culture. 

5/ Christians won’t like that I’m saying this, but so far, apart from the long lists of laws, my least favourite parts of the Bible are the parts that involve God (except God’s first appearance to Moses in Exodus). 

“And again the anger of the LORD was kindled against Israel, and he moved David against them to say, Go, number Israel and Judah.” (2 Samuel 24:1) 

The census angers God. 

“And David’s heart smote him after that he had numbered the people. And David said unto the LORD, I have sinned greatly in that I have done: and now, I beseech thee, O LORD, take away the iniquity of thy servant; for I have done very foolishly.

[…] So Gad came to David, and told him, and said unto him, Shall seven years of famine come unto thee in thy land? or wilt thou flee three months before thine enemies, while they pursue thee? or that there be three days’ pestilence in thy land? now advise, and see what answer I shall return to him that sent me.

[…] So the LORD sent a pestilence upon Israel from the morning even to the time appointed: and there died of the people from Dan even to Beersheba seventy thousand men.” (2 Samuel 10-15) 

Isn’t that horrific? I don’t get it. 

My favourite parts of the Bible so far are the human stories—the stories showing human nature and human conflict—especially the one about Saul and David, and about David and his children.  

Reading the Bible: Exodus

As the Book of Exodus is about the origin myth of the Israelites, it can be considered from the religious, historical, or even political perspective, but my interest in the Bible is primarily a literary interest (the Bible as literature and as a foundational work that shaped Western literature), so that’s my focus. 

1/ God appears to Moses, and tells him God will deliver the children of Israel from bondage. The exchange between Moses and God made me laugh: 

“And Moses answered and said, But, behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice: for they will say, The LORD hath not appeared unto thee.” (Exodus 4:1) 

God then spends ages explaining how Moses can get his people to believe “the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath appeared into [him].” 

“And Moses said unto the LORD, O my Lord, I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant: but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.

And the LORD said unto him, Who hath made man’s mouth? or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? have not I the LORD?

Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt say.

And he said, O my Lord, send, I pray thee, by the hand of him whom thou wilt send.

And the anger of the LORD was kindled against Moses, and he said, Is not Aaron the Levite thy brother? I know that he can speak well. And also, behold, he cometh forth to meet thee: and when he seeth thee, he will be glad in his heart.” (Exodus 4:10-14) 

Hahaha. Moses would get on my nerves too.

I can see why the Book of Exodus appeals to enslaved, displaced, and oppressed people, but honestly this is not a very pleasant and likeable God: 

“For I will at this time send all my plagues upon thine heart, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people; that thou mayest know that there is none like me in all the earth.” (Exodus 9:14) 

This is a wrathful God, a tyrannical God, not unlike the gods of Greek mythology. I mean, 10 plagues! 

“Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.” (Exodus 20:5) 

2/ After the 10 Commandments, the Bible lists a few laws—this God is very different from the Christian God I’ve known about from books and films. 

“And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life,

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,

Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.” 

(Exodus 21:23-25)

Some of the laws are quite violent and disturbing, but some are interesting. 

“Thou shalt not raise a false report: put not thine hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness.” (Exodus 23:1)  

This is one of Shakespeare’s favourite themes throughout his career. 

“Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil; neither shalt thou speak in a cause to decline after many to wrest judgment:

Neither shalt thou countenance a poor man in his cause.” (Exodus 23:2-3) 

Melville probably likes that, “thou shall not follow a multitude to do evil”. 

3/ I don’t think I need to talk about the violence in the story of the golden calf, but the subject of false idols is fascinating, as I have seen that many people in the West, now that Christianity has declined and religion no longer holds the same importance as before, turn to something else and substitute religion with some ideology or political cause (whilst believing in concepts rooted in Christianity such as original sin, saints, heresy, etc). 

Reading the Bible: Genesis

1/ Not only did I not grow up in a (culturally) Christian country, I grew up in Vietnam, a communist and thus anti-religious country—I only knew about Adam, Eve, Noah, and Jesus—all the biblical references in classic literature and art flew over my head. It’s a big hole, I know. That’s why I’m now reading the King James Bible. 

Honestly if you’re a Christian, you might want to skip all these Bible posts so as not to read the thoughts of a bumbling idiot. 

2/ Is it not fascinating that multiple ancient texts mention a great flood that destroys civilisation, as an act of divine retribution, or purifying humanity of corruption? We all know about the Great Flood in Genesis and I’ve now read it, but there’s also one in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and, as I’ve been told, in some other ancient texts. 

3/ I’ve finally encountered Ishmael! 

Abram (later Abraham) has a son with his Egyptian slave Hagar, named Ishmael, and a son with his wife Sarai (later Sarah), called Isaac. Isaac has two sons with his wife Rebekah, named Esau and Jacob (later renamed Israel). Ishmael has I don’t even know how many children. 

“And he will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man’s hand against him; and he shall dwell in the presence of all his brethren.” (Genesis 16:12)

Hagar and Ishmael are cast out when Sarai has her own son. Is that how the narrator of Moby-Dick sees himself? 

My next revisit of the novel is going to be interesting when I have known the Bible (and hopefully Paradise Lost), the way my second reading last year was more enriched when I had several years immersed myself in the works of Shakespeare. 

4/ A lot of stories in Genesis are quite disturbing: Abram being wiling to sacrifice his own son Isaac; Jacob deceiving his father Isaac and stealing the blessing meant for his brother Esau; Jacob getting tricked by Laban into sleeping with Leah when he only wants Rachel; God’s interference into Jacob’s family “And when the Lord saw that Leah was hated, he opened her womb: but Rachel was barren” (Genesis 29:31); Jacob’s other sons selling Joseph (son of Jacob and Rachel) to merchants; Judah (son of Jacob and Leah) having sex with Tamar, his daughter-in-law… 

Thanks to Himadri for sharing this poem though: 

The Parable Of The Old Man And The Young

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,

And took the fire with him, and a knife.

And as they sojourned both of them together,

Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,

Behold the preparations, fire and iron,

But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?

Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,

And builded parapets and trenches there,

And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.

When lo! an Angel called him out of heaven,

Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,

Neither do anything to him, thy son.

Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns,

A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,

And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

(Wilfred Owen) 

5/ The story of Jacob and Laban is referenced in The Merchant of Venice, when Shylock tells the story to justify usury.  

“ANTONIO This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for, 

A thing not in his power to bring to pass, 

But swayed and fashioned by the hand of heaven. 

Was this inserted to make interest good? 

Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? 

SHYLOCK I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast. 

But note me, signior—

ANTONIO Mark you this, Bassanio, 

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose…” 

(Act 1 scene 3) 

People can argue about these characters’ interpretations of the story, but the interesting thing to me is that Jacob cheats Laban but Laban has been trying to trick and exploit him, not different from the way Shylock tries to trick the Christian characters who have been using and abusing him; it’s also interesting to see that Jacob is not a morally good and passive character, but a trickster.

Let’s hope I’ll have some more interesting thoughts later on. 

Oedipus by John Dryden and Nathaniel Lee

1/ This is a retelling of Sophocles’s play but, you know what, I see Shakespeare’s stamp all over it. 

“ALCANDER Methinks we stand on ruins; nature shakes

About us; and the universal frame

So loose, that it but wants another push,

To leap from off its hinges.

DIOCLES No sun to cheer us; but a bloody globe,

That rolls above, a bald and beamless fire,

His face o’er-grown with scurf: The sun’s sick, too;

Shortly he’ll be an earth.

PYRACMON Therefore the seasons

Lie all confused; and, by the heavens neglected,

Forget themselves: Blind winter meets the summer

In his mid-way, and, seeing not his livery,

Has driven him headlong back; and the raw damps,

With flaggy wings, fly heavily about,

Scattering their pestilential colds and rheums

Through all the lazy air.” 

(Act 1) 

Does that not make you think of those passages about strange weathers and omens in Julius Caesar? And Macbeth? 

“CASCA Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth 

Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, 

I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds 

Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen 

Th’ ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, 

To be exalted with the threat’ning clouds; 

But never till tonight, never till now, 

Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 

Either there is a civil strife in heaven, 

Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 

Incenses them to send destruction.” 

(Julius Caesar, Act 1 scene 3) 

And: 

“LENNOX The night has been unruly. Where we lay, 

Our chimneys were blown down, and, as they say, 

Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death, 

And prophesying with accents terrible 

Of dire combustion and confused events 

New hatched to th’ woeful time: the obscure bird 

Clamored the livelong night. Some say, the earth 

Was feverous and did shake.” 

(Macbeth, Act 2 scene 3)

In Sophocles’s play, a plague has been unleashed on the people of Thebes as a punishment for Oedipus’s sins. Here the author (is this Lee or Dryden?) pushes further, depicting the world as ending, as on the verge of an apocalypse. This is clearly Shakespeare’s influence. 

“HAEMON Sure ‘tis the end of all things! fate has torn

The lock of time off, and his head is now

The ghastly ball of round eternity!

Call you these peals of thunder, but the yawn

Of bellowing clouds? By Jove, they seem to me

The world’s last groans; and those vast sheets of flame

Are its last blaze. The tapers of the gods,

The sun and moon, run down like waxen-globes;

The shooting stars end all in purple jellies,

And chaos is at hand.

[…] PYRACMON Clusters of golden stars hang o’er their heads,

And seem so crowded, that they burst upon them:

All dart at once their baleful influence,

In leaking fire.” 

(Act 2) 

I like that. 

As this play is a collaboration, I don’t know if it’s Dryden or Nathaniel Lee who wrote all those passages (they don’t sound particularly like Dryden, but I’m new and unsure), but note the similar image here:  

“ANTONY Die? Rather let me perish! Loosened Nature 

Leap from its hinges; sink the props of Heaven, 

And fall the skies to crush the nether world! 

My eyes, my soul, my all!—” 

(Dryden’s All for Love, Act 2) 

“ALCANDER Methinks we stand on ruins; nature shakes

About us; and the universal frame

So loose, that it but wants another push,

To leap from off its hinges.” 

(Oedipus, Act 1) 

And another: 

“OEDIPUS […] Yes, cruel gods,

Though vultures, eagles, dragons tear my heart,

I'll snatch celestial flames, fire all your dwellings,

Melt down your golden roofs, and make your doors

Of crystal fly from off their diamond hinges;

Drive you all out from your ambrosial hives,

To swarm like bees about the field of heaven…” 

(Act 5) 

2/ But that’s not all. Dryden and Lee change the character of Creon, giving him “an ill-shaped body” with a “mountain back” and “distorted legs”, and turning him into a villain who wants to usurp the throne. What is this, if not Shakespeare’s Richard III?

There are other similarities: the play has a few scenes of the crowd being stupid and easily swayed, reminiscent of Coriolanus; there’s a sleepwalking scene, evoking Macbeth, etc. 

3/ As we all know the story of Oedipus, there are a few lines clearly written for a laugh.

“OEDIPUS […] So well I love, words cannot speak how well.

No pious son e’er loved his mother more,

Than I my dear Jocasta.” 

(Act 1)

That’s a wink-wink at the audience.  

“JOCASTA […] All I can wish for now, is your consent

To make my brother happy.

OEDIPUS How, Jocasta?

JOCASTA By marriage with his niece, Eurydice.

OEDIPUS Uncle and niece! they are too near, my love;

’Tis too like incest…” 

(ibid.)

4/ As Dryden and Lee retell the Oedipus myth, they make a few changes. I don’t particularly mind that they create the character of Eurydice as a daughter of Laius and Locasta, which creates a red herring and adds tension; I also don’t mind that Creon is now a villain aiming for the throne; but it’s rather ridiculous that Eurydice as a child is promised to her uncle Creon and he loves (or lusts for) her—is the Oedipus myth not weird enough? Does it not have enough incest? I know 17th century plays are generally much longer than ancient Greek plays, but Sophocles’s play, which I just now reread in H. D. F. Kitto’s translation, is perfect in its simplicity—Lee and Dryden complicate the plot and turn it into a hodgepodge of nonsense.  

The entire of Sophocles’s play is the finding of the truth and it’s about a few hours—Lee and Dryden extend it, drag it out and (in my opinion) reduce the dramatic impact—they also lift from Seneca’s version the stupid scene of the ghost of Laius appearing and accusing Oedipus. They then double the stupidity by bringing back the ghost at the end of the play, and create a bloody finale—for both the main plot and the subplot. The play is clearly made to appeal to the audience’s strong taste for spectacle, visual effects, and excessive violence. It’s almost as ridiculous as Seneca’s version. 

The thing is, Sophocles’s play is about fate and human agency, and also about the cost of pursuing the truth or the pain of learning the truth. I’m not quite sure what Dryden and Lee’s play is about. And yet it’s apparently a huge success onstage at the time (which I suppose reflects rather badly on the audience). 

Now I’m curious about Corneille’s version (which Dryden knew).

Don Sebastian by John Dryden

1/ The play is about Don Sebastian, the King of Portugal who has just been captured by Muley-Moluch, the Emperor of Barbary. In one plotline, Muley-Moluch is full of lust for Almeyda, another captive, whom Sebastian loves and who loves Sebastian. 

“MULEY-MOLUCH Death! must I beg the pity of my slave?

Must a king beg?—Yes; love’s a greater king;

A tyrant, nay, a devil, that possesses me:

He tunes the organs of my voice, and speaks,

Unknown to me, within me; pushes me,

And drives me on by force.” 

(Act 2 scene 1) 

In another plotline, Benducar, a favourite of the Emperor, wants to steal the throne with the help of the Emperor’s brother, Muley-Zeydan; he also wants to recruit Dorax, a noble Portuguese who hates Sebastian and has switched to Barbary’s side. 

2/ I love Dryden’s metaphors. 

“BENDUCAR […] His growth is but a wild and fruitless plant;

I’ll cut his barren branches to the stock,

And graft you on to bear.” 

(Act 1 scene 1) 

Look at this image: 

“MULEY-MOLUCH Ay; these look like the workmanship of heaven;

This is the porcelain clay of human kind,

And therefore cast into these noble moulds.” 

(ibid.) 

That’s when Muley-Moluch sees Don Sebastian and some other noblemen among the captives. The word “clay” is later repeated by Don Sebastian: 

“DON SEBASTIAN […] Fate was not mine,

Nor am I fate’s. Now I have pleased my longing,

And trod the ground which I beheld from far,

I beg no pity for this mouldering clay;

For, if you give it burial, there it takes

Possession of your earth;

If burnt and scattered in the air, the winds,

That strow my dust, diffuse my royalty,

And spread me o’er your clime: for where one atom

Of mine shall light, know, there Sebastian reigns.”

(ibid.) 

Dryden gives him grandeur and majesty. The King of Portugal also compares himself to the sun: 

“DON SEBASTIAN Then there’s no more to manage: if I fall,

It shall be like myself; a setting sun

Should leave a track of glory in the skies.—

Behold Sebastian, king of Portugal.

MULEY-MOLUCH Sebastian! ha! it must be he; no other

Could represent such suffering majesty.

I saw him, as he terms himself, a sun

Struggling in dark eclipse, and shooting day.” 

(ibid.) 

And the Emperor goes along with the sun metaphor. 

3/ I wrote about the clay metaphor said by Muley-Moluch and then by Sebastian. The word later appears again, in the comic plot: 

“DON ANTONIO […] Our northern beauties are mere dough to these; insipid white earth, mere tobacco pipe clay, with no more soul and motion in them than a fly in winter…” 

(Act 2 scene 2) 

Don Sebastian is tragedy but Dryden adds a comic plotline in prose, involving the Mufti Abdalla, Mustapha, and the slaves. It’s funny. Look at that moment when the Mufti presents Don Antonio, his newly bought slave, to his wife Johayma: 

“JOHAYMA […] I have always longed for an eunuch; for they say that’s a civil creature, and almost as harmless as yourself, husband.” 

(ibid.) 

Hahahaha. 

One thing I think English plays have over the ancient Greek plays and the French neoclassical plays is that Shakespeare and the others mix the tragic and the comic. That’s how life is. I generalise, so of course there are exceptions (a few Euripides plays perhaps), but generally speaking, the (neo)classical comedies have a light touch and a promise that all will be well, even when they hint at something dark; and the (neo)classical tragedies don’t really have a comic interlude, or comic relief. 

Like Shakespeare, Dryden does both tragedy and comedy very well. I also prefer him to William Congreve—there’s something crude and cynical about Congreve that I don’t particularly like, witty as he is. 

4/ Don Sebastian has some good female characters, especially Almeyda in the tragic plot and Morayma in the comic plot. Morayma is the Mufti’s daughter. Look at this scene between her and Don Antonio, a Portuguese and the Mufti’s slave: 

“DON ANTONIO I’ll marry thee, and make a Christian of thee, thou pretty damned infidel.

[…] 

DON ANTONIO I came with a Christian intention to revenge myself upon thy father, for being the head of a false religion.

MORAYMA And so you shall; I offer you his daughter for your second. But since you are so pressing, meet me under my window to-morrow night, body for body, about this hour; I’ll slip down out of my lodging, and bring my father in my hand.

DON ANTONIO How, thy father!

MORAYMA I mean, all that’s good of him; his pearls and jewels, his whole contents, his heart and soul; as much as ever I can carry!...” 

(Act 3 scene 2) 

Can anyone read or watch that without thinking of The Merchant of Venice? The differences, apart from the religion, are that Dryden switches the perspective, and that Morayma and Antonio seem much more pleasant than Jessica and the guy she runs off with. 

5/ There’s lots to like about Don Sebastian: I like the poetry; I like the characters; I like that Dryden can do both tragedy and comedy; I like that he explores power and politics. The problem is that I think Dryden tries to do so many things at once and the play ends up being a mess: there are three lines of action (the love story between Sebastian and Almeyda, the revolt, and the story of Don Antonio and the Mufti household). More importantly, Dryden builds up the action in such a way, as the love story of Sebastian and Almeyda is obstructed by multiple enemies and difficulties and barriers, that one wants a happy ending, and expects a happy ending, when the enemies are struck down and the barriers are removed. Instead, when all finally seems well, Dryden introduces a new obstruction (albeit previously hinted) and makes it all collapse, and the final Act becomes a kind of Oedipus the King. It’s messy, and unsatisfying. 

William Congreve: Love for Love and The Way of the World

As I’m exploring Restoration drama, it’s inevitable that at some point I must get to Congreve, the most popular comic playwright of the period (despite writing only 5 plays), so here we go.

Love for Love

This play premiered in 1695. For context, that’s about 2 decades after Dryden’s Marriage à-la-Mode, and about a century after The Comedy of Errors, Love’s Labour’s Lost, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Love for Love is about Valentine, a young man who has got into great debts and now may lose his inheritance to his younger brother Ben, which to him means he would no longer be able to marry his love Angelica. 

It needed some getting used to (for me anyway), but it’s a witty play with many funny lines. 

“VALENTINE Sir, is this usage for your son? For that old, weather-headed fool, I know how to laugh at him; but you, sir—

SIR SAMPSON You, sir; and you, sir! – Why, who are you, sir? 

VALENTINE Your son, sir. 

SIR SAMPSON That’s more than I know, sir, and I believe not. 

VALENTINE Faith, I hope not. 

SIR SAMPSON What, would you have your mother a whore!...”

(Act 2) 

The entire play is in prose. 

“SIR SAMPSON […] Body o’ me, why was not I a bear, that my cubs might have lived upon sucking their paws? Nature has been provident only to bears and spiders; the one has its nutriment in his own hands, and t’other spins his habitation out of his entrails. 

VALENTINE Fortune was provident enough to supply all the necessities of my nature, if I had my right of inheritance. 

SIR SAMPSON Again! Oons, han’t you four thousand pound? If I had it again, I would not give thee a groat. – What, wouldst thou have me turn pelican, and feed thee out of my own vitals?...” 

(ibid.) 

I’m not surprised though that Love for Love has fallen out of fashion, as it’s a very silly play. The plot is silly. The tricks are silly. The humour partly makes up for it, compared to the Elizabethan and Jacobean revenge plays (some of which left a bad taste in my mouth), but this is still a sordid world that Congreve is depicting, a world full of lust and greed and deceit and betrayal. 

“MISS PRUE Oh, I have pure news; I can tell you pure news. – I must not marry the seaman now – my father says so. Why won’t you be my husband? You say you love me, and you won’t be my husband. And I know you may be my husband now if you please. 

TATTLE Oh fie, miss; who told you so, child?

[…] 

MISS PRUE Who? Why you did; did not you? 

TATTLE O pox, that was yesterday, miss; that was a great while ago, child. I have been asleep since; slept a whole night, and did not so much as dream of the matter.” 

(Act 5) 

In Marriage à-la-Mode, Dryden has got a good idea of writing the two plotlines in two modes, separating the pure and loving couple from the cynical and deceitful world. Congreve doesn’t do so: Angelica may seem angelic enough, I suppose, but Valentine is part of the same sordid world that Congreve satirises. Angelica tests Valentine in the final scene and sees him as a good choice for a husband, but I don’t. I remember the beginning: 

“JEREMY […] there’s your father’s steward, and the nurse with one of your children from Twitnam. 

VALENTINE Pox on her, could she find no other time to fling my sins in my face? […] A thoughtless two-handed whore, she knows my condition well enough and might have overlaid the child a fortnight ago if she had any forecast in her.” 

(Act 1) 

(overlaid=smothered) 

That’s not exactly likeable, is it? The play is funny, but to me it’s no wonder that it’s no longer staged 3 centuries later. 

The Way of the World 

The play was premiered in 1700, 5 years after Love for Love. This is the plot: Mirabell wants to marry Millamant, but he must receive the blessing of Millamant’s aunt, Lady Wishfort; Lady Wishfort however holds a grudge against him and wants Millamant to marry her nephew Wilfull Witwoud.

It sounds simple—Mirabell has to persuade Lady Wishfort to change her mind—but the plot is intricate because of the complicated relationships between the characters: Mirabell is friends with both the Fainalls; Fainall married his wife for money, as she’s Lady Wishfort’s daughter and a widow; Mrs Fainall also didn’t marry him for love, and was once involved with Mirabell; in another strand, Millamant, in love with Mirabell and supposed to marry Sir Wilfull Witwoud, is also being pursued by Witwoud and Petulant, etc. 

Look at this conversation between Mrs Fainall and her friend, Mrs Marwood: 

“MRS FAINALL Ay, ay, dear Marwood, if we will be happy, we must find the means in ourselves, and among ourselves. Men are ever in extremes; either doting or averse. While they are lovers, if they have fire and sense, their jealousies are insupportable: and when they cease to love (we ought to think at least) they loathe, they look upon us with horror and distaste, they meet us like the ghosts of what we were, and as from such, fly from us.

MRS MARWOOD True, ’tis an unhappy circumstance of life that love should ever die before us, and that the man so often should outlive the lover. But say what you will, ’tis better to be left than never to have been loved. To pass our youth in dull indifference, to refuse the sweets of life because they once must leave us, is as preposterous as to wish to have been born old, because we one day must be old. For my part, my youth may wear and waste, but it shall never rust in my possession.”

(Act 2)

The cynicism about marriage and human nature that I saw in Love for Love is also in this play. 

“MRS FAINALL Is it possible? Dost thou hate those vipers, men?

MRS MARWOOD I have done hating ’em, and am now come to despise ’em; the next thing I have to do is eternally to forget ’em.

MRS FAINALL There spoke the spirit of an Amazon, a Penthesilea.

MRS MARWOOD And yet I am thinking sometimes to carry my aversion further.

MRS FAINALL How?

MRS MARWOOD Faith, by marrying; if I could but find one that loved me very well, and would be throughly sensible of ill usage, I think I should do myself the violence of undergoing the ceremony.”

(ibid.) 

Seem like best friends, don’t they? Congreve then reveals that Mrs Marwood is having an affair with Fainall, the husband.  

The Way of the World is very witty: the vivacious and quick-witted Millamant is clearly a cousin of Shakespeare’s Beatrice and Rosalind—the verbal sparring between her and Mirabell is especially reminiscent of Beatrice and Benedick—Congreve’s play also makes me think of Oscar Wilde. However, it doesn’t have the light touch of Oscar Wilde or the warmth of Molière—it’s darker, more serious—and compared to Love for Love, it’s subtler and more sophisticated. In some ways, it’s more like Dangerous Liaisons: Congreve seems more interested in the villains, and that viper Mrs Marwood is in the centre of the play. 

“MILLAMANT Well, ’tis a lamentable thing, I swear, that one has not the liberty of choosing one’s acquaintance as one does one’s clothes.

MRS MARWOOD If we had that liberty, we should be as weary of one set of acquaintance, though never so good, as we are of one suit, though never so fine. A fool and a doily stuff would now and then find days of grace, and be worn for variety.

MILLAMANT I could consent to wear ’em, if they would wear alike; but fools never wear out. They are such drap de Berri things! Without one could give ’em to one’s chambermaid after a day or two.

MRS MARWOOD […] If you would but appear barefaced now, and own Mirabell, you might as easily put off Petulant and Witwoud as your hood and scarf. And indeed ’tis time, for the town has found it, the secret is grown too big for the pretence. ’Tis like Mrs Primly’s great belly: she may lace it down before, but it burnishes on her hips. Indeed, Millamant, you can no more conceal it than my Lady Strammel can her face, that goodly face, which in defiance of her Rhenish-wine tea will not be comprehended in a mask.

MILLAMANT I’ll take my death, Marwood, you are more censorious than a decayed beauty, or a discarded toast…” 

(Act 3) 

The play, for the large part, is bitter, and even Millamant is here sardonic. 

In the end, all is resolved (though I thought the exposé was a bit silly) and Congreve shows that there is love, there is trust, there is decency, even if he was more interested in the villains. This is a great play, a brilliant study of hypocrisy, manipulation, and deceit.