AND THE TRAGEDY OF WEBSTER

I

During the pontificate of Gregory XIII. (1572-85), Papal authority in Rome reached its lowest point of weakness, and the ancient splendour of the Papal court was well-nigh eclipsed.  Art and learning had died out.  The traditions of the days of Leo, Julius, and Paul III. were forgotten.  It seemed as though the genius of the Renaissance had migrated across the Alps.  All the powers of the Papacy were directed to the suppression of hérésies and to the re-establishment of spiritual supremacy over the intellect of Europe.  Meanwhile society in Rome returned to mediaeval barbarism.  The veneer of classical refinement and humanistic urbanity, which for a time had hidden the natural savagery of the Roman nobles, wore away.  The Holy City became a den of bandits; the territory of the Church supplied a battle-ground for senseless party strife, which the weak old man who wore the triple crown was quite unable to control.  It is related how a robber chieftain, Marianazzo, refused the offer of a general pardon from the Pope, alleging that the profession of brigand was far more lucrative, and offered greater security of life, than any trade within the walls of Rome.  The Campagna, the ruined citadels about the basements of the Sabine and Ciminian hills, the quarters of the aristocracy within the city, swarmed with bravos, who were protected by great nobles and fed by decent citizens for the advantages to be derived from the assistance of abandoned and courageous ruffians.  Life, indeed, had become impossible without fixed compact with the powers of lawlessness.  There was hardly a family in Rome which did not number some notorious criminal among the outlaws.  Murder, sacrilege, the love of adventure, thirst for plunder, poverty, hostility to the ascendant faction of the moment, were common causes of voluntary or involuntary outlawry; nor did public opinion regard a bandit’s calling as other than honourable.

It may readily be imagined that in such a state of society the grisliest tragedies were common enough in Rome.  The history of some of these has been preserved to us in documents digested from public trials and personal observation by contemporary writers.  That of the Cenci, in which a notorious act of parricide furnished the plot of a popular novella, is well known.  And such a tragedy, even more rife in characteristic incidents, and more distinguished by the quality of its dramatis personae, is that of Vittoria Accoramboni.

Vittoria was born in 1557, of a noble but impoverished family, at Gubbio, among the hills of Umbria.  Her biographers are rapturous in their praises of her beauty, grace, and exceeding charm of manner.  Not only was her person most lovely, but her mind shone at first with all the amiable lustre of a modest, innocent, and winning youth.  Her father, Claudio Accoramboni, removed to Rome, where his numerous children were brought up under the care of their mother, Tarquinia, an ambitious and unscrupulous woman, bent on rehabilitating the decayed honours of their house.  Here Vittoria in early girlhood soon became the fashion.  She exercised an irresistible influence over all who saw her, and many were the offers of marriage she refused.  At length a suitor appeared whose condition and connection with the Roman ecclesiastical nobility rendered him acceptable in the eyes of the Accoramboni.  Francesco Peretti was welcomed as the successful candidate for Vittoria’s hand.  His mother, Camilla, was sister to Felice, Cardinal of Montalto; and her son, Francesco Mignucci, had changed his surname in compliment to this illustrious relative.  The Peretti were of humble origin.  The cardinal himself had tended swine in his native village; but, supported by an invincible belief in his own destinies, and gifted with a powerful intellect and determined character, he passed through all grades of the Franciscan Order to its generalship, received the bishoprics of Fermo and S. Agata, and lastly, in the year 1570, assumed the scarlet with the title of Cardinal Montalto.  He was now upon the high way to the Papacy, amassing money by incessant care, studying the humours of surrounding factions, effacing his own personality, and by mixing but little in the intrigues of the court, winning the reputation of a prudent, inoffensive old man.  These were his tactics for securing the Papal throne; nor were his expectations frustrated; for in 1585 he was chosen Pope, the parties of the Medici and the Farnesi agreeing to accept him as a compromise.  When Sixtus V. was once firmly seated on S. Peter’s chair, he showed himself in his true colours.  An implacable administrator of severest justice, a rigorous economist, an iconoclastic foe to paganism, the first act of his reign was to declare a war of extirpation against the bandits who had reduced Rome in his predecessor’s rule to anarchy.

It was the nephew, then, of this man, whom historians have judged the greatest personage of his own times, that Vittoria Accoramboni married on the 28th of June 1573.  For a short while the young couple lived happily together.  According to some accounts of their married life, the bride secured the favour of her powerful uncle-in-law, who indulged her costly fancies to the full.  It is, however, more probable that the Cardinal Montalto treated her follies with a grudging parsimony; for we soon find the Peretti household hopelessly involved in debt.  Discord, too, arose between Vittoria and her husband on the score of a certain levity in her behaviour; and it was rumoured that even during the brief space of their union she had proved a faithless wife.  Yet she contrived to keep Francesco’s confidence, and it is certain that her family profited by their connection with the Peretti.  Of her six brothers, Mario, the eldest, was a favourite courtier of the great Cardinal d’Este.  Ottavio was in orders, and through Montalto’s influence obtained the See of Fossombrone.  The same eminent protector placed Scipione in the service of the Cardinal Sforza.  Camillo, famous for his beauty and his courage, followed the fortunes of Filibert of Savoy, and died in France.  Flaminio was still a boy, dependent, as the sequel of this story shows, upon his sister’s destiny.  Of Marcello, the second in age and most important in the action of this tragedy, it is needful to speak with more particularity.  He was young, and, like the rest of his breed, singularly handsome - so handsome, indeed, that he is said to have gained an infamous ascendency over the great Duke of Bracciano, whose privy chamberlain he had become.  Marcello was an outlaw for the murder of Matteo Pallavicino, the brother of the Cardinal of that name.  This did not, however, prevent the chief of the Orsini house from making him his favourite and confidential friend.  Marcello, who seems to have realised in actual life the worst vices of those Roman courtiers described for us by Aretino, very soon conceived the plan of exalting his own fortunes by trading on his sister’s beauty.  He worked upon the Duke of Bracciano’s mind so cleverly, that he brought this haughty prince to the point of an insane passion for Peretti’s young wife; and meanwhile so contrived to inflame the ambition of Vittoria and her mother, Tarquinia, that both were prepared to dare the worst of crimes in expectation of a dukedom.  The game was a difficult one to play.  Not only had Francesco Peretti first to be murdered, but the inequality of birth and wealth and station between Vittoria and the Duke of Bracciano rendered a marriage almost impossible.  It was also an affair of delicacy to stimulate without satisfying the Duke’s passion.  Yet Marcello did not despair.  The stakes were high enough to justify great risks; and all he put in peril was his sister’s honour, the fame of the Accoramboni, and the favour of Montalto.  Vittoria, for her part, trusted in her power to ensnare and secure the noble prey both had in view.

Paolo Giordano Orsini, born about the year 1537, was reigning Duke of Bracciano.  Among Italian princes he ranked at least upon a par with the Dukes of Urbino, and his family, by its alliances, was more illustrious than any of that time in Italy.  He was a man of gigantic stature, prodigious corpulence, and marked personal daring; agreeable in manners, but subject to uncontrollable fits of passion, and incapable of self-restraint when crossed in any whim or fancy.  Upon the habit of his body it is needful to insist, in order that the part he played in this tragedy of intrigue, crime, and passion may be well defined.  He found it difficult to procure a charger equal to his weight, and he was so fat that a special dispensation relieved him from the duty of génuflexion in the Papal presence.  Though lord of a large territory, yielding princely revenues, he laboured under heavy debts; for no great noble of the period lived more splendidly, with less regard for his finances.  In the politics of that age and country, Paolo Giordano leaned toward France.  Yet he was a grandee of Spain, and had played a distinguished part in the battle of Lepanto.  Now the Duke of Bracciano was a widower.  He had been married in 1553 to Isabella de’ Medici, daughter of the Grand Duke Cosimo, sister of Francesco, Bianca Capello’s lover, and of the Cardinal Ferdinando.  Suspicion of adultery with Troilo Orsini had fallen on Isabella, and her husband, with the full concurrence of her brothers, removed her in 1576 from this world. No one thought the worse of Bracciano for this murder of his wife.  In those days of abandoned vice and intricate villany, certain points of honour were maintained with scrupulous fidelity.  A wife’s adultery was enough to justify the most savage and licentious husband in an act of semi-judicial vengeance; and the shame she brought upon his head was shared by the members of her own house, so that they stood by, consenting to her death.  Isabella, it may be said, left one son, Virginio, who became in due time Duke of Bracciano.

It appears that in the year 1581, four years after Vittoria’s marriage, the Duke of Bracciano had satisfied Marcello of his intention to make her his wife, and of his willingness to countenance Francesco Peretti’s murder.  Marcello, feeling sure of his game, introduced the Duke in private to his sister, and induced her to overcome any natural repugnance she may have felt for the unwieldy and gross lover.  Having reached this point, it was imperative to push matters quickly on toward matrimony.

But how should the unfortunate Francesco be entrapped?  They caught him in a snare of peculiar atrocity, by working on the kindly feelings which his love for Vittoria had caused him to extend to all the Acooramboni.  Marcello, the outlaw, was her favourite brother, and Marcello at that time lay in hiding, under the suspicion of more than ordinary crime, beyond the walls of Rome.  Late in the evening of the 18th of April, while the Peretti family were retiring to bed, a messenger from Marcello arrived, entreating Francesco to repair at once to Monte Cavallo.  Marcello had affairs of the utmost importance to communicate, and begged his brother-in-law not to fail him at a grievous pinch.  The letter containing this request was borne by one Dominico d’Aquaviva, alias Il Mancino, a confederate of Vittoria’s waiting-maid.  This fellow, like Marcello, was an outlaw; but when he ventured into Rome he frequented Peretti’s house, and had made himself familiar with its master as a trusty bravo.  Neither in the message, therefore, nor in the messenger was there much to rouse suspicion.  The time, indeed, was oddly chosen, and Marcello had never made a similar appeal on any previous occasion.  Yet his necessities might surely have obliged him to demand some more than ordinary favour from a brother.  Francesco immediately made himself ready to set out, armed only with his sword and attended by a single servant.  It was in vain that his wife and his mother reminded him of the dangers of the night, the loneliness of Monte Cavallo, its ruinous palaces and robber-haunted caves.  He was resolved to undertake the adventure, and went forth, never to return.  As he ascended the hill, he fell to earth, shot with three harquebuses.  His body was afterwards found on Monte Cavallo, stabbed through and through, without a trace that could identify the murderers.  Only, in the course of subsequent investigations, Il Mancino (on the 24th of February 1582) made the following statements: - That Vittoria’s mother, assisted by the waiting woman, had planned the trap; that Marchionne of Gubbio and Paolo Barca of Bracciano, two of the Duke’s men, had despatched the victim.  Marcello himself, it seems, had come from Bracciano to conduct the whole affair.  Suspicion fell immediately upon Vittoria and her kindred, together with the Duke of Bracciano; nor was this diminished when the Accoramboni, fearing the pursuit of justice, took refuge in a villa of the Duke’s at Magnanapoli a few days after the murder.

A cardinal’s nephew, even in those troublous times, was not killed without some noise being made about the matter.  Accordingly Pope Gregory XIII. began to take measures for discovering the authors of the crime.  Strange to say, however, the Cardinal Montalto, notwithstanding the great love he was known to bear his nephew, begged that the investigation might be dropped.  The coolness with which he first received the news of Francesco Peretti’s death, the dissimulation with which he met the Pope’s expression of sympathy in a full consistory, his reserve in greeting friends on ceremonial visits of condolence, and, more than all, the self-restraint he showed in the presence of the Duke of Bracciano, impressed the society of Rome with the belief that he was of a singularly moderate and patient temper.  It was thought that the man who could so tamely submit to his nephew’s murder, and suspend the arm of justice when already raised for vengeance, must prove a mild and indulgent ruler.  When, therefore, in the fifth year after this event, Montalto was elected Pope, men ascribed his elevation in no small measure to his conduct at the present crisis.  Some, indeed, attributed his extraordinary moderation and self-control to the right cause. ’Veramente costui e un gran frate!’ was Gregory’s remark at the close of the consistory when Montalto begged him to let the matter of Peretti’s murder rest. ’Of a truth, that fellow is a consummate hypocrite!’ How accurate this judgment was, appeared when Sixtus V. assumed the reins of power.  The same man who, as monk and cardinal, had smiled on Bracciano, though he knew him to be his nephew’s assassin, now, as Pontiff and sovereign, bade the chief of the Orsini purge his palace and dominions of the scoundrels he was wont to harbour, adding significantly, that if Felice Peretti forgave what had been done against him in a private station, he would exact uttermost vengeance for disobedience to the will of Sixtus.  The Duke of Bracciano judged it best, after that warning, to withdraw from Rome.

Francesco Peretti had been murdered on the 16th of April 1581.  Sixtus V. was proclaimed on the 24th of April 1585.  In this interval Vittoria underwent a series of extraordinary perils and adventures.  First of all, she had been secretly married to the Duke in his gardens of Magnanapoli at the end of April 1581.  That is to say, Marcello and she secured their prize, as well as they were able, the moment after Francesco had been removed by murder.  But no sooner had the marriage become known, than the Pope, moved by the scandal it created, no less than by the urgent instance of the Orsini and Medici, declared it void.  After some while spent in vain resistance, Bracciano submitted, and sent Vittoria back to her father’s house.  By an order issued under Gregory’s own hand, she was next removed to the prison of Corte Savella, thence to the monastery of S. Cecilia in Trastevere, and finally to the Castle of S. Angelo.  Here, at the end of December 1581, she was put on trial for the murder of her first husband.  In prison she seems to have borne herself bravely, arraying her beautiful person in delicate attire, entertaining visitors, exacting from her friends the honours due to a duchess, and sustaining the frequent examinations to which she was submitted with a bold, proud front.  In the middle of the month of July her constancy was sorely tried by the receipt of a letter in the Duke’s own handwriting, formally renouncing his marriage.  It was only by a lucky accident that she was prevented on this occasion from committing suicide.  The Papal court meanwhile kept urging her either to retire to a monastery or to accept another husband.  She firmly refused to embrace the religious life, and declared that she was already lawfully united to a living husband, the Duke of Bracciano.  It seemed impossible to deal with her; and at last, on the 8th of November, she was released from prison under the condition of retirement to Gubbio.  The Duke had lulled his enemies to rest by the pretence of yielding to their wishes.  But Marcello was continually beside him at Bracciano, where we read of a mysterious Greek enchantress whom he hired to brew love-philters for the furtherance of his ambitious plots.  Whether Bracciano was stimulated by the brother’s arguments or by the witch’s potions need not be too curiously questioned.  But it seems in any case certain that absence inflamed his passion instead of cooling it.

Accordingly, in September 1583, under the excuse of a pilgrimage to Loreto, he contrived to meet Vittoria at Trevi, whence he carried her in triumph to Bracciano.  Here he openly acknowledged her as his wife, installing her with all the splendour due to a sovereign duchess.  On the 10th of October following, he once more performed the marriage ceremony in the principal church of his fief; and in the January of 1584 he brought her openly to Rome.  This act of contumacy to the Pope, both as feudal superior and as supreme Pontiff, roused all the former opposition to his marriage.  Once more it was declared invalid.  Once more the Duke pretended to give way.  But at this juncture Gregory died; and while the conclave was sitting for the election of the new Pope, he resolved to take the law into his own hands, and to ratify his union with Vittoria by a third and public marriage in Rome.  On the morning of the 24th of April 1585, their nuptials were accordingly once more solemnised in the Orsini palace.  Just one hour after the ceremony, as appears from the marriage register, the news arrived of Cardinal Montalto’s election to the Papacy, Vittoria lost no time in paying her respects to Camilla, sister of the new Pope, her former mother-in-law.  The Duke visited Sixtus V. in state to compliment him on his elevation.  But the reception which both received proved that Rome was no safe place for them to live in.  They consequently made up their minds for flight.

A chronic illness from which Bracciano had lately suffered furnished a sufficient pretext.  This seems to have been something of the nature of a cancerous ulcer, which had to be treated by the application of raw meat to open sores.  Such details are only excusable in the present narrative on the ground that Bracciano’s disease considerably affects our moral judgment of the woman who could marry a man thus physically tainted, and with her husband’s blood upon his hands.  At any rate, the Duke’s lupa justified his trying what change of air, together with the sulphur waters of Abano, would do for him.

The Duke and Duchess arrived in safety at Venice, where they had engaged the Dandolo palace on the Zuecca.  There they only stayed a few days, removing to Padua, where they had hired palaces of the Foscari in the Arena and a house called De’ Cavalli.  At Salo, also, on the Lake of Garda, they provided themselves with fit dwellings for their princely state and their large retinues, intending to divide their time between the pleasures which the capital of luxury afforded and the simpler enjoyments of the most beautiful of the Italian lakes.  But la gioia dei profani e un fumo passaggier.  Paolo Giordano Orsini, Duke of Bracciano, died suddenly at Salo on the 10th of November 1585, leaving the young and beautiful Vittoria helpless among enemies.  What was the cause of his death?  It is not possible to give a clear and certain answer.  We have seen that he suffered from a horrible and voracious disease, which after his removal from Rome seems to have made progress.  Yet though this malady may well have cut his life short, suspicion of poison was not, in the circumstances, quite unreasonable.  The Grand Duke of Tuscany, the Pope, and the Orsini family were all interested in his death.  Anyhow, he had time to make a will in Vittoria’s favour, leaving her large sums of money, jewels, goods, and houses - enough, in fact, to support her ducal dignity with splendour.  His hereditary fiefs and honours passed by right to his only son, Virginio.

Vittoria, accompanied by her brother, Marcello, and the whole court of Bracciano, repaired at once to Padua, where she was soon after joined by Flaminio, and by the Prince Lodovico Orsini.  Lodovico Orsini assumed the duty of settling Vittoria’s affairs under her dead husband’s will.  In life he had been the Duke’s ally as well as relative.  His family pride was deeply wounded by what seemed to him an ignoble, as it was certainly an unequal, marriage.  He now showed himself the relentless enemy of the Duchess.  Disputes arose between them as to certain details, which seem to have been legally decided in the widow’s favour.  On the night of the 22nd of December, however, forty men disguised in black and fantastically tricked out to elude detection, surrounded her palace.  Through the long galleries and chambers hung with arras, eight of them went, bearing torches, in search of Vittoria and her brothers.  Marcello escaped, having fled the house under suspicion of the murder of one of his own followers.  Flaminio, the innocent and young, was playing on his lute and singing Miserere in the great hall of the palace.  The murderers surprised him with a shot from one of their harquebuses.  He ran, wounded in the shoulder, to his sister’s room.  She, it is said, was telling her beads before retiring for the night.  When three of the assassins entered, she knelt before the crucifix, and there they stabbed her in the left breast, turning the poignard in the wound, and asking her with savage insults if her heart was pierced.  Her last words were, ’Jesus, I pardon you.’  Then they turned to Flaminio, and left him pierced with seventy-four stiletto wounds.

The authorities of Padua identified the bodies of Vittoria and Flaminio, and sent at once for further instructions to Venice.  Meanwhile it appears that both corpses were laid out in one open coffin for the people to contemplate.  The palace and the church of the Eremitani, to which they had been removed, were crowded all through the following day with a vast concourse of the Paduans.  Vittoria’s wonderful dead body, pale yet sweet to look upon, the golden hair flowing around her marble shoulders, the red wound in her breast uncovered, the stately limbs arrayed in satin as she died, maddened the populace with its surpassing loveliness. ‘Dentibus fremebant,’ says the chronicler, when they beheld that gracious lady stiff in death.  And of a truth, if her corpse was actually exposed in the chapel of the Eremitani, as we have some right to assume, the spectacle must have been impressive.  Those grim gaunt frescoes of Mantegna looked down on her as she lay stretched upon her bier, solemn and calm, and, but for pallor, beautiful as though in life.  No wonder that the folk forgot her first husband’s murder, her less than comely marriage to the second.  It was enough for them that this flower of surpassing loveliness had been cropped by villains in its bloom.  Gathering in knots around the torches placed beside the corpse, they vowed vengeance against the Orsini; for suspicion, not unnaturally, fell on Prince Lodovico.

The Prince was arrested and interrogated before the court of Padua.  He entered their hall attended by forty armed men, responded haughtily to their questions, and demanded free passage for his courier to Virginio Orsini, then at Florence.  To this demand the court acceded; but the precaution of way-laying the courier and searching his person was very wisely taken.  Besides some formal dispatches which announced Vittoria’s assassination, they found in this man’s boot a compromising letter, declaring Virginio a party to the crime, and asserting that Lodovico had with his own poignard killed their victim.  Padua placed itself in a state of defence, and prepared to besiege the palace of Prince Lodovico, who also got himself in readiness for battle.  Engines, culverins, and firebrands were directed against the barricades which he had raised.  The militia was called out and the Brenta was strongly guarded.  Meanwhile the Senate of S. Mark had dispatched the Avogadore, Aloisio Bragadin, with full power to the scene of action.  Lodovico Orsini, it may be mentioned, was in their service; and had not this affair intervened, he would in a few weeks have entered on his duties as Governor for Venice of Corfu.

The bombardment of Orsini’s palace began on Christmas Day.  Three of the Prince’s men were killed in the first assault; and since the artillery brought to bear upon him threatened speedy ruin to the house and its inhabitants, he made up his mind to surrender.  ’The Prince Luigi,’ writes one-chronicler of these events, ’walked attired in brown, his poignard at his side, and his cloak slung elegantly under his arm.  The weapon being taken from him, he leaned upon a balustrade, and began to trim his nails with a little pair of scissors he happened to find there.’  On the 27th he was strangled in prison by order of the Venetian Republic.  His body was carried to be buried, according to his own will, in the church of S. Maria dell’ Orto at Venice.  Two of his followers were hung next day.  Fifteen were executed on the following Monday; two of these were quartered alive; one of them, the Conte Paganello, who confessed to having slain Vittoria, had his left side probed with his own cruel dagger.  Eight were condemned to the galleys, six to prison, and eleven were acquitted.  Thus ended this terrible affair, which brought, it is said, good credit and renown to the lords of Venice through all nations of the civilised world.  It only remains to be added that Marcello Accoramboni was surrendered to the Pope’s vengeance and beheaded at Ancona, where also his mysterious accomplice, the Greek sorceress, perished.

II

This story of Vittoria Accoramboni’s life and tragic ending is drawn, in its main details, from a narrative published by Henri Beyle in his ’Chroniques et Novelles.’ He professes to have translated it literally from a manuscript communicated to him by a nobleman of Mantua; and there are strong internal evidences of the truth of this assertion.  Such compositions are frequent in Italian libraries, nor is it rare for one of them to pass into the common market - as Mr. Browning’s famous purchase of the tale on which he based his ’Ring and the Book’ sufficiently proves.  These pamphlets were produced, in the first instance, to gratify the curiosity of the educated public in an age which had no newspapers, and also to preserve the memory of famous trials.  How far the strict truth was represented, or whether, as in the case of Beatrice Cenci, the pathetic aspect of the tragedy was unduly dwelt on, depended, of course, upon the mental bias of the scribe, upon his opportunities of obtaining exact information, and upon the taste of the audience for whom he wrote.  Therefore, in treating such documents as historical data, we must be upon our guard.  Professor Gnoli, who has recently investigated the whole of Vittoria’s eventful story by the light of contemporary documents, informs us that several narratives exist in manuscript, all dealing more or less accurately with the details of the tragedy.  One of these was published in Italian at Brescia in 1586.  A Frenchman, De Rosset, printed the same story in its main outlines at Lyons in 1621.  Our own dramatist, John Webster, made it the subject of a tragedy, which he gave to the press in 1612.  What were his sources of information we do not know for certain.  But it is clear that he was well acquainted with the history.  He has changed some of the names and redistributed some of the chief parts.  Vittoria’s first husband, for example, becomes Camillo; her mother, named Cornelia instead of Tarquinia, is so far from abetting Peretti’s murder and countenancing her daughter’s shame, that she acts the rôle of a domestic Cassandra.  Flaminio and not Marcello is made the main instrument of Vittoria’s crime and elevation.  The Cardinal Montalto is called Monticelso, and his papal title is Paul IV. instead of Sixtus V. These are details of comparative indifference, in which a playwright may fairly use his liberty of art.  On the other hand, Webster shows a curious knowledge of the picturesque circumstances of the tale.  The garden in which Vittoria meets Bracciano is the villa of Magnanapoli; Zanche, the Moorish slave, combines Vittoria’s waiting-woman, Caterina, and the Greek sorceress who so mysteriously dogged Marcello’s footsteps to the death.  The suspicion of Bracciano’s murder is used to introduce a quaint episode of Italian poisoning.

Webster exercised the dramatist’s privilege of connecting various threads of action in one plot, disregarding chronology, and hazarding an ethical solution of motives which mere fidelity to fact hardly warrants.  He shows us Vittoria married to Camillo, a low-born and witless fool, whose only merit consists in being nephew to the Cardinal Monticelso, afterwards Pope Paul IV. Paulo Giordano Ursini, Duke of Brachiano, loves Vittoria, and she suggests to him that, for the furtherance of their amours, his wife, the Duchess Isabella, sister to Francesco de’ Medici, Grand Duke of Florence, should be murdered at the same time as her own husband, Camillo.  Brachiano is struck by this plan, and with the help of Vittoria’s brother, Flamineo, he puts it at once into execution.  Flamineo hires a doctor who poisons Brachiano’s portrait, so that Isabella dies after kissing it.  He also with his own hands twists Camillo’s neck during a vaulting-match, making it appear that he came by his death accidentally.  Suspicion of the murder attaches, however, to Vittoria.  She is tried for her life before Monticelso and De’ Medici; acquitted, and relegated to a house of Convertites or female reformatory.  Brachiano, on the accession of Monticelso to the Papal throne, resolves to leave Rome with Vittoria.  They escape, together with her mother Cornelia, and her brothers Flamineo and Marcello, to Padua; and it is here that the last scenes of the tragedy are laid.

The use Webster made of Lodovico Orsini deserves particular attention.  He introduces this personage in the very first scene as a spendthrift, who, having run through his fortune, has been outlawed.  Count Lodovico, as he is always called, has no relationship with the Orsini, but is attached to the service of Francesco de’ Medici, and is an old lover of the Duchess Isabella.  When, therefore, the Grand Duke meditates vengeance on Brachiano, he finds a fitting instrument in the desperate Lodovico.  Together, in disguise, they repair to Padua.  Lodovico poisons the Duke of Brachiano’s helmet, and has the satisfaction of ending his last struggles by the halter.  Afterwards, with companions, habited as a masquer, he enters Vittoria’s palace and puts her to death together with her brother Flamineo.  Just when the deed of vengeance has been completed, young Giovanni Orsini, heir of Brachiano, enters and orders the summary execution of Lodovico for this deed of violence.  Webster’s invention in this plot is confined to the fantastic incidents attending on the deaths of Isabella, Camillo, and Brachiano, and to the murder of Marcello by his brother Flamineo, with the further consequence of Cornelia’s madness and death.  He has heightened our interest in Isabella, at the expense of Brachiano’s character, by making her an innocent and loving wife instead of an adulteress.  He has ascribed different motives from the real ones to Lodovico in order to bring this personage into rank with the chief actors, though this has been achieved with only moderate success.  Vittoria is abandoned to the darkest interpretation.  She is a woman who rises to eminence by crime, as an unfaithful wife, the murderess of her husband, and an impudent defier of justice.  Her brother, Flamineo, becomes under Webster’s treatment one of those worst human infamies - a court dependent; ruffian, buffoon, pimp, murderer by turns.  Furthermore, and without any adequate object beyond that of completing this study of a type he loved, Webster makes him murder his own brother Marcello by treason.  The part assigned to Marcello, it should be said, is a genial and happy one; and Cornelia, the mother of the Accoramboni, is a dignified character, pathetic in her suffering.  Webster, it may be added, treats the Cardinal Monticelso as allied in some special way to the Medici.  Yet certain traits in his character, especially his avoidance of bloodshed and the tameness of his temper after Camillo has been murdered, seem to have been studied from the historical Sixtus.

III

The character of the ‘White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona,’ is perhaps the most masterly creation of Webster’s genius.  Though her history is a true one in its leading incidents, the poet, while portraying a real personage, has conceived an original individuality.  It is impossible to know for certain how far the actual Vittoria was guilty of her first husband’s murder.  Her personality fails to detach itself from the romance of her biography by any salient qualities.  But Webster, with true playwright’s instinct, casts aside historical doubts, and delineates in his heroine a woman of a very marked and terrible nature.  Hard as adamant, uncompromising, ruthless, Vittoria follows ambition as the loadstar of her life.  It is the ambition to reign as Duchess, far more than any passion for a paramour, which makes her plot Camillo’s and Isabella’s murders, and throws her before marriage into Brachiano’s arms.  Added to this ambition, she is possessed with the cold demon of her own imperial and victorious beauty.  She has the courage of her criminality in the fullest sense; and much of the fascination with which Webster has invested her, depends upon her dreadful daring.  Her portrait is drawn with full and firm touches.  Although she appears but five times on the scene, she fills it from the first line of the drama to the last.  Each appearance adds effectively to the total impression.  We see her first during a criminal interview with Brachiano, contrived by her brother Flamineo.  The plot of the tragedy is developed in this scene; Vittoria suggesting, under the metaphor of a dream, that her lover should compass the deaths of his duchess and her husband.  The dream is told with deadly energy and ghastly picturesqueness.  The cruel sneer at its conclusion, murmured by a voluptuous woman in the ears of an impassioned paramour, chills us with the sense of concentrated vice.  Her next appearance is before the court, on trial for her husband’s murder.  The scene is celebrated, and has been much disputed by critics.  Relying on her own dauntlessness, on her beauty, and on the protection of Brachiano, Vittoria hardly takes the trouble to plead innocence or to rebut charges.  She stands defiant, arrogant, vigilant, on guard; flinging the lie in the teeth of her arraigners; quick to seize the slightest sign of feebleness in their attack; protesting her guiltlessness so loudly that she shouts truth down by brazen strength of lung; retiring at the close with taunts; blazing throughout with the intolerable lustre of some baleful planet.  When she enters for the third time, it is to quarrel with her paramour.  He has been stung to jealousy by a feigned love-letter.  She knows that she has given him no cause; it is her game to lure him by fidelity to marriage.  Therefore she resolves to make his mistake the instrument of her exaltation.  Beginning with torrents of abuse, hurling reproaches at him for her own dishonour and the murder of his wife, working herself by studied degrees into a tempest of ungovernable rage, she flings herself upon the bed, refuses his caresses, spurns and tramples on him, till she has brought Brachiano, terrified, humbled, fascinated, to her feet.  Then she gradually relents beneath his passionate protestations and repeated promises of marriage.  At this point she speaks but little.  We only feel her melting humour in the air, and long to see the scene played by such an actress as Madame Bernhardt.  When Vittoria next appears, it is as Duchess by the deathbed of the Duke, her husband.  Her attendance here is necessary, but it contributes little to the development of her character.  We have learned to know her, and expect neither womanish tears nor signs of affection at a crisis which touches her heart less than her self-love.  Webster, among his other excellent qualities, knew how to support character by reticence.  Vittoria’s silence in this act is significant; and when she retires exclaiming, ‘O me! this place is hell!’ we know that it is the outcry, not of a woman who has lost what made life dear, but of one who sees the fruits of crime imperilled by a fatal accident.  The last scene of the play is devoted to Vittoria.  It begins with a notable altercation between her and Flamineo.  She calls him ‘ruffian’ and ‘villain,’ refusing him the reward of his vile service.  This quarrel emerges in one of Webster’s grotesque contrivances to prolong a poignant situation.  Flamineo quits the stage and reappears with pistols.  He affects a kind of madness; and after threatening Vittoria, who never flinches, he proposes they should end their lives by suicide.  She humours him, but manages to get the first shot.  Flamineo falls, wounded apparently to death.  Then Vittoria turns and tramples on him with her feet and tongue, taunting him in his death agony with the enumeration of his crimes.  Her malice and her energy are equally infernal.  Soon, however, it appears that the whole device was but a trick of Flamineo’s to test his sister.  The pistol was not loaded.  He now produces a pair which are properly charged, and proceeds in good earnest to the assassination of Vittoria.  But at this critical moment Lodovico and his masquers appear; brother and sister both die unrepentant, defiant to the end.  Vittoria’s customary pride and her familiar sneers impress her speech in these last moments with a trenchant truth to nature: 

              You my death’s-man! 

Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough,
Thou hast too good a face to be a hangman: 
If thou be, do thy office in right form;
Fall down upon thy knees, and ask forgiveness!

I will be waited on in death; my servant
Shall never go before me.

Yes, I shall welcome death
As princes do some great ambassadors: 
I’ll meet thy weapon half-way.

’Twas a manly blow! 
The next thou giv’st, murder some sucking infant;
And then thou wilt be famous.

So firmly has Webster wrought the character of this white devil, that we seem to see her before us as in a picture.  ’Beautiful as the leprosy, dazzling as the lightning,’ to use a phrase of her enthusiastic admirer Hazlitt, she takes her station like a lady in some portrait by Paris Bordone, with gleaming golden hair twisted into snakelike braids about her temples, with skin white as cream, bright cheeks, dark dauntless eyes, and on her bosom, where it has been chafed by jewelled chains, a flush of rose.  She is luxurious, but not so abandoned to the pleasures of the sense as to forget the purpose of her will and brain.  Crime and peril add zest to her enjoyment.  When arraigned in open court before the judgment-seat of deadly and unscrupulous foes, she conceals the consciousness of guilt, and stands erect, with fierce front, unabashed, relying on the splendour of her irresistible beauty and the subtlety of her piercing wit.  Chafing with rage, the blood mounts and adds a lustre to her cheek.  It is no flush of modesty, but of rebellious indignation.  The Cardinal, who hates her, brands her emotion with the name of shame.  She rebukes him, hurling a jibe at his own mother.  And when they point with spiteful eagerness to the jewels blazing on her breast, to the silks and satins that she rustles in, her husband lying murdered, she retorts: 

     Had I foreknown his death, as you suggest, I would have
     bespoke my mourning.

She is condemned, but not vanquished, and leaves the court with a stinging sarcasm.  They send her to a house of Convertites: 

     V.C.  A house of Convertites! what’s that?

     M.  A house of penitent whores.

     V.C.  Do the noblemen of Rome Erect it for their wives,
     that I am sent To lodge there?

Charles Lamb was certainly in error? when he described Vittoria’s attitude as one of ‘innocence-resembling boldness.’  In the trial scene, no less than in the scenes of altercation with Brachiano and Flamineo, Webster clearly intended her to pass for a magnificent vixen, a beautiful and queenly termagant.  Her boldness is the audacity of impudence, which does not condescend to entertain the thought of guilt.  Her egotism is so hard and so profound that the very victims whom she sacrifices to ambition seem in her sight justly punished.  Of Camillo and Isabella, her husband and his wife, she says to Brachiano: 

     And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, In that base
     shallow grave that was their due.

IV

It is tempting to pass from this analysis of Vittoria’s life to a consideration of Webster’s drama as a whole, especially in a book dedicated to Italian byways.  For that mysterious man of genius had explored the dark and devious paths of Renaissance vice, and had penetrated the secrets of Italian wickedness with truly appalling lucidity.  His tragedies, though worthless as historical documents, have singular value as commentaries upon history, as revelations to us of the spirit of the sixteenth century in its deepest gloom.

Webster’s plays, owing to the condensation of their thought and the compression of their style, are not easy to read for the first time.  He crowds so many fantastic incidents into one action, and burdens his discourse with so much profoundly studied matter, that we rise from the perusal of his works with a blurred impression of the fables, a deep sense of the poet’s power and personality, and an ineffaceable recollection of one or two resplendent scenes.  His Roman history-play of ‘Appius and Virginia’ proves that he understood the value of a simple plot, and that he was able, when he chose, to work one out with conscientious calmness.  But the two Italian dramas upon which his fame is justly founded, by right of which he stands alone among the playwrights of all literatures, are marked by a peculiar and wayward mannerism.  Each part is etched with equal effort after luminous effect upon a back-ground of lurid darkness; and the whole play is made up of these parts, without due concentration on a master-motive.  The characters are definite in outline, but, taken together in the conduct of a single plot, they seem to stand apart, like figures in a tableau vivant; nor do they act and react each upon the other in the play of interpenetrative passions.  That this mannerism was deliberately chosen, we have a right to believe.  ’Willingly, and not ignorantly, in this kind have I faulted,’ is the answer Webster gives to such as may object that he has not constructed his plays upon the classic model.  He seems to have had a certain sombre richness of tone and intricacy of design in view, combining sensational effect and sententious pregnancy of diction in works of laboured art, which, when adequately represented to the ear and eye upon the stage, might at a touch obtain the animation they now lack for chamber-students.

When familiarity has brought us acquainted with his style, when we have disentangled the main characters and circumstances from their adjuncts, we perceive that he treats poignant and tremendous situations with a concentrated vigour special to his genius; that he has studied each word and trait of character, and that he has prepared by gradual approaches and degrees of horror for the culmination of his tragedies.  The sentences which seem at first sight copied from a commonplace book, are found to be appropriate.  Brief lightning flashes of acute perception illuminate the midnight darkness of his all but unimaginably depraved characters.  Sharp unexpected touches evoke humanity in the fantoccini of his wayward art.  No dramatist has shown more consummate ability in heightening terrific effects, in laying bare the innermost mysteries of crime, remorse, and pain, combined to make men miserable.  It has been said of Webster that, feeling himself deficient in the first poetic qualities, he concentrated his powers upon one point, and achieved success by sheer force of self-cultivation.  There is perhaps some truth in this.  At any rate, his genius was of a narrow and peculiar order, and he knew well how to make the most of its limitations.  Yet we must not forget that he felt a natural bias toward the dreadful stuff with which he deals.  The mystery of iniquity had an irresistible attraction for his mind.  He was drawn to comprehend and reproduce abnormal elements of spiritual anguish.  The materials with which he builds his tragedies are sought for in the ruined places of lost souls, in the agonies of madness and despair, in the sarcasms of criminal and reckless atheism, in slow tortures, griefs beyond endurance, the tempests of remorseful death, the spasms of fratricidal bloodshed.  He is often melodramatic in the means employed to bring these psychological conditions home to us.  He makes too free use of poisoned engines, daggers, pistols, disguised murderers, and so forth.  Yet his firm grasp upon the essential qualities of diseased and guilty human nature saves him, even at his wildest, from the unrealities and extravagances into which less potent artists of the drame sanglant - Marston, for example - blundered.

With Webster, the tendency to brood on horrors was no result of calculation.  It belonged to his idiosyncrasy.  He seems to have been suckled from birth at the breast of that Mater Tenebrarum, our Lady of Darkness, whom De Quincey in one of his ‘Suspiria de Profundis’ describes among the Semnai Theai, the august goddesses, the mysterious foster-nurses of suffering humanity.  He cannot say the simplest thing without giving it a ghastly or sinister turn.  If one of his characters draws a metaphor from pie-crust, he must needs use language of the churchyard: 

                         You speak as if a man
  Should know what fowl is coffined in a baked meat
  Afore you cut it open.

Hideous similes are heaped together in illustration of the commonest circumstances: 

     Places at court are but like beds in the hospital, where
     this man’s head lies at that man’s foot, and so lower and
     lower.

     When knaves come to preferment, they rise as gallowses are
     raised in the Low Countries, one upon another’s shoulders.

     I would sooner eat a dead pigeon taken from the soles of the
     feet of one sick of the plague than kiss one of you fasting.

A soldier is twitted with serving his master: 

  As witches do their serviceable spirits,
  Even with thy prodigal blood.

An adulterous couple get this curse: 

  Like mistletoe on sear elms spent by weather,
  Let him cleave to her, and both rot together.

A bravo is asked: 

  Dost thou imagine thou canst slide on blood,
  And not be tainted with a shameful fall? 
  Or, like the black and melancholic yew-tree,
  Dost think to root thyself in dead men’s graves,
  And yet to prosper?

It is dangerous to extract philosophy of life from any dramatist.  Yet Webster so often returns to dark and doleful meditations, that we may fairly class him among constitutional pessimists.  Men, according to the grimness of his melancholy, are: 

Only like dead walls or vaulted graves,
That, ruined, yield no echo. 
O this gloomy world! 
In what a shadow or deep pit of darkness
Doth womanish and fearful mankind live!

We are merely the stars’ tennis-balls, struck and banded
Which way please them.

Pleasure of life! what is’t? only the good hours of an ague.

A Duchess is ‘brought to mortification,’ before her strangling by the executioner, in this high fantastical oration: 

Thou art a box of worm-seed, at best but a salvatory of
green mummy.  What’s this flesh?  A little crudded milk,
fantastical puff-paste, &c. &c.

Man’s life in its totality is summed up with monastic cynicism in these lyric verses: 

  Of what is’t fools make such vain keeping? 
  Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
  Their life a general mist of error,
  Their death a hideous storm of terror.

The greatness of the world passes by with all its glory: 

  Vain the ambition of kings,
  Who seek by trophies and dead things
  To leave a living name behind,
  And weave but nets to catch the wind.

It would be easy to surfeit criticism with similar examples; where Webster is writing in sarcastic, meditative, or deliberately terror-stirring moods.  The same dark dye of his imagination shows itself even more significantly in circumstances where, in the work of any other artist, it would inevitably mar the harmony of the picture.  A lady, to select one instance, encourages her lover to embrace her at the moment of his happiness.  She cries: 

                         Sir, be confident! 
  What is’t distracts you?  This is flesh and blood, sir;
  ’Tis not the figure cut in alabaster,
  Kneels at my husband’s tomb.

Yet so sustained is Webster’s symphony of sombre tints, that we do not feel this sepulchral language, this ‘talk fit for a charnel’ (to use one of his own phrases), to be out of keeping.  It sounds like a presentiment of coming woes, which, as the drama grows to its conclusion, gather and darken on the wretched victims of his bloody plot.

It was with profound sagacity, or led by some deep-rooted instinct, that Webster sought the fables of his two great tragedies, ’The White Devil’ and ‘The Duchess of Malfi,’ in Italian annals.  Whether he had visited Italy in his youth, we cannot say; for next to nothing is known about Webster’s life.  But that he had gazed long and earnestly into the mirror held up by that enchantress of the nations in his age, is certain.  Aghast and fascinated by the sins he saw there flaunting in the light of day - sins on whose pernicious glamour Ascham, Greene, and Howell have insisted with impressive vehemence - Webster discerned in them the stuff he needed for philosophy and art.  Withdrawing from that contemplation, he was like a spirit ’loosed out of hell to speak of horrors.’  Deeper than any poet of the time, deeper than any even of the Italians, he read the riddle of the sphinx of crime.  He found there something akin to his own imaginative mood, something which he alone could fully comprehend and interpret.  From the superficial narratives of writers like Bandello he extracted a spiritual essence which was, if not the literal, at least the ideal, truth involved in them.

The enormous and unnatural vices, the domestic crimes of cruelty, adultery, and bloodshed, the political scheming and the subtle arts of vengeance, the ecclesiastical tyranny and craft, the cynical scepticism and lustre of luxurious godlessness, which made Italy in the midst of her refinement blaze like ‘a bright and ominous star’ before the nations; these were the very elements in which the genius of Webster - salamander-like in flame - could live and flourish.  Only the incidents of Italian history, or of French history in its Italianated epoch, were capable of supplying him with the proper type of plot.  It was in Italy alone, or in an Italianated country, such as England for a brief space in the reign of the first Stuart threatened to become, that the well-nigh diabolical wickedness of his characters might have been realised.  An audience familiar with Italian novels through Belleforest and Painter, inflamed by the long struggle of the Reformation against the scarlet abominations of the Papal See, outraged in their moral sense by the political paradoxes of Machiavelli, horror-stricken at the still recent misdoings of Borgias and Medici and Farnesi, alarmed by that Italian policy which had conceived the massacre of S. Bartholomew in France, and infuriated by that ecclesiastical hypocrisy which triumphed in the same; such an audience were at the right point of sympathy with a poet who undertook to lay the springs of Southern villany before them bare in a dramatic action.  But, as the old proverb puts it, ’Inglese Italianato e un diavolo incarnato.’  ’An Englishman assuming the Italian habit is a devil in the flesh.’  The Italians were depraved, but spiritually feeble.  The English playwright, when he brought them on the stage, arrayed with intellectual power and gleaming with the lurid splendour of a Northern fancy, made them tenfold darker and more terrible.  To the subtlety and vices of the South he added the melancholy, meditation, and sinister insanity of his own climate.  He deepened the complexion of crime and intensified lawlessness by robbing the Italian character of levity.  Sin, in his conception of that character, was complicated with the sense of sin, as it never had been in a Florentine or a Neapolitan.  He had not grasped the meaning of the Machiavellian conscience, in its cold serenity and disengagement from the dread of moral consequence.  Not only are his villains stealthy, frigid, quick to evil, merciless, and void of honour; but they brood upon their crimes and analyse their motives.  In the midst of their audacity they are dogged by dread of coming retribution.  At the crisis of their destiny they look back upon their better days with intellectual remorse.  In the execution of their bloodiest schemes they groan beneath the chains of guilt they wear, and quake before the phantoms of their haunted brains.

Thus passion and reflection, superstition and profanity, deliberate atrocity and fear of judgment, are united in the same nature; and to make the complex still more strange, the play-wright has gifted these tremendous personalities with his own wild humour and imaginative irony.  The result is almost monstrous, such an ideal of character as makes earth hell.  And yet it is not without justification.  To the Italian text has been added the Teutonic commentary, and both are fused by a dramatic genius into one living whole.

One of these men is Flamineo, the brother of Vittoria Corombona, upon whose part the action of the ‘White Devil’ depends.  He has been bred in arts and letters at the university of Padua; but being poor and of luxurious appetites, he chooses the path of crime in courts for his advancement.  A duke adopts him for his minion, and Flamineo acts the pander to this great man’s lust.  He contrives the death of his brother-in-law, suborns a doctor to poison the Duke’s wife, and arranges secret meetings between his sister and the paramour who is to make her fortune and his own.  His mother appears like a warning Ate to prevent her daughter’s crime.  In his rage he cries: 

  What fury raised thee up?  Away, away!

And when she pleads the honour of their house he answers: 

                        Shall I,
  Having a path so open and so free
  To my preferment, still retain your milk
  In my pale forehead?

Later on, when it is necessary to remove another victim, he runs his own brother through the body and drives his mother to madness.  Yet, in the midst of these crimes, we are unable to regard him as a simple cut-throat.  His irony and reckless courting of damnation open-eyed to get his gust of life in this world, make him no common villain.  He can be brave as well as fierce.  When the Duke insults him he bandies taunt for taunt: 

     Brach.  No, you pander?

     Flam.  What, me, my lord? 
      Am I your dog?

     B.  A bloodhound; do you brave, do you stand me?

     F.  Stand you! let those that have diseases run;
     I need no plasters.

     B.  Would you be kicked?

     F.  Would you have your neck broke? 
     I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia;
     My shins must be kept whole.

     B.  Do you know me?

F.  Oh, my lord, methodically:  As in this world there are degrees of evils, So in this world there are degrees of devils.  You’re a great duke, I your poor secretary.

When the Duke dies and his prey escapes him, the rage of disappointment breaks into this fierce apostrophe: 

I cannot conjure; but if prayers or oaths.  Will get the speech of him, though forty devils Wait on him in his livery of flames, I’ll speak to him and shake him by the hand, Though I be blasted.

As crimes thicken round him, and he still despairs of the reward for which he sold himself, conscience awakes: 

                              I have lived
     Riotously ill, like some that live in court,
     And sometimes when my face was full of smiles Have felt the
     maze of conscience in my breast.

The scholar’s scepticism, which lies at the root of his perversity, finds utterance in this meditation upon death: 

     Whither shall I go now?  O Lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory!
     to find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging
     points, and Julius Cæsar making hair-buttons!

     Whether I resolve to fire, earth, water, air, or all the
     elements by scruples, I know not, nor greatly care.

At the last moment he yet can say: 

     We cease to grieve, cease to be Fortune’s slaves, Nay, cease
     to die, by dying.

And again, with the very yielding of his spirit: 

     My life was a black charnel.

It will be seen that in no sense does Flamineo resemble Iago.  He is not a traitor working by craft and calculating ability to well-considered ends.  He is the desperado frantically clutching at an uncertain and impossible satisfaction.  Webster conceives him as a self-abandoned atheist, who, maddened by poverty and tainted by vicious living, takes a fury to his heart, and, because the goodness of the world has been for ever lost to him, recklessly seeks the bad.

Bosola, in the ‘Duchess of Malfi,’ is of the same stamp.  He too has been a scholar.  He is sent to the galleys ‘for a notorious murder,’ and on his release he enters the service of two brothers, the Duke of Calabria and the Cardinal of Aragon, who place him as their intelligencer at the court of their sister.

     Bos.  It seems you would create me
     One of your familiars.

     Ferd.  Familiar! what’s that?

     Bos.  Why, a very quaint invisible devil in flesh,
     An intelligencer.

     Ferd.  Such a kind of thriving thing
      I would wish thee; and ere long thou may’st arrive
      At a higher place by it.

Lured by hope of preferment, Bosola undertakes the office of spy, tormentor, and at last of executioner.  For: 

    Discontent and want
  Is the best clay to mould a villain of.

But his true self, though subdued to be what he quaintly styles ’the devil’s quilted anvil,’ on which ’all sins are fashioned and the blows never heard,’ continually rebels against this destiny.  Compared with Flamineo, he is less unnaturally criminal.  His melancholy is more fantastic, his despair more noble.  Throughout the course of craft and cruelty on which he is goaded by a relentless taskmaster, his nature, hardened as it is, revolts.

At the end, when Bosola presents the body of the murdered Duchess to her brother, Webster has wrought a scene of tragic savagery that surpasses almost any other that the English stage can show.  The sight, of his dead sister maddens Ferdinand, who, feeling the eclipse of reason gradually absorb his faculties, turns round with frenzied hatred on the accomplice of his fratricide.  Bosola demands the price of guilt.  Ferdinand spurns him with the concentrated eloquence of despair and the extravagance of approaching insanity.  The murderer taunts his master coldly and laconically, like a man whose life is wrecked, who has waded through blood to his reward, and who at the last moment discovers the sacrifice of his conscience and masculine freedom to be fruitless.  Remorse, frustrated hopes, and thirst for vengeance convert Bosola from this hour forward into an instrument of retribution.  The Duke and his brother the Cardinal are both brought to bloody deaths by the hand which they had used to assassinate their sister.

It is fitting that something should be said about Webster’s conception of the Italian despot.  Brachiano and Ferdinand, the employers of Flamineo and Bosola, are tyrants such as Savonarola described, and as we read of in the chronicles of petty Southern cities.  Nothing is suffered to stand between their lust and its accomplishment.  They override the law by violence, or pervert its action to their own advantage: 

    The law to him
  Is like a foul black cobweb to a spider;
  He makes it his dwelling and a prison
  To entangle those shall feed him.

They are eaten up with parasites, accomplices, and all the creatures of their crimes: 

He and his brother are like plum-trees that grow crooked over standing pools; they are rich and over-laden with fruit, but none but crows, pies, and caterpillars feed on them.

In their lives they are without a friend; for society in guilt brings nought of comfort, and honours are but emptiness: 

     Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright;
     But looked to near, have neither heat nor light.

Their plots and counterplots drive repose far from them: 

There’s but three furies found in spacious hell;
But in a great man’s breast three thousand dwell.

Fearful shapes afflict their fancy; shadows of ancestral crime or ghosts of their own raising: 

                      For these many years
  None of our family dies, but there is seen
  The shape of an old woman; which is given
  By tradition to us to have been murdered
  By her nephews for her riches.

Apparitions haunt them: 

  How tedious is a guilty conscience! 

When I look into the fish-ponds in my garden,
Methinks I see a thing armed with a rake
That seems to strike at me.

Continually scheming against the objects of their avarice and hatred, preparing poisons or suborning bravoes, they know that these same arts will be employed against them.  The wine-cup hides arsenic; the headpiece is smeared with antimony; there is a dagger behind every arras, and each shadow is a murderer’s.  When death comes, they meet it trembling.  What irony Webster has condensed in Brachiano’s outcry: 

  On pain of death, let no man name death to me;
  It is a word infinitely horrible.

And how solemn are the following reflections on the death of princes: 

  O thou soft natural death, that art joint-twin
  To sweetest slumber! no rough-bearded comet
  Stares on thy mild departure; the dull owl
  Beats not against thy casement, the hoarse wolf
  Scents not thy carrion:  pity winds thy corse,
  Whilst horror waits on princes.

After their death, this is their epitaph: 

               These wretched eminent things
  Leave no more fame behind’em than should one
  Fall in a frost and leave his print in snow.

Of Webster’s despots, the finest in conception and the firmest in execution is Ferdinand of Aragon.  Jealousy of his sister and avarice take possession of him and torment him like furies.  The flash of repentance over her strangled body is also the first flash of insanity.  He survives to present the spectacle of a crazed lunatic, and to be run through the body by his paid assassin.  In the Cardinal of Aragon, Webster paints a profligate Churchman, no less voluptuous, blood-guilty, and the rest of it, than his brother the Duke of Calabria.  It seems to have been the poet’s purpose in each of his Italian tragedies to unmask Rome as the Papal city really was.  In the lawless desperado, the intemperate tyrant, and the godless ecclesiastic, he portrayed the three curses from which Italian society was actually suffering.

It has been needful to dwell upon the gloomy and fantastic side of Webster’s genius.  But it must not be thought that he could touch no finer chord.  Indeed, it might be said that in the domain of pathos he is even more powerful than in that of horror.  His mastery in this region is displayed in the creation of that dignified and beautiful woman, the Duchess of Malfi, who, with nothing in her nature, had she but lived prosperously, to divide her from the sisterhood of gentle ladies, walks, shrined in love and purity and conscious rectitude, amid the snares and pitfalls of her persecutors, to die at last the victim of a brother’s fevered avarice and a desperado’s egotistical ambition.  The apparatus of infernal cruelty, the dead man’s hand, the semblances of murdered sons and husband, the masque of madmen, the dirge and doleful emblems of the tomb with which she is environed in her prison by the torturers who seek to goad her into lunacy, are insufficient to disturb the tranquillity and tenderness of her nature.  When the rope is being fastened to her throat, she does not spend her breath in recriminations, but turns to the waiting-woman and says: 

                        Farewell, Cariola! 
  I pray thee look thou givest my little boy
  Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl
  Say her prayers ere she sleep.

In the preceding scenes we have had enough, nay, over-much, of madness, despair, and wrestling with doom.  This is the calm that comes when death is present, when the tortured soul lays down its burden of the flesh with gladness.  But Webster has not spared another touch of thrilling pathos.

The death-struggle is over; the fratricide has rushed away, a maddened man; the murderer is gazing with remorse upon the beautiful dead body of his lady, wishing he had the world wherewith to buy her back to life again; when suddenly she murmurs ‘Mercy!’ Our interest, already overstrained, revives with momentary hope.  But the guardians of the grave will not be exorcised; and ‘Mercy!’ is the last groan of the injured Duchess.

Webster showed great skill in his delineation of the Duchess.  He had to paint a woman in a hazardous situation:  a sovereign stooping in her widowhood to wed a servant; a lady living with the mystery of this unequal marriage round her like a veil.  He dowered her with no salient qualities of intellect or heart or will; but he sustained our sympathy with her, and made us comprehend her.  To the last she is a Duchess; and when she has divested state and bowed her head to enter the low gate of heaven - too low for coronets - her poet shows us, in the lines already quoted, that the woman still survives.

The same pathos surrounds the melancholy portrait of Isabella in ‘Vittoria Corombona.’  But Isabella, in that play, serves chiefly to enhance the tyranny of her triumphant rival.  The main difficulty under which these scenes of rarest pathos would labour, were they brought upon the stage, is their simplicity in contrast with the ghastly and contorted horrors that envelop them.  A dialogue abounding in the passages I have already quoted - a dialogue which bandies ’O you screech-owl!’ and ’Thou foul black cloud!’ - in which a sister’s admonition to her brother to think twice of suicide assumes a form so weird as this: 

                 I prithee, yet remember,
  Millions are now in graves, which at last day
  Like mandrakes shall rise shrieking. -

such a dialogue could not be rendered save by actors strung up to a pitch of almost frenzied tension.  To do full justice to what in Webster’s style would be spasmodic were it not so weighty, and at the same time to maintain the purity of outline and melodious rhythm of such characters as Isabella, demands no common histrionic power.

In attempting to define Webster’s touch upon Italian tragic story, I have been led perforce to concentrate attention on what is painful and shocking to our sense of harmony in art.  He was a vigorous and profoundly imaginative playwright.  But his most enthusiastic admirers will hardly contend that good taste or moderation determined the movement of his genius.  Nor, though his insight into the essential dreadfulness of Italian tragedy was so deep, is it possible to maintain that his portraiture of Italian life was true to its more superficial aspects.  What place would there be for a Correggio or a Raphael in such a world as Webster’s?  Yet we know that the art of Raphael and Correggio is in exact harmony with the Italian temperament of the same epoch which gave birth to Cesare Borgia and Bianca Gapello.  The comparatively slighter sketch of Iachimo in ‘Cymbeline’ represents the Italian as he felt and lived, better than the laboured portrait of Flamineo.  Webster’s Italian tragedies are consequently true, not so much to the actual conditions of Italy, as to the moral impression made by those conditions on a Northern imagination.