COUNTERPOINT: ITS USE IN BEN JONSON'S

"THE ALCHEMIST"

by

GARY NORED, B.A.

A THESIS^

IN

ENGLISH Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of Texas Tech University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

Approved

December, 1970 FOREWORD

The purpose of this paper is to examine, from a new viewpoint, the structural techniques Ben Jonson employed in creating his comedy, and to illustrate, in brief, the universality of their applications to all the arts in Renaissance England. This new viewpoint will be obtained from the application of musical analytical tools to the material of literary scholarship, and it is hoped that a more cogent rationale may be obtained, through these means, of Jonson's structural techniques.

A great deal of material has been written that concerns itself with the structure of the various comedies of Ben Jonson, and with good justification. One need merely glance at the "Discoveries" to see hov7 Jonson was occupied with ideas of structure, form and content, stylistic appro­ priateness, virtuous intent, and decorum. Moreover, although many penetrating analyses of these matters exist, none is yet completely satisfactory. With this information in mind, it seems not inappropriate to insist that the need for addi­ tional studies of the subject remains. This paper, while not pretending to present any ultimate analysis of Jonsonian structure, does undertake to offer fresh alternatives to the presently existing scholarship.

iii CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEI^NTS 11

FOREWORD iii

Chapter

I. THE BACKGROUND 1

II. "EPICOENE" AS MONOPHONY 13

III. COUNTERPOINT DEFINED 2 4

IV. "THE ALCHEMIST" AS COUNTERPOINT 30

V. CONCLUSIONS 4 7

NOTES

CHAPTER I 52

CHAPTER II 54

CHAPTER III 55

CHAPTER IV 56

LIST OF WORKS CITED 59

APPENDIX 62

IV CHAPTER I

THE BACKGROUND

Ben Jonson, the man to whom "to bee able to convert the substance, or Riches of an other Poet, to his owne use," was a great virtue, felt little disinclination to convert the substance of Roman comic plot, structure, and character to the new environment of his com.edy. To read through Jonson's plays is to see a kaleidescope of comic schemes, situations, and characters mirrored from the classical past with as much fidelity as the Renaissance single perspective would permit. Jonson's borrowing power seems at times unlimited. The list of his "thefts" covers the complete gamut of classical comedy. Jonson borrowed indulgent fathers, overly strict fathers, ridiculous lovers, young suitors, scheming servants, parasites, gallants, gulls, braggart soldiers, pedants, rus­ tics and even some classical ideas of women from the Greek and Roman stages. He borrowed, too, from classical plots and situations as well as from classical criticism. Structurally, he modeled his comedies after the then-believed-to-be clas­ sical five acts plan, and seemed to display little or no influences from the French fabliaux. He was said to have practiced a "learned plagiary of all the others; you track him everywhere in their snow: if Horace, Lucan, Petronius Arbiter, Seneca, and Juvenal, had their own from him, there 2 are few serious thoughts which are new in him." Jonson's devotion to the ancients and the general level of his scholarly achievement were truly amazing, but more amazing still was his ability to borrow from the past and convert his borrowings into usable material for the pres­ ent. In the essay "Of Dramatic Poesy" Dryden wrote that Jonson "was deeply conversant in the Ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them: there is scarce a poet or historian among the Roman authors of those times whom he has not translated in 'Sejanus' and 'Catiline.' But he has done his robberies so openly, that one may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a mon­ arch; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so represents old Rome to us, in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we 3 had seen less of it than in him." But Jonson did not merely plagiarize from the past. . The resemblance of his new works to the originals from which they were taken lies primarily in the spirit in which they evolved, not in the minute details of their construction. Jonson was, of course, concerned with the details of literary construction, but I feel confident in saying that he surely never engaged in a serious argument concerning the exact moments of the day that Aristotle might have had in mind when he discussed the unity of time in the drama. Rather, Jonson was concerned that too vast an action not oppress the eyes and exceed the memory, or that too little scarce admit either.

Although he held a high reverence for classical works and ideals, Jonson did not slavishly devote himself to the classical forms of comedy handed down to him, but rather deviated from these forms as his art demanded, and as he felt such deviations were consistent with good taste, classical ideals, and his own moral and didactic purposes. Jonson realized that the mere translation of classical comedy, and the presentation thereof (timely reverence for the ancients not withstanding) could not assure the success of the work. The threads of that comedy came from the tapestry of Greek experience, v/ere open to the enjoyment and analysis of the Romans, but had been irrevocably lost long before the cathe­ dral at Salisbury was ever contemplated. If Greek drama was to survive on the Elizabethan stage, assistance would have to be brought to bear. The assistance that was brought to Elizabethan comedy came in the guise of realism. Successful comedy of this sort almost invariably brought in elements of "hometown" England-- characterizations belonging strictly to the English: washer­ women, chimney sweeps, costardmongers. The characterizations were perhaps universal, but were drawn with an English pen and seasoned with an English flavor as distinctive as Mutton soup. The character types must have had dealings with almost every social strata visiting Cheapside theaters, and in the observation and recreation of these characters, Jonson has no parallel. His experiences had brought him into contact with almost every conceivable straca of society, from bricklayers to the king. The experiences, neatly transformed through the comic vision of a categorizing and vivacious mind, and injected into the materials he took from Rome, made his work unique and appealing. His observations led him to an interest in the "humors," and this interest ultimately led to the creation of the "comedy of humors."

The humor play is unique, and this uniqueness has been observed by several scholars. P.V. Krieder concludes that "the comedy of humors is distinguished in part by its episodic structure. Around the singular character or char­ acters, the dramatist groups a number of either related or disjoined incidents, the purpose of which seems to be not the advancement of a continuous narrative, but the examination of 5 peculiarities under varied circumstances." Indeed, the comedy of humors attempts to demonstrate the activities of a man dominated by a single motivational passion, or humor. This was not the first, or the last time that such a dramatic experiment would be conducted, but it was one of the most effective. Medieval dramatists had utilized the technique to illustrate the fall of a man y

dominated by a single passion, and the romantic dramatist attempted it some two hundred years later. It was not a particularly novel idea in Jonson's time, nor was it so when Wordsworth conceived the "Preface to the Lyrical Ballads." Joanna Baillie wrote an entire series of plays illustrating each of the important passions, feeling that she was fulfill­ ing a role peculiarly belonging to tragedy. She states in the discourse introductory to the Plays on the Passions that the "task . . . belonging peculiarly to tragedy,—unveiling the human mind under the dominion of those strong and fixed passions, which, seemJngly unprovoked by outward circum­ stances, will from small beginnings brood within the breast, till all the better dispositions, all the fair gifts of nature, are born down before them,--her poets in general have entirely neglected." What Joanna Baillie failed to under­ stand, and what Jonson most certainly did understand (whether intuitively or otherwise), was that to write in such a manner, and to abstract one's characters in such a way, one robbed them of their complexity, and hence, their humanity. In 179 8 Wordsworth proclaimed that in his poetry the "feeling therein developed gives importance to the action and 7 situation, not the action and situation to the feeling." Herein the great weakness of most Romantic drama can be seen, and the great strength of Jonson's revealed. For in a world of abstracted characters, any motivation displayed must be singly explainable within the contents of the dominating passion; in Jonson's world, the situations yield their own minor motivations for action, and the drama assumes the role of displaying the guiding passions as they must of necessity cope with a world not so oriented. Thus, in Jonson's work we .see the constant interplay of humors and the world, in Baillie's, the constant obsession. In the comic struggle of Jonson's stage, characters react to contrived situations; situations "arranged" to illustrate the ludicrous hilarity of such humors. In placing his emphasis upon the action or comic situation rather than on the characters themselves, Jonson allows his characters to come into full conflict with the world and to display their humors at their best. Thus, despite Sir Morose's somewhat improbable (but funny never­ theless) distaste for noise (his own excepted), he is realis­ tic. He is duped and duped royally, but his actions and self defense are understandable. He is a fool, but he is more than a fool. His personality is more rounded than the personalities of classical drama. His humanity is credible but becomes so only because we have the opportunity to observe him react. His reactions are not completely one­ sided, but are cunning and intelligent (within bounds) and to be expected from a man possessed of his particular malady. He is a perfect comic character.

The comedy of humors, however, requires some special control of jargon if it is to be successful; and, realizing the necessities of such a dramatic form, Jonson turned to the use of various structural techniques, some of which may be discussed here without benefit of explanatory material, but many of which must be termed "contrapuntal," and hence must receive more elaborate introduction.

One of the most obvious necessities of the comedy of humors is that the humors them.selves must be identified. Many of the techniques Jonson used had been used by other dramatists for the purpose of identifying characters (many of whom might first be seen traveling "incognito" as it were) or for filling in details of their characters before the audience had actually the chance to observe them in action. But Jonson used them for purposes of exposing the humors of his characters, and thus of preparing his audience for what was to follow, knowing full well that the anticipated humor was the best enjoyed. One of the simplest techniques was that of self- characterization. Although not very realistic, the technique is simple and expedient. The character simply exposes, either in dialogue or soliloquy, the humor that possesses him. Perhaps one of the clearest examples of Jonson's use of this technique may be seen in "Volpone." Here Volpone, in a discussion with his parasite, Mosca, discloses the means he has used to achieve financial success: I haue no wife, no parent, child, allie. To giue my substance to; but whom I make, Must be my heire: and this makes men obserue me. 8 This drawes new clients, daily, to my house. Women, and men, of euery sexe, and age. That bring me presents, send me plate, coyne, iewels, » With hope, that when I die, (which they expect Each greedy minute) it shall then returne. Ten-fold, vpon them; whil'st some, couetous Aboue the rest, seeke to engrosse me, whole. And counter-worke, the one, vnto the other. Contend in gifts, as they would seeme, in loue: All which I suffer, playing with their hopes. And am content to coyne 'hem into profit. And looke vpon their kindnesse, and take more. And looke on that; still bearing them in hand. Letting the cherry knock against their lips, p And, draw it, by their mouths, and back againe. Thus within the first hundred lines, we have learned, from the mouth of the guller himself, of his schemes, and means of succor. Moreover, we have been eased, perhaps, in our condemnation of him by his descriptions of the gulls. It would not do, obviously, for the audience to take an imme­ diate disliking to old Volpone, for he would then become the villain, and the comic effect would be lost. If this type of comedy is to be successful, our laughter must be controlled, The comic characters must be so portrayed that our laughter is not derisive but rather, good-humored. If Volpone is a criminal (as many critics would have us to believe), the subjects of his criminality must be more so. If our laugh­ ter is not controlled, we become "involved" with the char­ acters and aesthetic distance is destroyed. Our laughter becomes vindictive, and the comic muse is smothered in our emotional activity. But as the play is written, his gulls are also criminal, and something of justice is done. More importantly, however, the vision of a villain duping villains overcomes the moral judgments we bring to the play, and our minds are freed to enjoy the comic in the situation. Another technique of exposing these humors to the audience is that of allowing other characters in the play make the disclosure in the dialogue. Morose's malady is exposed by this technique: Dayp. Mary, that he will dis-inherit me, no more. Hee thinks, I, and my companie are authors of all the ridiculous acts, and moniments are told of him. Try. S'lid, I would be the author of more, to vexe him, that purpose deserues it: it giues thee law of plaguing him. I'll tell thee what I would doe. I would make a false almanack; get it printed: and then ha' him drawne out on a coronation day to the tower-wharfe, and kill him with the noise of the ordinance. Dis-inherit thee! hee cannot, man. Art not thou next of bloud, and his sisters sonne? 10 Davp. I, but he will thrust me out of it, he vowes, and marry. Try. Howl that's a more portent. Can he endure no noise, and will venter on a wife? Cle. Yes: why, thou art a stranger, it seemes, to his best trick, yet. He has imploid a fellow this halfe yeere, all ouer England, to harken him out a dumbe woman; bee shee of any forme, or any qualitie, so shee bee able to beare children: her silence is dowrie enough, he sales. In "The Alchemist," each of the succeeding gulls is described immediately prior to his entry by either Face, Subtle, or Doll. The trick here is that each of the gulls is supposed to have been discovered at some time prior by one or another of the gullers. This previous recognition gives them the chance to explain the malady of the gulls to their compatriots in villainy. It is a nice trick, and is accom­ plished so neatly, that we are scarcely aware of the artifice. In "Bartholomew Fair," the same sort of technique is used, but the pretense here is a dislike of one character for each of the others. He is therefore excused to rant and rave about some flaw in another, and we are thus acquainted with the flaws of nearly every major character before we ever see him. In a play so thoroughly devoted to the humors, the need for "humor disclosure" was critical, and Jonson has handled the oroblem with the skill of the master he was. I ^11(1 yy

11 Another technique, frequently used by Elizabethan dramatists to expose the personalities of a character, was that of narrative characterization. Shakespeare frequently employed this technique, but Jonson made very little use of it. In one case, hovzever, he does, and a good revelation of the character of Kno'well is the result:

Kno. How happie, yet, should I esteeme my selfe Could I (by any practise) weane the boy From one vaine course of studie, he affects. He is a scholler, if a man may trust The liberall voice of fame, in her report Of good accompt, in both our vniuersities, Either of which hath fauour'd him with graces; But their indulgence, must not spring in me A fond opinion, that he cannot erre. My selfe was once a student; and, indeed. Fed with the selfe-same humour, he is now. Dreaming on nought but idle poetrie. That fruitlesse, and vnprofitable art. Good vnto none, but least to the professors. Which, then, I thought the mistresse of all know­ ledge : But since, time, and the truth haue wak'd my iudge-

ment. And reason taught me better to distinguish, 10 The vaine, from th'vsefull learnings. '£*?' '•^'''.

12 What an excellent picture we see of an old man, and indul­ gent father, who learned in some respects, has nevertheless yielded his mind to the more practical aspects of living. The above-mentioned techniques were solutions to problems long understood by Elizabethan playwrites, and long used. Jonson's use of them was neither original nor out­ standing, but the approach taken to problems strictly asso­ ciated with the humor play are another matter. Before proceeding further with the discussion of these original techniques, however, it will be necessary to explain something of counterpoint and its operation in western music. CHAPTER II

"EPICOENE" AS MONOPHONY

Western music may be rudimentarily divided into two categories: that music which stresses the emphasis and development of a single theme, or monophony; and that which uses two or more themes comJDined, or polyphony. Most Eng­ lish drama may be said to concern itself with a conflict of interests, which, of course, necessarily implies the devel­ opment of at least two individual themes. However, in literature, the developmental interest centers around the conflict itself rather than the elements which compose that conflict. In music, the situation is reversed. Therefore, in the most basic terms, most English literature is mono- phonic. Classical comedy is almost purely monophonic; its interest almost invariably centers around a single conflict and its resolution. "Epicoene" is perhaps Jonson's most purely classical comedy, and is therefore, one of the most completely m.onophonic compositions of his work. As such, it provides an excellent foil against which the structural singularity of "The Alchemist" may be illustrated. The structure of "Epicoene" is strikingly similar to the structure of Torelli's Allegro movements, which in turn,

13 14 foreshadowed the later structure of the sonata allegro forms that were so important in the development of Western mono- phonic music. That form is roughly as follows: Ritornello I: Theme, C minor (10 measures) with sequential extension and cadence in the dominant minor (6 m.easures) . Solo I: 9 1/2 measures with prominent sequential patterns, beginning in the dominant minor and modulating to the relative major. Ritornello II: 8 measures, similar to Ritornello I, in the relative major, modulating to the subdominant. Solo II: 12 measures, m.odulating to the tonic and concluding with four non-thematic measures of dominant preparation for: Ritornello III: same as Ritornello I but cadencing in the tonic and v/ith the last four measures repeated piano by way of coda." "Epicoene" is built around the single conflict that exists between Dauphine and Morose. All the detciils of the play are carefully designed to emphasize that conflict, and the play is designed very much like the above-outlined Torelli Allegro movement. The conflict itself is simple: Morose plans to disinherit Dauphine by marrying, and Dauphine plans not to be disinherited. The main (mechanical) theme (or Ritornello) of the play consists of the scheming of Dauphine. The accompaniment, or solo, is the sufferings of y

15 the victim. Dauphine's schemes center around Morose's most chronic weakness—his phobic aversion to noise: Try. Sicke o' the vncle? is hee? I met that stiffe peece of formalitie, his vncle, yesterday, with a huge turbant of night-caps on his head, buckled ouer his eares. Cle. O, that's his custome when he walkes abroad. Hee can endure no noise, man. Trv. So I haue heard. But is the disease so ridiculous in him, as it is made? they say, hee has beene vpon diuers treaties with the Fish-wiues, and Orenge-women; and articles propounded betweene them: mary, the Chimneysweepers will not be drawne in. Cle. No, nor the Broome-men: they stand out stiffely. He cannot endure a Costard-monger he swounes if he heare one. Trv. Me thinkes, a Smith should be ominous. Cle. Or any Hammer-man. A Braiser is not suf­ fer 'd to dwel in the parish, nor an Armorer. He would haue hang'd a Pewterers 'prentice once vpon a shroue-tuesdaies riot, for being o' that trade, when the rest were quit. Trv. A Trumpet should fright him terribly, or the Hau'-boyes? Cle. Out of his senses. The Waights of the citie haue a pension of him, not to come neere that 16 ward. This youth practis'd on him, one night, like the Bell-man; and neuer left till hee had brought him downe to the doore, with a long-sword: and there left him flourishing with the aire. Boy. Why, sir! hee hath chosen a street to lie in, so narrow at both ends, that it will receiue no coaches, nor carts, nor any of these common noises: and therefore, we that loue him, deuise to bring him in such as we may, now and then, for his exercise, 2 to breath him. So it has been disclosed that Morose has an Achilles' heel, and the basis for Dauphine's success is disclosed early in the play. As Dauphine begins to set the stages of his plan into operation. Morose's phobic aversion to noise is emphasized. By so doing, Jonson makes Morose's torture in the following scenes all the more delightful. The scene describing Morose's quest for silence in the home is humor at its best: Cannot I, yet, find out a more compendious method, then by this trunke, to saue my seruants the labour of speech, and mine eares, the discord of sounds? Let mee see: all discourses, but mine owne, afflict mee, they seeme harsh, impertinent, and irk- 3 some. Morose takes elaborate steps to preclude the possi­ bility of noise being created, and these drastic actions rKMM_a *S

17 seem the more humorous when we realize that they are to no avail in the attacks of Dauphine and Truewit.

You haue taken the ring, off from the street

dore, as I bad you? answere me not, by speech, but

by silence; vnlesse, it be otherwise ( ) very

good. And, you haue fastened on a thicke quilt, or

flock-bed, on the out-side of the dore; that if they

knocke with their daggers, or with bricke-bats, they

can make no noise?

So the very mainspring of the plot to influence Morose towards a more liberal attitude toward Dauphine is exposed.

Dauphine plans to surround him with as much noise as possible to work out of him some concessions.

"Ritornello I" in "Epicoene" or the mechanical main­ spring of the play, occurs prior to tiie opening of the staged action. We are told of Dauphine's plans to catch the old one only after the success of the venture has been threatened by Truewit's helpful gestures:

Davp. Fore heau'n, you haue vndone me. That,

which I haue plotted for, and beene maturing now

these foure m.oneths, you haue blasted in a minute:

now I am lost, I may speake. This gentlewoman was

lodg'd here by me o' purpose, and, to be put vpon my

vncle, hath profest this obstinate silence for my

sake, being my entire friend; and one, that for the

requitall of such a fortune, as to marry him, would 18 haue made mee very ample conditions: where now, all my hopes are vtterly miscarried by this vnlucky accident. Thus we learn that the girl has been planted by Dauphine and that the work has been long in progress. Truewit has not been informed as to the plot since that "franke nature of his / is not for secrets." But perhaps the fickle nature of the audience was not for secrets either, since the true nature of Dauphine's plot is not disclosed until the final scene of the drama. This sort of bold lie concealed in the cloak of a disclosure was unusual on the Elizabethan stage and must have led to a great deal of consternation and suspense when the activity of the lawyers seems to take on a more serious vein of investigation in Act V, Scene 1. Never­ theless, the action validates the supposed plot of the planted woman until the disclosure offers a better solution, and the course of events is returned to normal.

In a Torelli Allegro, the introduction of the main theme is rapidly follov;ed by the counter-themes and complica­ tions. Here the harmonic background of the composition comes to the fore, and the melodic importance previously given to the ritornello is lost in the harmonic activity of the sec­ tion. The tone of the work may at this point become darker (transitions to the relative, dominant, and subdominant minors being frequent) and the general technical pace of the work more intense. Much is the same in "Epicoene." -i »i«i'ii«iBiiin"ng

19 Immediately following tlie disclosure by Dauphine of the plot, we are allowed to watch Morose "taking the bait" as it were. The most important moments of the play are contained in these scenes. If Morose v/ere to fail to be interested in Epicoene, then all would be for nought, and perhaps no character is more aware of the situation than is Dauphine. Tension mounts with each trial Morose places before her, until the time he finally acquiesces, and success becomes practically guaranteed. When Morose marries Epicoene, the plot to gull him has virtually succeeded, and there remain but a few important details to complete the scheme. Morose considers his marriage to Epicoene a triumph over Dauphine; of course, the marriage is actually suicide. While he decides, and until he is married, however. Morose unwittingly holds the upper hand; after the marriage has been performed, he is lost. Dauphine is aware of his posi­ tion and when Truewit suggests that they "... get one o' the silenc'd ministers, a zealous brother would torment him 7 purely," Dauphine replies, "O, by no meanes, let's doe nothing to hinder it now; when 'tis done and finished, I am o for you: for any deuise of vexation." But with the mar­ riage, complete control is returned to the hands of Dauphine who begins to assume the initiative and take full advantage of his position. He schemes to supply his uncle with a wed­ ding feast, music, good company, and whatever else might be noisily brought to the house: 20 Davp. Well, there be guests, & meat now; how shal we do for musique? Cle. The smell of the venison, going through the street, will inuite one noyse of fidlers, or other. Davp. I would it would call the trumpeters thether. Cle. Faith, there is hope, they haue intel­ ligence of all feasts. There's good correspondence betwixt them, and the London-cookes. 'Tis twenty to one but we haue 'hem. Davp. 'Twill be a most solemne day for my 9 vncle, and an excellent fit of mirth for vs. This section (Act III, Scene 4 through Act IV, Scene 3), roughly equitable to the second ritornello of a Torellian Allegro, is perhaps the most delightful of the entire play. It is slapstick, and Morose's agonies are not only exquisite, but functionally useful as v/ell. The torture motivates him to his last desperate attempt to escape the trap into which he has fallen (Solo II), which, in turn, leads to his ultimate defeat (Ritornello III) . Morose, who is so possessed of his single humor, and so distressed by the singular violation thereof, soon becomes frantic over the outlook of a noisy life ahead. He seems ready to do almost anything to be rid of the pes­ tilence, and in commenting on the situation, he displays the 21 selfishness that makes him such a fit subject for comedy by comparing (presumably) the value of an eyelash with that of a relative:

Mor. O my cursed angell, that instructed me to this fate! Day. Why, sir? Mor. That I should bee seduc'd by so foolish a deuill, as a barber v;ill make!

Would I could redeeme it with the losse of an eye (nephew) a hand, or any other member. Day. Mary, god forbid, sir, that you should geld your selfe, to anger your wife. Mor. So it would rid me of her! Upon hearing that she snores and talks all night while asleep, the distracted Morose decides upon divorce. With Otter and Cutbeard disguised as a divine and as a lawyer, respectively. Morose attempts to work his way out of his unfortunate marriage. Each possible solution is examined and rejected, until Morose is feeling worse than when he started. He fails in each attempt, even that of proclaiming impotence. He becomes entrenched in despair, but the shal­ lowness of that despair is brilliantly displayed in the fol­ lowing line: "0 my heart! wilt thou breake?," which irresistibly reminds one of the lines from Marlowe's "Doctor Faustus": "Breake heart, drop bloud, and mingle it with 22 teares, / Teares falling from repentent heauinesse. ..." 12 It seems improbable that one's heart would break over a noisy wife, and the familiarity of the line is jarringly funny. The despair, though shallow, was calculated (by the joint efforts of Dauphine and Truewit), and hence is the point upon which Dauphine makes his final coup. He offers total escape (Ritornello III) upon his conditions. The distracted Morose is ready to meet the terms: Davp. If I free you of this vnhappy match absolutely, and instantly after all this trouble, and almost in your despaire, now Mor. (It cannot be.)

Davp. Shall I haue your fauour perfect to me, and loue hereafter? Mor. That, and any thing beside. Make thine owne conditions. My whole estate is thine. Manage 13 it, I will become thy Ward. Having received these conditions (in writing), Dauphine pro­ ceeds to reveal that Morose's wife is indeed a boy, and that the marriage was void to begin with. The closing of the play is significant for a variety of reasons. Most importantly, order is restored. Rightful Elizabethan family ties are restored. The confidence and comfort of the upper classes are restored to Dauphine by his 23 release from financial embarrassment. Truth is restored by the exposure of Daw and Sir La-Foole. The theme of the play has been exploited and carried to its natural fruition, and the dramatic energy generated in the excitement has returned to normal. The key, as it were, of the play, has returned to the tonic. CHAPTER III

COUNTERPOINT DEFINED

Counterpoint is strictly a musical term, and refers to a particular style of composition. It is, perhaps. Western Music's oldest single compositional technique, and certainly its most persistent. The style is primarily European in origin, although it has been suggested that there may be some slight evidence of two-part music in ancient Greece. The first definite evidences of the use of polyphony (forerunner to counterpoint, and the basis from which counterpoint grew) occur as early as the latter part of the ninth century in the treatl-se, "Musica Enchiriadis." In this v/ork, the practices of singing in two voices are described, and the inference is clear that these practices had already been long established. Current musicologists date the European beginnings of counterpoint to as early as 850 A.D. The art of singing and composing in contrapuntal styles gained in popularity, and by the seventeenth century had become a passion with most composers. It sav/, perhaps, its ultimate development in the works of J.S. Bach, and may be heard in the music of the Modern Jazz Quartet and the Beatles today. In its most elemental terms, counterpoint is

24 25 the name given to the art of combining melodies, or (more strictly) to the art of combining melody to melody.^ To use the technical terms of one discipline and apply them to another is usually considered non-appropriate for an analysis of this sort. One rarely reads sociological treatises that discuss mass behavior in terms of sine wave patterns, nor does one frequently encounter engineering papers that discuss wave propagation in terms of mass behav­ ior. Matrixes and costardmongers are generally considered to be immiscible. However, for the purpose of this paper, it would seem that a few terms of the musicologist might be profitably employed in an analysis of Jonsonian comedy. To the reader generally aware of the comedy of Jonson, a brief description of the fundamental techniques of contrapuntal composition should make immediately apparent the value of such a discussion. Counterpoint, in its simplest guise, consists of two essential categories of material; the principal theme called the cantus firmus, and another theme(s) called the counter­ point. In contrapuntal composition, the melodies, or themes, are played simultaneously; however, they maintain, at all times, their individualities. The development of these themes, and the interplay of their relationships, moves along steadily (much as in the drama), according to a defined pattern or formula. The formula, as in the drama, prescribes the use of techniques both relevant to and 26 required by the mechanics of the work itself, and the use of techniques that have come down to the artist out of custom. The cantus firmus is, of course, the foundation of any contrapuntal composition. It is the over-riding theme, the substance as it were, of the composition. But of no lesser importance to the work as a whole stands the counter­ point, the foil against which the cantus firmus is displayed. The composition and character of the counterpoint is critical and can in large measure, determine the success or failure of the entire composition. The counterpoint must be pos­ sessed of many virtues if success is to be guaranteed. It must be related to the cantus firmus, but at the same time, must be a contrast to it. It must possess an individuality of its own, but must work harmoniously with the cantus firmus, and never overshadow it. The tones of the counter­ point must usually move linearly, but if melodic jumps are allowed, the intervals these jumps describe must follow definite guidelines. The tonal sequence must compose mel­ odies of good contour, a gentle rise and subsequent fall being best. Every melody should have a high note and a low note in the contour which is not repeated. These notes in music are called the climax and anti-climax notes. Finally, the rhythmic structure of the counterpoint must be good, or the musical progress will be retarded. The basic structural outline of a two voice contra­ puntal composition is simple. The two part invention. ._ ^ /

27 perhaps the clearest example of this type of composition, usually opens with a statement of the motive or subject in the upper voice. After the upper voice has completed the motive or subject, the answer appears in the lower voice at the octave or fifth. The first section of the two-voice invention is composed of the statement of the motive or sub­ ject followed by its imitation in the lov/er voice. This section is called the exposition. The portion of the inven­ tion between the exposition and the next statement of the motive or subject is called the episode. The implied har­ monic movement of the episode is toward the key in which the next statement of the motive or subject happens to appear. The second statement of the motive or subject is followed by an episode which links the second statement to the third statement. The key of the third statement is a related key of the exposition. The third statement of the motive or subject is followed by a third episode which links the third statement to the fourth or final statement. The final state­ ment is in the key of the exposition. At the close of the final statement a short coda is usually added. The coda will contain a final miodulation to the original key of the 3 composition. In other words, the composition begins with a statement of a theme, adds another, and explores the mate­ rial of these themes through a variety of episodes. The last episodes harmonically imply the nature of the final matters to come, and the forecast is carried out in the final 28 episode and the coda. This fundamental outline is basically the same as that used by Jonson in "The Alchemist." In almost any contrapuntal composition, a variety of compositional techniques may be observed that are pecul­ iar to the genre. But of all the characteristics these techniques generate, that of themes being constantly repeated within the context of a linear structure, may be most fre­ quently observed. This technique is known to composers as imitation and is not to be confused with the Aristotelian use of the term. Imitation in the contrapuntal composition may occur as two different types: strict and free. In strict imita­ tion, the imitation occurs as one would expect and repeats its model exactly. Free imitation (sometimes referred to as tonal imitation) allows for some variation in the inter­ vals between the notes of the original. In either case, the imitation is used to restate, or emphasize a theme, or to set it off by acting as a foil to the original. Tonal imita­ tion is most frequently employed for the latter purpose while the strict imitation is most suited for the former. Sometimes (especially if the imitation is to be used as a foil), the intervalic integrity of the original melody is preserved, but the relations betv7een the notes is inverted. If the melody is inverted, the imitation is said to be that of imitation by inversion, contrary motion, or that which is mirrored. 29 Imitation is the most constantly and iiiuiiedlately observable phenomenon of contrapuntal composition. One need merely glance at the scores of Bach's "Brandenburg Concerti" (number three in particular), or better yet, listen to them, to observe the immense stock composers of the age placed in 4 the technique. Not only was it important to composers of the seventeenth century, but it remained of paramount inter­ est to virtually every composer from that time to the twen­ tieth century. It still lingers in the electronic composi­ tions of Badings and Stockhausen, and its absence in acutely felt in the works of Cage. It is the adhesive that cements most Western music together. In music we have come to ex­ pect it--dramatists have usually neglected it. Jonson realized the inherent values of thematic repetition and utilized the technique to give to us some of the most care­ fully organized drama of the English stage. CHAPTER IV

"THE ALCHEMIST" AS COUNTERPOINT

If "Epicoene" is Jonson's most thoroughly classical play, "The Alchemist" is his most original. When the bril­ liance of "Bartholomew Fair," "Epicoene," and "Volpone" are considered, the enormous amount of scholarship and interest that "The Alchemist" has attracted is indeed amazing. This effect is perhaps due to the uniqueness of the play and the excellent craftsmanship that vzent into its making. The uniqueness of "The Alchemist" lies primarily in its structure. The themes of the guller and the gulled have always been favorites of the English comic stage, and the characters that visit the house of Lovevjit are neither unique nor original in the annals of English literary his­ tory. But their disposition and the comic intercourse they display to the audience mark "The Alchemist" as innovative. The new design of "The Alchemist," partly and less successfully repeated in "Bartholomew Fair," was the direct outgrowth of Jonson's interest in the humors. The desire to display the humors and their interplay with the world rather than dramatic development or the grov/th of character, allowed Jonson to seek out and develop new dramatic

30 iiiwiiii ir- Imiiiuft

31 structures not necessarily based on classical models. Com­ posers had long dealt with similar problems, and it is not unusual that Jonson's efforts resulted in a play whose structure v/as peculiarly musical.

The general outlines of two voice counterpoint have already been sketched. Unfortunately, similar outlines of multi-voiced polyphony cannot be so easily drawn. The tech­ nical considerations of such composition usually involve approaches quite indigenous to the medium. Nevertheless, the basic outlines of such composition remains clear--state- ment of thematic material, addition of counter-material, exploration of the relationships, and harmonic resolution of the venture. The basic structural outline of "The Alchemist" is very much similar to this pattern. The first two acts of "The Alchemist" are devoted to disclosing the humors, or in musical jargon, the themes of the composition. D.J. Enright has examined the theme of crime and punishment in the plays of Jonson and has pre­ sented an excellent case for the centrality of this theme in most of the major comedies. Considering the fact that crime is most frequently motivated by greed, it would not be amiss to state that the overriding problem with which Jonson is concerned in "The Alchemist" is that of greed. It is, therefore, of most immediate iinportance that the action of the play expose the central function of the trio. Face, Dol, and Subtle, as they provide a focal point for the play's 32 action. Face, Subtle, and Dol are the mechanical main­ spring of the plot. They represent the cantus firmus, or nucleus, of the play—the central "melody" against which other characters are to perform. The play opens as Face and Subtle are quarreling. The reasons for the quarrel are not immediately obvious, as the accusations on both sides have long since ceased to be professional and are now strictly composed of personal abuse. The fact that there is some sort of alliance exist­ ing between the two is first suggested by Dol when she asks "will you haue / the neighbours heare you? Will you betray all?" The suggestion is strengthened when she asks if they would undo themselves by civil war, and finally offers to the audience a suggestion of what has been going on: S'death, you abominable paire of stinkards, Leaue off your barking, and grow one againe. Or, by the light that shines, I'll cut your throats.

Ha' you together cossen'd all this while. And all the world, and shall it now be said Yo'haue made most courteous sliift, to cosen your selues?^ 2 So the union is exposed and the general purpose of that union made clear: that the trio has formed in an effort to cozen the world, and that the union is necessary if the effort is to be successful. Success has obviously b«=:en

r.. 33 theirs, as each can lay some claim to benefiting the other. Face claims to have virtually saved Subtle's life and art for:

Fac. When all your alchemy, and your algebra. Your mineralls, vegetalls, and animalls. Your coniuring, coshing, and your dosen of trades. Could not relieue your corps, with so much linnen Would make you tinder, but to see a fire; I ga' you count'nance, credit for your coales. Your stills, your glasses, your materialls. Built you a fornace, drew you customers, Aduanc'd all your black arts; lent you, beside, A house to practise in Svb. Your masters house? Fac. Where you haue studied the more thriuing skill 3 Of bawdrie, since. And Subtle claims to have taken Face out of dung: So poore, so wretched, v/hen no lining thing V\Ould keepe thee companie, but a spider, or worse? Rais'd thee from broomes, and dust, and watring pots? Sublim'd thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee I' the third region, call'd our state of grace? Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, with paines Would twise haue won me the philosophers worke? 34 Put thee in words, and fashion? made thee fit For more then ordinarie fellowships?^ But the three reunite at the insistence of Dol and reaffirm their intentions to make "a sort of sober, sciruy, precise neighbours, / a feast of laughter, at our follies?"^ Thus, the central characters and Llieir theme of greed have been exposed; they are the mechanical center or vehicle as it were of the play. All other characters revolve around these three and make manifest, in the inter-relationships they develop, the theme, or tenor, of the material. Indeed, the i inter-relational activities of the satellite characters as they relate to the central trio are the structural founda­ tion of the play. The first customer is Dapper, a lawyer's clerk with a penchant for gambling. He, like Drugger, Dame Pliant, and Kastrill possesses a vice which seems almost insignificant when viewed with the greater vices of the world, or with the structurally more important vices of Mammon or Ananias. But the implications of his greed, like those of Dame Pliant, Kastrill, and Drugger, assume a greater significance when viewed in the light of his association with the cozeners. For greed corrupts, and that corruption ultimately leads to the downfall of all those characters similarly tainted, and to the destruction of the entire scheme of the gullers, and hence the play. Dapper's commitment to gambling seems at first innocuous:

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35 No cheating Clim-o'the-Clovghs, or Claribels, That looke as bigge as fiue-and-fiftie, and flush. And spit out secrets, like hot custard Dap. Captayne. Fac. Nor any melancholike vnder-scribe. Shall tell the Vicai: but, a speciall gentle. That is the heire to fortie markes, a yeere. Consorts V7ith the small poets of the time. Is the sole hope of his old grand-mother. That knowes the law, and writes you sixe faire hands, Is a fine clarke, and has his cyphring perfect. Will take his oath, o' the greeke Xenophon, If need be, in his pocket: and can court His mistris, out of Ovid. He is not purportedly avaricious: Why, he do's aske one but for cups, and horses, 7 A rifling flye: none o' your great familiars. As one is wondering what the really great familiars are. Dapper immediately shows that he has not been able to v/ith- stand his own rampant greed, for he tells Face that he would have it for all games. Face replies: 'Slight, that's a new businesse! I vnderstood you, a tame bird, to file Twise in a terme, or so; on friday-nights, •^M«jbyB!E*ffW:

36 When you had left the office: for a nagge, Of fortie, or fiftie shillings.^ Dapper replies: "I, 'tis true, sir, / but I doe thinke, now, I shall leaue the law, / and therefore " Perhaps his later stint in the privy is just reward for his grow­ ing greed. Immediately following Dapper's corrupt request, another client enters to make his own. Drugger is an important character, although his role in "The Alchemist" is primarily functional. He is, of course, another facet, or imitation as it were, of the cen­ tral theme. He is, however, more than a reflection of the central motive. He illustrates the dominance that a central idea (as in counterpoint) exerts over the development of all material in the composition. If the name tells us anything, Abel-Drugger is an able druggist, a businessman. He seeks the assistance of Subtle much as a small company seeks the advice of management specialists today. Hoping to thrive in an honest business, he asks such things as where he should place his door (a matter of import in some industries, even today), where his shelves, which shelves to allot to boxes, and which to allot to pots. He is an honest fellow: Fac. This is my friend, Abel, an honest fellow. He lets me haue good tabacco, and he do's not Sophisticate it, with sack-lees, or oyle. Nor washes it in muscadell, and graines. Nor buries it, in grauell, vnder ground. 37 Wrap'd vp in greasie leather, or piss'd clouts: But keeps it in fine lilly-pots, that open'd. Smell like conserue of roses, or french beanes. But tempted with the prospects of a wealthy and beautiful wife, he readily succumbs to the pressures of Face, and willingly pays for the cheating powers of the gullers. His vice is small, and the payment he renders is equally small, a damask suit. Kastrill, and his sister,-Dame Pliant, have come to London for less iiTimoral reasons than those of Dapper, but their arrival is a damning commentary on Elizabethan courtly life. Kastrill is a country gentleman, newly warme in'his land, sir.

. . . and is come vp To learne to quarrell, and to Hue by his wits. And will goe downe againe, and dye i'th countrey. Kastrill, then, has heard in the country, that nothing more benefits a gentleman than to understand the fine art of quarreling; and his sister conceives that, to properly fit the part of her new station in life, she must come to London "to learne the fashion." 12 Kastrill seems to enjoy the prospects of his debauchery, for he is: Sir, not so yong, but I haue heard some speech Of the angrie Boyes, and seene 'hem take tabacco; And in his shop: and I can take it too. 38 And I would faine be one of 'hem, and goe downe And practise i'the countrey. Kastrill's and Dame Pliant's vice is minor; they reflect, however, a larger corruption of the time. Part of that corruption was religious. Ananias is a reminder of gross lapses—of the in­ ability of zeal to act as a substitute for real religious devotion; his zeal is so absolute that he v/ill venture even into the den of the profane. His pseudo-godliness is merely a cover, concealing his more earnestly sought after goals of power, goals reprehensibly reinforced by Tribulation Whole­ some. The elder's imagination is easily captured by a sug­ gestion of the possible povzer gains to be acquired through the stone: Svb. What can you not doe. Against lords spirituall, or temporall. That shall oppone you? Tri. Verily, 'tis true. 14 We may be temporall lords, our selues, I take it. Tribulation's frank lust for power, and Ananias' concilia­ tory zeal "constitutes a standard of reference: if gold rusts, what will iron do?"1 5 But of even this corruption. Mammon displays the most degeneracy. It has been hypothesized that Mammon is the central character of the play. This assumption is very possibly correct. Certainly, of all the characters of the play. Mammon demands the most attention. His voluptuousness and 39 and magnificent rhetoric completely capture the imagination of the reader. But he serves a greater purpose in the plot than that of being merely a character whose humor is excep­ tionally valuable for exploitation. Face, Subtle, and Dol are frequently too involved in the details of their activity to adequately carry their full thematic loads. Mammon assumes that load.

Mammon's primary function, therefore, is both to be, and to carry through to its logical conclusion, the central theme of the play. Mammon is the very symbol of greed. He occurs in virtually every major scene, and his actions are of paramount importance to the development of the plot. To the audience of "The Alchemist," he, from the totality of his corruption, presents a variegated reminder of the wages of sin. His grasping desires are so all-encompassing that they cover the vices of every character who seeks advice from the alchemist, and more. Mammon's great panacea is the philosopher's stone. This stone is the very center of his dreams, the foundation of his hopes. Even before possessing the stone. Mammon has become a prisoner of his dreams. His speeches, and the powers he attributes to the stone, yield an accurate index to the baseness of his mind, and of his humor. Mammon out-performs Ananias in attributing religious powers to the stone, for Ananias sees the stone as a means of financially acquiring wealth sufficient to take a kingdom. 40 To Mammon, the gratification of desire will be sufficient in itself to rid the world of evil: . . . No more

Shall thirst of satten, or the couetous hunger

. . . make The sonnes of sword, and hazzard fall before The golden calfe, and on their knees, whole nights, 1 c Commit idolatrie with wine, and trumpets. And by removing covetousness and idolatry from the world. Mammon has actually become a saviour—saving the world from sin. To him, the powers inherent in gold can inspire a worship of its own in its pursuers. He has learned the idea from Subtle, whom he refers to as: . . . a diuine instructor!

. . . A man, the Emp'rour Has courted, aboue Kelley

Aboue the art of Aescvlapivs, That drew the enuy of the Thunderer , 17 but has taken it as his own. His profanation is therefore all the more significant: "but I buy it, / my venter brings 18 it me." "Mammon can buy his god, the elixer. Divinity and immortality can be bargained for." 19 41 Mammon would gamble except for the fact that the stone will render such means of earning a living obsolete: "you shall no more deale with the hollow die, / or the 20 fraile card." And Abel Drugger's seeking an illicit means of obtaining a wife is pallidly innocent in comparison to the business deals of Mammon: He, honest wretch, A notable, superstitious, good soule. Has worne his knees bare, and his slippers bald. With prayer, and fasting for it: and, sir, let him Do it alone, for me, still. 21 Mammon has accepted Subtle's implications concern­ ing the philosopher's stone completely. Moreover, he has conducted some research on his own for he happens to have about him: . . . a booke, where Moses, and his sister. And Salomon haue written, of the art; I, and a treatise penn'd by Adam. Svr. How! Mam. O' the Philosophers stone, and in high-Dutch. 22 The research, coupled with the promptings of Subtle and an almost unlim.ited imagination have made his the symbolic representation of a visionary grandiosity which makes him the perfect gull. Mammon's perfect suitability for the role of the gull, has given him the dubious distinction of being Subtle's most important client. Dapper suffers the ignomin­ ious fate of being stashed in the privy when his interests 42 threaten to interfere with the gulling of Mammon: Svb. What newes, Dol? Dol. Yonder's your knight, sir Mammon. Fac. Gods lid, we neuer thought of him, till now. Where is he? Dol. Here, hard by. H'is at the doore. Svb. And, you are not readie, now? Dol, get his suit. 23 He must not be sent back. Fac. 0, by no meanes. And when Mammon is busily wooing Dol, and the Spaniard arrives to win his wife. Subtle and Face even include him in the Dame Pliant lottery to avoid disturbing Mammon declaring that "Mammon / must not be troubled." 24 Considering Face's interest in the widow, the concession was great indeed! The concession was made because Mammon is an important customer. But he is more than an important customer. He is, in fact, the very center, the motif of the play. His actions, moods, and rhetoric dominate the development of the plot. The development of "The Alchemist" occurs along essentially linear paths. The primary technique used in this development is duplication, or in musical terms, imita­ tion. Mammon underlines the entire structure. In each of the characters, we see a reflection of, or generic similar­ ity to. Mammon. Mammon's glasses are indeed "cut in more 25 subtil1 angles, to disperse, / and multiply the figures," 43 as he walks. In Dapper we see Mammon's knowledge of gam­ bling; in Drugger, his corruption in matters of business; in

Kastrill and Dame Pliant his voluptuous dreams of fashion and social imminence, and in Ananias and Tribulation Whole­ some, his distorted views of religion. Each character is related to Mammon's thematic import, but at the same time, retains his individuality; the individuality which marks his relationships with other material in the composition, musical in impact.

Each character, or theme, is introduced, put away for a time, and allowed to recur at a later time. Each character undergoes no development as Shakespeare's charac­ ters do, but supplies instead, the driving force that powers the development of the plot as a whole. The dupli­ cating stories differ from one another more in intensity than in complexity. Each new incident moves a bit faster, requires a bit quicker thinking on the parts of Subtle,

Face, and Dol, comes on the heels of its predecessors a bit sooner, and becomes developmentally more important than the 26 one preceeding. But Mammon remains, ultimately, in con­ trol of the plot. He has been involved for a long time,

(ten montlis. Act II, Scene 1). He is the most important customer. And he is responsible for the destruction of the entire enterprise. His role in shattering the plot is significant in that it is another of the features that mark this play particularly musical, and unique. 44 A rather typical pattern in a polyphonic invention might be as follows: The first statement of the theme(s) would occur in the tonic, or home key of the composition. This statement would be followed by an episode, or free material which would close in a cadence designed to make perfectly clear the key relationship of the next statement. The same holds true for the next statement/episode pair (usually in the dominant, or the most closely related key to the tonic), and the third pair. The fourth statement is usually followed by a coda, or extenuated cadence, which

forcefully brings the key of the composition back to the tonic. 27 The cadences, therefore, are of immeasurable significance to the development of the entire composition. Mammon, in introducing Surly to the plot, and in attempting to seduce Dol, both literally and figuratively explodes the plot by introducing these cadence points and changes in harmonic direction into the action. Surly is the one antagonistic element in the play who is not transmuted by the stone. Surly has a humor— he 28 "would not willingly be gull'd." In bringing along a heretic, in hope to convert him, Mamm.on has introduced the harmonic element which will eventually bring the key back to the tonic, and the plot down in shards. At the same time he is introducing the enemy into ally territory, he is fore­ shadowing the ultimate demise of his own dreams. Knowing full well that the slightest profanity, lack of faith, or /

45 indication of greed before the alchemist will result in the destruction of the entire works, he nonetheless slips and almost lets the true nature of his mind be known when he discovers that Subtle has created Sulpher of Nature, and that the same has not been destined for his pocket. Mam. But 'tis for me? Svb. What need you? You haue inough, in that is, perfect. Mam. O, but Svb. Why, this is couetise! Mam. No, I assure you, I shall employ it all, in pious vses. Founding of colledges, and grammar schooles. Marrying yong virgins, building hospitalls, 29 And now, and then, a church. But, of course, it is his discovery with Dol, and subsequent flight before the alchemist, that brings about his final downfall. There is but one important developmental factor not strictly related to Mammon, or the main theme; that is the unexpected arrival of Lovewit. A few critics have had some difficulty with this chance arrival. Wallace A. Bacon went so far as to say that "the ending ... is not determined by the interaction of character and environment, but by an accident not strictly relevant to the environment. No deco­ rum is violated, no unity, but probability is stretched to ^

46 30 the breaking point." However, if the ending is viewed as a musical coda, most of the difficulties will be resolved. In many compositions of the sixteenth and seven­ teenth centuries, the coda was used to clarify the finality of the composition. This coda is usually an elaborate sort of cadence, in which some very brief, nonessential harmonic detail might be included. Nevertheless, the material in the coda alv/ays leads to the forceful reinstatement of the tonic key before the composition is concluded. Lovewit's arrival accomplishes much the same task. Arriving at the time he did, he did not give the gullers time to devise a suitable explanation for the events he observed outside his door. Moreover, as the owner of the house, his arrival signaled the absolute end to all the gulling activities. His actions were not necessarily harsh, but his presence constituted finality. And therefore, the play ended. CHAPTER V

CONCLUSIONS

To say that "Epicoene" is constructed exactly as is Torelli's D minor Concerto Opus 8, No. 7 (from v/hich the structural outline at the beginning of Chapter II was taken) or that "The Alchemist" is a model literary example of a two part polyphonic invention, would be a gross overstate­ ment, and nothing could less express the intent of this analysis. To say that Jonson and Torelli, in common with other artists of the Renaissance utilized certain general precepts, the application of which was unique to the era, would be more truthful. Jonson was using classical dramatic forms (in "Epicoene" and his own forms in "The Alchemist")— Torelli and Bach, their own. Nevertheless, there is evi­ dence that they both made use of certain elements of a common artistic vocabulary. For instance, both realized the value of a cyclical changing of activity, or intensity within any composition. Medieval composition was indefatigable. It moved onv/ard, steadily, forever, far transcending the concrete values of human earthliness. It realized the precarious balance that must exist between infinity and monotony and

47 ii^imif \,-M^^rpr^,•^

48 tread that road with masterful steps. Renaissance composi­ tion realized the value of change, of the infinite, of the closed universe built against a human measuring stick. Whether Renaissance composition travelled about the eternal circle, or began at a point, travelled outward, and thence returned, is a subject of little matter: what is signifi­ cant is that in either case, space was enclosed and a sense of the finite was preserved. And within this finite bound was protected the human values the Renaissance so cherished.

Another important element in Renaissance art was that of repetition. This device's importance in Renaissance music has already been discussed. Its importance in litera­ ture is equally defensible. Jonson used the humors to good advantage when organizing his comedy, Torelli used an already well developed musical vocabulary of repetition. The Renaissance realized, more than any other age, the value of contrast. Of course, in the middle ages, con­ trast was common. There existed in most art the constant juxtaposition of reality and formality, of infinity and the finite, of paradise and this veil of tears. But when the medieval artist depicted paradise in stained glass, the walls glowed with a brilliance such as was not of this earth, and such that required over a thousand years of accumulated scientific knowledge and technology to equal. If the colors contrasted, the contrast v/as coincidence, or if not coinci­ dence, was arranged to enhance an overall effect of infinity. 49 In Renaissance art, contrast exists in its own rights. In Renaissance music we are moved mercilessly from major to minor keys; in Renaissance literature, the dramatist takes fiendish delight in bouncing the viewer's soul from the depths of despair to the giddy, hyper-ventilated heights of hilarity—from the solemn affairs we must maintain with Hal to the jovial and drunken bawdry of Falstaff. Even Jonson could not systematically avoid it and we find notable sub­ plots in "Epicoene" and "Volpone." Classical comedy did not provide the precedent for this—it was strictly Elizabe­ than. But while the Elizabethans were creating new dra­ matic forms, they also were expanding their understanding of the old ones. In particular, they came to grasp the signi­ ficance of the denouement more than perhaps did the dram­ atists of any other age. They did this by associating a cathartic theory to all endings. Thus, while a catharsis can only properly exist at the conclusion of a great trag­ edy, there is, of sorts, a cathartic effect to be experi­ enced at the close of even some Elizabethan comedy. "Epicoene" is an excellent example of this phenomenon. Perhaps, in comedy, through regalery and laughter, rather than through pity and fear, the emotions may be purged, and our psychological burdens relaxed. Nevertheless, the dis­ tinct feeling that something of justice has been done is almost inescapable at the close of "Epicoene," We know 50 that order has been re-established, and that, in fact, sanity and a better world have resulted from Morose's de­ feat. The Elizabethans alone could accomplish this edify­ ing effect within the context of comedy. No other stage succeeded, and it is likely, that we will not see such a comedy again. The subjects of Elizabethan comedy may re­ main with us. For gullers we may have our politicians and the chimneysweeps may be replaced by radioactive clean-room techniques, but our values are now our own, and this comedy, although perhaps needed, can scarcely survive in the synthe­ tic soils of the twentieth century. This comedy is from. the past. It speaks to us, however, in the universal lan­ guage of human experience and one can but hope that the work of this age can so successfully reach the generations of the future in that same universal language. jim'iiSLhii:

NOTES CtiOpt^J^^

CHAPTER I

Ben Jonson, "Timber or Discoveries," The Complete

Works of Ben Jonson, ed. C.H. Hereford and E. Simpson (1947; rpt. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965), VIII, 638. Hereafter cited as "Discoveries." 2 John Dryden, "An Essay of Dramatic Poesy," The Works of John Dryden, ed. George Saintsbury (Edinburg: W. Patterson, 1892), XV, 300. Hereafter cited as Dryden. 3 Dryden, p. 34 7. 4 "Discoveries," p. 646. 5 Paul V. Kreider, Elizabethan Comic Character Con­ ventions as Revealed in the Comedies of George Chapman (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1935), p. 146. Joanna Baillie, "Introductory Discourse to 'Plays on the Passions,'" The Dramatic and Poetical Works of

Joanna Baillie (London: Longman, Brown, Green & Longmans, 1851) , p. 10. 7 Wordsworth, "Preface to the Lyrical Ballads,"

Wordsworth Poetical Works, ed. De Salincourt (London:

Oxford University Press, 1936), p. 735. o Ben Jonson, "Volpone, of the Fox," I, i, 73-90, p. 27. This and all future quotations from "Volpone," are 52 53 taken from the previously cited Hereford and Simpson, The Complete Works of Ben Jonson, volume V. 9 Ben Jonson, "Epicoene, or The Silent Woman," I, ii, 8-26, pp. 170-1. Taken from the above cited Hereford and Simpson, The Complete Works of Ben Jonson, volume V. Ben Jonson, "Every Man in His Humor," I, i, 6-23, p. 304. Taken from the 1616 folio text in the above cited Hereford and Simpson, The Complete Works of Ben Jonson, volume III. J"

CHAPTER II

Donald J. Grout, A History of Western Music (Nev/ York: W.W. Norton, 1960), p. 365. 2 "Epicoene, or The Silent Woman," I, i, 14 3-59, p. 169.

Ibid. II, i, 1-5, p. 177. Ibid. II, i, 7-14, p. 177.

Ibid. II, iv, 37-46, p. 188-89.

Ibid. I, iii, 4-5, p. 173.

Ibid. II, iv, 17-18, p. 197. 8 Ibid. II, iv, 20-23, p. 197. Ibid. III, iii, 83-92, p. 206. 10 Ibid. IV, iv, 1-12, p. 229-30. 11 Ibid. V, iv, 148, p. 268. 12 Christopher Marlowe, "Doctor Faustus," Marlowe's

Doctor Faustus, ed. W.W. Greg (Oxford: Clarendon Press,

1950). Quotation is taken from the A Text, 1604 printing, scene xiii, lines 1306 and 7, p. 276. No suggestion is intended that either Jonson or Marlowe were indebted for the line; such expressions of despair were probably popular

As such, they would be familiar to Jonson's audience, and hence, "jarring" in this context.

•^^"Epicoene," V, iv, 163-65, 171-75, p. 268.

54 : -" •;*»BE:

CHAPTER III

Donald J. Grout, A History of Western Music (New York: W.W. Norton, 1960), p. 6. 2 . Sir George Grove, Dictionary of Music and Musi­ cians, ed. Eric Bloom (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1955), II, 613, s.v. Counterpoint. 3 Percy Goetschius, Counterpoint Applied (Nev/ York: G. Shirmer, 1915), pp. 96-106. Much of the above material has been quoted more or less directly. However, to include all the scholarly mechanics in the passage would render it virtually unreadable; hence, it appears as in the para­ graph. The material is, too, generally considered to be in the body of common knowledge; I quote it becuase it is well expressed and because this source is authoritative. An excellent example of this type of composition is included in the appendix and is accompanied by a chart detailing, graphically, the parellelism of the four sections of the composition. Even a casual comparison with a mono- phonic composition (a sample of which is also included in the appendix), will clarify the tremendous differences existing between the two styles of composition.

55 CHAPTER IV

Ben Jonson, "The Alchemist," I, i, 7-8, p. 295.

This and all future quotations from "The Alchemist," are taken from the previously cited Hereford and Simpson, The

Complete Works of Ben Jonson, volume V. 2 Ibid I, i, 117-19, 122-25, p. 299

Ibid. I, i, 38-49, p. 296.

Ibid. I, i, 65-73, p. 297.

Ibid. I, i, 164-66, p. 301. Ibid. I, ii, 45-58 p. 304. Ibid. I, ii, 83-84 p. 304. 8 Ibid. I, ii, 86-90 p. 305. Ibid. I, ii, 90-93 p. 305. 10 Ibid. I, iii, 22-29, p. 309-10.

11 Ibid II, vi, 57, 60-63, p. 339. 12 Ibid. II, vi, 38, p. 338. 13 Ibid. III, iv, 21-25, p. 351. 14 Ibid. Ill, ii, 49-53, p. 344. •'•^Maurice Hussey, "Ananias the Deacon: A Study of

Religion in Jonson's 'The Alchemist,'" English, 12, No. 72

(Autumn 1953), 209. -^^"The Alchemist," II, i, 14-15, p. 314.

17 Ibid., IV, i, 85, 89, 90, 92-93, p. 362.

56 iLiMlli

. 57

18 "The Alchemist," II, ii, 100-01, p. 320. 19 Edward B. Partridge, The Broken Compass (London: Chatto and Windus, 1958), p. 144. 20 "The Alchemist," II, i, 9-10, p. 314. 21 Ibid., II, ii, 101-05, p. 320-21.

^^Ibid., II, i, 81-83, p. 317.

^^Ibid., Ill, V, 49-54, p. 357-58.

^"^Ibid., IV, iii, 58-59, p. 370.

^^Ibid.26 , II, ii, 45-46, p. 319. I It Robert E. Knoll, "How to Read 'The Alchemist, CE, 12 (May 1960) , 456. 27 This four part arrangement is followed exactly in the example included in the appendix. Note especially the chart describing the structural outline of the fugue. Each section closes with a cadence to the new key. ^^"The Alchemist," II, i, 78, p. 316. ^^Ibid., II, iii, 46-52, p. 322. 30 Wallace A. Bacon, "The Magnetic Field: The Struc­ ture of Jonson's Comedies," HLQ, 12, No. 2 (February 1956),

145. LIST OF WORKS CITED ts^

LIST OF WORKS CITED

Bacon, Wallace A. "The Magnetic Field: The Structure of

Jonson's Comedies." HLQ, 19, No. 2 (February 1956),

121-153. Baillie, Joanna. The Dramatic and Poetical Works of

Joanna Baillie. London: Longman, Brown, Green & Longmans, 1851. Dryden, John. "An Essay of Dramatic Poesy." The Works of John Dryden. Ed. George Saintsbury. Edinburg:

W. Patterson, 1882. XV, 297-678. Goetschius, Percy. Counterpoint Applied. New York: W.W.

Norton, 1960. Grove, Sir George. Dictionary of Music & Musicians. Ed. Eric Bloom. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1955.

II, 737-742. Hussey, Maurice. "Ananias the Deacon: A Study of Religion in Jonson's 'The Alchemist,'" English, 12, No. 72

(Autumn 1953), 208-215.

Jonson, Ben. The Complete Works of Ben Jonson. Ed. C.H.

Hereford and E. Simpson. 11 vols, 1947; rpt. Oxford

Clarendon Press, 1965.

Knoll, Robert E. "How to Read 'The Alchemist.'" CE, 12

.(May 1960), 456-460.

c 9 60

Kreider, Paul V. Elizabethan Comic Character Conventions as Revealed in the Comedies of George Chapman. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 19 35. Marlowe. "Doctor Faustus." Marlowe's Doctor Faustus. Ed. W.W. Greg. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1950. Partridge, Edward B. The Broken Compass. London: Chatto and Windus, 19 58. Wordsworth. "Preface to the Lyrical Ballads." Wordsworth Poetical Works. Ed. De Salincourt. London: Oxford University Press, 1936. pp. 735-41. I-•ar-.S.. • y... • ^

APPENDIX APPENDIX

Two selections from the Well Tempered Clavier by J.S. Bach are included here to assist the reader in visual­ izing the parallels that exist between music and the drama. The first, "Praeludium V," is included as a sample of mono- phony, and the second, "Fuga X," as one of polyphony. Al­ though it should be remembered that virtually all of Bach's output can be analyzed as counterpoint (indeed, "Praeludium V" is excellent counterpoint), the simple bass which under­ lines the harmonic movement in this prelude and the rich harmonic activity of the piece make it a good example. The novice should find little difficulty in follow­ ing this music. However, it is assumed that some knowledge of music theory is available if the reader wishes to under­ stand the markings on the prelude. Chord names, type and number designations are standard; however, many measures that, in fact, are not built around single chords, or that may have no definite or stable tonal center at all, are marked with a single designation. Such markings merely indicate that, in my opinion, the chord listed is the prin­ ciple one of the measure, or that it is the final one, or that the measure is moving toward or hovering around that

62 63 center. A wavy line under the bar indicates rapid modula­ tion aimed at some specific end (such as cadence material). Chord names proceeded by an asterisk indicate clearly established keys; chord numbers without names, indicate harmonic movement of little specific interest. Other mark­ ings should be self-explanatory.

The fugue is marked somewhat differently to permit proper emphasis to be placed on thematic relationships. To avoid cluttering this score with notes, I have employed several abbreviations; S with number indicates subject and number, CS indicates counter-subject, DBL CPT indicates double counterpoint, cm indicates cadence material. The chart following is provided to give the reader some idea of the enormous craftsmanship that went into the making of this fugue. Important bar numbers are indicated and the four sections of the composition labeled A,, A', A^, and A^ are arranged vertically. Dashed and waved lines, without labels are used to indicate specific theme fragments' positions in the bar. Abbreviations are used, as with the scores, and important key changes are indicated with standard notation. Several performances of the Well Tempered Clavier are available on long-playing phonograph discs. Glen Gould's eccentric, but highly listenable performance on the piano­ forte is available on Columbia records (Book I, D3S-733; Book II, MS-7409). Wanda Landowska's consummate artistry and impeccable scholarship have made her recordings long the 64 standard. This RCA Victor recording (Books I and II, LM- 6801) is therefore highly recommended despite its mediocre sound quality. Ralph Kirpatrick's outstanding performance is exceeded only by Landowska's and Deutche Grammaphone's ex­ cellent engineering has made this recording the most pop­ ular, despite its comparatively high price. It is available in mono or stereo (Book I, DGG 138844/5; Book II, 139146/8). Rosalyn Tureck's creditable performance on the pianoforte is available on Decca records, and since these are frequently found on sale, they are a good buy for the economy-minded. Gould's work is also available on separate discs for those not wishing to purchase the entire set.

Scores were reproduced from G. Shirmer and Sons' edition; hov/ever, in keeping with that company's practice of using many pirated sources, they have offered no publication information with the printing. Copies are readily available, however, from any music store. 65

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