Basil: A Tragedy
"Basil" was the first of Joanna Baillie's plays that I read, and the first blazing sign to me that the classic repertoire might truly be the poorer for its neglect of her work. While certainly not without its problems, there is more than enough wit, passion and vibrancy on display to make up for its faults and then some. The play is a veritable feast for actors, packed full of well drawn, interesting characters, witty exchanges, impassioned clashes, and soul searching monologues, and I find it quite baffling that it had not actually been performed on stage until a small company in Washington, D.C. staged it in 2003, over 200 years after it was written.
The plot of Basil is as follows:
During the Italian Wars of the 16th century, the young but already famous general Count Basil and his troops pass through Mantua on their way to the front. When paying his respects to the Duke of Mantua, Basil finds himself for the first time overwhelmed with passion for something other than war and glory - love for the Duke's beautiful daughter, Victoria. The Duke, an old friend of Basil's father, begs Basil to stay with them at Mantua for an extra day or two, but Basil refuses, as his men are needed immediately on the front lines. The Duke then enlists his daughter to use her charms to secure the presence of the stern young general, and Victoria gladly takes up the challenge. With Basil showering her with promises of love and devotion, she has no trouble trapping him in his own words so that he finally consents to stay.
But unbeknownst to either of them, the Duke has a secret motive for wanting to keep Basil in Mantua - he is working for the enemy, and knows their army is on its way. That night, while Victoria throws a masked ball for her honored guest, the Duke arranges for his minister Gauriceio to spread rumors through Basil's camp and stir his men up to mutiny. Meanwhile, at the ball, Basil's best friend and cousin Count Rosinberg receives a warning from the Countess Albini that there is trechery in the court, and Basil should leave immediately. But Rosinberg cannot find Basil, who is too busy professing his love to Victoria. She gives him just enough hope to keep him ensnared in his new, overwhelming passion.
Back at the camp, Gauriceio has succeeded in using a disgruntled officer named Frederick to stir the troops up against Basil. When Basil returns from the masque to find all his men demanding their own way, he finally snaps back to his former self and reclaims command in brilliant fashion. Rosinberg then presses him to leave before things get any worse, and after a heated discussion, Basil relents. But against Rosinberg's warnings, Basil goes to tell Victoria of his departure in person. Once again face to face with the woman he worships, Basil's resolve crumbles, and he agrees to go riding with her when he should be leading his troops to the aid of their army's main force. During his gambol with Victoria, a messenger arrives with news that the army has engaged with the enemy, managing to eke out a victory against great odds, and at great loss of life. Ashamed at having abandoned his fellow soldiers in time of need, Basil commits suicide. When Victoria finds out that her vanity led to the downfall of such a gallant man, she vows to enter the cloister in repentance, just as Gauriceio betrays her father by leading the Duke's disgruntled subjects in the north against him.
Of course, what this summary fails to convey is Baillie's great skill with character and language, which is where the joys of this play truly lie. While a synopsis of the plot is likely to leave one with a less than exemplary opinion of Basil, Baillie makes a convincing hero of him, mainly by devoting a good amount of time to his struggle with his affections, which resemble a man dying slowly of poison, little by little losing what he is. And his ultimate downfall is made all the more tragic by our having seen the kind of commander he is when in full possession of his faculties, as in the mutinty scene. Baillie also skillfully uses language to service the character when it would be much easier (and in her time, probably more commercially viable) to have it work the other way around. Basil is a skilled warrior, but entirely unskilled in love, and Baillie isn't afraid to let his dialogue show it. Basil's rhapsodies on love are full of stammering fits and starts and simple declarations:
Basil: (speaking of the disguise he wears to the ball)
Beneath your kind disguise, O! let me prosper,
And boldly take the privilege ye give:
Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side;
Thus, near her face my list'ning ear incline,
An feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek;
Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too!
May it not be e'en so? by heav'n it shall!
Yet when he speaks of war and honor, his means of expressing himself improves greatly, as in this speech to the poor old soldier, Geoffrey:
Basil: Think not of it, thy state is not thyself.
Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down on thee;
As the poor dwarf, perch'd on a pedestal,
O'erlooks the giant. 'Tis not worth a thought.
Art thou not Geoffrey of the tenth brigade ...
Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door,
The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand
The many movement of the varied field,
In warlike terms to list'ning swains relates;
Whose bosoms glowing at the wond'rous tale,
First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life?
Shame seize me, if I would not rather be
The man thou art, than court-created chief
Known only by the dates of his promotion!
It's little touches like these that help Basil feel more like a real person and less like a typically swooning romantic hero.
Also far from typical is the character of Victoria, neither the pure-hearted heroine, nor the wicked temptress so prevalent in drama at the time. What Baillie gives us instead is much more interesting - a young woman in a male-dominated society, newly drunk on the knowledge that her beauty can wield power over her supposed rulers.
Victoria: O! love will master all the power of art,
Ay, all! and she who never has beheld
The polish'd courtier, or the tuneful sage,
Before the glances of her conqu'ring eye,
A very native simple swain become,
Has only vulgar charms.
To make the cunning artless, tame the rude,
Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soul;
Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth,
And lead him forth as a domestick cur,
These are the triumphs of all-pow'rful beauty!
Victoria's reason for manipulating Basil is much more realistic than spite or malice - she's a teenage girl testing the limits of her influence. Quite simply, she maneouvers Basil into staying at court just to see if she can. And when she finds she does indeed hold that power over him, she naturally wants to taste of it again. Now if Victoria stayed this glib throughout the play, she may well have become intolerable, but she grows, albeit too slowly to keep tragedy at bay. By Act IV, Victoria's motive for detaining Basil has changed:
Victoria: My gentle friend, thou shouldst not be severe:
For now in truth I love not admiration
As I was wont to do; in truth I do not.
But yet, this once my woman's heart excuse,
For there is something strange in this man's love
I never met before, and I must prove it.
Countess Albini: Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself,
And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell.
Victoria: O no! That will not be! 'twill peace restore;
For after this, all folly of the kind
Will quite insipid and disgusting seem;
And so I shall become a prudent maid,
And passing wise at last.
Victoria does indeed wish to be prudent and wise like her friend and teacher the Countess Albini, but her naive views of love and beauty keep her from becoming so until it is too late. And this is the true tragedy of the character - that in her naive exercise of feminine power, she actually becomes the unwitting pawn of her father's machinations. As the Countess Albini warns her at the end of Victoria's first speech about the conquering power of love:
Countess Albini: And is, indeed, a plain domestick dame,
Who fills the duties of an useful state,
A being of less dignity than she
Who vainly on her transcient beauty builds
A little poor ideal tyranny?
Isaballe: Ideal, too!
Countess Albini: Yes, most unreal pow'r;
For she who only finds her self-esteem
In others' admiration, begs an alms,
Depends on others for her daily food,
And is the very servant of her slaves
Which brings us to my two favorite characters in the show - the Countess Albini and Count Rosinberg. In the years before Joanna Baillie revealed herself to be the author of Plays On the Passions, the character of the Countess Albini was often pointed to as proof that the author was a woman, and not a man as most people supposed, as in this letter from writer Mary Berry:
"I say she because and only because no man could or would draw such noble, such dignified representations of the female mind as the Countess Albini and Jane de Mountfort. They often make us clever, captivating, heroic, but never rationally superior...".
And indeed, the Countess Albini is the most rational voice in the entire play. From her very first appearance, her clear-eyed view is apparent, seeing straight through Count Rosinberg's considerable braggadocio:
Basil: Because they most of lover's ills complain
Who but affect it as a courtly grace,
Whilst he who feels is silent.
Rosinberg: But there you wrong me; I have felt it oft.
Oft has it made me sigh at ladies' feet,
Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl.
Countess Albini: In all its strange effects, most worthy Rosinberg,
Has it e'er made thee in a corner sit,
Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue?
Rosinberg: No, 'faith, it never has.
Countess Albini: Ha ha ha ha! then thou hast never lov'd.
Through the course of the play, she warns Victoria against her carelessness with Basil, is the first to sniff out the treason in the Duke's court, opens Rosinberg's eyes to his friend's true danger, and does it all with great wit and humanity, too charming and fully herself to ever sound like a voice of doom. The scene where she intercepts Rosinberg at the masked ball, verbally dueling over the roles of men and women in love before revealing herself and her purpose is easily the most charming exchange in the whole play. And her final monologue, sadly realizing that she cannot effect the change she hoped for in Victoria's character is one of the most affecting:
Countess Albini: Ay, go, and ev'ry blessing with thee go,
My most tormenting and most pleasing charge!
Like vapour from the mountain stream art thou,
Which lightly rises on the morning air,
And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze,
For ever varying, and for ever graceful.
Endearing, gen'rous, bountiful and kind;
Vain, fanciful and fond of worthless praise;
Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent;
And yet these adverse qualities in thee,
No dissonance nor striking contrast make;
For still thy good and amiable gifts
The sober dignity of virtue wear not,
And such a 'witching mien thy follies shew,
They make a very idiot of reproof,
And smile it to disgrace ...
O! I could hate her for that poor ambition
Which silly adoration only claims,
But that I well remember, in my youth
I felt the like - I did not feel it long:
I tore it soon, indignant from my breast
As that which did degrade a noble mind.
Directly parrellel to her in the play is Count Rosinberg, Basil's cousin and greatest friend. Older than Basil, Rosinberg willingly allowed his cousin's preferment over him because "Our talents of a diff'rent nature are; Mine for the daily intecourse of life, and his for higher things." And Rosingberg's talent for life is a considerable one. He showers the play with wit, and though there is a bit of the rascal about him, his jests most often goad his compatriots toward more noble behaviour. Both a critic and constant enjoyer of women, there are shades of Mercutio and Benedick about him without being derivative, and it is easy to see an alternate world where actors possessed of both comic and dramatic abilities should crave a go at playing Rosinberg nearly as much as his Shakespearean ancestors. Here is Rosinberg practicing his wit on a group of women in the masque scene:
2nd Mask: Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's fame?
Rosinberg: Yes, lovely shepherdess, on ev'ry tree
I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands bound.
Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks,
Odes to her eye, 'faith ev'ry wart and mole
That spots her snowy skin shall have its sonnet!
I'll make love-posies for her thimble's edge,
Rather than please her not.
3rd Mask: But for her sake what dangers wilt thou brave?
Rosinberg: In truth, fair Nun, I stomach dangers less
Than other service, and were something loth
To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance;
But if she'll wisely manage this alone,
As maids have done, come o'er the wall herself,
And meet me fairly on the open plain,
I will engage her tender steps to aid
In all annoyance of rude briar or stone,
Or crossing rill, some half-foot wide, or so,
Which the fair lady should unaided pass,
Ye gracious powers forbid! I will defend
Against each hideous fly ...
Rosinberg trades equally in this antic tone and scenes of true dramatic weight, such as challenging Basil to quit Mantua immediately to the point of endangering their entire friendship, and being at Basil's side in his dying moments. It is a huge, magnanimous role, so much so that it is nearly as much Rosinberg's play as Basil's.
Most of the smaller supporting roles also get vibrant, if not quite so complex, colors to play, and there is much an actor could do with the bitterly passed-over Frederick, not above mutiny, but not below repentence either, or Geoffrey, the brave old soldier, with a body maimed by war, but a mind still full of gratefulness and humility. Throughout the play, even minor characters are given meaty scenes and satisfying ends to their particular stories. Unfortunately, the villains of the piece don't fare so well.
At the outset, the Duke of Mantua and Gauriceio are given as much to play as the others - the Duke is a subtle, crafty man whose confidence in his own abilities isn't unwarranted, just overrated. Gauriceio, meanwhile, is his seemingly faithful gopher who sees his chance at rising above his station and grabs it with both hands. Great, scene-chewing stuff on both ends. The problem is, they aren't Baillie's true focus. In Baillie's Plays Upon the Passions, people aren't the antagonists - the emotions are. It isn't the Duke or Gauriceio, or even Victoria, who leads Basil to his downfall. It is Basil's inability to reign in his passion. Her primary interest, and whole purpose for writing Plays on the Passions, is to focus on the internal struggle rather than the outer one, and for her, the true conflict of the play is not between Basil and those plotting against him, but between Basil and himself. The Duke and Gauriceio are really only needed to create a setting where Basil's inner turmoil will have dire, possibly fatal consequences, and once they accomplish that, the characters disappear. Both the Duke and Gauriceio are nowhere to be seen for the last two acts of the play, their story coming to a close offstage - reported to everyone by Isabella, Victoria's waiting woman. And while it is a move consistent with Baillie's principles and objectives, it can't really be called a satisfying one, at least from the actors' perspectives, and I doubt from the audience's either.
As I said at the beginning, the play is certainly not without its problems. Basil's suicide is complicated by the fact that his side won the battle that he missed, and while the messenger does dwell on the fact that much life was lost, it just doesn't have the punch it should have, making his death look more the result of wounded pride than shame and remorse. The fifth act really sags just when it should be rushing to its inevitable conclusion, and even after Basil shoots himself, there is an almost laughable parade of characters that burst in to have a few words with him before he finally dies. Really, the whole play is in need of a thorough edit, but this is something that Baillie herself admits to as a casualty of her, as an unmarried woman, having to anonymously publish her plays rather than have them staged first. In the preface of one of her editions of miscellaneous plays, Baillie vents her frustration at her inability to get most of her work on the stage:
"The chief thing to be regretted in this failure of my attempts is, that having no opportunity of seeing any of my pieces exhibited, many faults respecting stage effect and general impression will to me remain undiscovered, and those I may hereafter write be of course unimproved."
The good news is that the faults here are nothing the aforementioned thorough edit couldn't solve, and "Basil" certainly would not be the only classic five act play to be shortened for modern performance. I myself have been in several shakespearean productions with several different companies, and not one of them left everything in, though some were more truncated than others.
Admittedly, the greatest bar to seeing this production on a modern stage is most likely a financial one. It is for the most part an unknown title that requires a Shakespearean sized cast. With a fair share of double casting, one MIGHT be able to get away with 15 or 16 actors, but in all honesty, 18 to 20 would probably be needed to do it with the right amount of pageantry the script requires. Still, there is much this play has to offer both actors, directors and the audience, and were it staged, I believe the audience would be surprised to find, not a literary oddity by an unknown female author, but an impressively lively and effective night of classic theatre with characters, language, and dramatic effect that actors can really sink their teeth into. It really is a shock to come to a mostly unknown, unperformed work, and find it to be this good, and as the first play in this volume definitely makes one wonder if Joanna Baillie was writing for a time other than her own, and if that time just might be now.
The plot of Basil is as follows:
During the Italian Wars of the 16th century, the young but already famous general Count Basil and his troops pass through Mantua on their way to the front. When paying his respects to the Duke of Mantua, Basil finds himself for the first time overwhelmed with passion for something other than war and glory - love for the Duke's beautiful daughter, Victoria. The Duke, an old friend of Basil's father, begs Basil to stay with them at Mantua for an extra day or two, but Basil refuses, as his men are needed immediately on the front lines. The Duke then enlists his daughter to use her charms to secure the presence of the stern young general, and Victoria gladly takes up the challenge. With Basil showering her with promises of love and devotion, she has no trouble trapping him in his own words so that he finally consents to stay.
But unbeknownst to either of them, the Duke has a secret motive for wanting to keep Basil in Mantua - he is working for the enemy, and knows their army is on its way. That night, while Victoria throws a masked ball for her honored guest, the Duke arranges for his minister Gauriceio to spread rumors through Basil's camp and stir his men up to mutiny. Meanwhile, at the ball, Basil's best friend and cousin Count Rosinberg receives a warning from the Countess Albini that there is trechery in the court, and Basil should leave immediately. But Rosinberg cannot find Basil, who is too busy professing his love to Victoria. She gives him just enough hope to keep him ensnared in his new, overwhelming passion.
Back at the camp, Gauriceio has succeeded in using a disgruntled officer named Frederick to stir the troops up against Basil. When Basil returns from the masque to find all his men demanding their own way, he finally snaps back to his former self and reclaims command in brilliant fashion. Rosinberg then presses him to leave before things get any worse, and after a heated discussion, Basil relents. But against Rosinberg's warnings, Basil goes to tell Victoria of his departure in person. Once again face to face with the woman he worships, Basil's resolve crumbles, and he agrees to go riding with her when he should be leading his troops to the aid of their army's main force. During his gambol with Victoria, a messenger arrives with news that the army has engaged with the enemy, managing to eke out a victory against great odds, and at great loss of life. Ashamed at having abandoned his fellow soldiers in time of need, Basil commits suicide. When Victoria finds out that her vanity led to the downfall of such a gallant man, she vows to enter the cloister in repentance, just as Gauriceio betrays her father by leading the Duke's disgruntled subjects in the north against him.
Of course, what this summary fails to convey is Baillie's great skill with character and language, which is where the joys of this play truly lie. While a synopsis of the plot is likely to leave one with a less than exemplary opinion of Basil, Baillie makes a convincing hero of him, mainly by devoting a good amount of time to his struggle with his affections, which resemble a man dying slowly of poison, little by little losing what he is. And his ultimate downfall is made all the more tragic by our having seen the kind of commander he is when in full possession of his faculties, as in the mutinty scene. Baillie also skillfully uses language to service the character when it would be much easier (and in her time, probably more commercially viable) to have it work the other way around. Basil is a skilled warrior, but entirely unskilled in love, and Baillie isn't afraid to let his dialogue show it. Basil's rhapsodies on love are full of stammering fits and starts and simple declarations:
Basil: (speaking of the disguise he wears to the ball)
Beneath your kind disguise, O! let me prosper,
And boldly take the privilege ye give:
Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side;
Thus, near her face my list'ning ear incline,
An feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek;
Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too!
May it not be e'en so? by heav'n it shall!
Yet when he speaks of war and honor, his means of expressing himself improves greatly, as in this speech to the poor old soldier, Geoffrey:
Basil: Think not of it, thy state is not thyself.
Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down on thee;
As the poor dwarf, perch'd on a pedestal,
O'erlooks the giant. 'Tis not worth a thought.
Art thou not Geoffrey of the tenth brigade ...
Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door,
The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand
The many movement of the varied field,
In warlike terms to list'ning swains relates;
Whose bosoms glowing at the wond'rous tale,
First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life?
Shame seize me, if I would not rather be
The man thou art, than court-created chief
Known only by the dates of his promotion!
It's little touches like these that help Basil feel more like a real person and less like a typically swooning romantic hero.
Also far from typical is the character of Victoria, neither the pure-hearted heroine, nor the wicked temptress so prevalent in drama at the time. What Baillie gives us instead is much more interesting - a young woman in a male-dominated society, newly drunk on the knowledge that her beauty can wield power over her supposed rulers.
Victoria: O! love will master all the power of art,
Ay, all! and she who never has beheld
The polish'd courtier, or the tuneful sage,
Before the glances of her conqu'ring eye,
A very native simple swain become,
Has only vulgar charms.
To make the cunning artless, tame the rude,
Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soul;
Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth,
And lead him forth as a domestick cur,
These are the triumphs of all-pow'rful beauty!
Victoria's reason for manipulating Basil is much more realistic than spite or malice - she's a teenage girl testing the limits of her influence. Quite simply, she maneouvers Basil into staying at court just to see if she can. And when she finds she does indeed hold that power over him, she naturally wants to taste of it again. Now if Victoria stayed this glib throughout the play, she may well have become intolerable, but she grows, albeit too slowly to keep tragedy at bay. By Act IV, Victoria's motive for detaining Basil has changed:
Victoria: My gentle friend, thou shouldst not be severe:
For now in truth I love not admiration
As I was wont to do; in truth I do not.
But yet, this once my woman's heart excuse,
For there is something strange in this man's love
I never met before, and I must prove it.
Countess Albini: Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself,
And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell.
Victoria: O no! That will not be! 'twill peace restore;
For after this, all folly of the kind
Will quite insipid and disgusting seem;
And so I shall become a prudent maid,
And passing wise at last.
Victoria does indeed wish to be prudent and wise like her friend and teacher the Countess Albini, but her naive views of love and beauty keep her from becoming so until it is too late. And this is the true tragedy of the character - that in her naive exercise of feminine power, she actually becomes the unwitting pawn of her father's machinations. As the Countess Albini warns her at the end of Victoria's first speech about the conquering power of love:
Countess Albini: And is, indeed, a plain domestick dame,
Who fills the duties of an useful state,
A being of less dignity than she
Who vainly on her transcient beauty builds
A little poor ideal tyranny?
Isaballe: Ideal, too!
Countess Albini: Yes, most unreal pow'r;
For she who only finds her self-esteem
In others' admiration, begs an alms,
Depends on others for her daily food,
And is the very servant of her slaves
Which brings us to my two favorite characters in the show - the Countess Albini and Count Rosinberg. In the years before Joanna Baillie revealed herself to be the author of Plays On the Passions, the character of the Countess Albini was often pointed to as proof that the author was a woman, and not a man as most people supposed, as in this letter from writer Mary Berry:
"I say she because and only because no man could or would draw such noble, such dignified representations of the female mind as the Countess Albini and Jane de Mountfort. They often make us clever, captivating, heroic, but never rationally superior...".
And indeed, the Countess Albini is the most rational voice in the entire play. From her very first appearance, her clear-eyed view is apparent, seeing straight through Count Rosinberg's considerable braggadocio:
Basil: Because they most of lover's ills complain
Who but affect it as a courtly grace,
Whilst he who feels is silent.
Rosinberg: But there you wrong me; I have felt it oft.
Oft has it made me sigh at ladies' feet,
Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl.
Countess Albini: In all its strange effects, most worthy Rosinberg,
Has it e'er made thee in a corner sit,
Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue?
Rosinberg: No, 'faith, it never has.
Countess Albini: Ha ha ha ha! then thou hast never lov'd.
Through the course of the play, she warns Victoria against her carelessness with Basil, is the first to sniff out the treason in the Duke's court, opens Rosinberg's eyes to his friend's true danger, and does it all with great wit and humanity, too charming and fully herself to ever sound like a voice of doom. The scene where she intercepts Rosinberg at the masked ball, verbally dueling over the roles of men and women in love before revealing herself and her purpose is easily the most charming exchange in the whole play. And her final monologue, sadly realizing that she cannot effect the change she hoped for in Victoria's character is one of the most affecting:
Countess Albini: Ay, go, and ev'ry blessing with thee go,
My most tormenting and most pleasing charge!
Like vapour from the mountain stream art thou,
Which lightly rises on the morning air,
And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze,
For ever varying, and for ever graceful.
Endearing, gen'rous, bountiful and kind;
Vain, fanciful and fond of worthless praise;
Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent;
And yet these adverse qualities in thee,
No dissonance nor striking contrast make;
For still thy good and amiable gifts
The sober dignity of virtue wear not,
And such a 'witching mien thy follies shew,
They make a very idiot of reproof,
And smile it to disgrace ...
O! I could hate her for that poor ambition
Which silly adoration only claims,
But that I well remember, in my youth
I felt the like - I did not feel it long:
I tore it soon, indignant from my breast
As that which did degrade a noble mind.
Directly parrellel to her in the play is Count Rosinberg, Basil's cousin and greatest friend. Older than Basil, Rosinberg willingly allowed his cousin's preferment over him because "Our talents of a diff'rent nature are; Mine for the daily intecourse of life, and his for higher things." And Rosingberg's talent for life is a considerable one. He showers the play with wit, and though there is a bit of the rascal about him, his jests most often goad his compatriots toward more noble behaviour. Both a critic and constant enjoyer of women, there are shades of Mercutio and Benedick about him without being derivative, and it is easy to see an alternate world where actors possessed of both comic and dramatic abilities should crave a go at playing Rosinberg nearly as much as his Shakespearean ancestors. Here is Rosinberg practicing his wit on a group of women in the masque scene:
2nd Mask: Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's fame?
Rosinberg: Yes, lovely shepherdess, on ev'ry tree
I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands bound.
Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks,
Odes to her eye, 'faith ev'ry wart and mole
That spots her snowy skin shall have its sonnet!
I'll make love-posies for her thimble's edge,
Rather than please her not.
3rd Mask: But for her sake what dangers wilt thou brave?
Rosinberg: In truth, fair Nun, I stomach dangers less
Than other service, and were something loth
To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance;
But if she'll wisely manage this alone,
As maids have done, come o'er the wall herself,
And meet me fairly on the open plain,
I will engage her tender steps to aid
In all annoyance of rude briar or stone,
Or crossing rill, some half-foot wide, or so,
Which the fair lady should unaided pass,
Ye gracious powers forbid! I will defend
Against each hideous fly ...
Rosinberg trades equally in this antic tone and scenes of true dramatic weight, such as challenging Basil to quit Mantua immediately to the point of endangering their entire friendship, and being at Basil's side in his dying moments. It is a huge, magnanimous role, so much so that it is nearly as much Rosinberg's play as Basil's.
Most of the smaller supporting roles also get vibrant, if not quite so complex, colors to play, and there is much an actor could do with the bitterly passed-over Frederick, not above mutiny, but not below repentence either, or Geoffrey, the brave old soldier, with a body maimed by war, but a mind still full of gratefulness and humility. Throughout the play, even minor characters are given meaty scenes and satisfying ends to their particular stories. Unfortunately, the villains of the piece don't fare so well.
At the outset, the Duke of Mantua and Gauriceio are given as much to play as the others - the Duke is a subtle, crafty man whose confidence in his own abilities isn't unwarranted, just overrated. Gauriceio, meanwhile, is his seemingly faithful gopher who sees his chance at rising above his station and grabs it with both hands. Great, scene-chewing stuff on both ends. The problem is, they aren't Baillie's true focus. In Baillie's Plays Upon the Passions, people aren't the antagonists - the emotions are. It isn't the Duke or Gauriceio, or even Victoria, who leads Basil to his downfall. It is Basil's inability to reign in his passion. Her primary interest, and whole purpose for writing Plays on the Passions, is to focus on the internal struggle rather than the outer one, and for her, the true conflict of the play is not between Basil and those plotting against him, but between Basil and himself. The Duke and Gauriceio are really only needed to create a setting where Basil's inner turmoil will have dire, possibly fatal consequences, and once they accomplish that, the characters disappear. Both the Duke and Gauriceio are nowhere to be seen for the last two acts of the play, their story coming to a close offstage - reported to everyone by Isabella, Victoria's waiting woman. And while it is a move consistent with Baillie's principles and objectives, it can't really be called a satisfying one, at least from the actors' perspectives, and I doubt from the audience's either.
As I said at the beginning, the play is certainly not without its problems. Basil's suicide is complicated by the fact that his side won the battle that he missed, and while the messenger does dwell on the fact that much life was lost, it just doesn't have the punch it should have, making his death look more the result of wounded pride than shame and remorse. The fifth act really sags just when it should be rushing to its inevitable conclusion, and even after Basil shoots himself, there is an almost laughable parade of characters that burst in to have a few words with him before he finally dies. Really, the whole play is in need of a thorough edit, but this is something that Baillie herself admits to as a casualty of her, as an unmarried woman, having to anonymously publish her plays rather than have them staged first. In the preface of one of her editions of miscellaneous plays, Baillie vents her frustration at her inability to get most of her work on the stage:
"The chief thing to be regretted in this failure of my attempts is, that having no opportunity of seeing any of my pieces exhibited, many faults respecting stage effect and general impression will to me remain undiscovered, and those I may hereafter write be of course unimproved."
The good news is that the faults here are nothing the aforementioned thorough edit couldn't solve, and "Basil" certainly would not be the only classic five act play to be shortened for modern performance. I myself have been in several shakespearean productions with several different companies, and not one of them left everything in, though some were more truncated than others.
Admittedly, the greatest bar to seeing this production on a modern stage is most likely a financial one. It is for the most part an unknown title that requires a Shakespearean sized cast. With a fair share of double casting, one MIGHT be able to get away with 15 or 16 actors, but in all honesty, 18 to 20 would probably be needed to do it with the right amount of pageantry the script requires. Still, there is much this play has to offer both actors, directors and the audience, and were it staged, I believe the audience would be surprised to find, not a literary oddity by an unknown female author, but an impressively lively and effective night of classic theatre with characters, language, and dramatic effect that actors can really sink their teeth into. It really is a shock to come to a mostly unknown, unperformed work, and find it to be this good, and as the first play in this volume definitely makes one wonder if Joanna Baillie was writing for a time other than her own, and if that time just might be now.
posted by wridget at
9:07 AM
1 Comments
