De Montfort: A Tragedy

Joanna Baillie concludes her first volume of "Plays on the Passions" with "De Montfort", the clearest and most focused distillation of her aims and principles. With her first tragedy, she hewed closely to the expansive example of Shakespeare and the Jacobean playwrights (especially John Fletcher, whose comedy "The Mad Lover" may have been the inspiration for it), and wrote a large, boisterous work full of interesting characters, incidents, and pageantry to surround her single-minded hero. In "The Tryal", the hero's overwhelming passion becomes a complication to the plot rather than the main focus of the work, and the hero is, in fact, demoted in favor of the heroine and a number of other colorful personalities, much in the style of Sheridan or Goldsmith. But everything about "De Montfort" is direct and to the point, with an almost claustrophobic narrowness of purpose that yields undeniable power to her portrayal of a man whose increasingly narrow viewpoint leads to his own destruction. Both "Basil" and "The Tryal" showed a playwright finding her own unique voice, but "De Montfort" is the first time she shouts with it.

Once again, the plot is deceptively simple. Since childhood, the Marquis De Montfort has had a passionate dislike of schoolmate Rezenvelt that finally results in a duel, which De Montfort loses. Fleeing in shame when Rezenvelt spares his life, De Montfort's dislike grows into blind hatred. When circumstances bring Rezenvelt to cross De Montfort's path again, De Montfort does his best to heed his saintly sister Jane's advice, and master his emotions, but his hatred colors everything he sees. When he hears a rumor, spread by the jealous Countess Freberg, that his sister Jane and Rezenvelt are secretly lovers, his loathing overpowers his reason, leading to murder and a tragic, guilt-ridden death.

That's really all the plot there is, and the play revolves around a series of encounters between De Montfort and Rezenvelt where the veneer of normal social interaction slowly wears away, as seemingly small acts and remarks fuel De Montfort's hateful passion to the point where it overwhelms his humanity and leads him to commit an act that he just can't live with. The play's focus is relentless - there are no subplots like those found in "Basil", and no pleasant side characters that have little bearing on the plot, as in "The Tryal". "De Montfort" has the shortest cast list of all Baillie's plays so far, listing only ten characters by name, and of those ten, five are mainly there to serve specific functions. Characters like Manuel and Jerome certainly aren't cardboard cutouts, but mostly, they quietly do what needs doing while Baillie's gaze rests firmly on De Montfort, Rezenvelt, Jane De Montfort, and the Count and Countess Freberg.

Lord Byron was a great admirer of Baillie's, and this play makes it easy to see why, for in the character of De Montfort, Baillie gave the English stage a prototypical Byronic hero while Byron himself was still a 10 year old schoolboy. De Montfort is a man of many contradictions - arrogant yet sensitive, coldly intelligent yet moody, with a rigid nobility that takes offense easily, while at the same time making him capable of wild generosity. By nature a social critic, he can quickly take stock of society's foibles, but cannot see his own situation clearly enough to avoid the doom that awaits him. Even as he loathes the venomous hatred that gnaws at him, he places the blame fully at the feet of his enemy, who he repeatedly refers to as a reptile.

De Montfort: Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world

                       But those that slide along the grassy sod,

                       And sting the luckless foot that presses them?

                       There are who in the path of social life

                       Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun,

                       And sting the soul - Ay, till its healthful frame

                       Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease,

                       So deadly is the wound.

Rezenvelt, meanwhile, is everything De Montfort is not - carefree, always at ease, a merry wit to whom everything is fodder for a joke. In their first scene together, De Montfort tries to employ a cold formality with Rezenvelt, hoping to show that he isn't bothered by Rezenvelt's presence. But Rezenvelt completely flummoxes him with exaggerated praise and backhanded compliments, that to any other hearer would sound completely innocent. But coming after they have met each other in a duel, the subtext is not so benign:

Rezenvelt: (to Count Freberg) And know you not what brings De Montfort here?

Freberg: Truly, I do not.

Rezenvelt: O! 'tis love of me.

                  I have but two short days in Amberg been,

                  And here with postman's speed he follows me,

                  Finding his home so dull and tiresome grown.

Freberg: (to De Montfort) Is Rezenvelt so sadly miss'd with you?

                   Your town so changed?

De Montfort:                                   Not altogether so;

                      Some witlings and jest-mongers still remain

                      For fools to laugh at.

Rezenvelt: But he laughs not, and therefore he is wise.

                  He ever frowns on them with sullen brow

                  Contemptuous; therefore he is very wise,

                  Nay, daily frets his most refined soul

                  With their poor folly, to its inmost core;

                   Therefore he is most eminently wise.

Rezenvelt meets De Montfort's veiled insult with praise that actually exposes De Montfort's arrogance for what it is. Granted, Rezenvelt has no idea what turmoil is going on inside De Montfort, but even so, he is not completely guiltless. Just as De Montfort misconstrues much of Rezenvelt's actions due to his burning hatred, Rezenvelt is equally unable to view De Montfort clearly, seeing only a spoiled, arrogant brat rather than a man troubled by deep, uncontrollable emotions. Late in the play, Rezenvelt confides to Count Freberg his true feelings toward his adversary:

Rezenvelt: But since he proudly thinks that cold respect,

                  The formal tokens of his lordly favour

                   So precious are, that I would sue for them

                   As fair distinction in the publick eye,

                   Forgetting former wrongs, I spurn it all;

                   And but that I do bear that noble woman,

                   His worthy, his incomparable sister,

                   Such fix'd profound regard, I would expose him;

                   And as a mighty bull, in senseless rage,

                   Roused at the baiter's will, with wretched rags

                   Of ire-provoking scarlet, chafes and bellows,

                   I'd make him at small cost of paltry wit,

                   With all his deep and manly faculties,

                   The scorn and laugh of fools.

Because he can only see the pride, as opposed to the fear and desperation of his opponent,  he grossly underestimates the danger of continuing to provoke De Montfort.

Rezenvelt: In short, I still have been th' opposing rock,

                  O'er which the stream of his o'erflowing pride

                   Hath foamed and fretted. See'st thou how it is?

Freberg:  Too well I see, and warn thee to beware.

                Such streams have oft, by swelling floods surcharged,

                Borne down with sudden and impetuous force

                The yet unshaken stone of opposition,

                Which had for ages stopp'd their flowing course.

                 I pray thee, friend, beware.

Rezenvelt: Thou canst not mean - he will not murder me?

Freberg: What a proud heart, with such dark passion toss'd

               May, in the anguish of its thoughts, conceive,

               I will not dare to say.

Rezenvelt:                                 Ha, ha! thou knows't him not.

                  Full often have I mark'd it in his youth,

                  And could have almost loved him for the weakness:

                  He's form'd with such antipathay, by nature,

                  To all infliction or corporeal pain,

                  To wounding life, e'en to the sight of blood,

                  He cannot if he would.

Freberg:                                          Then fy upon thee!

               It is not gen'rous to provoke him thus.

Though Rezenvelt's easy discourse and De Montfort's brooding, confused mind are often contrasted throughout the play, they share one thing in common: their pride in their own wisdom blinds them to the true nature of the other. Both the contrast between their views, and the comparison of their misreading of the world around them is brought to a splendid climax in Act Four, Scene One. De Montfort lies in wait for Rezenvelt in the woods under cover of night. From De Montfort’s warped perspective, all of nature conspires to make the spot a place of terror –

De Montfort: What sound is that? It is the screech-owl’s cry.
                       Foul bird of the night! What spirit guides thee here?

                        Art thou instinctive drawn to scenes of horrour?

                        I’ve heard of this.

                        How those fall’n leaves so rustle on the path,

                        With whisp’ring noise, as tho’ the earth around me

                        Did utter secret things!

                        The distant river too, bears to mine ear

                        A dismal wailing O mysterious night!

                        Thou art not silent; many tongues hast thou.

                        A distant gath’ring blast sounds through the wood,

                        And dark clouds fleetly hasten o’er the sky:

                        O! that a storm would rise, a raging storm;

                        Amidst the roar of warring elements

                        I’d lift my hand and strike! But this pale light,

                        The calm distinctness of each stilly thing,

                        Is terrible. Footsteps are near –

                        He comes! He comes! I’ll watch him farther on –

                        I cannot do it here.

Enter Rezenvelt, and continues his way slowly across the stage, but just as he is going off the owl screams, he stops and listens, and the owl screams again.

Rezenvelt: Ha! Does the night-bird greet me on my way?

                  How much his hooting is in harmony

                  With such a scene as this! I like it well.

                 Oft when a boy, at the still twilight hour,

                 I’ve leant my back against some knotted oak,

                 And loudly mimick’d him, till to my call

                 He answer would return, and thro’ the gloom

                 We friendly converse held.

                  Between me and the star-bespangled sky

                  Those aged oaks their crossing branches wave,

                  And thro’ them looks the pale and placid moon.

                  How like a crocodile, or winged snake,

                  Yon sailing cloud bears on its dusky length!

                  And now transform’d by the passing wind,

                  Methinks it seems a flying Pegasus…

                                                               (a bell heard at some distance)

                  What bell is this?

                  It sends a solemn sound upon the breeze.

                  Now, to a fearful superstitious mind,

                  In such a scene, ‘twould like a death-knell come;

                  For me it tells but of a shelter near,

                  And so I bid it welcome.

Both men don’t see their surroundings so much as they see themselves. To De Montofort, full of dark desires, the woods are a dark, foreboding place. To the unsuspecting Rezenvelt, the very same location is full of familiar fancies to practice his wit upon. These contrasting monologues are effective in two different ways: First, Rezenvelt’s monologue vividly shows us just how much De Montfort’s perception has been poisoned by his hatred, revealing what De Montfort sees as haunting omens to be just as validly interpreted as a perfectly pleasant night. On the other hand, it also reveals the flaw in Rezenvelt’s nature that leads immediately to his own death – his joy and confidence in his own cleverness. Just as he judges De Montfort as a man incapable of murder and cannot conceive that his judgment might be faulty, he spends his last few living moments congratulating himself on having too much good sense to feel foreboding about the murder that waits right around the corner.

The third point in the play’s main triangle of opposing personalities is Jane, De Montfort’s sister. A paragon of virtue that every man in the play comes close to worshipping,  Jane shows us what De Montfort himself may have aspired to be had he not been slowly gnawed at by his consuming hatred. It is her belief in De Montfort’s goodness that convinces him to try to make peace with Rezenvelt, and ultimately, it is De Montfort’s possessive attachment to her that drives him to murder when he mistakenly thinks his saintly sister has agreed to be joined to the man he most hates in the world. It is a role on which much depends, but manages (perhaps consequently) to be the least interesting of the three major characters. With Baillie’s previous track record of heroines, this is a shock, especially since on a thematic level, Jane both completes the triangle, and adds a compelling twist to it. Every character in the play is blinded by something – De Montfort by hate, Rezenvelt by his own wit and self-regard, but where the men are distracted by vices, Jane’s vision is clouded by virtue – her own goodness keeps her from seeing what hatred has wrought in her brother’s heart. Her advice is always sound and loving, urging her brother on toward what would normally be the right course. But as loyal and loving a sister as she is, her urgings are not completely altruistic. There is a certain enjoyment she derives from both her and her brother receiving acclaim from the world, as she comes to realize, too late, at the end of the play, standing over the corpse of her beloved brother -

Jane:

He to whose ear my praise most welcome was,
Hears it no more; and, oh our piteous lot!
What tongue will talk of him? Alas, alas!
This more than all will bow me to the earth;
I feel my misery here.
The voice of praise was wont to name us both:
I had no greater pride.

It’s a very revealing admission, and colors her previous scene, where she begs De Montfort to repent, in a not quite so saintly light. So why does Jane seem more like a romantic ideal of womanhood than a living, breathing person? Partially because Baillie breaks one of her own rules. In her Introductory Discourse, Baillie says one of her aims is to create “characters who are to speak for themselves, who are to be known by their own words and actions, not the accounts that are given of them by others”. But the other characters CONSTANTLY talk about Jane, profusely, and always with glowing praise. Before she appears onstage, a page describes her as

“So queenly, so commanding, and so noble,
I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled,
For so she did to see me thus abash’d,
Methought I could have compass’d sea and land
To do her bidding”

He goes on like this for an entire page of script, only to be joined by Count Freberg singing her praises, albeit in a less blatantly expository fashion. Granted, these effusions of worship do contribute to the plot, in making the Countess Freberg jealous enough of the way men lavish Jane with attention that she actively plots to slander her. But it’s pushed so far, that I was practically on the Countess’ side by the time she got around to it. And while Jane’s graveside confession of pride gives any actress playing the part much to work with in the scenes leading up to it, Baillie couches this real, tender moment amidst a scene of two servants swearing their undying loyalty to Jane because she’s so great, and a rather gratuitous bit where authorities (from where, it’s never said) suddenly show up and demand to know just how De Montfort died so that the assembled company can be outraged at how they can suspect foul play from such a noble lady as Jane. To an audience at the onset of the Romantic movement, it all seemed quite thrilling. As mentioned in my earlier review of Basil, before Baillie’s authorship of the plays became known, and most assumed them to be the work of a man, Jane De Montfort was one of the characters author Mary Berry cited as evidence of a female playwright: “… 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 …”. The famous actress Sarah Siddons told Baillie to “write me more Jane De Montforts”, giving the impression that the role was considered something of a triumph. But it is definitely a role very much of its time. Still, there’s just enough difference between how Jane is perceived and how she really acts to give the right actress plenty of room to humanize her. And in a play where everything hinges on peoples’ misperception of others, perhaps that was Baillie’s intent … but it doesn’t always feel that way.

Filling out the major cast are the Count and Countess Freberg, who echo the problems of vision and understanding that plague the main trio of characters in a less extreme, more socially acceptable form, but still with dire consequences. The Count is a trusting, amiable man, generous to a fault, who, like Jane, only comprehends what De Montfort is capable of when it is too late. The Countess, bothered by Jane’s high standing among men, including her husband, isn’t gripped by hatred as De Montfort is, but her petty jealously is a subtle reflection of his all-consuming passion, and turns out to be harmful in its own right.  Unlike “Basil” or “The Tryal”, “De Montfort” has no clear-eyed friend or relative to forstall or postpone the inevitable tragedy. Everyone, even the angelic Jane, has a blind spot that keeps them from seeing what’s coming, leaving De Montfort (and the audience) alone in his torment. This compounds the tragedy in a way most or Baillie’s verse dramas don’t – rather than just focusing on a man or woman being swept away by ungovernable passion, “De Montfort” turns an accusing eye to the way the society around that person tries to pretend that everything is fine rather than put itself out to deal with an unpleasant problem.

Dramatically, “De Montfort” is the most satisfying of the works in the first volume of Plays on the Passions. It has a clearer overall direction than “The Tryal”, and fewer elaborate side steps than “Basil”.  It is also the first of Baillie’s plays to demonstrate her grandly gothic sensibility, with scenes awash in old castles, haunting forests at night, and a climax in a moldering cathedral full of torchlight and stained glass. It’s one of the play’s more impressive tricks to feel so emotionally claustrophobic while at the same time employing wide variety of scene and spectacle. Most of the scenes themselves are well crafted and full of tension. There are a few Romantic Era trappings that might be a bit much for modern audiences – some overwrought stage directions, Jane’s over-praised purity, De Montfort’s death from guilt and shame, but the right staging could smooth these elements over. As usual, the play could use a good edit, and is all the more frustrating because, being one of the few plays actually performed within Joanna Baillie’s lifetime, it actually got one. We just don’t have it anymore. Baillie herself reworked portions of “De Montfort” before it premiered at the Drury Lane Theatre in London, but because the play was not quite considered a success, and had already been published, there is no existing record of what she cut out or rewrote. We have letters where she agonizes over whether to leave in the second to last scene of the play– in my opinion, a huge momentum killer where a bunch of characters we literally just met discuss what’s happening to the characters we actually care about offstage – but left us no record of what she decided.

Its initial reception in London notwithstanding, “De Montfort” went on to become Baillie’s most performed work, her standard representation in anthologies, and is one of only three plays of hers to make its way to the stage in the 21^st century. It is a forceful, original work with a unique atmosphere of foreboding that manages to blend some of the torrid thrills of melodrama with a keen psychological and social insight that was rare for her time. Our own time could certainly use an injection of the bold theatricality found in “De Montfort”. Hopefully, some daring theatre companies make that injection available to more and more people from here on out.