William in "As You Like It"

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

OTHER authors display their pearls where they may be easiest seen; Shakespeare often hides his in his oysters. There is such a pearl in such an oyster, in As You Like It. We hear much of Rosalind, Jaques, Touchstone, etc., but no one, so far as we know, has dilated upon that wonderful creation known simply as William.

In As You Like It, William appears but once, and then in the last act. There seems to be no particular reason for his appearance, and yet what a priceless photograph would be lacking from the great artist’s gallery, had he not, as it were, strayed upon the stage, looked blinkingly about him,and hurried back to the side-curtains! He speaks but forty-four words. If we subtract the nine times that he uses “sir,” there are left but thirty-five words in which to reveal the depths of his character. Yet these thirty-five words are more than enough to lay bare the psychological areas of William’s being.

When he gets lost, and finds himself in the scene, Touchstone is making love to Audrey, a maid whom William loves with ah the placid reaches of his soul. He knows Touchstone is breathing words of devotion to the one dearer to him than life, but, superior to the jealousy of lesser men, tranquil in the mental adjustment of relative distances, an intellectual achievement which nowadays goes under the name of “higher thought,” William says, “Good even to you.” There he stands with hat off, till Touchstone bids him be covered, the type of emotionless philosophy.

Touchstone asks him his age. Is William angry at this impertinence? No, he has already provided himself with an inductive religion, a religion that includes the flowers and birds, sin and an eternal state of vibration, as in lightmolecules. Yet, though he appreciates the unreality of matter, and the subjectivity of time, he adapts his language to the cars of his own day. He answers that he is twenty-five.

This answer tells us more than the superficial fact that William is slow to take offense, that he is gentle and forbearing. It tells us something of the workings of Shakespeare’s genius. Romeo, in the fiery intensity of his passion, dwells in the hazy atmosphere of indefinite youth. Othello, on the other hand, is essentially a man who has seen much of the world. William does not appear impetuously young, nor inexorably old. He is twenty-five. We feel instinctively that he could not have been younger or older than twentyfive. His age seems fixed, unalterable.

Notice his response when Touchstone asks him if he was born in the forest. William says, “Ay, sir, I thank God.” He cares nothing for the vain life of rushing cities, for the show and tinsel at court. His philosophy has gone far beyond that. He still, however, clings to the idea of God, and, as if to explain this primitive faith rooted in so wise a character, we are instructed that he was born in the forest. Close to nature’s heart, the song of streams and birds, the rushing of the wind, the coming of spring and the going of autumn, have well fitted him to become their interpreter.

The inquisitive Touchstone next inquires, “Art rich?”

William says, “So so.”

At first the response jars upon us, for it seems to partake of the improbable. We had not expected worldly wisdom in this man of twenty-five, who thanks God that he was born in the forest. His “So so ” is crafty, almost to canniness. Of course it proves that he was not very rich, else he would have said plainly that he had nothing. But why this avoidance of a plain answer? It is in such touches as this that Shakespeare shows his knowledge of human nature. No man is consistent at all times. No man is merely one man. He partakes of separate natures; the inheritance from many ancestors has left him essentially complex. This “ So so ” is an outcropping, in the natural field, of an alien stratum, which, nevertheless, is bedded in its rightful soil.

Touchstone asks, “Art wise?” and William says, “Ay, I have a pretty wit.” From William’s former words we would not have suspected this fact, now announced so succinctly. The young man has appeared as a philosopher, but a rather dull one; as an original thinker, dwelling close to nature, and possibly partaking of nature’s unalertness. He has seemed slow. But all this misconception arose from the fact of our too easily assumed impressions. William has a pretty wit, and as we meditate upon his confident assertion, we see deeper and deeper into the justice of his claim. It is true that he has not exhibited any signs of his possession; but his very wit has kept him from betraying his wit. It is no time to make a display of one’s wit, when one’s sweetheart is being courted by a successful rival. Under these circumstances, William could not be jaunty; a forced gayety would not become him. And yet, for us to grasp his character in all its roundness, it is necessary for us to know that wit is one of his qualities of mind. And it is essential that William himself should assure us of this unlooked-for characteristic. Had Rosalind or the Duke assured us that William was witty, we could not have believed the statement. Only William knows the truth, and it is for him to give it to us from the fullness of his knowledge.

Touchstone at last puts the vital question to which all others have been leading. The time is come for William to bare his secret to the eyes, not only of Audrey, but of the inquisitive and unfriendly public, as typified in Touchstone. The question is put: “You do love this maid?” It is now that William reveals that sublimity of self-restraint which we have already divined. There is no quiver of emotion in his tone, no flash in his eye. If Orlando had been asked if he loved Rosalind, he would have replied in many a rounded couplet; he would have carved the answer on the trees, and sung it to the brook. William’s words are, “I do, sir.” That is all. He loves Audrey; he proclaims the fact; his manner of making the assertion is calm, respectful, even cold. And that is the end of the matter. Nothing is so great as love; and nothing can be added to love. There it is, William would say. Behold it! I will not paint the lily.

Such absolute stoicism, such admirable repression, angers Touchstone; he commands William instantly to depart; not only so, but he mocks him, he ridicules his passion. Audrey — unkindest cut of all! — turns upon her noble lover, unable to appreciate those finer qualities of his spirit which Touchstone s lacks, and she says, “Do, good William!”

William says nothing of Audrey’s want of appreciation; he does not reproach her for her contempt, of his love. He says to her nothing at all. But he turns to Touchstone, and with a cheerful nobility that is saturated with the essential essence of the sublime, he says, “God rest you merry, sir.” The rest ol William’s life-history is expressed in one small word in italics, a word that, in its universality, embodies the final story of every man, be he king or peasant, philosopher or blockhead, an Orlando or a William, — exit. Such is the life, and such the man. William’s last name we are not to know. He appears in the play when he is not wanted, he vanishes before we have ceased to wonder why he came. When everybody marries somebody in the last scene, nobody marries William. He loved much, but was himself unloved.