scene 3, the powerful scene in which De Flores brings the severed finger, the evidence of the murder, to Beatrice. This is his “service” to her, which must in his mind be rewarded with “service,” that is, sexual intercourse.

      Like anyone in the grip of a deep obsession, De Flores cares for nothing except the achievement of his desire. This is why he can so truthfully say to Beatrice that unless she allows him to possess her, he will confess everything to the authorities. He will risk everything, even his life, in pursuit of his goal. And unlike Beatrice, De Flores shows no repentance at the end of the play when their joint deeds are unmasked. His words to Alsemero, even when he is wounded by his own hand and about to give himself the fatal blow, are not of contrition but of cruel triumph and defiance: “I coupled with your mate / At barley-break. Now we are left in hell.”

      These few moments of sexual conquest represent for De Flores the fulfillment of his entire life; nothing else gave him comparable enjoyment:

I thank life for nothing

But that pleasure; it was so sweet to me

That I have drunk up all, left none behind

For any man to pledge me.

      So much for De Flores—man at his worst, a character any audience can love to hate. But what of Beatrice? Why does this catastrophe overtake her? Young and beautiful, with suitors at her feet, she should have been on the threshold of a happy life. Una Ellis-Fermor, in her book, Jacobean Drama: An Interpretation, describes Beatrice as a “spoilt child,” and it is easy to see the aptness of the phrase. Beatrice is used to getting what she wants and does not like to be thwarted in her desires. But she is very inexperienced, does not understand the nature of men, and has no developed moral awareness. Part of her problem is her misplaced self-confidence; she does not know her own ignorance. On first meeting with Alsemero, when he declares that he is in love with her, she is bold enough to give him a little piece of advice about how the eyes can deceive, and judgment should be made with the reasoning mind. This is advice that she is singularly unqualified to give, since she is led astray by first impressions just as much as Alsemero is. Beatrice is a young woman with a great capacity for self-delusion. She makes one bad decision after another, and yet thinks she is being very astute. When she first has the idea of getting De Flores to kill Alonzo, for example, she draws on the philosophical idea that even the ugliest thing in creation is good for some purpose. Ellis-Fermor comments that Beatrice is here like a “clever child who has learnt a rule from a book.” When De Flores enters, Ellis-Fermor states, Beatrice is

still a child playing with a complicated machine of whose mechanism or capacities she knows nothing, concerned only to release the catch that will start it working and delighted when, in accordance with the text-book’s instructions, it begins to move.

      The moment of truth for Beatrice arrives in act 3, scene 4, in which De Flores reports that he has done the deed she required of him—Alonzo is dead. Beatrice’s first response is one of joy; she is so happy she weeps. But then De Flores shows her the proof—the dead man’s finger with the ring on it, and Beatrice recoils in horror. “Bless me! What hast thou done?” she exclaims. It is as if for the first time she realizes what has actually happened, that a real, flesh-and-blood man has been murdered. The sight of the ring, which was a gift her father made her send Alonzo, adds to her distress because it connects the murder with something directly associated with her.

      The remainder of the scene constitutes a very rude awakening for Beatrice. At first she thinks it is just a matter of money that will make De Flores, who has now become an extreme inconvenience to her, disappear. When the truth begins to dawn on her, she thinks it impossible that anyone could be so wicked and cruel as to make Alonzo’s death “the murderer of my honour!” But De Flores’s hard and irrefutable logic holds a mirror up to her own nature and shows her that actions have real consequences that cannot be escaped. She realizes that “Murder . . . is followed by more sins.” However, this does not make her repent. She is determined to brazen it out and pose as Alsemero’s virgin bride. Deceit, adultery, and death (that of Diaphanta) soon follow.

      Apparently untroubled by conscience, Beatrice only confesses her guilt when she is cornered and defeated. And at first she confesses only to what Alsemero already knows. Even then she tries to minimize her guilt, claiming that the murder was done for Alsemero’s sake. She reveals the full truth, including the “bed trick” involving Diaphanta, and begs for forgiveness, only when she knows that her death is upon her. Even at the last, she blames De Flores for her downfall. Several times in the play she likens him to a serpent, and tells Alsemero in the final scene that she “stroked a serpent.” This puts in mind the biblical myth of Eve, who was tempted by Satan in the form of a serpent. Beatrice seems to think of herself as the innocent one overcome by a creature with evil intent, whereas in fact she bears at least equal responsibility for what happened. Beatrice pays a high price for her immaturity and lack of moral awareness, but the dramatist leaves the audience in no doubt that she deserves her fate.

Source: Bryan Aubrey, Critical Essay on The Changeling, in Drama for Students, Thomson Gale, 2006.