diff options
Diffstat (limited to '9079-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 9079-h/9079-h.htm | 15575 |
1 files changed, 15575 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/9079-h/9079-h.htm b/9079-h/9079-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f915115 --- /dev/null +++ b/9079-h/9079-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,15575 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + The Man Shakespeare, by Frank Harris + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Shakespeare, by Frank Harris + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Man Shakespeare + +Author: Frank Harris + + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9079] +This file was first posted on September 3, 2003 +Last Updated: March 8, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN SHAKESPEARE *** + + + + +Produced by Jon Ingram, Juliet Sutherland and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE MAN SHAKESPEARE + </h1> + <h3> + AND + </h3> + <h2> + HIS TRAGIC LIFE STORY + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Frank Harris + </h2> + <h6> + I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO MY FRIEND, ERNEST BECKETT (NOW LORD GRIMTHORPE), + <br /><br /> A MAN OF MOST EXCELLENT DIFFERENCES, WHO UNITES TO A GENIUS FOR<br /> + PRACTICAL THINGS A PASSIONATE SYMPATHY FOR ALL HIGH ENDEAVOUR IN<br /> + LITERATURE AND ART + </h6> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>BOOK I. SHAKESPEARE PAINTED BY HIMSELF</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. HAMLET: ROMEO—JAQUES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. HAMLET—MACBETH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. DUKE VINCENTIO—POSTHUMUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. SHAKESPEARE'S MEN OF ACTION: THE + BASTARD, ARTHUR, AND KING RICHARD II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. SHAKESPEARE'S MEN OF ACTION (<i>continued</i>). + HOT-SPUR, HENRY V., RICHARD III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. SHAKESPEARE'S MEN OF ACTION (<i>concluded</i>): + KING HENRY VI. AND RICHARD III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. SHAKESPEARE AS LYRIC POET: “TWELFTH + NIGHT” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. SHAKESPEARE'S HUMOUR: FALSTAFF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> <br /> <b>BOOK II.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER I. SHAKESPEARE'S EARLY ATTEMPTS TO + PORTRAY HIMSELF AND HIS WIFE: BIRON, ADRIANA, VALENTINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER II. SHAKESPEARE AS ANTONIO, THE MERCHANT + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER III. THE SONNETS: PART I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER IV. THE SONNETS: PART II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER V. THE SONNETS: PART III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST-FRUIT OF THE TREE OF + KNOWLEDGE: BRUTUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER VII. DRAMAS OF REVENGE AND JEALOUSY: + HAMLET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER VIII. DRAMAS OF REVENGE AND JEALOUSY: + PART II “OTHELLO” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER IX. DRAMAS OF LUST: PART I. <i>Troilus + and Cressida</i> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER X. DRAMAS OF LUST: PART II. <i>Antony and + Cleopatra</i> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XI. THE DRAMA OF MADNESS: “LEAR” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XII. THE DRAMA OF DESPAIR: “TIMON OF + ATHENS” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XIII. SHAKESPEARE'S LAST ROMANCES: ALL + COPIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XIV. SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XV. SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE—continued + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> INDEX. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + This book has grown out of a series of articles contributed to “The + Saturday Review” some ten or twelve years ago. As they appeared they were + talked of and criticized in the usual way; a minority of readers thought + “the stuff” interesting; many held that my view of Shakespeare was purely + arbitrary; others said I had used a concordance to such purpose that out + of the mass of words I had managed, by virtue of some unknown formula, to + re-create the character of the man. + </p> + <p> + The truth is much simpler: I read Shakespeare's plays in boyhood, chiefly + for the stories; every few years later I was fain to re-read them; for as + I grew I always found new beauties in them which I had formerly missed, + and again and again I was lured back by tantalizing hints and suggestions + of a certain unity underlying the diversity of characters. These + suggestions gradually became more definite till at length, out of the + myriad voices in the plays, I began to hear more and more insistent the + accents of one voice, and out of the crowd of faces, began to distinguish + more and more clearly the features of the writer; for all the world like + some lovelorn girl, who, gazing with her soul in her eyes, finds in the + witch's cauldron the face of the belovèd. + </p> + <p> + I have tried in this book to trace the way I followed, step by step; for I + found it effective to rough in the chief features of the man first, and + afterwards, taking the plays in succession, to show how Shakespeare + painted himself at full-length not once, but twenty times, at as many + different periods of his life. This is one reason why he is more + interesting to us than the greatest men of the past, than Dante even, or + Homer; for Dante and Homer worked only at their best in the flower of + manhood. Shakespeare, on the other hand, has painted himself for us in his + green youth with hardly any knowledge of life or art, and then in his + eventful maturity, with growing experience and new powers, in masterpiece + after masterpiece; and at length in his decline with weakened grasp and + fading colours, so that in him we can study the growth and fruiting and + decay of the finest spirit that has yet been born among men. This tragedy + of tragedies, in which “Lear” is only one scene—this rise to + intensest life and widest vision and fall through abysms of despair and + madness to exhaustion and death—can be followed experience by + experience, from Stratford to London and its thirty years of passionate + living, and then from London to village Stratford again, and the eternal + shrouding silence. + </p> + <p> + As soon as this astonishing drama discovered itself to me in its tragic + completeness I jumped to the conclusion that it must have been set forth + long ago in detail by Shakespeare's commentators, and so, for the first + time, I turned to their works. I do not wish to rail at my forerunners as + Carlyle railed at the historians of Cromwell, or I should talk, as he + talked, about “libraries of inanities...conceited dilettantism and + pedantry...prurient stupidity,” and so forth. The fact is, I found all + this, and worse; I waded through tons of talk to no result. Without a + single exception the commentators have all missed the man and the story; + they have turned the poet into a tradesman, and the unimaginable tragedy + of his life into the commonplace record of a successful tradesman's + career. Even to explain this astounding misadventure of the host of + critics is a little difficult. The mistake, of course, arose from the fact + that his contemporaries told very little about Shakespeare; they left his + appearance and even the incidents of his life rather vague. Being without + a guide, and having no clear idea of Shakespeare's character, the critics + created him in their own image, and, whenever they were in doubt, + idealized him according to the national type. + </p> + <p> + Still, there was at least one exception. Some Frenchman, I think it is + Joubert, says that no great man is born into the world without another man + being born about the same time, who understands and can interpret him, and + Shakespeare was of necessity singularly fortunate in his interpreter. Ben + Jonson was big enough to see him fairly, and to give excellent-true + testimony concerning him. Jonson's view of Shakespeare is astonishingly + accurate and trustworthy so far as it goes; even his attitude of + superiority to Shakespeare is fraught with meaning. Two hundred years + later, the rising tide of international criticism produced two men, Goethe + and Coleridge, who also saw Shakespeare, if only by glimpses, or rather by + divination of kindred genius, recognizing certain indubitable traits. + Goethe's criticism of “Hamlet” has been vastly over-praised; but now and + then he used words about Shakespeare which, in due course, we shall see + were illuminating words, the words of one who guessed something of the + truth. Coleridge, too, with his curious, complex endowment of philosopher + and poet, resembled Shakespeare, saw him, therefore, by flashes, and might + have written greatly about him; but, alas, Coleridge, a Puritan born, was + brought up in epicene hypocrisies, and determined to see Shakespeare—that + child of the Renascence—as a Puritan, too, and consequently mis-saw + him far oftener than he saw him; misjudged him hideously, and had no + inkling of his tragic history. + </p> + <p> + There is a famous passage in Coleridge's “Essays on Shakespeare” which + illustrates what I mean. It begins: “In Shakespeare all the elements of + womanhood are holy”; and goes on to eulogize the instinct of chastity + which all his women possess, and this in spite of Doll Tearsheet, Tamora, + Cressida, Goneril, Regan, Cleopatra, the Dark Lady of the Sonnets, and + many other frail and fascinating figures. Yet whatever gleam of light has + fallen on Shakespeare since Coleridge's day has come chiefly from that + dark lantern which he now and then flashed upon the master. + </p> + <p> + In one solitary respect, our latter-day criticism has been successful; it + has established with very considerable accuracy the chronology of the + plays, and so the life-story of the poet is set forth in due order for + those to read who can. + </p> + <p> + This then is what I found—a host of commentators who saw men as + trees walking, and mistook plain facts, and among them one authentic + witness, Jonson, and two interesting though not trustworthy witnesses, + Goethe and Coleridge—and nothing more in three centuries. The mere + fact may well give us pause, pointing as it does to a truth which is still + insufficiently understood. It is the puzzle of criticism, at once the + despair and wonder of readers, that the greatest men of letters usually + pass through life without being remarked or understood by their + contemporaries. The men of Elizabeth's time were more interested in Jonson + than in Shakespeare, and have told us much more about the younger than the + greater master; just as Spaniards of the same age were more interested in + Lope de Vega than in Cervantes, and have left a better picture of the + second-rate playwright than of the world-poet. Attempting to solve this + problem Emerson coolly assumed that the men of the Elizabethan age were so + great that Shakespeare himself walked about among them unnoticed as a + giant among giants. This reading of the riddle is purely transcendental. + We know that Shakespeare's worst plays were far oftener acted than his + best; that “Titus Andronicus” by popular favour was more esteemed than + “Hamlet.” The majority of contemporary poets and critics regarded + Shakespeare rather as a singer of “sugred” verses than as a dramatist. The + truth is that Shakespeare passed through life unnoticed because he was so + much greater than his contemporaries that they could not see him at all in + his true proportions. It was Jonson, the nearest to him in greatness, who + alone saw him at all fairly and appreciated his astonishing genius. + </p> + <p> + Nothing illustrates more perfectly the unconscious wisdom of the English + race than the old saying that “a man must be judged by his peers.” One's + peers, in fact, are the only persons capable of judging one, and the truth + seems to be that three centuries have only produced three men at all + capable of judging Shakespeare. The jury is still being collected. But + from the quality of the first three, and of their praise, it is already + plain that his place will be among the highest. From various indications, + too, it looks as if the time for judging him had come: “Hamlet” is perhaps + his most characteristic creation, and Hamlet, in his intellectual unrest, + morbid brooding, cynical self-analysis and dislike of bloodshed, is much + more typical of the nineteenth or twentieth century than of the sixteenth. + Evidently the time for classifying the creator of Hamlet is at hand. + </p> + <p> + And this work of description and classification should be done as a + scientist would do it: for criticism itself has at length bent to the + Time-spirit and become scientific. And just as in science, analysis for + the moment has yielded pride of place to synthesis, so the critical + movement in literature has in our time become creative. The chemist, who + resolves any substance into its elements, is not satisfied till by + synthesis he can re-create the substance out of its elements: this is the + final proof that his knowledge is complete. And so we care little or + nothing to-day for critical analyses or appreciations which are not + creative presentments of the person. “Paint him for us,” we say, “in his + habit as he lived, and we will take it that you know something about him.” + </p> + <p> + One of the chief attempts at creative criticism in English literature, or, + perhaps it would be fairer to say, the only memorable attempt, is + Carlyle's Cromwell. He has managed to build up the man for us quite + credibly out of Cromwell's letters and speeches, showing us the underlying + sincerity and passionate resolution of the great Puritan once for all. But + unfortunately Carlyle was too romantic an artist, too persuaded in his + hero-worship to discover for us Cromwell's faults and failings. In his + book we find nothing of the fanatic who ordered the Irish massacres, + nothing of the neuropath who lived in hourly dread of assassination. + Carlyle has painted his subject all in lights, so to speak; the shadows + are not even indicated, and yet he ought to have known that in proportion + to the brilliancy of the light the shadows must of necessity be dark. It + is not for me to point out that this romantic painting of great men, like + all other make-believes and hypocrisies, has its drawbacks and + shortcomings: it is enough that it has had its day and produced its + pictures of giant-heroes and their worshippers for those who love such + childish toys. + </p> + <p> + The wonderful age in which we live—this twentieth century with its + X-rays that enable us to see through the skin and flesh of men, and to + study the working of their organs and muscles and nerves—has brought + a new spirit into the world, a spirit of fidelity to fact, and with it a + new and higher ideal of life and of art, which must of necessity change + and transform all the conditions of existence, and in time modify the + almost immutable nature of man. For this new spirit, this love of the fact + and of truth, this passion for reality will do away with the foolish fears + and futile hopes which have fretted the childhood of our race, and will + slowly but surely establish on broad foundations the Kingdom of Man upon + Earth. For that is the meaning and purpose of the change which is now + coming over the world. The faiths and convictions of twenty centuries are + passing away and the forms and institutions of a hundred generations of + men are dissolving before us like the baseless fabric of a dream. A new + morality is already shaping itself in the spirit; a morality based not on + guess-work and on fancies; but on ascertained laws of moral health; a + scientific morality belonging not to statics, like the morality of the + Jews, but to dynamics, and so fitting the nature of each individual + person. Even now conscience with its prohibitions is fading out of life, + evolving into a more profound consciousness of ourselves and others, with + multiplied incitements to wise giving. The old religious asceticism with + its hatred of the body is dead; the servile acceptance of conditions of + life and even of natural laws is seen to be vicious; it is of the nobility + of man to be insatiate in desire and to rebel against limiting conditions; + it is the property of his intelligence to constrain even the laws of + nature to the attainment of his ideal. + </p> + <p> + Already we are proud of being students, investigators, servants of truth, + and we leave the great names of demi-gods and heroes a little + contemptuously to the men of bygone times. As student-artists we are no + longer content with the outward presentment and form of men: we want to + discover the protean vanities, greeds and aspirations of men, and to lay + bare, as with a scalpel, the hidden motives and springs of action. We + dream of an art that shall take into account the natural daily decay and + up-building of cell-life; the wars that go on in the blood; the fevers of + the brain; the creeping paralysis of nerve-exhaustion; above all, we must + be able even now from a few bare facts, to re-create a man and make him + live and love again for the reader, just as the biologist from a few + scattered bones can reconstruct some prehistoric bird or fish or mammal. + </p> + <p> + And we student-artists have no desire to paint our subject as better or + nobler or smaller or meaner than he was in reality; we study his + limitations as we study his gifts, his virtues with as keen an interest as + his vices; for it is in some excess of desire, or in some extravagance of + mentality, that we look for the secret of his achievement, just as we + begin to wonder when we see hands constantly outstretched in pious + supplication, whether a foot is not thrust out behind in some secret + shame, for the biped, man, must keep a balance. + </p> + <p> + I intend first of all to prove from Shakespeare's works that he has + painted himself twenty times from youth till age at full length: I shall + consider and compare these portraits till the outlines of his character + are clear and certain; afterwards I shall show how his little vanities and + shames idealized the picture, and so present him as he really was, with + his imperial intellect and small snobberies; his giant vices and paltry + self-deceptions; his sweet gentleness and long martyrdom. I cannot but + think that his portrait will thus gain more in truth than it can lose in + ideal beauty. Or let me come nearer to my purpose by means of a simile. + Talking with Sir David Gill one evening on shipboard about the fixed + stars, he pointed one out which is so distant that we cannot measure how + far it is away from us and can form no idea of its magnitude. “But + surely,” I exclaimed, “the great modern telescopes must bring the star + nearer and magnify it?” “No,” he replied, “no; the best instruments make + the star clearer to us, but certainly not larger.” This is what I wish to + do in regard to Shakespeare; make him clearer to men, even if I do not + make him larger. + </p> + <p> + And if I were asked why I do this, why I take the trouble to re-create a + man now three centuries dead, it is first of all, of course, because he is + worth it—the most complex and passionate personality in the world, + whether of life or letters—because, too, there are certain lessons + which the English will learn from Shakespeare more quickly and easily than + from any living man, and a little because I want to get rid of Shakespeare + by assimilating all that was fine in him, while giving all that was common + and vicious in him as spoil to oblivion. He is like the Old-Man-of-the-Sea + on the shoulders of our youth; he has become an obsession to the critic, a + weapon to the pedant, a nuisance to the man of genius. True, he has + painted great pictures in a superb, romantic fashion; he is the Titian of + dramatic art: but is there to be no Rembrandt, no Balzac, no greater + Tolstoi in English letters? I want to liberate Englishmen so far as I can + from the tyranny of Shakespeare's greatness. For the new time is upon us, + with its new knowledge and new claims, and we English are all too willing + to live in the past, and so lose our inherited place as leader of the + nations. + </p> + <p> + The French have profited by their glorious Revolution: they trusted reason + and have had their reward; no such leap forward has ever been made as + France made in that one decade, and the effects are still potent. In the + last hundred years the language of Molière has grown fourfold; the slang + of the studios and the gutter and the laboratory, of the engineering + school and the dissecting table, has been ransacked for special terms to + enrich and strengthen the language in order that it may deal easily with + the new thoughts. French is now a superb instrument, while English is + positively poorer than it was in the time of Shakespeare, thanks to the + prudery of our illiterate middle class. Divorced from reality, with its + activities all fettered in baby-linen, our literature has atrophied and + dwindled into a babble of nursery rhymes, tragedies of Little Marys, tales + of Babes in a Wood. The example of Shakespeare may yet teach us the value + of free speech; he could say what he liked as he liked: he was not afraid + of the naked truth and the naked word, and through his greatness a Low + Dutch dialect has become the chiefest instrument of civilization, the + world-speech of humanity at large. + </p> + <p> + FRANK HARRIS. <br /> <br /> LONDON, 1909. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK I. SHAKESPEARE PAINTED BY HIMSELF + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. HAMLET: ROMEO—JAQUES + </h2> + <p> + “As I passed by ... I found an altar with this inscription, TO THE UNKNOWN + GOD. Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you.” This + work of Paul—the discovery and proclaiming of an unknown god—is + in every age the main function of the critic. + </p> + <p> + An unknown god this Shakespeare of ours, whom all are agreed it would be + well to know, if in any way possible. As to the possibility, however, the + authorities are at loggerheads. Hallam, “the judicious,” declared that it + was impossible to learn anything certain about “the man, Shakespeare.” + Wordsworth, on the other hand (without a nickname to show a close + connection with the common), held that Shakespeare unlocked his heart with + the sonnets for key. Browning jeered at this belief, to be in turn + contradicted by Swinburne. Matthew Arnold gave us in a sonnet “the best + opinion of his time”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Others abide our question. Thou art free. + We ask and ask—Thou smilest and art still, + Out-topping knowledge.” + </pre> + <p> + But alas! the best opinion of one generation is in these matters often + flat unreason to the next, and it may be that in this instance neither the + opinion of Hallam nor Browning nor Arnold will be allowed to count. + </p> + <p> + As it is the object of a general to win battles so it is the life-work of + the artist to show himself to us, and the completeness with which he + reveals his own individuality is perhaps the best measure of his genius. + One does this like Montaigne, simply, garrulously, telling us his height + and make, his tastes and distastes, his loves and fears and habits, till + gradually the seeming-artless talk brings the man before us, a sun-warmed + fruit of humanity, with uncouth rind of stiff manners and sweet kindly + juices, not perfect in any way, shrivelled on this side by early + frost-bite, and on that softened to corruption through too much heat, + marred here by the bitter-black cicatrice of an ancient injury and there + fortune-spotted, but on the whole healthy, grateful, of a most pleasant + ripeness. Another, like Shakespeare, with passionate conflicting + sympathies and curious impartial intellect cannot discover himself so + simply; needs, like the diamond, many facets to show all the light in him, + and so proceeds to cut them one after the other as Falstaff or Hamlet, to + the dazzling of the purblind. + </p> + <p> + Yet Shakespeare's purpose is surely the same as Montaigne's, to reveal + himself to us, and it would be hasty to decide that his skill is inferior. + For while Montaigne had nothing but prose at his command, and not too rich + a prose, as he himself complains, Shakespeare in magic of expression has + had no equal in recorded time, and he used the lyric as well as the + dramatic form, poetry as well as prose, to give his soul utterance. + </p> + <p> + We are doing Shakespeare wrong by trying to believe that he hides himself + behind his work; the suspicion is as unworthy as the old suspicion + dissipated by Carlyle that Cromwell was an ambitious hypocrite. Sincerity + is the birthmark of genius, and we can be sure that Shakespeare has + depicted himself for us with singular fidelity; we can see him in his + works, if we will take the trouble, “in his habit as he lived.” + </p> + <p> + We are doing ourselves wrong, too, by pretending that Shakespeare + “out-tops knowledge.” He did not fill the world even in his own time: + there was room beside him in the days of Elizabeth for Marlowe and + Spenser, Ben Jonson and Bacon, and since then the spiritual outlook, like + the material outlook, has widened to infinity. There is space in life now + for a dozen ideals undreamed-of in the sixteenth century. Let us have done + with this pretence of doglike humility; we, too, are men, and there is on + earth no higher title, and in the universe nothing beyond our + comprehending. It will be well for us to know Shakespeare and all his high + qualities and do him reverence; it will be well for us, too, to see his + limitations and his faults, for after all it is the human frailties in a + man that call forth our sympathy and endear him to us, and without love + there is no virtue in worship, no attraction in example. + </p> + <p> + The doubt as to the personality of Shakespeare, and the subsequent + confusion and contradictions are in the main, I think, due to Coleridge. + He was the first modern critic to have glimpses of the real Shakespeare, + and the vision lent his words a singular authority. But Coleridge was a + hero-worshipper by nature and carried reverence to lyric heights. He used + all his powers to persuade men that Shakespeare was {Greek: <i>myrionous + anaer</i>}—“the myriad-minded man”; a sort of demi-god who was every + one and no one, a Proteus without individuality of his own. The theory has + held the field for nearly a century, probably because it flatters our + national vanity; for in itself it is fantastically absurd and leads to + most ridiculous conclusions. For instance, when Coleridge had to deal with + the fact that Shakespeare never drew a miser, instead of accepting the + omission as characteristic, for it is confirmed by Ben Jonson's testimony + that he was “of an open and free nature,” Coleridge proceeded to argue + that avarice is not a permanent passion in humanity, and that Shakespeare + probably for that reason chose to leave it undescribed. This is an example + of the ecstasy of hero-worship; it is begging the question to assume that + whatever Shakespeare did was perfect; humanity cannot be penned up even in + Shakespeare's brain. Like every other man of genius Shakespeare must have + shown himself in his qualities and defects, in his preferences and + prejudices; “a fallible being,” as stout old Dr. Johnson knew, “will fail + somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + Even had Shakespeare tried to hide himself in his work, he could not have + succeeded. Now that the print of a man's hand or foot or ear is enough to + distinguish him from all other men, it is impossible to believe that the + mask of his mind, the very imprint, form and pressure of his soul should + be less distinctive. Just as Monsieur Bertillon's whorl-pictures of a + thumb afford overwhelming proofs of a man's identity, so it is possible + from Shakespeare's writings to establish beyond doubt the main features of + his character and the chief incidents of his life. The time for random + assertion about Shakespeare and unlimited eulogy of him has passed away + for ever: the object of this inquiry is to show him as he lived and loved + and suffered, and the proofs of this and of that trait shall be so heaped + up as to stifle doubt and reach absolute conviction. For not only is the + circumstantial evidence overwhelming and conclusive, but we have also the + testimony of eye-witnesses with which to confirm it, and one of these + witnesses, Ben Jonson, is of rare credibility and singularly well + equipped. + </p> + <p> + Let us begin, then, by treating Shakespeare as we would treat any other + writer, and ask simply how a dramatic author is most apt to reveal + himself. A great dramatist may not paint himself for us at any time in his + career with all his faults and vices; but when he goes deepest into human + nature, we may be sure that self-knowledge is his guide; as Hamlet said, + “To know a man well, were to know himself” (oneself), so far justifying + the paradox that dramatic writing is merely a form of autobiography. We + may take then as a guide this first criterion that, in his masterpiece of + psychology, the dramatist will reveal most of his own nature. + </p> + <p> + If a dozen lovers of Shakespeare were asked to name the most profound and + most complex character in all his dramas it is probable that every one + without hesitation would answer Hamlet. The current of cultivated opinion + has long set in this direction. With the intuition of a kindred genius, + Goethe was the first to put Hamlet on a pedestal: “the incomparable,” he + called him, and devoted pages to an analysis of the character. Coleridge + followed with the confession whose truth we shall see later: “I have a + smack of Hamlet myself, if I may say so.” But even if it be admitted that + Hamlet is the most complex and profound of Shakespeare's creations, and + therefore probably the character in which Shakespeare revealed most of + himself, the question of degree still remains to be determined. Is it + possible to show certainly that even the broad outlines of Hamlet's + character are those of the master-poet? + </p> + <p> + There are various ways in which this might be proved. For instance, if one + could show that whenever Shakespeare fell out of a character he was + drawing, he unconsciously dropped into the Hamlet vein, one's suspicion as + to the identity of Hamlet and the poet would be enormously strengthened. + There is another piece of evidence still more convincing. Suppose that + Shakespeare in painting another character did nothing but paint Hamlet + over again trait by trait—virtue by virtue, fault by fault—our + assurance would be almost complete; for a dramatist only makes this + mistake when he is speaking unconsciously in his proper person. But if + both these kinds of proof were forthcoming, and not once but a dozen + times, then surely our conviction as to the essential identity of Hamlet + and Shakespeare would amount to practical certitude. + </p> + <p> + Of course it would be foolish, even in this event, to pretend that Hamlet + exhausts Shakespeare; art does little more than embroider the fringe of + the garment of life, and the most complex character in drama or even in + fiction is simple indeed when compared with even the simplest of living + men or women. Shakespeare included in himself Falstaff and Cleopatra, + beside the author of the sonnets, and knowledge drawn from all these must + be used to fill out and perhaps to modify the outlines given in Hamlet + before one can feel sure that the portrait is a re-presentment of reality. + But when this study is completed, it will be seen that with many necessary + limitations, Hamlet is indeed a revelation of some of the most + characteristic traits of Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + To come to the point quickly, I will take Hamlet's character as analyzed + by Coleridge and Professor Dowden. + </p> + <p> + Coleridge says: “Hamlet's character is the prevalence of the abstracting + and generalizing habit over the practical. He does not want courage, + skill, will or opportunity; but every incident sets him thinking: and it + is curious, and at the same time strictly natural, that Hamlet, who all + the play seems reason itself, should be impelled at last by mere accident + to effect his object.” Again he says: “in Hamlet we see a great, an almost + enormous intellectual activity and a proportionate aversion to real action + consequent upon it.” + </p> + <p> + Professor Dowden's analysis is more careful but hardly as complete. He + calls Hamlet “the meditative son” of a strong-willed father, and adds, “he + has slipped on into years of full manhood still a haunter of the + university, a student of philosophies, an amateur in art, a ponderer on + the things of life and death who has never formed a resolution or executed + a deed. This long course of thinking apart from action has destroyed + Hamlet's very capacity for belief.... In presence of the spirit he is + himself 'a spirit,' and believes in the immortality of the soul. When left + to his private thoughts he wavers uncertainly to and fro; death is a + sleep; a sleep, it may be, troubled with dreams.... He is incapable of + certitude.... After his fashion (that of one who relieves himself by + speech rather than by deeds) he unpacks his heart in words.” + </p> + <p> + Now what other personage is there in Shakespeare who shows these traits or + some of them? He should be bookish and irresolute, a lover of thought and + not of action, of melancholy temper too, and prone to unpack his heart + with words. Almost every one who has followed the argument thus far will + be inclined to think of Romeo. Hazlitt declared that “Romeo is Hamlet in + love. There is the same rich exuberance of passion and sentiment in the + one, that there is of thought and sentiment in the other. Both are absent + and self-involved; both live out of themselves in a world of imagination.” + Much of this is true and affords a noteworthy example of Hazlitt's + occasional insight into character, yet for reasons that will appear later + it is not possible to insist, as Hazlitt does, upon the identity of Romeo + and Hamlet. The most that can be said is that Romeo is a younger brother + of Hamlet, whose character is much less mature and less complex than that + of the student-prince. Moreover, the characterization in Romeo—the + mere drawing and painting—is very inferior to that put to use in + Hamlet. Romeo is half hidden from us in the rose-mist of passion, and + after he is banished from Juliet's arms we only see him for a moment as he + rushes madly by into never-ending night, and all the while Shakespeare is + thinking more of the poetry of the theme than of his hero's character. + Romeo is crude and immature when compared with a profound psychological + study like Hamlet. In “Hamlet” the action often stands still while + incidents are invented for the mere purpose of displaying the + peculiarities of the protagonist. “Hamlet,” too, is the longest of + Shakespeare's plays with the exception of “Antony and Cleopatra,” and “the + total length of Hamlet's speeches,” says Dryasdust, “far exceeds that of + those allotted by Shakespeare to any other of his characters.” The + important point, however, is that Romeo has a more than family likeness to + Hamlet. Even in the heat and heyday of his passion Romeo plays thinker; + Juliet says, “Good-night” and disappears, but he finds time to give us the + abstract truth: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Love goes towards love, as schoolboys from their books, + But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.” + </pre> + <p> + Juliet appears again unexpectedly, and again Hamlet's generalizing habit + asserts itself in Romeo: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, + Like softest music to attending ears.” + </pre> + <p> + We may be certain that Juliet would have preferred more pointed praise. He + is indeed so lost in his ill-timed reverie that Juliet has to call him + again and again by name before he attends to her. + </p> + <p> + Romeo has Hamlet's peculiar habit of talking to himself. He falls into a + soliloquy on his way to Juliet in Capulet's orchard, when his heart must + have been beating so loudly that it would have prevented him from hearing + himself talk, and into another when hurrying to the apothecary. In this + latter monologue, too, when all his thoughts must have been of Juliet and + their star-crossed fates, and love-devouring Death, he is able to picture + for us the apothecary and his shop with a wealth of detail that says more + for Shakespeare's painstaking and memory than for his insight into + character. The fault, however, is not so grave as it would be if Romeo + were a different kind of man; but like Hamlet he is always ready to unpack + his heart with words, and if they are not the best words sometimes, + sometimes even very inappropriate words, it only shows that in his first + tragedy Shakespeare was not the master of his art that he afterwards + became. + </p> + <p> + In the churchyard scene of the fifth act Romeo's likeness to Hamlet comes + into clearest light. + </p> + <p> + Hamlet says to Laertes: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I pr'ythee, take thy fingers from my throat; + For though I am not splenitive and rash + Yet have I something in me dangerous + Which let thy wisdom fear.” + </pre> + <p> + In precisely the same temper, Romeo says to Paris: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Good, gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man; + Fly hence and leave me; think upon these gone, + Let them affright thee.” + </pre> + <p> + This magnanimity is so rare that its existence would almost of itself be + sufficient to establish a close relationship between Romeo and Hamlet. + Romeo's last speech, too, is characteristic of Hamlet: on the very + threshold of death he generalizes: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How oft when men are at the point of death, + Have they been merry? which their keepers call + A lightening before death.” + </pre> + <p> + There is in Romeo, too, that peculiar mixture of pensive sadness and + loving sympathy which is the very vesture of Hamlet's soul; he says to + “Noble County Paris”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, give me thy hand, + One writ with me in sour misfortune's book.” + </pre> + <p> + And finally Shakespeare's supreme lyrical gift is used by Romeo as + unconstrainedly as by Hamlet himself. The beauty in the last soliloquy is + of passion rather than of intellect, but in sheer triumphant beauty some + lines of it have never been surpassed: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here, here will I remain + With worms that are thy chambermaids; O, here + Will I set up my everlasting rest + And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars + From this world-wearied flesh.” + </pre> + <p> + The whole soliloquy and especially the superb epithet “world-wearied” are + at least as suitable to Hamlet as to Romeo. Passion, it is true, is more + accentuated in Romeo, just as there is greater irresolution combined with + intenser self-consciousness in Hamlet, yet all the qualities of the + youthful lover are to be found in the student-prince. Hamlet is evidently + the later finished picture of which Romeo was merely the charming sketch. + Hamlet says he is revengeful and ambitious, although he is nothing of the + kind, and in much the same way Romeo says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I'll be a candle-holder and look on,” + </pre> + <p> + whereas he plays the chief part and a very active part in the drama. If he + were more of a “candle-holder” and onlooker, he would more resemble + Hamlet. Then too, though he generalizes, he does not search the darkness + with aching eyeballs as Hamlet does; the problems of life do not as yet + lie heavy on his soul; he is too young to have felt their mystery and + terror; he is only just within the shadow of that melancholy which to + Hamlet discolours the world. + </p> + <p> + Seven or eight years after writing “Romeo and Juliet,” Shakespeare growing + conscious of these changes in his own temperament embodied them in another + character, the melancholy “Jaques” in “As You Like It.” Every one knows + that Jaques is Shakespeare's creation; he is not to be found in Lodge's + “Rosalynde,” whence Shakespeare took the story and most of the characters + of his play. Jaques is only sketched in with light strokes, but all his + traits are peculiarly Hamlet's traits. For Jaques is a melancholy student + of life as Hamlet is, with lightning-quick intelligence and heavy heart, + and these are the Hamlet qualities which were not brought into prominence + in the youthful Romeo. Passages taken at haphazard will suffice to + establish my contention. “Motley's the only wear,” says Jaques, as if + longing to assume the cap and bells, and Hamlet plays the fool's part with + little better reason. Jaques exclaims: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Give me leave + To speak my mind, and I will through and through + Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, + If they will patiently receive my medicine.” + </pre> + <p> + And Hamlet cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The Time is out of joint; O cursèd spite + That ever I was born to set it right.” + </pre> + <p> + The famous speech of Jaques, “All the world's a stage,” might have been + said by Hamlet, indeed belongs of right to the person who gave the + exquisite counsel to the players. Jaques' confession of melancholy, too, + both in manner and matter is characteristic of Hamlet. How often + Shakespeare must have thought it over before he was able to bring the + peculiar nature of his own malady into such relief: + </p> + <p> + “I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the + musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor + the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor + the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these; but it is + a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many + objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels; which, by + often rumination, wraps me in, a most humourous sadness.” + </p> + <p> + This “humourous sadness,” the child of contemplation, was indeed + Shakespeare's most constant mood. Jaques, too, loves solitude and the + country as Hamlet loved them—and above all the last trait recorded + of Jaques, his eagerness to see the reformed Duke and learn from the + convert, is a perfect example of that intellectual curiosity which is one + of Hamlet's most attaching characteristics. Yet another trait is + attributed to Jaques, which we must on no account forget. The Duke accuses + him of lewdness though lewdness seems out of place in Jaques's character, + and is certainly not shown in the course of the action. If we combine the + characters of Romeo, the poet-lover, and Jaques, the pensive-sad + philosopher, we have almost the complete Hamlet. + </p> + <p> + It is conceivable that even a fair-minded reader of the plays will admit + all I have urged about the likeness of Romeo and Jaques to Hamlet without + concluding that these preliminary studies, so to speak, for the great + portrait render it at all certain that the masterpiece of portraiture is a + likeness of Shakespeare himself. The impartial critic will probably say, + “You have raised a suspicion in my mind; a strong suspicion it may be, but + still a suspicion that is far from certitude.” Fortunately the evidence + still to be offered is a thousand times more convincing than any + inferences that can properly be drawn from Romeo or from Jaques, or even + from both together. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. HAMLET—MACBETH + </h2> + <p> + There is a later drama of Shakespeare's, a drama which comes between + “Othello” and “Lear,” and belongs, therefore, to the topmost height of the + poet's achievement, whose principal character is Hamlet, Hamlet over + again, with every peculiarity and every fault; a Hamlet, too, entangled in + an action which is utterly unsuited to his nature. Surely if this + statement can be proved, it will be admitted by all competent judges that + the identity of Hamlet and his creator has been established. For + Shakespeare must have painted this second Hamlet unconsciously. Think of + it. In totally new circumstances the poet speaks with Hamlet's voice in + Hamlet's words. The only possible explanation is that he is speaking from + his own heart, and for that reason is unaware of the mistake. The drama I + refer to is “Macbeth.” No one, so far as I know, has yet thought of + showing that there is any likeness between the character of Hamlet and + that of Macbeth, much less identity; nevertheless, it seems to me easy to + prove that Macbeth, “the rugged Macbeth,” as Hazlitt and Brandes call him, + is merely our gentle irresolute, humanist, philosopher Hamlet masquerading + in galligaskins as a Scottish thane. + </p> + <p> + Let us take the first appearance of Macbeth, and we are forced to remark + at once that he acts and speaks exactly as Hamlet in like circumstances + would act and speak. The honest but slow Banquo is amazed when Macbeth + starts and seems to fear the fair promises of the witches; he does not see + what the nimble Hamlet-intellect has seen in a flash—the dread means + by which alone the promises can be brought to fulfilment. As soon as + Macbeth is hailed “Thane of Cawdor” Banquo warns him, but Macbeth, in + spite of the presence of others, falls at once, as Hamlet surely would + have fallen, into a soliloquy: a thing, considering the circumstances, + most false to general human nature, for what he says must excite Banquo's + suspicion, and is only true to the Hamlet-mind, that in and out of season + loses itself in meditation. The soliloquy, too, is startlingly + characteristic of Hamlet. After giving expression to the merely natural + uplifting of his hope, Macbeth begins to weigh the for and against like a + student-thinker: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This supernatural soliciting + Cannot be ill; cannot be good; if ill, + Why hath it given me earnest of success, + Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor: + If good, why do I yield to that suggestion + Whose horrid image ... + ... function + Is smothered in surmise and nothing is + But what is not,——” + </pre> + <p> + When Banquo draws attention to him as “rapt,” Macbeth still goes on + talking to himself, for at length he has found arguments against action: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If chance will have me King, why chance may crown me, + Without my stir,”— +</pre> + <p> + all in the true Hamlet vein. At the end of the act, Macbeth when excusing + himself to his companions becomes the student of Wittenberg in proper + person. The courteous kindliness of the words is almost as characteristic + as the bookish illustration: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Kind gentlemen, your pains + Are registered where every day I turn + The leaf to read them.” + </pre> + <p> + If this is not Hamlet's very tone, manner and phrase, then individuality + of nature has no peculiar voice. + </p> + <p> + I have laid such stress upon this, the first scene in which Macbeth + appears, because the first appearance is by far the most important for the + purpose of establishing the main outlines of a character; first + impressions in a drama being exceedingly difficult to modify and almost + impossible to change. + </p> + <p> + Macbeth, however, acts Hamlet from one end of the play to the other; and + Lady Macbeth's first appearance (a personage almost as important to the + drama as Macbeth himself) is used by Shakespeare to confirm this view of + Macbeth's character. After reading her husband's letter almost her first + words are: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet do I fear thy nature. + It is too full o' the milk of human kindness + To catch the nearest way.” + </pre> + <p> + What is this but a more perfect expression of Hamlet's nature than Hamlet + himself gives? Hamlet declares bitterly that he is “pigeon livered,” and + lacks “gall to make oppression bitter”; he says to Laertes, “I loved you + ever,” and to his mother: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I must be cruel only to be kind,” + </pre> + <p> + and she tells the King that he wept for Polonius' death. But the best + phrase for his gentle-heartedness is what Lady Macbeth gives here: he is + “too full o' the milk of human kindness.” The words are as true of the + Scottish chieftain as of the Wittenberg student; in heart they are one and + the same person. + </p> + <p> + Though excited to action by his wife, Macbeth's last words in this scene + are to postpone decision. “We will speak further,” he says, whereupon the + woman takes the lead, warns him to dissemble, and adds, “leave all the + rest to me.” Macbeth's doubting, irresolution, and dislike of action could + hardly be more forcibly portrayed. + </p> + <p> + The seventh scene of the first act begins with another long soliloquy by + Macbeth, and this soliloquy shows us not only Hamlet's irresolution and + untimely love of meditation, but also the peculiar pendulum-swing of + Hamlet's thought: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well + It were done quickly: if the assassination + Could trammel up the consequence, and catch + With his surcease success: that but this blow + Might be the be-all and the end-all; here, + But here upon this bank and shoal of time + We'd jump the life to come. . . . .” + </pre> + <p> + Is not this the same soul which also in a soliloquy questions fate?—“Whether + 'tis better in the mind....” + </p> + <p> + Macbeth, too, has Hamlet's peculiar and exquisite intellectual fairness—a + quality, be it remarked in passing, seldom found in a ruthless murderer. + He sees even the King's good points: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ...... “this Duncan + Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been + So clear in his great office, that his virtues + Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against + The deep damnation of his taking off.” + </pre> + <p> + Is it not like Hamlet to be able to condemn himself in this way + beforehand? Macbeth ends this soliloquy with words which come from the + inmost of Hamlet's heart: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I have no spur + To prick the sides of my intent, but only + Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, + And falls on the other.” + </pre> + <p> + Hamlet, too, has no spur to prick the sides of his intent, and Hamlet, + too, would be sure to see how apt ambition is to overleap itself, and so + would blunt the sting of the desire. This monologue alone should have been + sufficient to reveal to all critics the essential identity of Hamlet and + Macbeth. Lady Macbeth, too, tells us that Macbeth left the supper table + where he was entertaining the King, in order to indulge himself in this + long monologue, and when he hears that his absence has excited comment, + that he has been asked for even by the King, he does not attempt to excuse + his strange conduct, he merely says, “We will proceed no further in this + business,” showing in true Hamlet fashion how resolution has been + “sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.” In fact, as his wife says + to him, he lets “'I dare not' wait upon 'I would' like the poor cat i' the + adage.” Even when whipped to action by Lady Macbeth's preternatural + eagerness, he asks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If we should fail?” + </pre> + <p> + whereupon she tells him to screw his courage to the sticking place, and + describes the deed itself. Infected by her masculine resolution, Macbeth + at length consents to what he calls the “terrible feat.” The word + “terrible” here is surely more characteristic of the humane poet-thinker + than of the chieftain-murderer. Even at this crisis, too, of his fate + Macbeth cannot cheat himself; like Hamlet he is compelled to see himself + as he is: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “False face must hide what the false heart doth know.” + </pre> + <p> + I have now considered nearly every word used by Macbeth in this first act: + I have neither picked passages nor omitted anything that might make + against my argument; yet every impartial reader must acknowledge that + Hamlet is far more clearly sketched in this first act of “Macbeth” than in + the first act of “Hamlet.” Macbeth appears in it as an irresolute dreamer, + courteous, and gentle-hearted, of perfect intellectual fairness and + bookish phrase; and in especial his love of thought and dislike of action + are insisted upon again and again. + </p> + <p> + In spite of the fact that the second act is one chiefly of incident, + filled indeed with the murder and its discovery, Shakespeare uses Macbeth + as the mouthpiece of his marvellous lyrical faculty as freely as he uses + Hamlet. A greater singer even than Romeo, Hamlet is a poet by nature, and + turns every possible occasion to account, charming the ear with subtle + harmonies. With a father's murder to avenge, he postpones action and sings + to himself of life and death and the undiscovered country in words of such + magical spirit-beauty that they can be compared to nothing in the world's + literature save perhaps to the last chapter of Ecclesiastes. From the + beginning to the end of the drama Hamlet is a great lyric poet, and this + supreme personal gift is so natural to him that it is hardly mentioned by + the critics. This gift, however, is possessed by Macbeth in at least equal + degree and excites just as little notice. It is credible that Shakespeare + used the drama sometimes as a means of reaching the highest lyrical + utterance. + </p> + <p> + Without pressing this point further let us now take up the second act of + the play. Banquo and Fleance enter; Macbeth has a few words with them; + they depart, and after giving a servant an order, Macbeth begins another + long soliloquy. He thinks he sees a dagger before him, and immediately + falls to philosophizing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Come let me clutch thee:— + I have thee not and yet I see thee still. + Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible + To feeling as to sight? or art thou but + A dagger of the mind, a false creation + Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? + I see thee yet in form as palpable + As that which now I draw.... + - - - - - - - - + Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses. + Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; + And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood + Which was not so before.—There's no such thing.” + </pre> + <p> + What is all this but an illustration of Hamlet's assertion: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is nothing either good or bad + But thinking makes it so.” + </pre> + <p> + Just too as Hamlet swings on his mental balance, so that it is still a + debated question among academic critics whether his madness was feigned or + real, so here Shakespeare shows us how Macbeth loses his foothold on + reality and falls into the void. + </p> + <p> + The lyrical effusion that follows is not very successful, and probably on + that account Macbeth breaks off abruptly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Whiles I threat he lives, + Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives,” + </pre> + <p> + which is, of course, precisely Hamlet's complaint: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This is most brave; + That I, the son of a dear father murdered, + Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, + Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words.” + </pre> + <p> + After this Lady Macbeth enters, and the murder is committed, and now + wrought to the highest tension Macbeth must speak from the depths of his + nature with perfect sincerity. Will he exult, as the ambitious man would, + at having taken successfully the longest step towards his goal? Or will + he, like a prudent man, do his utmost to hide the traces of his crime, and + hatch plans to cast suspicion on others? It is Lady Macbeth who plays this + part; she tells Macbeth to “get some water,” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And wash this filthy witness from your hand,” + </pre> + <p> + while he, brainsick, rehearses past fears and shows himself the sensitive + poet-dreamer inclined to piety: here is the incredible scene: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Lady M.</i> There are two lodged together. + <i>Macb</i>. One cried, 'God bless us!' and 'Amen' the other, + As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. + Listening their fear, I could not say 'Amen,' + When they did say 'God bless us.' + <i>Lady M</i>. Consider it not so deeply. + <i>Macb</i>. But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'? + I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen' + Stuck in my throat.” + </pre> + <p> + This religious tinge colouring the weakness of self-pity is to be found + again and again in “Hamlet”; Hamlet, too, is religious-minded; he begs + Ophelia to remember his sins in her orisons. When he first sees his + father's ghost he cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” + </pre> + <p> + and when the ghost leaves him his word is, “I'll go pray.” This new trait, + most intimate and distinctive, is therefore the most conclusive proof of + the identity of the two characters. The whole passage in the mouth of a + murderer is utterly unexpected and out of place; no wonder Lady Macbeth + exclaims: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “These deeds must not be thought + After these ways: so, it will make us mad.” + </pre> + <p> + But nothing can restrain Macbeth; he gives rein to his poetic imagination, + and breaks out in an exquisite lyric, a lyric which has hardly any closer + relation to the circumstances than its truth to Shakespeare's nature: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Methought I heard a voice cry, 'Sleep no more! + Macbeth does murder sleep,'—the innocent sleep: + Sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleave of care,” + </pre> + <p> + and so forth—the poet in love with his own imaginings. + </p> + <p> + Again Lady Macbeth tries to bring him back to a sense of reality; tells + him his thinking unbends his strength, and finally urges him to take the + daggers back and + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “smear + The sleepy grooms with the blood.” + </pre> + <p> + But Macbeth's nerve is gone; he is physically broken now as well as + mentally o'erwrought; he cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I'll go no more; + I am afraid to think what I have done. + Look on't again I dare not.” + </pre> + <p> + All this is exquisitely characteristic of the nervous student who has been + screwed up to a feat beyond his strength, “a terrible feat,” and who has + broken down over it, but the words are altogether absurd in the mouth of + an ambitious, half-barbarous chieftain. + </p> + <p> + His wife chides him as fanciful, childish—“infirm of purpose,”—she'll + put the daggers back herself; but nothing can hearten Macbeth; every + household noise sets his heart thumping: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Whence is that knocking? + How is't with me when every noise appals me?” + </pre> + <p> + His mind rocks; he even imagines he is being tortured: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What hands are here? Ha! + They pluck out my eyes.” + </pre> + <p> + And then he swings into another incomparable lyric: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood + Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather + The multitudinous seas incarnadine, + Making the green one red.” + </pre> + <p> + There is a great deal of the poet-neuropath and very little of the + murderer for ambition's sake in this lyrical hysteria. No wonder Lady + Macbeth declares she would be ashamed “to wear a heart so white.” It is + all Hamlet over again, Hamlet wrought up to a higher pitch of intensity. + And here it should be remembered that “Macbeth” was written three years + after “Hamlet” and probably just before “Lear”; one would therefore expect + a greater intensity and a deeper pessimism in Macbeth than in Hamlet. + </p> + <p> + The character-drawing in the next scene is necessarily slight. The + discovery of the murder impels every one save the protagonist to action, + but Macbeth finds time even at the climax of excitement to coin + Hamlet-words that can never be forgotten: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There's nothing serious in mortality;” + </pre> + <p> + and the description of Duncan: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His silver skin laced with his golden blood” + </pre> + <p> + —as sugar'd sweet as any line in the sonnets, and here completely + out of place. + </p> + <p> + In these first two acts the character of Macbeth is outlined so firmly + that no after-touches can efface the impression. + </p> + <p> + Now comes a period in the drama in which deed follows so fast upon deed, + that there is scarcely any opportunity for characterization. To the casual + view Macbeth seems almost to change his nature, passing from murder to + murder quickly if not easily. He not only arranges for Banquo's + assassination, but leaves Lady Macbeth innocent of the knowledge. The + explanation of this seeming change of character is at hand. Shakespeare + took the history of Macbeth from Holinshed's Chronicle, and there it is + recorded that Macbeth murdered Banquo and many others, as well as + Macduff's wife and children. Holinshed makes Duncan have “too much of + clemencie,” and Macbeth “too much of crueltie.” Macbeth's actions + correspond with his nature in Holinshed; but Shakespeare first made + Macbeth in his own image—gentle, bookish and irresolute—and + then found himself fettered by the historical fact that Macbeth murdered + Banquo and the rest. He was therefore forced to explain in some way or + other why his Macbeth strode from crime to crime. It must be noted as most + characteristic of gentle Shakespeare that even when confronted with this + difficulty he did not think of lending Macbeth any tinge of cruelty, + harshness, or ambition. His Macbeth commits murder for the same reason + that the timorous deer fights—out of fear. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To be thus is nothing; + But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo + Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature + Reigns that which would be feared”: +</pre> + <p> + And again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is none but he + Whose being I do fear”:... +</pre> + <p> + This proves, as nothing else could prove, the all-pervading, attaching + kindness of Shakespeare's nature. Again and again Lady Macbeth saves the + situation and tries to shame her husband into stern resolve, but in vain; + he's “quite unmann'd in folly.” + </p> + <p> + Had Macbeth been made ambitious, as the commentators assume, there would + have been a sufficient motive for his later actions. But ambition is + foreign to the Shakespeare-Hamlet nature, so the poet does not employ it. + Again and again he returns to the explanation that the timid grow + dangerous when “frighted out of fear.” Macbeth says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer + Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep + In the affliction of these terrible dreams + That shake us nightly.” + </pre> + <p> + In passing I may remark that Hamlet, too, complains of “bad dreams.” + </p> + <p> + In deep Hamlet melancholy, Macbeth now begins to contrast his state with + Duncan's: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. + Treason has done his worst: nor steel nor poison, + Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, + Can touch him further.” + </pre> + <p> + Lady Macbeth begs him to sleek o'er his rugged looks, be bright and + jovial. He promises obedience; but soon falls into the dark mood again and + predicts “a deed of dreadful note.” Naturally his wife questions him, and + he replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, + Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, + Scarf up the tender eye of pityful day, + And with thy bloody and invisible hand + Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond + Which keeps me pale.” + </pre> + <p> + No other motive for murder is possible to Shakespeare-Macbeth but fear. + </p> + <p> + Banquo is murdered, but still Macbeth cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in + To saucy doubts and fears.” + The scene with the ghost of Banquo follows, where-in Macbeth again shows +the nervous imaginative Hamlet nature. His next speech is mere +reflection, and again Hamlet might have framed it: + + “the time has been + That when the brains were out the man would die + And there an end”: ... +</pre> + <p> + But while fear may be an adequate motive for Banquo's murder, it can + hardly explain the murder of Macduff's wife and children. Shakespeare + feels this, too, and therefore finds other reasons natural enough; but the + first of these reasons, “his own good,” is not especially characteristic + of Macbeth, and the second, while perhaps characteristic, is absurdly + inadequate: men don't murder out of tediousness: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For mine own good + All causes shall give way: I am in blood{1} + Stepped in so far, that, should I wade no more, + Returning were as tedious as go o'er.” + </pre> + <p> + {Footnote 1: It seems to me probable that Shakespeare, unable to find an + adequate motive for murder, borrowed this one from “Richard III.” Richard + says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But I am in + So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin”— +</pre> + <p> + This is an explanation following the fact rather than a cause producing it—an + explanation, moreover, which may be true in the case of a fiendlike + Richard, but is not true of a Macbeth.} + </p> + <p> + Take it all in all, this latter reason is as poor a motive for + cold-blooded murder as was ever given, and Shakespeare again feels this, + for he brings in the witches once more to predict safety to Macbeth and + adjure him to be “bloody, bold and resolute.” When they have thus screwed + his courage to the sticking place as his wife did before, Macbeth resolves + on Macduff's murder, but he immediately recurs to the old explanation; he + does not do it for his “own good” nor because “returning is tedious “; he + does it + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, + And sleep in spite of thunder.” + </pre> + <p> + It is fair to say that Shakespeare's Macbeth is so gentle-kind, that he + can find no motive in himself for murder, save fear. The words Shakespeare + puts into Hubert's mouth in “King John” are really his own confession: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Within this bosom never enter'd yet + The dreadful motion of a murderous thought.” + </pre> + <p> + The murders take place and the silly scenes in England between Malcolm and + Macduff follow, and then come Lady Macbeth's illness, and the + characteristic end. The servant tells Macbeth of the approach of the + English force, and he begins the wonderful monologue: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “my May of life + Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; + And that which should accompany old age, + As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, + I must not look to have; but in their stead + Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath + Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.” + </pre> + <p> + Truly this is a strange murderer who longs for “troops of friends,” and + who at the last push of fate can find in himself kindness enough towards + others to sympathize with the “poor heart.” All this is pure Hamlet; one + might better say, pure Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + We are next led into the field with Malcolm and Macduff, and immediately + back to the castle again. While the women break into cries, Macbeth + soliloquizes in the very spirit of bookish Hamlet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I have almost forgot the taste of fears. + The time has been, my senses would have cooled + To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair + Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir + As life were in 't.” + </pre> + <p> + The whole passage, and especially the “dismal treatise,” recalls the + Wittenberg student with a magic of representment. + </p> + <p> + The death of the Queen is announced, and wrings from Macbeth a speech full + of despairing pessimism, a bitterer mood than ever Hamlet knew; a speech, + moreover, that shows the student as well as the incomparable lyric poet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “She should have died hereafter: + There would have been a time for such a word.— + To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, + Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, + To the last syllable of recorded time; + And all our yesterdays have lighted fools + The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! + Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, + That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, + And then is heard no more: it is a tale + Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, + Signifying nothing.” + </pre> + <p> + Macbeth's philosophy, like Hamlet's, ends in utter doubt, in a passion of + contempt for life, deeper than anything in Dante. The word “syllable” in + this lyric outburst is as characteristic as the “dismal treatise” in the + previous one, and more characteristic still of Hamlet is the likening of + life to “a poor player.” + </p> + <p> + The messenger tells Macbeth that Birnam Wood has begun to move, and he + sees that the witches have cheated him. He can only say, as Hamlet might + have said: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, + And wish the estate o' the world were now undone.— + Ring the alarum bell! Blow wind! Come, wrack! + At least we'll die with harness on our back.” + </pre> + <p> + And later he cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, + But bear-like I must fight the course.” + </pre> + <p> + This seems to me intensely characteristic of Hamlet; the brutal side of + action was never more contemptuously described, and Macbeth's next + soliloquy makes the identity apparent to every one; it is in the true + thinker-sceptic vein: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why should I play the Roman{1} fool and die + On mine own sword?” + </pre> + <p> + {Footnote 1: About the year 1600 Shakespeare seems to have steeped himself + in Plutarch. For the next five or six years, whenever he thinks of + suicide, the Roman way of looking at it occurs to him. Having made up his + mind to kill himself, Laertes cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am more an antique Roman than a Dane,” + </pre> + <p> + and, in like case, Cleopatra talks of dying “after the high Roman + fashion."} + </p> + <p> + Macbeth then meets Macduff, and there follows the confession of pity and + remorse, which must be compared to the gentle-kindness with which Hamlet + treats Laertes and Romeo treats Paris. Macbeth says to Macduff: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Of all men else I have avoided thee: + But get thee back, my soul is too much charged + With blood of thine already.” + </pre> + <p> + Then comes the “something desperate” in him that Hamlet boasted of—and + the end. + </p> + <p> + Here we have every characteristic of Hamlet without exception, The crying + difference of situation only brings out the essential identity of the two + characters. The two portraits are of the same person and finished to the + finger-tips. The slight shades of difference between Macbeth and Hamlet + only strengthen our contention that both are portraits of the poet; for + the differences are manifestly changes in the same character, and changes + due merely to age. Just as Romeo is younger than Hamlet, showing passion + where Hamlet shows thought, so Macbeth is older than Hamlet; in Macbeth + the melancholy has grown deeper, the tone more pessimistic, and the heart + gentler. {Footnote: Immediately after the publication of these first two + essays, Sir Henry Irving seized the opportunity and lectured before a + distinguished audience on the character of Macbeth. He gave it as his + opinion that “Shakespeare has presented Macbeth as one of the most + blood-thirsty, most hypocritical villains in his long gallery of men, + instinct with the virtues and vices of their kind (<i>sic</i>).” Sir Henry + Irving also took the occasion to praise the simile of pity: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And pity, like a naked new-born babe, + Striding the blast.” + </pre> + <p> + This ridiculous fustian seemed to him “very beautiful.” All this was + perfectly gratuitous: no one needed to be informed that a man might have + merit as an actor and yet be without any understanding of psychology or + any taste in letters.} I venture, therefore, to assert that the portrait + we find in Romeo and Jaques first, and then in Hamlet, and afterwards in + Macbeth, is the portrait of Shakespeare himself, and we can trace his + personal development through these three stages. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. DUKE VINCENTIO—POSTHUMUS + </h2> + <p> + It may be well to add here a couple of portraits of Shakespeare in later + life in order to establish beyond question the chief features of his + character. With this purpose in mind I shall take a portrait that is a + mere sketch of him, Duke Vincentio in “Measure for Measure,” and a + portrait that is minutely finished and perfect, though consciously + idealized, Posthumus, in “Cymbeline.” And the reason I take this careless, + wavering sketch, and contrast it with a highly-finished portrait, is that, + though the sketch is here and there hardly recognizable, the outline being + all too thin and hesitating, yet now and then a characteristic trait is + over-emphasized, as we should expect in careless work. And this sketch in + lines now faint, now all too heavy, is curiously convincing when put side + by side with a careful and elaborate portrait in which the same traits are + reproduced, but harmoniously, and with a perfect sense of the relative + value of each feature. No critic, so far as I am aware, not Hazlitt, not + Brandes, not even Coleridge, has yet thought of identifying either Duke + Vincentio or Posthumus with Hamlet, much less with Shakespeare himself. + The two plays are very unlike each other in tone and temper; “Measure for + Measure” being a sort of tract for the times, while “Cymbeline” is a + purely romantic drama. Moreover, “Measure for Measure” was probably + written a couple of years after “Hamlet,” towards the end of 1603, while + “Cymbeline” belongs to the last period of the poet's activity, and could + hardly have been completed before 1610 or 1611. The dissimilarity of the + plays only accentuates the likeness of the two protagonists. + </p> + <p> + “Measure for Measure” is one of the best examples of Shakespeare's + contempt for stagecraft. Not only is the mechanism of the play, as we + shall see later, astonishingly slipshod, but the ostensible purpose of the + play, which is to make the laws respected in Vienna, is not only not + attained, but seems at the end to be rather despised than forgotten. This + indifference to logical consistency is characteristic of Shakespeare; + Hamlet speaks of “the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller + returns” just after he has been talking with his dead father. The poetic + dreamer cannot take the trouble to tie up the loose ends of a story: the + real purpose of “Measure for Measure,” which is the confusion of the + pretended ascetic Angelo, is fulfilled, and that is sufficient for the + thinker, who has thus shown what “our seemers be.” It is no less + characteristic of Shakespeare that Duke Vincentio, his <i>alter ego</i>, + should order another to punish loose livers—a task which his kindly + nature found too disagreeable. But, leaving these general considerations, + let us come to the first scene of the first act: the second long speech of + the Duke should have awakened the suspicion that Vincentio is but another + mask for Shakespeare. The whole speech proclaims the poet; the Duke + begins: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Angelo + There is a kind of character in thy life,” + </pre> + <p> + Hamlet says to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in what is supposed to be + prose: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is a kind of confession in your looks.” + </pre> + <p> + A little later the line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Spirits are not finely touched + But to fine issues,” + </pre> + <p> + is so characteristic of Hamlet-Shakespeare that it should have put every + reader on the track. + </p> + <p> + The speeches of the Duke in the fourth scene of the first act are also + characteristic of Shakespeare. But the four lines, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My holy sir, none better knows than you + How I have ever loved the life removed, + And held in idle price to haunt assemblies, + Where youth and cost and witless bravery keep,” + </pre> + <p> + are to me an intimate, personal confession; a fuller rendering indeed of + Hamlet's “Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither.” In any case it will + be admitted that a dislike of assemblies and cost and witless bravery is + peculiar in a reigning monarch, so peculiar indeed that it reminds me of + the exiled Duke in “As You Like It,” or of Duke Prospero in “The Tempest” + (two other incarnations of Shakespeare), rather than of any one in real + life. A love of solitude; a keen contempt for shows and the “witless + bravery” of court-life were, as we shall see, characteristics of + Shakespeare from youth to old age. + </p> + <p> + In the first scene of the third act the Duke as a friar speaks to the + condemned Claudio. He argues as Hamlet would argue, but with, I think, a + more convinced hopelessness. The deepening scepticism would of itself + force us to place “Measure for Measure” a little later than “Hamlet”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Reason thus with life:— + If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing + That none but fools would keep; a breath thou art, + - - - - - - - - + The best of rest is sleep, + And that thou oft provok'st, yet grossly fear'st + Thy death, which is no more. Thou'rt not thyself; + For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains + That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; + For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get, + And what thou hast, forgett'st. + - - - - - - - - + What's in this, + That bears the name of life? Yet in this life + Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear, + That makes these odds all even.” + </pre> + <p> + That this scepticism of Vincentio is Shakespeare's scepticism appears from + the fact that the whole speech is worse than out of place when addressed + to a person under sentence of death. Were we to take it seriously, it + would show the Duke to be curiously callous to the sufferings of the + condemned Claudio; but callous the Duke is not, he is merely a pensive + poet-philosopher talking in order to lighten his own heart. Claudio makes + unconscious fun of the Duke's argument: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To sue to live, I find I seek to die, + And seeking death, find life: let it come on.” + </pre> + <p> + This scepticism of Shakespeare which shows itself out of place in Angelo + and again most naturally in Claudio's famous speech, is one of the salient + traits of his character which is altogether over-emphasized in this play. + It is a trait, moreover, which finds expression in almost everything he + wrote. Like nearly all the great spirits of the Renaissance, Shakespeare + was perpetually occupied with the heavy problems of man's life and man's + destiny. Was there any meaning or purpose in life, any result of the + striving? was Death to be feared or a Hereafter to be desired?—incessantly + he beat straining wings in the void. But even in early manhood he never + sought to deceive himself. His Richard II. had sounded the shallow vanity + of man's desires, the futility of man's hopes; he knew that man + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased + With being nothing.” + </pre> + <p> + And this sad knowledge darkened all Shakespeare's later thinking. + Naturally, when youth passed from him and disillusionment put an end to + dreaming, his melancholy deepened, his sadness became despairing; we can + see the shadows thickening round him into night. Brutus takes an + “everlasting farewell” of his friend, and goes willingly to his rest. + Hamlet dreads “the undiscovered country”; but unsentient death is to him + “a consummation devoutly to be wished.” Vincentio's mood is + half-contemptuous, but the melancholy persists; death is no “more than + sleep,” he says, and life a series of deceptions; while Claudio in this + same play shudders away from death as from annihilation, or worse, in + words which one cannot help regarding as Shakespeare's: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Claud</i>. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; + To lie in cold obstruction and to rot....” + </pre> + <p> + A little later and Macbeth's soul cries to us from the outer darkness: + “there's nothing serious in mortality”; life's + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “a tale + Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, + Signifying nothing.” + </pre> + <p> + And from this despairing gloom come Lear's shrieks of pain and pitiful + ravings, and in the heavy intervals the gibberings of the fool. Even when + the calmer mood of age came upon Shakespeare and took away the bitterness, + he never recanted; Posthumus speaks of life and death in almost the words + used by Vincentio, and Prospero has nothing to add save that “our little + life is rounded with a sleep.” + </p> + <p> + It is noteworthy that Shakespeare always gives these philosophic + questionings to those characters whom I regard as his impersonations,{1} + and when he breaks this rule, he breaks it in favour of some Claudio who + is not a character at all, but the mere mouthpiece of one of his moods. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote 1: One of my correspondents, Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton, has been + kind enough to send me an article contributed to “Colbourn's Magazine” in + 1873, in which he declares that “Shakespeare seems to have kept a sort of + Hamlet notebook, full of Hamlet thoughts, of which 'To be or not to be' + may be taken as the type. These he was burdened with. These did he cram + into Hamlet as far as he could, and then he tossed the others + indiscriminately into other plays, tragedies and histories, perfectly + regardless of the character who uttered them.” Though Mr. Watts-Dunton + sees that some of these “Hamlet thoughts” are to be found in Macbeth and + Prospero and Claudio, he evidently lacks the key to Shakespeare's + personality, or he would never have said that Shakespeare tossed these + reflections “indiscriminately into other plays.” Nevertheless the + statement itself is interesting, and deserves more notice than has been + accorded to it.} + </p> + <p> + I now come to a point in the drama which at once demands and defies + explanation. In the first scene of the third act the Duke, after listening + to the terrible discussion between Isabella and Claudio, first of all + tells Claudio that “Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt” Isabella, and + then assures Claudio that to-morrow he must die. The explanation of these + two falsehoods would be far to seek, unless we take it that they were + invented simply in order to prolong our interest in the drama. But this + assumption, though probable, does not increase our sympathy with the + protagonist—the lies seem to be too carelessly uttered to be even + characteristic—nor yet our admiration of the structure of a play + that needs to be supported by such flimsy buttresses. Still this very + carelessness of fact, as I have said, is Shakespearean; the philosophic + dreamer paid little attention to the mere incidents of the story. + </p> + <p> + The talk between the Duke and Isabella follows. The form of the Duke's + speech, with its touch of euphuistic conceit, is one which + Hamlet-Shakespeare affects: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The hand that hath made you fair hath made you + good: the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes + beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of + your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair.” + </pre> + <p> + This Duke plays philosopher, too, in and out of season as Hamlet did: he + says to Isabella: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful,” + </pre> + <p> + generalizing his praise even to a woman. + </p> + <p> + Again, when Pompey is arrested, he passes from the individual to the + general, exclaiming: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “That we were all as some would seem to be, + Free from our faults, as from faults seeming free.” + </pre> + <p> + Then follows the interesting talk with Lucio, who awakens the slightly + pompous Duke to natural life with his contempt. When Lucio tells the Duke, + who is disguised as a friar, that he (the Duke) was a notorious + loose-liver—“he had some feeling of the sport; he knew the service”—the + Duke merely denies the soft impeachment; but when Lucio tells him that the + Duke is not wise, but “a very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow,” + the Duke bursts out, “either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking: ... + Let him but be testimonied in his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear + to the envious a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier,” which recalls + Hamlet's “Friends, scholars, and soldiers,” and Ophelia's praise of Hamlet + as “courtier, soldier, scholar.” Lucio goes off, and the Duke “moralizes” + the incident in Hamlet's very accent: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No might nor greatness in mortality + Can censure 'scape; backwounding calumny + The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong + Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?” + </pre> + <p> + Hamlet says to Ophelia: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shall + not escape calumny.” + </pre> + <p> + And Laertes says that “virtue itself” cannot escape calumny. + </p> + <p> + The reflection is manifestly Shakespeare's own, and here the form, too, is + characteristic. It may be as well to recall now that Shakespeare himself + was calumniated in his lifetime; the fact is admitted in Sonnet 36, where + he fears his “guilt” will “shame” his friend. + </p> + <p> + In his talk with Escalus the Duke's speech becomes almost obscure from + excessive condensation of thought—a habit which grew upon + Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + Escalus asks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What news abroad in the world?” + </pre> + <p> + The Duke answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness, + that the dissolution of it must cure it: novelty is only in + request. ... There is scarce truth enough alive to make + societies secure, but security enough to make fellowships + accursed.” + </pre> + <p> + Escalus then tells us of the Duke's temperament in words which would fit + Hamlet perfectly; for, curiously enough, they furnish us with the best + description of Shakespeare's melancholy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at + anything which professed to make him rejoice.” + </pre> + <p> + And, lastly, the curious rhymed soliloquy of Vincentio which closes this + third act, must be compared with the epilogue to “The Tempest”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He who the sword of Heaven will bear + Should be as holy as severe; + Pattern in himself to know, + Grace to stand and virtue go;” + - - - - - - - - - - + “Shame to him whose cruel striking + Kills for faults of his own liking! + Twice treble shame on Angelo, + To weed my vice and let his grow!” + - - - - - - - - - - +</pre> + <p> + In the fifth act the Duke, freed from making plots and plans, speaks + without constraint and reveals his nature ingenuously. He uses words to + Angelo that recall the sonnets: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it, + To lock it in the wards of covered bosom, + When it deserves, with characters of brass, + A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time + And razure of oblivion."{1} +</pre> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Cf. Sonnet 122 with its “full character'd” and “razed + oblivion."} + </p> + <p> + Again, the Duke argues in gentle Shakespeare's fashion for Angelo and + against Isabella: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If he had so offended, + He would have weighed thy brother by himself + And not have cut him off.” + </pre> + <p> + It seems impossible for Shakespeare to believe that the sinner can punish + sin. It reminds one of the sacred “he that is without sin among you let + him first cast a stone.” The detections and forgivings of the last act + follow. + </p> + <p> + It will be admitted, I think, on all hands that Duke Vincentio speaks + throughout the play with Shakespeare's voice. From the point of view of + literary art his character is very far from being as complex or as deeply + realized as that of Hamlet or Macbeth, or even as that of Romeo or of + Jaques, and yet one other trait besides that of sceptical brooding is so + over-accentuated that it can never be forgotten. In the last scene the + Duke orders Barnardine to the block and the next moment respites him; he + condemns + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “An Angelo for Claudio; death for death,” + </pre> + <p> + then pardons Angelo, and at once begins to chat with him in kindly + intimacy; he asserts that he cannot forgive Lucio, Lucio who has traduced + him, shall be whipped and hanged, and in the same breath he remits the + heavy penalty. Truly he is “an unhurtful opposite” {Footnote: The critics + are at variance over this ending, and, indeed, over the whole play. + Coleridge says that “our feelings of justice are grossly wounded in + Angelo's escape”; for “cruelty with lust and damnable baseness cannot be + forgiven.” Mr. Swinburne, too, regrets the miscarriage of justice; the + play to him is a tragedy, and should end tragically with the punishment of + the “autotype of the huge national vice of England.” Perhaps, however, + Puritan hypocrisy was not so widespread or so powerful in the time of + Shakespeare as it is nowadays; perhaps, too, Shakespeare was not so good a + hater as Mr. Swinburne, nor so strenuous a moralist as Coleridge was, at + least in theory. In any case it is evident that Shakespeare found it + harder to forgive Lucio, who had hurt his vanity, than Angelo, who pushed + lust to outrage and murder, which strange, yet characteristic, fact I + leave to the mercy of future commentators. Mr. Sidney Lee regards “Measure + for Measure” as “one of Shakespeare's greatest plays.” Coleridge, however, + thought it “a hateful work”; it is also a poor work, badly constructed, + and for the most part carelessly written. In essence it is a mere tract + against Puritanism, and in form a sort of Arabian Nights' Entertainment in + which the hero plays the part of Haroun-al-Raschid.} whose anger has no + stead-fastness; but the gentle forgivingness of disposition that is so + marked in Vincentio is a trait we found emphasized in Romeo, and again in + Hamlet and again in Macbeth. It is, indeed, one of the most permanent + characteristics of Shakespeare. From the beginning to the end of the play, + Duke Vincentio is weakly-kind in act and swayed by fitful impulses; his + assumed austerity of conduct is the thin varnish of vanity that will not + take on such soft material. The Hamlet weakness is so exaggerated in him, + and so unmotived, that I am inclined to think Shakespeare was even more + irresolute and indisposed to action than Hamlet himself. + </p> + <p> + In the character of Posthumus, the hero of “Cymbeline,” Shakespeare has + painted himself with extraordinary care; has, in fact, given us as + deliberate and almost as complete a picture of himself as he did in + Hamlet. Unluckily his hand had grown weaker in the ten years' interval, + and he gave such loose rein to his idealizing habit that the portrait is + neither so veracious nor so lifelike. The explanation of all this will be + given later; it is enough for the moment to state that as Posthumus is + perhaps the completest portrait of him that we have after his mental + shipwreck, we must note the traits of it carefully, and see what manner of + man Shakespeare took himself to be towards the end of his career. + </p> + <p> + It is difficult to understand how the commentators have been able to read + “Cymbeline” without seeing the likeness between Posthumus and Hamlet. The + wager which is the theme of the play may have hindered them a little, but + as they found it easy to excuse its coarseness by attributing lewdness to + the time, there seems to have been no reason for not recognizing + Posthumus. Posthumus is simply a staider Hamlet considerably idealized. I + am not at all sure that the subject of the play was void of offence in the + time of Elizabeth; all finer spirits must even then have found it puerile + and coarse. What would Spenser have said about it? Shakespeare used the + wager because of the opportunities it gave him of painting himself and an + ideal woman. His view of it is just indicated; Iachimo says: + </p> + <p> + “I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation: and, + to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the + world.” But in spite of the fact that Iachimo makes his insult general, + Posthumus warns him that: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If she remain unseduced ... for your ill opinion, + and the assault you have made to her chastity, you shall + answer me with your sword.” + </pre> + <p> + From this it appears that the bet was distasteful to Posthumus; it is not + so offenceful to him as it should have been according to our modern + temper; but this shortcoming, an unconscious shortcoming, is the only + fault which Shakespeare will allow in his hero. In the first scene of the + first act Posthumus is praised as men never praise the absent without a + personal motive; the First Gentleman says of him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I do not think + So fair an outward and such stuff within + Endows a man but he.” + </pre> + <p> + The Second Gentleman replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You speak him far;” + </pre> + <p> + and the First Gentleman continues: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I do extend him, sir, within himself; + Crush him together, rather than unfold + His measure duly.” + </pre> + <p> + And as if this were not enough, this gentleman-eulogist goes on to tell us + that Posthumus has sucked in “all the learnings” of his time “as we do + air,” and further: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He lived in court— + Which rare it is to do—most praised, most loved; + A sample to the young'st, to the more mature + A glass that feated them; and to the graver + A child that guided dotards.” + </pre> + <p> + This gross praise is ridiculously unnatural, and outrages our knowledge of + life; men are much more apt to criticize than to praise the absent; but it + shows a prepossession on Shakespeare's part in favour of Posthumus which + can only be explained by the fact that in Posthumus he was depicting + himself. Every word is significant to us, for Shakespeare evidently tells + us here what he thought about himself, or rather what he wished to think, + towards the end of his life. It is impossible to believe that he was “most + praised, most loved”; men do not love or praise their superiors in looks, + or intellect. + </p> + <p> + The first words which Posthumus in this same scene addresses to Imogen, + show the gentle Shakespeare nature: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause + To be suspected of more tenderness + Than doth become a man.” + </pre> + <p> + And when Imogen gives him the ring and tells him to wear it till he woos + another wife, he talks to her exactly as Romeo would have talked: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How! how! another?— + You gentle gods, give me but this I have, + And sear up my embracements from a next + With bonds of death! {<i>Putting on the ring</i>.} + Remain, remain thou here + While sense can keep it on.” + </pre> + <p> + And he concludes as self-depreciating Hamlet would have concluded: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And sweetest, fairest, + As I my poor self did exchange for you, + To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles + I still win of you; for my sake wear this: + It is a manacle of love; I'll place it + Upon this fairest prisoner. + {Putting a bracelet on her arm.}” + </pre> + <p> + In his fight with Cloten he is depicted as a rare swordsman of wonderful + magnanimity. Pisanio says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My master rather played than fought, + And had no help of anger.” + </pre> + <p> + I call this gentle kindness which Posthumus displays, the birthmark of + Shakespeare; he had “no help of anger.” As the play goes on we find + Shakespeare's other peculiarities, or Hamlet's. Iachimo represents + Posthumus as “merry,” “gamesome,” “the Briton reveller”; but curiously + enough Imogen answers as Ophelia might have answered about Hamlet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When he was here, + He did incline to sadness; and ofttimes + Not knowing why.” + </pre> + <p> + This uncaused melancholy that distinguishes Romeo, Jaques, Hamlet, + Macbeth, and Vincentio is not more characteristic of the + Hamlet-Shakespeare nature than the way Posthumus behaves when Iachimo + tries to make him believe that he has won the wager. Posthumus is + convinced almost at once; jumps to the conclusion, indeed, with the + heedless rapidity of the naïve, sensitive, quick-thinking man who has + cultivated his emotions and thoughts by writing in solitude, and not the + suspicions and distrust of others which are developed in the market-place. + One is reminded of Goethe's famous couplet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, + Sich ein Charakter in dem Strom der Welt.” + </pre> + <p> + Posthumus is all in fitful extremes; not satisfied with believing the lie, + he gives Iachimo Imogen's ring as well, and bursts into a diatribe: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let there be no honour + Where there's beauty; truth, where semblance; love, + Where there's another man,” + </pre> + <p> + and so forth. Even Philario, who has no stake in the matter, is infinitely + harder to convince: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Have patience, sir, + And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won: + It may be probable she lost it.” + </pre> + <p> + Then this “unstable opposite,” Posthumus, demands his ring back again, but + as soon as Iachimo swears that he had the bracelet from her arm, Posthumus + swings round again to belief from sheer rapidity of thought. Again + Philario will not be convinced. He says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sir, be patient, + This is not strong enough to be believed + Of one persuaded well of—” + </pre> + <p> + But Posthumus will not await the proof for which he has asked. He is + convinced upon suspicion, as Othello was, and the very nimbleness of his + Hamlet-intellect, seeing that probabilities are against him, entangles him + in the snare. Even his servant Pisanio will not believe in Imogen's guilt + though his master assures him of it. Shakespeare does not notice this + peculiar imprudent haste of his hero, as he notices, for example, the + hasty speech of Hotspur by letting Harry of England imitate it, simply + because the quick-thinking was his own; while the hurried stuttering + speech was foreign to him. Posthumus goes on to rave against women as + Hamlet did; as all men do who do not understand them: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For even to vice + They are not constant, but are changing still.” + </pre> + <p> + And Posthumus betrays as clearly as ever Hamlet did that he is merely + Shakespeare masquerading: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I'll write against them, + Detest them, curse them—yet 'tis greater skill + In a true hate, to pray they have their will: + The very devils cannot plague them better.” + </pre> + <p> + “Write against them” indeed! This is the same threat which Shakespeare + uses against his dark mistress in Sonnet 140, and every one will admit + that it is more in the character of the poet and man of letters than in + that of the warrior son-in-law of a half-barbarous king. The last line + here, because it is a little superfluous, a little emphatic, seems to me + likely to have a personal application. When Shakespeare's mistress had her + will, did she fall to misery, I wonder? + </p> + <p> + I may be allowed to notice here how intensely characteristic all this play + is of Shakespeare. In the third scene of the third act, life in the + country is contrasted to its advantage with life at Court; and then gold + is treated as dirt by the princely brothers—both these, the love of + country life, and the contempt of gold, are, as we shall see later, + abiding peculiarities of Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + When we come to Posthumus again almost at the end of the play we find that + his anger with Imogen has burned itself out. He is angry now with Pisanio + for having executed his order and murdered her; he should have “saved the + noble Imogen to repent.” Surely the poet Shakespeare and not the outraged + lover speaks in this epithet, “noble.” + </p> + <p> + Posthumus describes the battle in which he took so gallant a part in + Shakespeare's usual manner. He falls into rhyme; he shows the cheap + modesty of the conventional hero; he tells of what others did, and nothing + of his own feats; Belarius and the two striplings, he says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “With their own nobleness ... gilded pale looks.” + </pre> + <p> + Unfortunately one is reminded of the exquisite sonnet line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.” + </pre> + <p> + “Gild” is one of Shakespeare's favourite words; he uses it very often, + sometimes indeed as in this case, ineffectively. + </p> + <p> + But the scene which reveals the character of Posthumus beyond all doubt is + the prison scene in the fifth act. His soliloquy which begins: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Most welcome, bondage, for thou art a way, + I think, to liberty “— +</pre> + <p> + is all pure Shakespeare. When he determines to give up life, he says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Imogen! + I'll speak to thee in silence,” + </pre> + <p> + and Hamlet at his death comes to the self-same word: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The rest is silence.” + </pre> + <p> + The scene with the gaoler is from Hamlet's soul; Posthumus jests with his + keeper as Hamlet with the gravedigger: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the + ship pays the shot;” + </pre> + <p> + and the Hamlet melancholy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am merrier to die than them art to live;” + </pre> + <p> + and the Hamlet riddle still unsolved: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct + them the way I am going; but such as wink, and will + not use them.” + </pre> + <p> + When the messenger comes to bring him to the king, Posthumus cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou bringest good news, I am called to be made + free,” + </pre> + <p> + for there are “no bolts for the dead.” + </p> + <p> + Those who wish to see how Shakespeare's mind worked will compare + Posthumus' speech to Iachimo, when he has learned the truth, with + Othello's words when he is convinced of his own fatal error and of + Desdemona's chastity. The two speeches are twins; though the persons + uttering them should be of totally different characters. The explanation + of this astounding similarity will be given when we come to “Othello.” + </p> + <p> + It is characteristic of Posthumus that he should strike Imogen in her + page's dress, not recognizing her; he is ever too quick—a mere + creature of impulse. More characteristic still is the way he forgives + Iachimo, just as Vincentio forgave Angelo: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Kneel not to me: + The power that I have on you, is to spare you, + The malice towards you, to forgive you. Live, + And deal with others better.” + </pre> + <p> + In judging his fellow-men this is Shakespeare's harshest word. Posthumus, + then, is presented to us in the beginning of the play as perfect, a model + to young and old, of irreproachable virtue and of all wonderful qualities. + In the course of the play, however, he shows himself very nimble-witted, + credulous, and impulsive, quick to anger and quicker still to forgive; + with thoughts all turned to sadness and to musing; a poet—ever in + extremes; now hating his own rash errors to the point of demanding the + heaviest punishment for them; now swearing that he will revenge himself on + women by writing against them; a philosopher—he jests with his + gaoler and consoles himself with despairing speculation in the very + presence of the Arch-Fear. All these are manifestly characteristics of + Hamlet, and Posthumus possesses no others. + </p> + <p> + So far, then, from finding that Shakespeare never revealed himself in his + dramas, I have shown that he pictured himself as the hero {Footnote: A + hypercritic might contend that Jaques was not the hero of “As You Like + It”; but the objection really strengthens my argument. Shakespeare makes + of Jaques, who is merely a secondary character without influence on the + action, the principal person in the play simply because in Jaques he + satisfied his own need of self-revealing.} of six plays written at widely + different times; in fact that, like Rembrandt, he painted his own portrait + in all the critical periods of life: as a sensuous youth given over to + love and poetry in Romeo; a few years later as a melancholy onlooker at + life's pageant in Jaques; in middle age as the passionate, melancholy, + aesthete-philosopher of kindliest nature in Hamlet and Macbeth; as the + fitful Duke incapable of severity in “Measure for Measure,” and finally, + when standing within the shadow, as Posthumus, an idealized yet feebler <i>replica</i> + of Hamlet. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. SHAKESPEARE'S MEN OF ACTION: THE BASTARD, ARTHUR, AND KING + RICHARD II. + </h2> + <p> + It is time now, I think, to test my theory by considering the converse of + it. In any case, the attempt to see the other side, is pretty sure to make + for enlightenment, and may thus justify itself. In the mirror which + Shakespeare held up to human nature, we not only see Romeo, and Jaques, + Hamlet, Macbeth and Posthumus; but also the leonine, frank face of the + Bastard, the fiery, lean, impatient mask of Hotspur, and the cynical, bold + eyes of Richard III. Even if it were admitted that Shakespeare preferred + the type of the poet-philosopher, he was certainly able, one would say, to + depict the man of action with extraordinary vigour and success. He himself + then must have possessed a certain strength of character, certain + qualities of decision and courage; he must have had, at least, “a good + stroke in him,” as Carlyle phrased it. This is the universal belief, a + belief sanctioned by Coleridge and Goethe, and founded apparently on plain + facts, and yet, I think, it is mistaken, demonstrably untrue. It might + even be put more plausibly than any of its defenders has put it. One might + point out that Shakespeare's men of action are nearly all to be found in + the historical plays which he wrote in early manhood, while the portrait + of the philosopher-poet is the favourite study of his riper years. It + would then be possible to suggest that Shakespeare grew from a bold + roistering youth into a melancholy, thoughtful old age, touching both + extremes of manhood in his own development. But even this comforting + explanation will not stand: his earliest impersonations are all thinkers. + </p> + <p> + Let us consider, again, how preference in a writer is established. + Everyone feels that Sophocles prefers Antigone to Ismene; Ismene is a mere + sketch of gentle feminine weakness; while Antigone is a great portrait of + the <i>revoltée</i>, the first appearance indeed in literature of the “new + woman,” and the place she fills in the drama, and the ideal qualities + attributed to her girlhood—alike betray the personal admiration of + the poet. In the same way Shakespeare's men of action are mere sketches in + comparison with the intimate detailed portrait of the + aesthete-philosopher-poet with his sensuous, gentle, melancholy + temperament. Moreover, and this should be decisive, Shakespeare's men of + action are all taken from history, or tradition, or story, and not from + imagination, and their characteristics were supplied by the chroniclers + and not invented by the dramatist. To see how far this is true I must + examine Shakespeare's historical plays at some length Such an examination + did not form a part of my original purpose. It is very difficult, not to + say impossible, to ascertain exactly how far history and verbal tradition + helped Shakespeare in his historical portraits of English worthies. + Jaques, for instance, is his own creation from top to toe; every word + given to him therefore deserves careful study; but how much of Hotspur is + Shakespeare's, and how much of the Bastard? Without pretending, however, + to define exactly the sources or the limits of the master's inspiration, + there are certain indications in the historical plays which throw a flood + of light on the poet's nature, and certain plain inferences from his + methods which it would be folly not to draw. + </p> + <p> + Let us begin with “King John,” as one of the easiest and most helpful to + us at this stage, and remembering that Shakespeare's drama was evidently + founded on the old play entitled “The Troublesome Raigne of King John,” + let us from our knowledge of Shakespeare's character forecast what his + part in the work must have been. A believer in the theory I have set forth + would guess at once that the strong, manly character of the Bastard was + vigorously sketched even in the old play, and just as surely one would + attribute the gentle, feminine, pathetic character of Arthur to + Shakespeare. And this is precisely what we find: Philip Fauconbridge is + excellently depicted in the old play; he is called: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A hardy wildehead, tough and venturous,” + </pre> + <p> + and he talks and acts the character to the life. In “The Troublesome + Raigne,” as in “King John,” he is proud of his true father, the + lion-hearted Richard, and careless of the stain of his illegitimate birth; + he cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The world 's in my debt, + There's something owing to Plantaginet. + I, marrie Sir, let me alone for game + He act some wonders now I know my name; + By blessed Marie He not sell that pride + For England's wealth and all the world beside.” + </pre> + <p> + Who does not feel the leaping courage and hardihood of the Bastard in + these lines? Shakespeare seizes the spirit of the character and renders + it, but his emendations are all by way of emphasis: he does not add a new + quality; his Bastard is the Bastard of “The Troublesome Raigne.” But the + gentle, pathetic character of Arthur is all Shakespeare's. In the old play + Arthur is presented as a prematurely wise youth who now urges the claims + of his descent and speaks boldly for his rights, and now begs his vixenish + mother to + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Wisely winke at all + Least further harmes ensue our hasty speech.” + </pre> + <p> + Again, he consoles her with the same prudence: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Seasons will change and so our present griefe + May change with them and all to our reliefe.” + </pre> + <p> + This Arthur is certainly nothing like Shakespeare's Arthur. Shakespeare, + who had just lost his only son Hamnet, {Footnote: Some months before + writing “King John” Shakespeare had visited Stratford for the first time + after ten years absence and had then perhaps learned to know and love + young Hamnet.} in his twelfth year, turns Arthur from a young man into a + child, and draws all the pathos possible from his weakness and suffering; + Arthur's first words are of “his powerless hand,” and his advice to his + mother reaches the very fount of tears: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Good my mother, peace! + I would that I were low laid in my grave; + I am not worth this coil that's made for me.” + </pre> + <p> + When taken prisoner his thought is not of himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, this will make my mother die with grief.” + </pre> + <p> + He is a woman-child in unselfish sympathy. + </p> + <p> + The whole of the exquisitely pathetic scene between Hubert and Arthur + belongs, as one might have guessed, to Shakespeare, that is, the whole + pathos of it belongs to him. + </p> + <p> + In the old play Arthur thanks Hubert for his care, calls him “curteous + keeper,” and, in fact, behaves as the conventional prince. He has no words + of such affecting appeal as Shakespeare puts into Arthur's mouth: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I would to heaven + I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.” + </pre> + <p> + This love and longing for love is the characteristic of Shakespeare's + Arthur; he goes on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day. + In sooth, I would you were a little sick, + That I might sit all night and watch with you: + I warrant, I love you more than you do me.” + </pre> + <p> + A girl could not be more tender, more anxious for love's assurance. In + “The Troublesome Raigne,” when Hubert tells Arthur that he has bad news + for him, tidings of “more hate than death,” Arthur faces the unknown with + a man's courage; he asks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What is it, man? if needes be don, + Act it, and end it, that the paine were gon.” + </pre> + <p> + It might be the Bastard speaking, so hardy-reckless are the words. When + this Arthur pleads for his eyesight, he does it in this way: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I speake not only for eyes priviledge, + The chiefe exterior that I would enjoy: + But for thy perill, farre beyond my paine, + Thy sweete soules losse more than my eyes vaine lack.” + </pre> + <p> + Again at the end he says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Delay not, Hubert, my orisons are ended, + Begin I pray thee, reave me of my sight.” + </pre> + <p> + And when Hubert relents because his “conscience bids him desist,” Arthur + says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hubert, if ever Arthur be in state + Looke for amends of this received gift.” + </pre> + <p> + In all this there is neither realization of character nor even sincere + emotion. But Shakespeare's Arthur is a masterpiece of soul-revealing, and + moves us to pity at every word: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Will you put out mine eyes? + These eyes that never did, nor never shall, + So much as frown on you?” + </pre> + <p> + And then the child's imaginative horror of being bound: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound. + Nay, hear me, Hubert: drive these men away, + And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; + I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word.” + </pre> + <p> + When Hubert relents, Shakespeare's Arthur does not promise reward, he + simply breathes a sigh of exquisite affection: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, now you look like Hubert: all this while + You were disguised.” + </pre> + <p> + And finally, when Hubert promises never to hurt him, his words are: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.” + </pre> + <p> + Arthur's character we owe entirely to Shakespeare, there is no hint of his + weakness and tenderness in the original, no hint either of the pathos of + his appeal—these are the inventions of gentle Shakespeare, who has + manifestly revealed his own exceeding tenderness and sweetness of heart in + the person of the child Prince. Of course, there are faults in the work; + faults of affectation and word-conceit hardly to be endured. When Hubert + says he will burn out his eyes with hot irons, Arthur replies: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it! The iron of itself, though + heat red-hot,” + </p> + <p> + and so forth. ... Nor does this passage of tinsel stand alone. When the + iron cools and Hubert says he can revive it, Arthur replies with pinchbeck + conceits: + </p> + <p> + “An if you do you will but make it blush, And glow with shame at your + proceedings,” + </p> + <p> + and so forth. The faults are bad enough; but the heavenly virtues carry + them all off triumphantly. There is no creation like Arthur in the whole + realm of poetry; he is all angelic love and gentleness, and yet neither + mawkish nor unnatural; his fears make him real to us, and the horror of + his situation allows us to accept his exquisite pleading as possible. We + need only think of Tennyson's May Queen, or of his unspeakable Arthur, or + of Thackeray's prig Esmond, in order to understand how difficult it is in + literature to make goodness attractive or even credible. Yet Shakespeare's + art triumphs where no one else save Balzac and Tourgenief has achieved + even a half-success. + </p> + <p> + I cannot leave this play without noticing that Shakespeare has shown in it + a hatred of murder just as emphatically as he has revealed his love of + gentleness and pity in the creation of Arthur. In spite of the loyalty + which the English nobles avow in the second scene of the fourth act, which + is a quality that always commends itself to Shakespeare, Pembroke is + merely their mouthpiece in requesting the King to “enfranchise Arthur.” As + soon as John tells them that Arthur is dead they throw off their + allegiance and insult the monarch to his face. Even John is startled by + their indignation, and brought as near remorse as is possible for him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I repent; + There is no sure foundation set on blood; + No certain life achieved by others' death—” + </pre> + <p> + —which reads like a reflection of Shakespeare himself. When the + Bastard asks the nobles to return to their allegiance, Salisbury finds an + astonishing phrase to express their loathing of the crime: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The King hath dispossess'd himself of us; + We will not line his thin bestained cloak + With our pure honours, <i>nor attend the foot + That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks</i>.” + </pre> + <p> + In all literature there is no more terrible image: Shakespeare's horror of + bloodshed has more than Aeschylean intensity. When the dead body of Arthur + is found each of the nobles in turn expresses his abhorrence of the deed, + and all join in vowing instant revenge. Even the Bastard calls it + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A damned and bloody work, + The graceless action of a heavy hand,” + </pre> + <p> + and a little later the thought of the crime brings even this tough + adventurer to weakness: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am amazed, methinks, and lose my way + Among the thorns and dangers of this world.” + </pre> + <p> + —a phrase that suits the weakness of Richard II. or Henry VI. or + Shakespeare himself better than it suits the hardy Bastard. Even as a + young man Shakespeare hated the cruelty of ambition and the savagery of + war as much as he loved all the ceremonies of chivalry and observances of + gentle courtesy. + </p> + <p> + Very similar inferences are to be drawn from a study of Shakespeare's + “King Richard II.,” which in some respects is his most important + historical creation. Coleridge says: “I know of no character drawn by our + great poet with such unequalled skill as that of Richard II.” Such praise + is extravagant; but it would have been true to say that up to 1593 or + 1594, when Shakespeare wrote “King Richard II.,” he had given us no + character so complex and so interesting as this Richard. Coleridge + overpraised the character-drawing probably because the study of Richard's + weakness and irresolution, and the pathos resulting from such + helplessness, must have seemed very like an analysis of his own nature. + </p> + <p> + Let us now examine “Richard II.,” and see what light it casts on + Shakespeare's qualities. There was an old play of the same title, a play + which is now lost, but we can form some idea of what it was like from the + description in Forman's Diary. Like most of the old history-plays it + ranged over twenty years of Richard's reign, whereas Shakespeare's tragedy + is confined to the last year of Richard's life. It is probable that the + old play presented King Richard as more wicked and more deceitful than + Shakespeare imagines him. We know that in the “Confessio Amantis,” Gower, + the poet, cast off his allegiance to Richard: for he cancelled the + dedication of the poem to Richard, and dedicated it instead to Henry. + William Langland, too, the author of the “Vision of Piers Plowman,” turned + from Richard at the last, and used his deposition as a warning to + ill-advised youth. It may be assumed, then, that tradition pictured + Richard as a vile creature in whom weakness nourished crime. Shakespeare + took his story partly from Holinshed's narrative, and partly either from + the old play or from the traditional view of Richard's character. When he + began to write the play he evidently intended to portray Richard as even + more detestable than history and tradition had presented him. In Holinshed + Richard is not accused of the murder of Gloster, whereas Shakespeare + directly charges him with it, or rather makes Gaunt do so, and the + accusation is not denied, much less disproved. At the close of the first + act we are astonished by the revelation of Richard's devilish + heartlessness. The King hearing that his uncle, John of Gaunt, is + “grievous sick,” cries out: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now put it, God, in his physician's mind, + To help him to his grave immediately! + The lining of his coffers shall make coats + To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. + Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him: + Pray God we may make haste and come too late.” + </pre> + <p> + This mixture of greed and cold cruelty decked out with blasphemous phrase + is viler, I think, than anything attributed by Shakespeare to the worst of + his villains. But surely some hint of Richard's incredible vileness should + have come earlier in the play, should have preceded at least his + banishment of Bolingbroke, if Shakespeare had really meant to present him + to us in this light. + </p> + <p> + In the first scene of the second act, when Gaunt reproves him, Richard + turns on him in a rage, threatening. In the very same scene York reproves + Richard for seizing Gaunt's money and land, and Richard retorts: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Think what you will: we seize into our hands + His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.” + </pre> + <p> + But when York blames him to his face and predicts that evil will befall + him and leaves him, Richard in spite of this at once creates: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Our uncle York, Lord Governor of England; + For he is just, and always loved us well.” + </pre> + <p> + This Richard of Shakespeare is so far, I submit, almost incomprehensible. + When reproved by Gaunt and warned, Richard rages and threatens; when + blamed by York much more severely, Richard rewards York: the two scenes + contradict each other. Moreover, though his callous selfishness, greed and + cruelty are apparently established, in the very next scene of this act our + sympathy with Richard is called forth by the praise his queen gives him. + She says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I know no cause + Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, + Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest + As my sweet Richard.” + </pre> + <p> + And from this scene to the end of the play Shakespeare enlists all our + sympathy for Richard. Now, what is the reason of this right-about-face on + the part of the poet? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +It appears to me that Shakespeare began the play intending to present +the vile and cruel Richard of tradition. But midway in the play he saw +that there was no emotion, no pathos, to be got out of the traditional +view. If Richard were a vile, scheming, heartless murderer, the loss of +his crown and life would merely satisfy our sense of justice, but this +outcome did not satisfy Shakespeare's desire for emotion, and +particularly his desire for pathos, {Footnote: In the last scene of the +last act of “Lear,” Albany says: + “This judgement of the heavens, that makes us tremble + Touches us not with pity."} +and accordingly he veers round, says nothing more of Richard's +vileness, lays stress upon his weakness and sufferings, discovers, too, +all manner of amiable qualities in him, and so draws pity from us for +his dethronement and murder. +</pre> + <p> + The curious thing is that while Shakespeare is depicting Richard's + heartlessness, he does his work badly; the traits, as I have shown, are + crudely extravagant and even contradictory; but when he paints Richard's + gentleness and amiability, he works like a master, every touch is + infallible: he is painting himself. + </p> + <p> + It was natural for Shakespeare to sympathize deeply with Richard; he was + still young when he wrote the play, young enough to remember vividly how + he himself had been led astray by loose companions, and this formed a bond + between them. At this time of his life this was Shakespeare's favourite + subject: he treated it again in “Henry IV.,” which is at once the epilogue + to “Richard II.” and a companion picture to it; for the theme of both + plays is the same—youth yielding to unworthy companions—though + the treatment in the earlier play is incomparably feebler than it became + in “King Henry IV.” Bushy, Bagot, and Green, the favourites of Richard, + are not painted as Shakespeare afterwards painted Falstaff and his + followers. But partly because he had not yet attained to such objective + treatment of character, Shakespeare identified himself peculiarly with + Richard; and his painting of Richard is more intimate, more subtle, more + self-revealing and pathetic than anything in “Henry IV.” + </p> + <p> + As I have already said, from the time when Richard appoints York as + Regent, and leaves England, Shakespeare begins to think of himself as + Richard, and from this moment to the end no one can help sympathizing with + the unhappy King. At this point, too, the character-drawing becomes, of a + sudden, excellent. When Richard lands in England, he is given speech after + speech, and all he says and does afterwards throws light, it seems to me, + on Shakespeare's own nature. Let us mark each trait First of all Richard + is intensely, frankly emotional: he “weeps for joy” to be in England + again; “weeping, smiling,” he greets the earth of England, and is full of + hope. “The thief, the traitor,” Bolingbroke, will not dare to face the + light of the sun; for “every man that Bolingbroke has in his pay,” he + cries exultantly, God hath given Richard a “glorious angel; ... Heaven + still guards the right.” A moment later he hears from Salisbury that the + Welshmen whom he had relied upon as allies are dispersed and fled. At once + he becomes “pale and dead.” From the height of pride and confidence he + falls to utter hopelessness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All souls that will be safe fly from my side; + For time hath set a blot upon my pride.” + </pre> + <p> + Aumerle asks him to remember who he is, and at once he springs from + dejection to confidence again. He cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Awake, thou sluggard majesty! thou sleepest. + Is not the king's name forty thousand names?” + </pre> + <p> + The next moment Scroop speaks of cares, and forthwith fitful Richard is in + the dumps once more. But this time his weakness is turned to resignation + and sadness, and the pathos of this is brought out by the poet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? + Greater he shall not be; if he serve God + We'll serve him, too, and be his fellow so. + Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend; + They break their faith to God, as well as us. + Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay; + The worst is death, and death will have his day.” + </pre> + <p> + Who does not hear Hamlet speaking in this memorable last line? Like + Hamlet, too, this Richard is quick to suspect even his friends' loyalty. + He guesses that Bagot, Bushy, and Green have made peace with Bolingbroke, + and when Scroop seems to admit this, Richard is as quick as Hamlet to + unpack his heart with words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O villains, vipers, damned without redemption! + Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! + Snakes,” + </pre> + <p> + and so forth. + </p> + <p> + But as soon as he learns that his friends are dead he breaks out in a long + lament for them which ranges over everything from worms to kings, and in + its melancholy pessimism is the prototype of those meditations which + Shakespeare has put in the mouth of nearly all his favourite characters. + Who is not reminded of Hamlet's great monologue when he reads: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For within the hollow crown, + That rounds the mortal temples of a king, + Keeps Death his court: and there the antic sits + Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp; + Allowing him a breath, a little scene + To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks; + Infusing him with self and vain conceit, + As if this flesh, which walls about our life, + Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus, + Comes at the last, and with a little pin{1} + Bores through his castle wall, and—farewell, King!” + </pre> + <p> + {Footnote 1: In Hamlet's famous soliloquy the pin is a “bodkin."} + </p> + <p> + Let us take another two lines of this soliloquy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground + And tell sad stories of the death of kings.” + </pre> + <p> + In the second scene of the third act of “Titus Andronicus” we find Titus + saying to his daughter: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee + Sad stories chancèd in the times of old.” + </pre> + <p> + Again, in the “Comedy of Errors,” Ægeon tells us that his life was + prolonged: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.” + </pre> + <p> + The similarity of these passages shows that in the very spring of life and + heyday of the blood Shakespeare had in him a certain romantic melancholy + which was developed later by the disappointments of life into the + despairing of Macbeth and Lear. + </p> + <p> + When the Bishop calls upon Richard to act, the King's weathercock mind + veers round again, and he cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This ague fit of fear is over-blown, + An easy task it is to win our own.” + </pre> + <p> + But when Scroop tells him that York has joined with Bolingbroke, he + believes him at once, gives up hope finally, and turns as if for comfort + to his own melancholy fate: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth + Of that sweet way I was in to despair!” + </pre> + <p> + That “sweet way” of despair is Romeo's way, Hamlet's, Macbeth's and + Shakespeare's way. + </p> + <p> + In the next scene Richard meets his foes, and at first plays the king. + Shakespeare tells us that he looks like a king, that his eyes are as + “bright as an eagle's”; and this poetic admiration of state and place + seems to have got into Richard's blood, for at first he declares that + Bolingbroke is guilty of treason, and asserts that: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My master, God omnipotent, + Is mustering in his clouds, on our behalf, + Armies of pestilence.” + </pre> + <p> + Of course, he gives in with fair words the next moment, and the next rages + against Bolingbroke; and then comes the great speech in which the poet + reveals himself so ingenuously that at the end of it the King he pretends + to be, has to admit that he has talked but idly. I cannot help + transcribing the whole of the passage, for it shows how easily Shakespeare + falls out of this King's character into his own: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What must the King do now? Must he submit? + The King shall do it. Must he be depos'd? + The King shall be contented: must he lose + The name of king? O! God's name, let it go: + I'll give my jewels for a set of beads; + My gorgeous palace for a hermitage; + My gay apparel for an alms-man's gown; + My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood; + My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff; + My subjects for a pair of carved saints; + And my large kingdom for a little grave, + A little, little grave, an obscure grave:— + Or I'll be buried in the King's highway, + Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet + May hourly trample on their sovereign's head: + For on my heart they tread, now whilst I live; + And, buried once, why not upon my head?— + Aumerle, thou weep'st; my tender-hearted cousin!— + We'll make foul weather with despised tears; + Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer corn, + And make a dearth in this revolting land. + Or shall we play the wantons with our woes, + And make some pretty match with shedding tears? + As thus:—To drop them still upon one place, + Till they have fretted us a pair of graves + Within the earth; and, therein laid,—There lies + Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes. + Would not this ill do well?—Well, well, I see + I talk but idly, and you mock at me.— + Most mighty prince, my lord Northumberland, + What says King Bolingbroke? will his majesty + Give Richard leave to live till Richard die? + You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.” + </pre> + <p> + Every one will admit that the poet himself speaks here, at least, from the + words “I'll give my jewels” to the words “Would not this ill do well?” But + the melancholy mood, the pathetic acceptance of the inevitable, the tender + poetic embroidery now suit the King who is fashioned in the poet's + likeness. + </p> + <p> + The next moment Richard revolts once more against his fate: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Base court, where kings grow base, + To come at traitors' calls, and do them grace.” + </pre> + <p> + And when Bolingbroke kneels to him he plays upon words, as Gaunt did a + little earlier in the play misery making sport to mock itself. He says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know, + Thus high at least, although your knee be low”— +</pre> + <p> + and then he abandons himself to do “what force will have us do.” + </p> + <p> + The Queen's wretchedness is next used to heighten our sympathy with + Richard, and immediately afterwards we have that curious scene between the + gardener and his servant which is merely youthful Shakespeare, for such a + gardener and such a servant never yet existed. The scene {Footnote: + Coleridge gives this scene as an instance of Shakespeare's “wonderful + judgement”; the introduction of the gardener, he says, “realizes the + thing,” and, indeed, the introduction of a gardener would have this + tendency, but not the introduction of this pompous, priggish philosopher + togged out in old Adam's likeness. Here is the way this gardener + criticises the King: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “All superfluous branches + We lop away, that bearing boughs may live; + Had he done so, himself had borne the crown, + Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down."} +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +shows the extravagance of Shakespeare's love of hierarchy, and shows +also that his power of realizing character is as yet but slight. The +abdication follows, when Richard in exquisite speech after speech +unpacks his heavy heart. To the very last his irresolution comes to show +as often as his melancholy. Bolingbroke is sharply practical: + “Are you contented to resign the crown?” + </pre> + <p> + Richard answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ay, no; no, ay;—for I must nothing be; + Therefore, no, no, for I resign to thee.” + </pre> + <p> + When he is asked to confess his sins in public, he moves us all to pity: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Must I do so? and must I ravel out + My weaved up follies? Gentle Northumberland, + If thy offences were upon record, + Would it not shame thee, in so fair a troop, + To read a lecture of them?” + </pre> + <p> + His eyes are too full of tears to read his own faults, and sympathy brings + tears to our eyes also. Richard calls for a glass wherein to see his sins, + and we are reminded of Hamlet, who advises the players to hold the mirror + up to nature. He jests with his grief, too, in quick-witted retort, as + Hamlet jests: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Rich. Say that again. + The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see:— + 'Tis very true, my grief lies all within; + And these external manners of lament + Are merely shadows to the unseen grief, + That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.” + </pre> + <p> + Hamlet touches the self-same note: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, + Nor customary suits of solemn black, + - - - - - - - - + But I have that within which passeth show; + These but the trappings and the suits of woe.” + </pre> + <p> + In the fifth act, the scene between the Queen and Richard is used simply + to move our pity. She says he is “most beauteous,” but all too mild, and + he answers her: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am sworn brother, sweet, + To grim necessity; and he and I + Will keep a league till death.” + </pre> + <p> + He bids her take, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “As from my death-bed, my last living leave,” + </pre> + <p> + and for her consolation he turns again to the telling of romantic + melancholy stories: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire + With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales + Of woeful ages long ago betid: + And, ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief, + Tell thou the lamentable fall of me, + And send the hearers weeping to their beds, + For why; the senseless brands will sympathize + The heavy accent of thy moving tongue.” + </pre> + <p> + I cannot copy this passage without drawing attention to the haunting music + of the third line. + </p> + <p> + The scene in which York betrays his son to Bolingbroke and prays the king + not to pardon but “cut off” the offending member, is merely a proof, if + proof were wanted, of Shakespeare's admiration of kingship and loyalty, + which in youth, at least, often led him to silliest extravagance. + </p> + <p> + The dungeon scene and Richard's monologue in it are as characteristic of + Shakespeare as the similar scene in “Cymbeline” and the soliloquy of + Posthumus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>K. Rich</i>., I have been studying how I may compare + This prison where I live unto the world: + And for because the world is populous, + And here is not a creature but myself, + I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer it out, + My brain I'll prove the female to my soul + My soul the father; and these two beget + A generation of still breeding thoughts, + And these same thoughts people this little world, + In humours like the people of this world, + For no thought is contented....” + </pre> + <p> + Here we have the philosopher playing with his own thoughts; but soon the + Hamlet-melancholy comes to tune the meditation to sadness, and Shakespeare + speaks to us directly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thus play I in one person many people, + And none contented: sometimes am I king; + Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, + And so I am: then crushing penury + Persuades me I was better when a king; + Then am I king'd again; and by and by + Think, that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, + And straight am nothing; but whate'er I be, + Nor I nor any man that but man is + With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased + With being nothing.” + </pre> + <p> + Later, one hears Kent's lament for Lear in Richard's words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How these vain weak nails + May tear a passage through the flinty ribs + Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls.” + </pre> + <p> + To Richard music is “sweet music,” as it is to all the characters that are + <i>merely</i> Shakespeare's masks, and the scene in which Hamlet asks + Guildenstern to “play upon the pipe” is prefigured for us in Richard's + self-reproach: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And here have I the daintiness of ear, + To check time broke in a disordered string; + But for the concord of my state and time, + Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.” + </pre> + <p> + In the last three lines of this monologue which I am now about to quote, I + can hear Shakespeare speaking as plainly as he spoke in Arthur's appeals; + the feminine longing for love is the unmistakable note: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me! + For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard + Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.” + </pre> + <p> + And at the last, by killing the servant who assaults him, this Richard + shows that he has the “something desperate” in him of which Hamlet + boasted. + </p> + <p> + The murderer's praise that this irresolute-weak and loving Richard is “as + full of valour as of royal blood” is nothing more than an excellent + instance of Shakespeare's self-illusion. He comes nearer the fact in + “Measure for Measure,” where the Duke, his other self, is shown to be “an + unhurtful opposite” too gentle-kind to remember an injury or punish the + offender, and he rings the bell at truth's centre when, in “Julius + Caesar,” his mask Brutus admits that he + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “... carries anger as the flint bears fire + Who much enforcèd shows a hasty spark + And straight is cold again.” + </pre> + <p> + If a hasty blow were proof of valour then Walter Scott's Eachin in “The + Fair Maid of Perth” would be called brave. But courage to be worth the + name must be founded on stubborn resolution, and all Shakespeare's + incarnations, and in especial this Richard, are as unstable as water. + </p> + <p> + The whole play is summed up in York's pathetic description of Richard's + entrance into London: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No man cried, God save him; + No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home: + But dust was thrown upon his sacred head; + Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off— + His face still combating with tears and smiles, + The badges of his grief and patience— + That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd + The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, + And barbarism itself have pitied him.” + </pre> + <p> + This passage it seems to me both in manner and matter is as truly + characteristic of Shakespeare as any that can be found in all his works: + his loving pity for the fallen, his passionate sympathy with “gentle + sorrow” were never more perfectly expressed. + </p> + <p> + Pity, indeed, is the note of the tragedy, as it was in the Arthur-scenes + in “King John,” but the knowledge of Shakespeare derived from “King John” + is greatly widened by the study of “King Richard II.” In the Arthur of + “King John” we found Shakespeare's exquisite pity for weakness, his + sympathy with suffering, and, more than all, his girlish-tender love and + desire of love. In “Richard II.,” the weakness Shakespeare pities is not + physical weakness, but mental irresolution and incapacity for action, and + these Hamlet-weaknesses are accompanied by a habit of philosophic thought, + and are enlivened by a nimble wit and great lyrical power. In Arthur + Shakespeare is bent on revealing his qualities of heart, and in “Richard + II.” his qualities of mind, and that these two are but parts of the same + nature is proved by the fact that Arthur shows great quickness of + apprehension and felicity of speech, while Richard once or twice at least + displays a tenderness of heart and longing for love worthy of Arthur. + </p> + <p> + It appears then that Shakespeare's nature even in hot, reckless youth was + most feminine and affectionate, and that even when dealing with histories + and men of action he preferred to picture irresolution and weakness rather + than strength, and felt more sympathy with failure than with success. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. SHAKESPEARE'S MEN OF ACTION (<i>continued</i>). HOT-SPUR, HENRY + V., RICHARD III. + </h2> + <p> + The conclusions we have already reached, will be borne out and + strengthened in unexpected ways by the study of Hotspur—Shakespeare's + master picture of the man of action. The setting sun of chivalry falling + on certain figures threw gigantic shadows across Shakespeare's path, and + of these figures no one deserved immortality better than Harry Percy. + Though he is not introduced in “The Famous Victories of Henry V.,” the old + play which gave Shakespeare his roistering Prince and the first faint hint + of Falstaff, Harry Percy lived in story and in oral tradition. His + nickname itself is sufficient evidence of the impression he had made on + the popular fancy. And both Prince Henry when mocking him, and his wife + when praising him, bear witness to what were, no doubt, the accepted + peculiarities of his character. Hotspur lived in the memory of men, we may + be sure, with thick, hasty speech, and hot, impatient temper, and it is + easy, I think, even at this late date, to distinguish Shakespeare's + touches on the traditional portrait. It is for the reader to say whether + Shakespeare blurred the picture, or bettered it. + </p> + <p> + Hotspur's first words to the King in the first act are admirable; they + bring the brusque, passionate soldier vividly before us; but I am sure + Shakespeare had the fact from history or tradition. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My liege, I did deny no prisoners. + But, I remember, when the fight was done, + When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, + Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, + Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed, + Fresh as a bridegroom.” + </pre> + <p> + Hotspur's picture of this “popinjay” with pouncet-box in hand, and + “perfumed like a milliner,” is splendid self-revelation: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “he made me mad, + To see him shine so brisk and smell so sweet, + And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman.” + </pre> + <p> + But immediately afterwards Hotspur's defence of Mortimer shows the poet + Shakespeare rather than the rude soldier who hates nothing more than + “mincing poetry.” The beginning is fairly good: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Hot</i>. Revolted Mortimer! + He never did fall off, my sovereign liege, + But by the chance of war: to prove that true, + Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, + Those mouthed wounds which valiantly he took, + When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank.” + </pre> + <p> + This “gentle Severn's sedgy bank” is too poetical for Hotspur; but what + shall be said of his description of the river? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks, + Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, + And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank + Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare was still too young, too much in love with poetry to confine + himself within the nature of Hotspur. But the character of Hotspur was so + well known that Shakespeare could not long remain outside it. When the + King cuts short the audience with the command to send back the prisoners, + we find the passionate Hotspur again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And if the devil come and roar for them, + I will not send them.—I will after straight, + And tell him so: for I will ease my heart, + Although it be with hazard of my head.” + </pre> + <p> + The last line strikes a false note; such a reflection throws cold water on + the heat of passion, and that is not intended, for though reproved by his + father Hotspur storms on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Speak of Mortimer! + 'Zounds! I will speak of him; and let my soul + Want mercy, if I do not join with him....” + </pre> + <p> + The next long speech of Hotspur is mere poetic slush; he begins: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nay, then, I cannot blame his cousin king, + That wish'd him on the barren mountains starve....” + </pre> + <p> + and goes on for thirty lines to reprove the conspirators for having put + down “Richard, that sweet lovely rose,” and planted “this thorn, + Bolingbroke.” This long speech retards the action, obscures the character + of Hotspur, and only shows Shakespeare poetising without a flash of + inspiration. Then comes Hotspur's famous speech about honour: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap, + To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon; + Or dive into the bottom of the deep ...” + </pre> + <p> + And immediately afterwards a speech in which his uncontrollable impatience + and the childishness which always lurks in anger, find perfect expression. + To soothe him, Worcester says he shall keep his prisoners; Hotspur bursts + out: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nay, I will: that's flat. + He said, he would not ransom Mortimer; + Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer; + But I will find him when he lies asleep, + And in his ear I'll holla—'Mortimer!' Nay, + I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak + Nothing but 'Mortimer,' and give it him, + To keep his anger still in motion.” + </pre> + <p> + No wonder Lord Worcester reproves him, and his father chides him as “a + wasp-stung and impatient fool,” who will only talk and not listen. But + again Hotspur breaks forth, and again his anger paints him to the life: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why, look you, I am whipped and scourged with rods, + Nettled and stung with pismires, when I hear + Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. + In Richard's time,—what do you call the place?— + A plague upon 't—it is in Glostershire;— + 'Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept,—...” + </pre> + <p> + The very ecstasy of impatience and of puerile passionate temper has never + been better rendered. + </p> + <p> + His soliloquy, too, in the beginning of scene iii, when he reads the + letter which throws the cold light of reason on his enterprise, is + excellent, though it repeats qualities we already knew in Hotspur, and + does not reveal new ones: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + '“The purpose you undertake is dangerous';—why, + that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to + drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle + danger, we pluck this flower safety.... What a frosty-spirited + rogue is this!... O, I could divide myself and + go to buffets, for moving such a dish of skimmed milk + with so honourable an action! Hang him! Let him tell + the King: we are prepared. I will set forward to-night.” + </pre> + <p> + But the topmost height of self-revealing is reached in the scene with his + wife which immediately follows this. Lady Percy enters, and Hotspur greets + her: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How now, Kate? I must leave you within these two hours.” + </pre> + <p> + The lady's reply is too long and too poetical. Hotspur interrupts her by + calling the servant and giving him orders. Then Lady Percy questions, and + Hotspur avoids a direct answer, and little by little Shakespeare works + himself into the characters till even Lady Percy lives for us: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Lady</i>. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me + Directly unto this question that I ask. + In faith, I'll break thy little finger, Harry, + An if thou wilt not tell me true. + <i>Hot</i>. Away, + Away, you trifler!—Love?—I love thee not, + I care not for thee, Kate; this is no world + To play with mammets and to tilt with lips....” + </pre> + <p> + It shows a certain immaturity of art that Hotspur should introduce the + theme of “love,” and not Lady Percy; but, of course, Lady Percy seizes on + the word: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Lady</i>. Do you not love me? do you not, indeed, + Well, do not then; for since you love me not, + I will not love myself. Do you not love me? + Nay, tell me, if you speak in jest or no? + <i>Hot</i>. Come, wilt thou see me ride? + And when I am o' horseback, I will swear + I love thee infinitely....” + </pre> + <p> + All this is superb; Hotspur's coarse contempt of love deepens our sense of + his soldier-like nature and eagerness for action; but though the qualities + are rendered magically the qualities themselves are few: Shakespeare still + harps upon Hotspur's impatience; but even a soldier is something more than + hasty temper, and disdain of love's dalliance. But the portrait is not + finished yet. The first scene in the third act between Hotspur and + Glendower is on this same highest level; Hotspur's impatience of + Glendower's bragging at length finds an unforgetable phrase: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Glend</i>. I can call spirits from the vasty deep. + <i>Hot</i>. Why, so can I, or so can any man; + But will they come when you do call for them?” + </pre> + <p> + Then Hotspur disputes over the division of England; he wants a larger + share than that allotted to him; the trait is typical, excellent; but the + next moment Shakespeare effaces it. As soon as Glendower yields, Hotspur + cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I do not care; I'll give thrice so much land + Away to any well-deserving friend; + But in the way of bargain, mark ye me, + I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair....” + </pre> + <p> + This large generosity is a trait of Shakespeare and not of Hotspur; the + poet cannot bear to lend his hero a tinge of meanness, or of avarice, and + yet the character needs a heavy shadow or two, and no shadow could be more + appropriate than this, for greed of land has always been a characteristic + of the soldier-aristocrat. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare is perfectly willing to depict Hotspur as scorning the arts. + When Glendower praises poetry, Hotspur vows he'd “rather be a kitten and + cry mew ... than a metre ballad-monger. ...” Nothing sets his teeth on + edge “so much as mincing poetry”: and a little later he prefers the + howling of a dog to music. When he is reproved by Lord Worcester for + “defect of manners, want of government, ... pride, haughtiness, disdain,” + his reply is most characteristic: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Well, I am schooled: good manners be your speed, + Here come our wives, and let us take our leave.” + </pre> + <p> + He is too old to learn, and his self-assurance is not to be shaken; but + though he hates schooling he will school his wife: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, + A good mouth-filling oath; and leave, 'in sooth,' + And such protest of pepper-gingerbread + To velvet guards and Sunday citizens.” + </pre> + <p> + This is merely a repetition of the trait shown in his first speech when he + sneered at the popinjay-lord for talking in “holiday and lady terms.” But + not only does Shakespeare repeat well-known traits in Hotspur, he also + uses him as a mere mouthpiece again and again, as he used him at the + beginning in the poetic description of the Severn. The fourth act opens + with a speech of Hotspur to Douglas, which is curiously illustrative of + this fault: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Hot.</i>. Well said, my noble Scot, if speaking truth + In this fine age were not thought flattery, + Such attribution should the Douglas have, + As not a soldier of this season's stamp + Should go so general current through the world. + By God, I cannot flatter; I defy + The tongues of soothers; but a braver place + In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. + Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.” + </pre> + <p> + In the first five lines of this skimble-skamble stuff I hear Shakespeare + speaking in his cheapest way; with the oath, however, he tries to get into + the character again, and succeeds indifferently. + </p> + <p> + Immediately afterwards Hotspur is shocked by the news that his father is + sick and has not even sent the promised assistance; struck to the heart by + the betrayal, the hot soldier should now reveal his true character; one + expects him to curse his father, and rising to the danger, to cry that he + is stronger without traitors and faint-heart friends. But Shakespeare the + philosopher is chiefly concerned with the effect of such news upon a rebel + camp, and again he speaks through Hotspur: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect + The very life-blood of our enterprise; + 'Tis catching hither, even to our camp.” + </pre> + <p> + Then Shakespeare pulls himself up and tries to get into Hotspur's + character again by representing to himself the circumstance: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He writes me here, that inward sickness— + And that his friends by deputation could not + So soon be drawn; nor did he think it meet—” + and so forth to the question: “...What say you to it?” + “<i>Wor</i>. Your father's sickness is a maim to us. + <i>Hot</i>. A perilous gash, a very limb lopped off:—” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare sees that he cannot go on exaggerating the injury—that + is not Hotspur's line, is indeed utterly false to Hotspur's nature; and so + he tries to stop himself and think of Hotspur: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And yet, in faith, it's not; his present want + Seems more than we shall find it: were it good + To set the exact wealth of all our states + All at one cast? to set so rich a main + On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? + It were not good; for therein should we read + The very bottom and the soul of hope, + The very list, the very utmost bound + Of all our fortunes.” + </pre> + <p> + After the first two lines, which Hotspur might have spoken, we have the + sophistry of the thinker poetically expressed, and not one word from the + hot, high-couraged soldier. Indeed, in the last four lines from the + bookish “we read” to the end, we have the gentle poet in love with + desperate extremities. The passage must be compared with Othello's— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, + And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.” + </pre> + <p> + But at length when Worcester adds fear to danger Hotspur half finds + himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Hot</i>, You strain too far. + I rather of his absence make this use:— + It lends a lustre, and more great opinion, + A larger dare to our great enterprise, + Than if the earl were here; for men must think, + If we, without his help can make a head + To push against the kingdom; with his help + We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down.— + Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.” + </pre> + <p> + And this is all. The scene is designed, the situation constructed to show + us Hotspur's courage: here, if anywhere, the hot blood should surprise us + and make of danger the springboard of leaping hardihood. But this is the + best Shakespeare can reach—this fainting, palefaced “Yet all goes + well, yet all our joints are whole.” The inadequacy, the feebleness of the + whole thing is astounding. Milton had not the courage of the soldier, but + he had more than this: he found better words for his Satan after defeat + than Shakespeare found for Hotspur before the battle: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What though the field be lost? + All is not lost; the unconquerable will, + And study of revenge, immortal hate, + And courage never to submit or yield, + And what is else not to be overcome; + That glory never shall his wrath or might + Extort from me.” + </pre> + <p> + When Shakespeare has to render Hotspur's impatience he does it superbly, + when he has to render Hotspur's courage he fails lamentably. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +In the third scene of this fourth act we have another striking instance +of Shakespeare's shortcoming. Sir Walter Blount meets the rebels “with +gracious offers from the King,” whereupon Hotspur abuses the King +through forty lines; this is the kind of stuff: + “My father and my uncle and myself + Did give him that same royalty he wears; + And when he was not six and twenty strong, + Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low, + A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home, + My father gave him welcome to the shore; ...” + and so on and on, like Hamlet, he unpacks his heart with words, till +Blount cries: +</pre> + <p> + “Tut, I came not to hear this.” + </p> + <p> + Hotspur admits the reproof, but immediately starts off again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Hot</i>. Then to the point. + In short time after he deposed the king; + Soon after that, deprived him of his life,” + </pre> + <p> + and so forth for twenty lines more, till Blount pulls him up again with + the shrewd question: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Shall I return this answer to the king?” + </pre> + <p> + Hotspur replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Not so, Sir Walter; we'll withdraw awhile. + Go to the king..... + And in the morning early shall mine uncle + Bring him our purposes; and so farewell.” + </pre> + <p> + And yet this Hotspur who talks interminably when he would do much better + to keep quiet, assures us a little later that he has not well “the gift of + tongue,” and again declares he's glad a messenger has cut him short, for + “I profess not talking.” + </p> + <p> + The truth is the real Hotspur did not talk much, but Shakespeare had the + gift of the gab, if ever a man had, and Hotspur was a mouthpiece. It is + worth noting that though the dramatist usually works himself into a + character gradually, Hotspur is best presented in the earlier scenes: + Shakespeare began the work with the Hotspur of history and tradition clear + in his mind; but as he wrote he grew interested in Hotspur and identified + himself too much with his hero, and so almost spoiled the portrait. This + is well seen in Hotspur's end; Prince Henry has said he'd crop his budding + honours and make a garland for himself out of them, and this is how the + dying Hotspur answers him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth! + I better brook the loss of brittle life + Than those proud titles thou hast won of me; + They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh:— + But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool, + And time, that takes survey of all the world, + Must have a stop. O, I could prophesy, + But that the earthy and cold hand of death + Lies on my tongue:—no, Percy, thou art dust, + And food for ——” + </pre> + <p> + Of course, Prince Henry concludes the phrase, and continues the + Hamlet-like philosophic soliloquy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>P. Henry</i>. For worms, brave Percy: fare thee well, + great heart!— + Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk! + When that this body did contain a spirit, + A kingdom for it was too small a bound; + But now two paces of the vilest earth + Is room enough: ...” + </pre> + <p> + I have tried to do justice to this portrait of Hotspur, for Shakespeare + never did a better picture of a man of action, indeed, as we shall soon + see, he never did as well again. But take away from Hotspur the qualities + given to him by history and tradition, the hasty temper, and thick + stuttering speech, and contempt of women, and it will be seen how little + Shakespeare added. He makes Hotspur hate “mincing poetry,” and then puts + long poetic descriptions in his mouth; he paints the soldier despising + “the gift of tongue” and forces him to talk historic and poetic slush in + and out of season; he makes the aristocrat greedy and sets him quarrelling + with his associates for more land, and the next moment, when the land is + given him, Hotspur abandons it without further thought; he frames an + occasion calculated to show off Hotspur's courage, and then allows him to + talk faint-heartedly, and finally, when Hotspur should die mutely, or with + a bitter curse, biting to the last, Shakespeare's Hotspur loses himself in + mistimed philosophic reflection and poetic prediction. Yet such is + Shakespeare's magic of expression that when he is revealing the qualities + which Hotspur really did possess, he makes him live for us with such + intensity of life that no number of false strokes can obliterate the + impression. It is only the critic working <i>sine ira et studio</i> who + will find this portrait blurred by the intrusion of the poet's + personality. + </p> + <p> + It is the companion picture of Prince Henry that shows as in a glass + Shakespeare's poverty of conception when he is dealing with the + distinctively manly qualities. In order to judge the matter fairly we must + remember that Shakespeare did not create Prince Henry any more than he + created Hotspur. In the old play entitled “The Famous Victories of Henry + V.,” and in the popular mouth, Shakespeare found roistering Prince Hal. + The madcap Prince, like Harry Percy, was a creature of popular sympathy; + his high spirits and extravagances, the vigorous way in which he had sown + his wild oats, had taken the English fancy, the historic personage had + been warmed to vivid life by the popular emotion. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare was personally interested in this princely hero. As we have + seen, he dims Hotspur's portrait by intrusion of his own peculiarities; + and in the case of Harry Percy, this temptation will be stronger. + </p> + <p> + The subject of the play, a young man of noble gifts led astray by loose + companions, was a favourite subject with Shakespeare at this time; he had + treated it already in “Richard II.”; and he handled it here again with + such zest that we are almost forced to believe in the tradition that + Shakespeare himself in early youth had sown wild oats in unworthy company. + Helped by a superb model, and in full sympathy with his theme, Shakespeare + might be expected to paint a magnificent picture. But Prince Henry is + anything but a great portrait; he is at first hardly more than a prig, and + later a feeble and colourless replica of Hotspur. It is very curious that + even in the comedy scenes with Falstaff Shakespeare has never taken the + trouble to realize the Prince: he often lends him his own word-wit, and + now and then his own high intelligence, but he never for a moment + discovers to us the soul of his hero. He does not even tell us what + pleasure Henry finds in living and carousing with Falstaff. Did the Prince + choose his companions out of vanity, seeking in the Eastcheap tavern a + court where he might throne it? Or was it the infinite humour of Falstaff + which attracted him? Or did he break bounds merely out of high spirits, + when bored by the foolish formalities of the palace? Shakespeare, one + would have thought, would have given us the key to the mystery in the very + first scene. But this scene, which paints Falstaff to the soul, tells us + nothing of the Prince; but rather blurs a figure which everyone imagines + he knows at least in outline. Prince Henry's first speech is excellent as + description; Falstaff asks him the time of day; he replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of old sack, and + unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches + after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that truly + which thou wouldst truly know....” + </pre> + <p> + This helps to depict Falstaff, but does not show us the Prince, for + good-humoured contempt of Falstaff is universal; it has nothing individual + and peculiar in it. + </p> + <p> + Then comes the speech in which the Prince talks of himself in Falstaff's + strain as one of “the moon's men” who “resolutely snatch a purse of gold + on Monday night,” and “most dissolutely spend it on Tuesday morning.” A + little later he plays with Falstaff by asking: “Where shall we take a + purse to-morrow, Jack?” It looks as if the Prince were ripe for worse than + mischief. But when Falstaff wants to know if he will make one of the band + to rob on Gadshill, he cries out, as if indignant and surprised: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>P. Hen</i>. Who, I rob? la thief? Not I, by my faith. + + <i>Fal</i>. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship + in thee, nor thou earnest not of the blood royal, + if thou darest not stand for ten shillings. + + <i>P. Hen</i>. Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap. + + <i>Fal</i>. Why, that's well said. + + <i>P. Hen</i>. Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home. +</pre> + <p> + He is only persuaded at length by Poins's proposal to rob the robbers. It + may be said that these changes of the Prince are natural in the situation: + but they are too sudden and unmotived; they are like the nodding of the + mandarin's head—they have no meaning; and surely, after the Prince + talks of himself as one of “the moon's men,” it would be more natural of + him, when the direct proposal to rob is made, not to show indignant + surprise, which seems forced or feigned; but to talk as if repenting a + previous folly. The scene, in so far as the Prince is concerned, is badly + conducted. When he yields to Poins and agrees to rob Falstaff, his words + are: “Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard for us,”—a phrase which + hardly shows wild spirits or high courage, or even the faculty of judging + men, and the soliloquy which ends the scene lamely enough is not the + Prince's, but Shakespeare's, and unfortunately Shakespeare the poet, and + not Shakespeare the dramatist: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>P. Hen</i>. I know you all and will awhile uphold + The unyoked humour of your idleness. + Yet herein will I imitate the sun, + Who doth permit the base contagious clouds + To smother up his beauty from the world, + That, when he please again to be himself, + Being wanted, he may be more wondered at, + By breaking through the foul and ugly mists + Of vapours, that did seem to strangle him. ...” + </pre> + <p> + If we could accept this stuff we should take Prince Henry for the prince + of prigs; but it is impossible to accept it, and so we shrug our shoulders + with the regret that the madcap Prince of history is not illuminated for + us by Shakespeare's genius. In this “First Part of Henry IV.,” when the + Prince is not calling names with Falstaff, or playing prig, he either + shows us a quality of Harry Percy or of Shakespeare himself. Everyone + remembers the scene when Falstaff, carrying Percy's corpse, meets the + Princes, and tells them he has killed Percy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>P. John</i>. This is the strangest tale that e'er I heard. + <i>P. Hen</i>. This is the strangest fellow, brother John.— + Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back: + For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, + I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have.” + </pre> + <p> + Both in manner and in matter these last two lines are pure Shakespeare, + and Shakespeare speaks to us, too, when Prince Henry gives up Douglas to + his pleasure “ransomless and free.” But not only does the poet lend the + soldier his own sentiments and lilt of phrase, he also presents him to us + as a shadowy replica of Hotspur, even during Hotspur's lifetime. We have + already noticed Hotspur's admirable answer when Glendower brags that he + can call spirits from the vasty deep: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Hot</i>. Why, so can I, or so can any man; + But will they come, when you do call for them?” + </pre> + <p> + The same love of truth is given to Prince Henry in the previous act: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Fal</i>. Owen, Owen,—the same;—and his son-in-law, + Mortimer; and old Northumberland; and that sprightly + Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs o' horseback up a hill + perpendicular,— + + <i>P. Hen</i>. He that rides at high speed, and with his + pistol kills a sparrow flying. + + <i>Fal</i>. You have hit it. + + <i>P. Hen</i>. So did he never the sparrow.” + </pre> + <p> + But this frank contempt of lying is not the only or the chief + characteristic possessed by Hotspur and Harry Percy in common. Hotspur + disdains the Prince: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Hot</i>. Where is his son, + The nimble-footed mad-cap Prince of Wales, + And his comrádes that daffed the world aside + And bid it pass?” + </pre> + <p> + and the Prince mimics and makes fun of Hotspur: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>P. Hen.</i> He that kills me some six or seven dozen + of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands and says to his + wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.'” + </pre> + <p> + Then Hotspur brags of what he will do when he meets his rival: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Hot.</i> Once ere night + I will embrace him with a soldier's arm, + That he shall shrink under my courtesy.” + </pre> + <p> + And in precisely the same strain Prince Henry talks to his father: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>P. Hen.</i> The time will come + That I shall make this northern youth exchange + His glorious deeds for my indignities.” + </pre> + <p> + It is true that Prince Henry on more than one occasion praises Hotspur, + while Hotspur is content to praise himself, but the differentiation is too + slight to be significant: such as it is, it is well seen when the two + heroes meet. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Hot.</i> My name is Harry Percy. + <i>P. Hen.</i> Why, then I see + A very valiant rebel of that name.” + </pre> + <p> + but Prince Henry immediately doffs this kingly mood to imitate Hotspur. He + goes on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am the Prince of Wales, and think not, Percy, + To share with me in glory any more; + Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere, + Nor can our England brook a double reign + Of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales ...” + </pre> + <p> + And so the bombast rolls, and one brags against the other like systole and + diastole which balance each other in the same heart. But the worst of the + matter is, that Prince Henry and Hotspur, as we have already noticed, have + both the same soul and the same inspiring motive in love of honour. They + both avow this again and again, though Hotspur finds the finer expression + for it when he cries that he will “pluck bright honour from the pale-faced + moon.” + </p> + <p> + To the student of the play it really looks as if Shakespeare could not + imagine any other incentive to noble or heroic deeds but this love of + glory: for nearly all the other serious characters in the play sing of + honour in the same key. King Henry IV. envies Northumberland + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A son who is the theme of honour's tongue,” + </pre> + <p> + and declares that Percy hath got “never-dying honour against renownéd + Douglas.” The Douglas, too, can find no other word with which to praise + Hotspur—“thou art the king of honour”: even Vernon, a mere secondary + character, has the same mainspring: he says to Douglas: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If well-respected honour bid me on, + I hold as little counsel with weak fear + As you or any Scot that this day lives.” + </pre> + <p> + Falstaff himself declares that nothing “pricks him on but honour,” and + bragging Pistol admits that “honour is cudgelled” from his weary limbs. + The French, too, when they are beaten by Henry V. all bemoan their shame + and loss of honour, and have no word of sorrow for their ruined homesteads + and outraged women and children. The Dauphin cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Reproach and everlasting shame + Sits mocking in our plumes.” + </pre> + <p> + And Bourbon echoes him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame.” + </pre> + <p> + It is curious that Bourbon falls upon the same thought which animated + Hotspur. Just before the decisive battle Hotspur cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, gentlemen! the time of life is short; + To spend that shortness basely were too long.” + </pre> + <p> + And when the battle turns against the French, Bourbon exclaims: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The devil take order now! I'll to the throng: + Let life be short; else shame will be too long.” + </pre> + <p> + As Jaques in “As You Like It” says of the soldier: they are “jealous in + honour” and all seek “the bubble reputation, even in the cannon's mouth.” + </p> + <p> + It is only in Shakespeare that men have no other motive for brave deeds + but love of honour, no other fear but that of shame with which to overcome + the dread of death. We shall see later that the desire of fame was the + inspiring motive of his own youth. + </p> + <p> + In the “Second Part of King Henry IV.” there is very little told us of + Prince Henry; he only appears in the second act, and in the fourth and + fifth; and in all he is the mouthpiece of Shakespeare and not the + roistering Prince: yet on his first appearance there are traces of + characterization, as when he declares that his “appetite is not princely,” + for he remembers “the poor creature, small beer,” whereas in the last act + he is merely the poetic prig. Let us give the best scene first: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>P. Hen</i>. Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins? + - - - - - - - - + <i>P. Hen</i>. Marry, I tell thee,—it is not meet that I should + be sad, now my father is sick: albeit I could tell to thee—as + to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my + friend—I could be sad, and sad, indeed, too. + + <i>Poins</i>. Very hardly upon such a subject. + <i>P. Hen.</i> By this hand, thou think'st me as far in the + devil's book as thou and Falstaff for obduracy and persistency: + let the end try the man. But I tell thee, my + heart bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick; and keeping + such vile company as thou art hath in reason taken + from me all ostentation of sorrow. + + <i>Poins</i>. The reason? + + <i>P. Hen</i>. What would'st thou think of me if I should + weep? + + <i>Poins</i>. I would think thee a most princely hypocrite. + + <i>P. Hen</i>. It would be every man's thought; and thou + art a blessed fellow to think as every man thinks; never + a man's thought in the world keeps the roadway better + than thine: every man would think me an hypocrite indeed. + And what accites your most worshipful thought to + think so? + + <i>Poins</i>. Why, because you have been so lewd, and so + much engraffed to Falstaff.” + </pre> + <p> + By far the best thing in this page—the contempt for every man's + thought as certain to be mistaken—is, I need hardly say, pure + Shakespeare. Exactly the same reflection finds a place in “Hamlet”; the + student-thinker tells us of a play which in his opinion, and in the + opinion of the best judges, was excellent, but which was only acted once, + for it “pleased not the million; 'twas caviare to the general.” Very early + in life Shakespeare made the discovery, which all men of brains make + sooner or later, that the thoughts of the million are worthless, and the + judgment and taste of the million are execrable. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing worthy to be called character-drawing in this scene; but + there's just a hint of it in the last remark of Poins. According to his + favourite companion the Prince was very “lewd,” and yet Shakespeare never + shows us his lewdness in action; does not “moralize” it as Jaques or + Hamlet would have been tempted to do. It is just mentioned and passed over + lightly. It is curious, too, that Shakespeare's <i>alter ego</i>, Jaques, + was also accused of lewdness by the exiled Duke; Vincentio, too, another + incarnation of Shakespeare, was charged with lechery by Lucio; but in none + of these cases does Shakespeare dwell on the failing. Shakespeare seems to + have thought reticence the better part in regard to certain sins of the + flesh. But it must be remarked that it is only when his heroes come into + question that he practises this restraint: he is content to tell us + casually that Prince Henry was a sensualist; but he shows us Falstaff and + Doll Tearsheet engaged at lips' length. To put it briefly, Shakespeare + attributes lewdness to his impersonations, but will not emphasize the + fault by instances. Nor will Shakespeare allow his “madcap Prince” even to + play “drawer” with hearty goodwill. While consenting to spy on Falstaff in + the tavern, the Prince tells Poins that “from a Prince to a prentice” is + “a low transformation,” and scarcely has the fun commenced when he is + called to the wars and takes his leave in these terms: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>P. Hen.</i> By Heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame, + So idly to profane the precious time + When tempest of commotion, like the south + Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt + And drop upon our bare, unarmed heads.” + </pre> + <p> + The first two lines are priggish, and the last three mere poetic + balderdash. But it is in the fourth act, when Prince Henry is watching by + the bedside of his dying father, that Shakespeare speaks through him + without disguise: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why doth the crown lie there upon his pillow + Being so troublesome a bedfellow? + O polished perturbation! golden care! + That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide + To many a watchful night!—Sleep with it now, + Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet + As he whose brow with homely biggin bound + Snores out the watch of night.” + </pre> + <p> + In the third act we have King Henry talking in precisely the same way: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O sleep, O gentle sleep, + Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee?... + - - - - - - - - + Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast + Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains + In cradle of the rude imperious surge.”... +</pre> + <p> + The truth is that in both these passages, as in a hundred similar ones, we + find Shakespeare himself praising sleep as only those tormented by + insomnia can praise it. + </p> + <p> + When his father reproaches him with “hunger for his empty chair,” this is + how Prince Henry answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O pardon me, my liege, but for my tears, + The moist impediments unto my speech, + I had forestalled this dear and deep rebuke. + Ere you with grief had spoke and I had heard + The course of it so far.”... +</pre> + <p> + It might be Alfred Austin writing to Lord Salisbury—“the moist + impediments,” forsooth—and the daredevil young soldier goes on like + this for forty lines. + </p> + <p> + The only memorable thing in the fifth act is the new king's contemptuous + dismissal of Falstaff: I think it appalling at least in matter: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers; + How ill white hairs become a fool and jester! + I have long dreamed of such a kind of man, + So surfeit-swelled, so old and so profane; + But being awake I do despise my dream. + - - - - - - - - + Reply not to me with a fool-born jest, + Presume not that I am the thing I was; + - - - - - - - - + Till then, I banish thee on pain of death, + As I have done the rest of my misleaders, + Not to come near our person by ten mile.” + </pre> + <p> + In the old play, “The Famous Victories,” the sentence of banishment is + pronounced; but this bitter contempt for the surfeit-swelled, profane old + man is Shakespeare's. It is true that he mitigates the severity of the + sentence in characteristic generous fashion: the King says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For competence of life I will allow you + That lack of means enforce you not to evil: + And as we hear you do reform yourselves, + We will, according to your strength and qualities, + Give you advancement.” + </pre> + <p> + There is no mention in the old play of this “competence of life.” But in + spite of this generous forethought the sentence is painfully severe, and + Shakespeare meant every word of it, for immediately afterwards the Chief + Justice orders Falstaff and his company to the Fleet prison; and in “King + Henry V.” we are told that the King's condemnation broke Falstaff's heart + and made the old jester's banishment eternal. To find Shakespeare more + severe in judgement than the majority of spectators and readers is so + astonishing, so singular a fact, that it cries for explanation. I think + there can be no doubt that the tradition which tells us that Shakespeare + in his youth played pranks in low company finds further corroboration + here. He seems to have resented his own ignominy and the contemptuous + estimate put upon him by others somewhat extravagantly. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Presume not that I am the thing I was;” + </pre> + <p> + —is a sentiment put again and again in Prince Henry's mouth; he is + perpetually assuring us of the change in himself, and the great results + which must ensue from it. It is this distaste for his own loose past and + “his misleaders,” which makes Shakespeare so singularly severe towards + Falstaff. As we have seen, he was the reverse of severe with Angelo in + “Measure for Measure,” though in that case there was better ground for + harshness. “Measure for Measure,” it is true, was written six or seven + years later than “Henry IV.,” and the tragedy of Shakespeare's life + separates the two plays. Shakespeare's ethical judgement was more inclined + to severity in youth and early manhood than it was later when his own + sufferings had deepened his sympathies, and he had been made “pregnant to + good pity,” to use his own words, “by the art of knowing and feeling + sorrows.” But he would never have treated old Jack Falstaff as harshly as + he did had he not regretted the results, at least, of his own youthful + errors. It looks as if Shakespeare, like other weak men, were filled with + a desire to throw the blame on his “misleaders.” He certainly exulted in + their punishment. + </p> + <p> + It is difficult for me to write at length about the character of the King + in “Henry V.,” and fortunately it is not necessary. I have already pointed + out the faults in the painting of Prince Henry with such fullness that I + may be absolved from again dwelling on similar weakness where it is even + more obvious than it was in the two parts of “Henry IV.” But something I + must say, for the critics in both Germany and England are agreed that + “'Henry V.' must certainly be regarded as Shakespeare's ideal of manhood + in the sphere of practical achievement.” Without an exception they have + all buttered this drama with extravagant praise as one of Shakespeare's + masterpieces, though in reality it is one of the worst pieces of work he + ever did, almost as bad as “Titus Andronicus” or “Timon” or “The Taming of + the Shrew.” Unfortunately for the would-be judges, Coleridge did not guide + their opinions of “Henry V.”; he hardly mentioned the play, and so they + all write the absurdest nonsense about it, praising because praise of + Shakespeare has come to be the fashion, and also no doubt because his bad + work is more on the level of their intelligence than his good work. + </p> + <p> + It can hardly be denied that Shakespeare identified himself as far as he + could with Henry V. Before the King appears he is praised extravagantly, + as Posthumus was praised, but the eulogy befits the poet better than the + soldier. The Archbishop of Canterbury says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... “When he speaks, + The air, a charter'd libertine, is still, + And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears + To steal his sweet and honey'd sentences.” + </pre> + <p> + the Bishop of Ely goes even further in excuse: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ...“The prince obscured his contemplation + Under the veil of wildness.” + </pre> + <p> + And this is how the soldier-king himself talks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My learned lord, we pray you to proceed + And justly and religiously unfold + Why the law Salique that they have in France + Or should, or should not bar us in our claim; + And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, + That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading ...” + </pre> + <p> + All this is plainly Shakespeare and Shakespeare at his very worst; and + there are hundreds of lines like these, jewelled here and there by an + unforgetable phrase, as when the Archbishop calls the bees: “The singing + masons building roofs of gold.” The reply made by the King when the + Dauphin sends him the tennis balls has been greatly praised for manliness + and modesty; it begins: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us; + His present and your pains we thank you for: + When we have match'd our rackets to these balls, + We will, in France, by God's grace, play a set + Shall strike his father's crown into the hazard.” + </pre> + <p> + The first line is most excellent, but Shakespeare found it in the old + play, and the bragging which follows is hardly bettered by the pious + imprecation. + </p> + <p> + Nor does the scene with the conspirators seem to me any better. The + soldier-king would not have preached at them for sixty lines before + condemning them. Nor would he have sentenced them with this extraordinary + mixture of priggishness and pious pity: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>K. Hen</i>. God quit you in his mercy. Hear your + sentence. + - - - - - - - - + Touching our person seek we no revenge; + But we our kingdom's safety must so tender, + Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws + We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence, + Poor miserable wretches, to your death, + The task whereof, God of His mercy give + You patience to endure, and true repentance + Of all your dear offences!” + </pre> + <p> + This “poor miserable wretches” would go better with a generous pardon, and + such forgiving would be more in Shakespeare's nature. Throughout this play + the necessity of speaking through the soldier-king embarrasses the poet, + and the infusion of the poet's sympathy and emotion makes the puppet + ridiculous. Henry's speech before Harfleur has been praised on all hands; + not by the professors and critics merely, but by those who deserve + attention. Carlyle finds deathless valour in the saying: “Ye, good yeomen, + whose limbs were made in England,” and not deathless valour merely, but + “noble patriotism” as well; “a true English heart breathes, calm and + strong through the whole business ... this man (Shakespeare) too had a + right stroke in him, had it come to that.” I find no valour in it, + deathless or otherwise; but the make-believe of valour, the completest + proof that valour was absent. Here are the words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>K. Hen</i>. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, + once more; + Or close the wall up with our English dead. + In peace there's nothing so becomes a man + As modest stillness and humility: + But when the blast of war blows in our ears, + Then imitate the action of the tiger; + Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, + Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage; + Then lend the eye a terrible aspect, + Let it pry through the portage of the head + Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it + As fearfully as doth a galled rock + O'erhang and jutty his confounded base....” + </pre> + <p> + And so on for another twenty lines. Now consider this stuff: first comes + the reflection, more suitable to the philosopher than the man of action, + “in peace there's nothing so becomes a man...”; then the soldier-king + wishes his men to “imitate” the tiger's looks, to “disguise fair nature,” + and “lend the eye a terrible aspect.” But the man who feels the tiger's + rage tries to control the aspect of it: he does not put on the frown—that's + Pistol's way. The whole thing is mere poetic description of how an angry + man looks and not of how a brave man feels, and that it should have + deceived Carlyle, surprises me. The truth is that as soon as Shakespeare + has to find, I will not say a magical expression for courage, but even an + adequate and worthy expression, he fails absolutely. And is the patriotism + in “Ye, good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England” a “noble + patriotism”? or is it the simplest, the crudest, the least justifiable + form of patriotism? There is a noble patriotism founded on the high and + generous things done by men of one's own blood, just as there is the vain + and empty self-glorification of “limbs made in England,” as if English + limbs were better than those made in Timbuctoo. + </p> + <p> + In the third scene of the fourth act, just before the battle, Henry talks + at his best, or rather Shakespeare's best: and we catch the true accent of + courage. Westmoreland wishes + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ...“That we now had here + But one ten thousand of those men in England + That do no work to-day!” + </pre> + <p> + but Henry lives on a higher plane: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No, my fair cousin: + If we are marked to die, we are enow + To do our country loss; and if to live, + The fewer men the greater share of honour.” + </pre> + <p> + But this high-couraged sentiment is taken almost word for word from + Holinshed. The rest of the speech shows us Shakespeare, as a splendid + rhetorician, glorifying glory; now and then the rhetoric is sublimated + into poetry: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, + For he to-day that sheds his blood with me + Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, + This day shall gentle his condition.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare's chief ambition about this time was to get a coat of arms for + his father, and so gentle his condition. In all the play not one word of + praise for the common archers, who won the battle; no mention save of the + gentle. + </p> + <p> + Again and again in Henry V. the dissonance of character between the poet + and his soldier-puppet jars upon the ears, and this dissonance is + generally characteristic. For example, in the third act Shakespeare, + through King Henry, expressly charges his soldiers that “there be nothing + compelled from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the + French upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and + cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner.” + Wise words, not yet learned even by statesmen; drops of wisdom's + life-blood from the heart of gentle Shakespeare. But an act later, when + the battle is over, on the mere news that the French have reinforced their + scattered men, Henry V., with tears in his eyes for the Duke of York's + death, gives orders to kill the prisoners: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then every soldier kill his prisoners; + Give the word through.” + </pre> + <p> + The puppet is not even human: mere wood! + </p> + <p> + In the fifth act King Henry takes on the voice and nature of buried + Hotspur. He woos Katherine exactly as Hotspur talked to his wife: he + cannot “mince” it in love, he tells her, in Hotspur's very words; but is + forthright plain; like Hotspur he despises verses and dancing; like + Hotspur he can brag, too; finds it as “easy” to conquer kingdoms as to + speak French; can “vault into his saddle with his armour on his back”; he + is no carpet-soldier; he never “looks in his glass for love of anything he + sees there,” and to make the likeness complete he disdains those “fellows + of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favours ... a + speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad.” But if Shakespeare had + had any vital sympathy for soldiers and men of action he would not have + degraded Henry V. in this fashion, into a feeble replica of the + traditional Hotspur. In those narrow London streets by the river he must + have rubbed shoulders with great adventurers; he knew Essex; had bowed to + Raleigh at the Court; must have heard of Drake: inclination was lacking, + not models. He might even have differentiated between Prince Henry and + Hotspur without going outside his history-books; but a most curious point + is that he preferred to smooth away their differences and accentuate the + likeness. As a mere matter of fact Hotspur was very much older than Prince + Henry, for he fought at Otterbourne in 1388, the year of the prince's + birth; but Shakespeare purposely and explicitly makes them both youths. + The King, speaking of Percy to Prince Henry, says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And being no more in debt to years than thou.”... +</pre> + <p> + It would have been wiser, I cannot but think, and more dramatic for + Shakespeare to have left the hot-headed Percy as the older man who, in + spite of years, is too impatient-quick to look before he leaps, while + giving the youthful Prince the calm reflection and impersonal outlook + which necessarily belong to a great winner of kingdoms. The dramatist + could have further differentiated the rivals by making Percy greedy; he + should not only have quarrelled with his associates over the division of + the land, but insisted on obtaining the larger share, and even then have + grumbled as if aggrieved; the soldier aristocrat has always regarded broad + acres as his especial reward. On the other hand, Prince Henry should have + been open-handed and carelessly-generous, as the patron of Falstaff was + likely to be. Further, Hotspur might have been depicted as inordinately + proud of his name and birth; the provincial aristocrat usually is, whereas + Henry, the Prince, would surely have been too certain of his own qualities + to need adventitious aids to pride. Percy might have been shown to us + raging over imaginary slights; Worcester says he was “governed by a + spleen”; while the Prince should have been given that high sense of honour + and insatiate love of fame which were the poles of chivalry. Finally, the + dramatist might have painted Hotspur, the soldier, as disdainful of women + and the arts of music and poetry, while gracing Prince Henry with a wider + culture and sympathy. + </p> + <p> + If I draw attention to such obvious points it is only to show how + incredibly careless Shakespeare was in making the conqueror a poor copy of + the conquered. He was drawn to Hotspur a little by his quickness and + impatience; but he was utterly out of sympathy with the fighter, and never + took the trouble even to think of the qualities which a leader of men must + possess. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. SHAKESPEARE'S MEN OF ACTION (<i>concluded</i>): KING HENRY VI. + AND RICHARD III. + </h2> + <p> + I think it hardly necessary to extend this review of Shakespeare's + historical plays by subjecting the Three Parts of “King Henry VI.” and + “Richard III.” to a detailed and minute criticism. Yet if I passed them + over without mention it would probably be assumed that they made against + my theory, or at least that I had some more pertinent reason for not + considering them than their relative unimportance. In fact, however, they + help to buttress my argument, and so at the risk of being tedious I shall + deal with them, though as briefly as possible. Coleridge doubted whether + Shakespeare had had anything to do with the “First Part of Henry VI.,” but + his fellow-actors, Heminge and Condell, placed the Three Parts of “King + Henry VI.” in the first collected edition of Shakespeare's plays, and our + latest criticism finds good reasons to justify this contemporary + judgement. Mr. Swinburne writes: “The last battle of Talbot seems to me as + undeniably the master's work as the scene in the Temple Gardens, or the + courtship of Margaret by Suffolk”; and it would be easy to prove that much + of what the dying Mortimer says is just as certainly Shakespeare's work as + any of the passages referred to by Mr. Swinburne. Like most of those who + are destined to reach the heights, Shakespeare seems to have grown slowly, + and even at twenty-eight or thirty years of age his grasp of character was + so uncertain, his style so little formed, so apt to waver from blank verse + to rhyme, that it is difficult to determine exactly what he did write. We + may take it, I think, as certain that he wrote more than we who have his + mature work in mind are inclined to ascribe to him. + </p> + <p> + The “Second Part of King Henry VI.” is a poetic revision of the old play + entitled “The First Part of the Contention betwixt the Two Famous Houses + of Yorke and Lancaster,” and so forth. It is now generally agreed that + Shakespeare's hand can be traced in the old drama, and with especial + certainty in the comic scenes wherein Cade and his followers play the + chief parts. Notwithstanding this, the revision was most thorough. Half + the lines in the “Second Part of Henry VI.” are new, and by far the + greater number of these are now ascribed to Shakespeare on good grounds. + But some of the changes are for the worse, and as my argument does not + stand in need of corroboration, I prefer to assume nothing, and shall + therefore confine myself to pointing out that whoever revised “The + Contention” did it, in the main, as we should have expected our youthful + Shakespeare to do it. For example, when Humphrey of Gloster is accused of + devising “strange torments for offenders,” he answers in the old play: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why, 'tis well known that whilst I was Protector, + Pitie was all the fault that was in me,” + </pre> + <p> + and the gentle reviser adds to this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For I should melt at an offender's tears, + And lowly words were ransom for their fault.” + </pre> + <p> + Besides, the reviser adds a great deal to the part of the weak King with + the evident object of making his helplessness pathetic. He gives Henry, + too, his sweetest phrases, and when he makes him talk of bewailing + Gloster's case “with sad unhelpful tears” we catch the very cadence of + Shakespeare's voice. But he does not confine his emendations to the + speeches of one personage: the sorrows of the lovers interest him as their + affection interested him in the “First Part of Henry VI.,” and the + farewell words of Queen Margaret to Suffolk are especially characteristic + of our gentle poet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, go not yet; even thus two friends condemned + Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves, + Leather a hundred times to part than die. + Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee.” + </pre> + <p> + This reminds me almost irresistibly of Juliet's words when parting with + Romeo, and of Imogen's words when Posthumus leaves her. Throughout the + play Henry is the poet's favourite, and in the gentle King's lament for + Gloster's death we find a peculiarity of Shakespeare's art. It was a part + of the cunning of his exquisite sensibility to invent a new word whenever + he was deeply moved, the intensity of feeling clothing itself aptly in a + novel epithet or image. A hundred examples of this might be given, such as + “The multitudinous seas incarnadine”; and so we find here “paly lips.” The + passage is: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips + With twenty thousand kisses and to drain + Upon his face an ocean of salt tears, + To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk + And with my finger feel his hand unfeeling.” + </pre> + <p> + It must be noticed, too, that in this “Second Part” the reviser begins to + show himself as something more than the sweet lyric poet. He transposes + scenes in order to intensify the interest, and where enemies meet, like + Clifford and York, instead of making them rant in mere blind hatred, he + allows them to show a generous admiration of each other's qualities; in + sum, we find here the germs of that dramatic talent which was so soon to + bear such marvellous fruit. No better example of Shakespeare's growth in + dramatic power and humour could be found than the way he revises the + scenes with Cade. It is very probable, as I have said, that the first + sketch was his; when one of Cade's followers declares that Cade's “breath + stinks,” we are reminded that Coriolanus spoke in the same terms of the + Roman rabble. But though it is his own work, Shakespeare evidently takes + it up again with the keenest interest, for he adds inimitable touches. For + instance, in the first scene, where the two rebels, George Bevis and John + Holland, talk of Cade's rising and his intention to set a “new nap upon + the commonwealth,” George's remark: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, miserable age! virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen”— +</pre> + <p> + an addition, and may be compared with Falstaff's: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “there is no virtue extant.” + </pre> + <p> + John answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons,” + </pre> + <p> + which is in the first sketch. + </p> + <p> + But George's reply— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nay, more; the King's Council are no good workmen”— +</pre> + <p> + is only to be found in the revised version. The heightened humour of that + “Oh, miserable age! virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen,” assures us + that the reviser was Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + What is true of the “Second Part” is true in the main of the “Third Part + of King Henry VI.” Shakespeare's revisions are chiefly the revisions of a + lyric poet, and he scatters his emendations about without much regard for + character. In the Third Part, as in the Second, however, he transposes + scenes, gives deeper life to the marionettes, and in various ways quickens + the dramatic interest. This Third Part resembles “King John” in some + respects and a similar inference can be drawn from it. As in “King John” + we have the sharply contrasted figures of the Bastard and Arthur, so in + this “Third Part” there are two contrasted characters, Richard Duke of + Gloster and King Henry VI., the one a wild beast whose life is action, and + who knows neither fear, love, pity, nor touch of any scruple; the other, a + saint-like King whose worst fault is gentle weakness. In “The True + Tragedie of Richard,” the old play on which this “Third Part” was founded, + the character of Richard is powerfully sketched, even though the human + outlines are sometimes confused by his devilish malignity. Shakespeare + takes this character from the old play, and alters it but very slightly. + Indeed, the most splendid piece of character-revealing in his Richard is + to be found in the old play: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I had no father, I am like no father, + I have no brother, I am like no brother; + And this word <i>Love</i>b, which greybeards call divine, + Be resident in men like one another, + And not in me:—I am myself alone.” + </pre> + <p> + The Satanic energy of this outburst proclaims its author, Marlowe. + </p> + <p> + {Footnote: Mr. Swinburne was the first, I believe, to attribute this + passage to Marlowe; he praises the verses, too, as they deserve; but as I + had written the above before reading his work, I let it stand.} + Shakespeare copies it word for word, only omitting with admirable art the + first line. Indeed, though he alters the speeches of Richard and improves + them, he does nothing more; he adds no new quality; his Richard is the + Richard of “The True Tragedie.” But King Henry may be regarded as + Shakespeare's creation. In the old play the outlines of Henry's character + are so feebly, faintly sketched that he is scarcely recognizable, but with + two or three touches Shakespeare makes the saint a living man. This King + is happier in prison than in his palace; this is how he speaks to his + keeper, the Lieutenant of the Tower: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nay, be thou sure, I'll well requite thy kindness, + For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure; + Ay, such a pleasure as encagèd birds + Conceive, when, after many moody thoughts, + At last by notes of household harmony + They quite forget their loss of liberty.” + </pre> + <p> + Just as the bird runs a little before he springs from the earth and takes + flight, so Shakespeare often writes, as in this instance, an awkward weak + line or two before his song-wings move with freedom. But the last four + lines are peculiarly his; his the thought; his, too, the sweetness of the + words “encagèd birds” and “household harmony.” + </p> + <p> + Finally, Henry is not only shown to us as gentle and loving, but as a man + who prefers quiet and the country to a King's Court and state. Even in + eager, mounting youth this was Shakespeare's own choice: Prince Arthur in + “King John” longs to be a shepherd: and this crowned saint has the same + desire. From boyhood to old age Shakespeare preferred the “life removed”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O God, methinks it were a happy life + To be no better than a homely swain; + To sit upon a hill, as I do now, + To carve out dials quaintly point by point, + Thereby to see the minutes how they run; + How many make the hour full complete; + How many hours bring about the day; + How many days will finish up the year; + How many years a mortal man may live. + - - - - - - - - - - + So minutes, hours, days, months, and years, + Passed over to the end they were created, + Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.” + </pre> + <p> + All this it seems to me is as finely characteristic of the gentle + melancholy of Shakespeare's youth as Jaques' bitter words are of the + deeper melancholy of his manhood: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, + And then from hour to hour we rot and rot + And thereby hangs a tale.” + </pre> + <p> + The “Third Part of Henry VI.” leads one directly to “Richard III.” It was + Coleridge's opinion that Shakespeare “wrote hardly anything of this play + except the character of Richard. He found the piece a stock play and + re-wrote the parts which developed the hero's character; he certainly did + not write the scenes in which Lady Anne yielded to the usurper's + solicitations.” In this instance Coleridge's positive opinion deserves to + be weighed respectfully. At the time when “Richard III.” was written + Shakespeare was still rather a lyric than a dramatic poet, and Coleridge + was a good judge of the peculiarities of his lyric style. Of course, + Professor Dowden, too, is in doubt whether “Richard III.” should be + ascribed to Shakespeare. He says: “Its manner of conceiving and presenting + character has a certain resemblance, not elsewhere to be found in + Shakespeare's writings, to the ideal manner of Marlowe. As in the plays of + Marlowe, there is here one dominant figure distinguished by a few strongly + marked and inordinately developed qualities.” + </p> + <p> + This faulty reasoning only shows how dangerous it is for a professor to + copy his teacher slavishly: in “Coriolanus,” too, we have the “one + dominant figure,” and all the rest of it. The truth seems to be that in + the “Third Part of Henry VI.” Shakespeare had been working with Marlowe, + or, at least, revising Marlowe's work; in either case he was so steeped in + Marlowe's spirit that he took, as we have seen, the most splendid piece of + Richard's self-revealing directly from the older poet. Moreover, the words + of deepest characterization in Shakespeare's “Richard III.,” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Richard loves Richard—that is, I am I,” + </pre> + <p> + are manifestly a weak echo of the tremendous + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am myself alone” + </pre> + <p> + of Marlowe's Richard. At least to this extent, then, Shakespeare used + Marlowe in depicting Richard's character. But this trait, important as it + was did not carry him far, and he was soon forced to draw on his own + experience of life. Already he seems to have noticed that one + characteristic of men of action is a blunt plainness of speech; their + courage is shown in their frankness, and, besides, words stand for + realities with them, and are, therefore, used with sincerity. + Shakespeare's Richard III. uses plain speech as a hypocritical mask, but + already Shakespeare is a dramatist and in his clever hands Richard's plain + speaking is so allied with his incisive intelligence that it appears to be + now a mask, now native shamelessness, and thus the characterization wins + in depth and mystery. Every now and then, too, this Richard sees things + which no Englishman has been capable of seeing, except Shakespeare + himself. The whole of Plato's “Gorgias” is comprised in the two lines: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Conscience is but a word that cowards use, + Devised at first to keep the strong in awe.” + </pre> + <p> + The declaration of the second murderer that conscience “makes a man a + coward ... it beggars any man that keeps it; it is turned out of all towns + and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well + endeavours to trust to himself and to live without it,” should be regarded + as the complement of what Falstaff says of honour; in both the humour of + Shakespeare's characteristic irony is not to be mistaken. + </p> + <p> + The whole play, I think, must be ascribed to Shakespeare; all the + memorable words in it are indubitably his, and I cannot believe that any + other hand drew for us that marvellous, masterful courtship of Anne which + Coleridge, naturally enough, was unwilling to appreciate. The structure of + the play, however, shows all the weakness of Marlowe's method: the + interest is concentrated on the protagonist; there is not humour enough to + relieve the gloomy intensity, and the scenes in which Richard does not + figure are unattractive and feeble. + </p> + <p> + One has only to think of the two characters—Richard II. and Richard + III.—and to recall their handling in order to get a deep impression + of Shakespeare's nature. He cannot present the vile Richard II. at all; he + has no interest in him; but as soon as he thinks of Richard's youth and + remembers that he was led astray by others, he begins to identify himself + with him, and at once Richard's weakness is made amiable and his + sufferings affecting. In measure as Shakespeare lets himself go and paints + himself more and more freely, his portraiture becomes astonishing, till at + length the imprisoned Richard gives himself up to melancholy philosophic + musing, without a tinge of bitterness or envy or hate, and every one with + eyes to see, is forced to recognize in him a younger brother to Hamlet and + Posthumus. “Richard III.” was produced in a very different way. It was + Marlowe's daemonic power and intensity that first interested Shakespeare + in this Richard; under the spell of Marlowe's personality Shakespeare + conceived the play, and especially the scene between Richard and Anne; but + the original impulse exhausted itself quickly, and then Shakespeare fell + back on his own experience and made Richard keen of insight and + hypocritically blunt of speech—a sort of sketch of Iago. A little + later Shakespeare either felt that the action was unsuitable to the + development of such a character, or more probably he grew weary of the + effort to depict a fiend; in any case, the play becomes less and less + interesting, and even the character of Richard begins to waver. There is + one astonishing instance of this towards the end of the drama. On the eve + of the decisive battle Richard starts awake from his terrifying dreams, + and now, if ever, one would expect from him perfect sincerity of + utterance. This is what we find: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is no creature loves me; + And if I die no soul shall pity me; + Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself + Find in myself no pity to myself?” + </pre> + <p> + The first two lines bespeak a loving, gentle nature, Shakespeare's nature, + the nature of a Henry VI. or an Arthur, a nature which Richard III. would + certainly have despised, and the last two lines are merely an objective + ethical judgement wholly out of place and very clumsily expressed. + </p> + <p> + To sum up, then, for this is not the place to consider Shakespeare's share + in “Henry VIII.,” I find that in the English historical plays the manly + characters, Hotspur, Harry V., the great Bastard, and Richard III., are + all taken from tradition or from old plays, and Shakespeare did nothing + more than copy the traits which were given to him; on the other hand, the + weak, irresolute, gentle, melancholy characters are his own, and he shows + extraordinary resource in revealing the secret workings of their souls. + Even in early manhood, and when handling histories and men of action, + Shakespeare cannot conceal his want of sympathy for the practical leaders + of men; he neither understands them deeply nor loves them; but in + portraying the girlish Arthur and the Hamlet-like Richard II., and in + drawing forth the pathos of their weakness, he is already without a rival + or second in all literature. + </p> + <p> + I am anxious not to deform the truth by exaggeration; a caricature of + Shakespeare would offend me as a sacrilege, even though the caricature + were characteristic, and when I find him even in youth one-sided, a poet + and dreamer, I am minded to tell less than the truth rather than more. He + was extraordinarily sensitive, I say to myself, and lived in the stress of + great deeds; he treated Henry V., a man of action if ever there was one, + as an ideal, and lavished on him all his admiration, but it will not do: I + cannot shut my eyes to the fact; the effort is worse than useless. He + liked Henry V. because of his misled youth and his subsequent rise to + highest honour, and not because of his practical genius. Where in his + portrait gallery is the picture of a Drake, or even of a Raleigh? The + adventurer was the characteristic product of that jostling time; but + Shakespeare turned his head away; he was not interested in him. In spite + of himself, however, he became passionately interested in the pitiful + Richard II. and his untimely fate. Notwithstanding the praise of the + critics, his King Henry V. is a wooden marionette; the intense life of the + traditional madcap Prince has died out of him; but Prince Arthur lives + deathlessly, and we still hear his childish treble telling Hubert of his + love. + </p> + <p> + Those who disagree with me will have to account for the fact that, even in + the historical plays written in early manhood, all his portraits of men of + action are mere copies, while his genius shines in the portraits of a + gentle saint like Henry VI., of a weakling like Richard II., or of a + girlish youth like Arthur—all these favourite studies being alike in + pathetic helplessness and tender affection. + </p> + <p> + It is curious that no one of the commentators has noticed this + extraordinary one-sidedness of Shakespeare. In spite of his miraculous + faculty of expression, he never found wonderful phrases for the virile + virtues or virile vices. For courage, revenge, self-assertion, and + ambition we have finer words in English than any that Shakespeare coined. + In this field Chapman, Milton, Byron, Carlyle, and even Bunyan are his + masters. + </p> + <p> + Of course, as a man he had the instinct of courage, and an admiration of + courage; his intellect, too, gave him some understanding of its range. Dr. + Brandes declares that Shakespeare has only depicted physical courage, the + courage of the swordsman; but that is beside the truth: Dr. Brandes has + evidently forgotten the passage in “Antony and Cleopatra,” when Caesar + contemptuously refuses the duel with Antony and speaks of his antagonist + as an “old ruffian.” Enobarbus, too, sneers at Antony's proposed duel: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar will + Unstate his happiness, and be staged to the show + Against a sworder.” + </pre> + <p> + Unhelped by memory, Dr. Brandes might have guessed that Shakespeare would + exhaust the obvious at first glance. But the soul of courage to + Shakespeare is, as we have seen, a love of honour working on quick + generous blood—a feminine rather than a masculine view of the + matter. + </p> + <p> + Carlyle has a deeper sense of this aboriginal virtue. With the fanatic's + trust in God his Luther will go to Worms “though it rain devils”; and when + in his own person Carlyle spoke of the small, honest minority desperately + resolved to maintain their ideas though opposed by a huge hostile majority + of fools and the insincere, he found one of the finest expressions for + courage in all our literature. The vast host shall be to us, he cried, as + “stubble is to fire.” It may be objected that this is the voice of + religious faith rather than of courage pure and simple, and the objection + is valid so far as it goes; but this genesis of courage is peculiarly + English, and the courage so formed is of the highest. Every one remembers + how Valiant-for-Truth fights in Bunyan's allegory: “I fought till my sword + did cleave to my hand; and when they were joined together, as if a sword + grew out of my arm, and when the blood ran through my fingers, then I + fought with most courage.” The mere expression gives us an understanding + of the desperate resolution of Cromwell's Ironsides. + </p> + <p> + But if desperate courage is not in Shakespeare, neither are its ancillary + qualities—cruelty, hatred, ambition, revenge. Whenever he talks on + these themes, he talks from the teeth outwards, as one without experience + of their violent delights. His Gloucester rants about ambition without an + illuminating or even a convincing word. Hatred and revenge Shakespeare + only studied superficially, and cruelty he shudders from like a woman. + </p> + <p> + It is astounding how ill-endowed Shakespeare was on the side of manliness. + His intellect was so fine, his power of expression so magical, the men + about him, his models, so brave—founders as they were of the British + empire and sea-tyranny—that he is able to use his Hotspurs and + Harrys to hide from the general the poverty of his temperament. But the + truth will out: Shakespeare was the greatest of poets, a miraculous + artist, too, when he liked; but he was not a hero, and manliness was not + his <i>forte</i>: he was by nature a neuropath and a lover. + </p> + <p> + He was a master of passion and pity, and it astonishes one to notice how + willingly he passed always to that extreme of sympathy where nothing but + his exquisite choice of words and images saved him from falling into the + silly. For example, in “Titus Andronicus,” with its crude, unmotived + horrors, Titus calls Marcus a murderer, and when Marcus replies: “Alas, my + lord, I have but killed a fly,” Titus answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But how, if that fly had a father and mother? + How would he hang his slender gilded wings, + And buzz lamenting doings in the air? + Poor harmless fly! + That with his pretty buzzing melody, + Came here to make us merry! and thou hast killed him.” + </pre> + <p> + Even in his earliest plays in the noontide of lusty youth, when the heat + of the blood makes most men cruel, or at least heedless of others' + sorrows, Shakespeare was full of sympathy; his gentle soul wept with the + stricken deer and suffered through the killing of a fly. Just as Ophelia + turned “thought and affliction, passion, hell itself” to “favour and to + prettiness,” so Shakespeare's genius turned the afflictions and passions + of man to pathos and to pity. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. SHAKESPEARE AS LYRIC POET: “TWELFTH NIGHT” + </h2> + <p> + Shakespeare began the work of life as a lyric poet. It was to be expected + therefore that when he took up playwriting he would use the play from time + to time as an opportunity for a lyric, and in fact this was his constant + habit. From the beginning to the end of his career he was as much a lyric + poet as a dramatist. His first comedies are feeble and thin in + character-drawing and the lyrical sweetness is everywhere predominant. His + apprenticeship period may be said to have closed with his first tragedy, + “Romeo and Juliet.” I am usually content to follow Mr. Furnival's “Trial + Table of the order of Shakspere's Plays,” in which “Richard II.,” “Richard + III.,” and “King John” are all placed later than “Romeo and Juliet,” and + yet included in the first period that stretches from 1585 to 1595. But + “Romeo and Juliet” seems to me to be far more characteristic of the poet's + genius than any of these histories; it is not only a finer work of art + than any of them, and therefore of higher promise, but in its lyrical + sweetness far more truly representative of Shakespeare's youth than any of + the early comedies or historical plays. Whatever their form may be, nearly + all Shakespeare's early works are love-songs, “Venus and Adonis,” + “Lucrece,” “Love's Labour's Lost,” “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” and he + may be said to have ended his apprenticeship with the imperishable tragedy + of first love “Romeo and Juliet.” + </p> + <p> + In the years from 1585 to 1595 Shakespeare brought the lyric element into + something like due subordination and managed to free himself almost + completely from his early habit of rhyming. Mr. Swinburne has written of + Shakespeare's use of rhymed verse with a fullness of knowledge and + sympathy that leaves little to be desired. He compares it aptly to the use + of the left hand instead of the right, and doubts cogently whether + Shakespeare ever attained such mastery of rhyme as Marlowe in “Hero and + Leander.” But I like to think that Shakespeare's singing quickly became + too sincere in its emotion and too complex in its harmonies to tolerate + the definite limits set by rhyme. In any case by 1595 Shakespeare had + learned to prefer blank verse to rhyme, at least for play-writing; he thus + made the first great step towards a superb knowledge of his instrument. + </p> + <p> + The period of Shakespeare's maturity defines itself sharply; it stretches + from 1595 to 1608 and falls naturally into two parts; the first part + includes the trilogy “Henry IV.” and “Henry V.” and his golden comedies; + the second, from 1600 to 1608, is entirely filled with his great + tragedies. The characteristic of this period so far as regards the + instrument is that Shakespeare has come to understand the proper function + of prose. He sees first that it is the only language suited to broad + comedy, and goes on to use it in moments of sudden excitement, or when + dramatic truth to character seems to him all important. At his best he + uses blank verse when some emotion sings itself to him, and prose as the + ordinary language of life, the language of surprise, laughter, strife, and + of all the commoner feelings. During these twelve or fourteen years the + lyric note is not obtrusive; it is usually subordinated to character and + suited to action. + </p> + <p> + His third and last period begins with “Pericles” and ends with the + “Tempest”; it is characterized, as we shall see later, by bodily weakness + and by a certain contempt for the dramatic fiction. But the knowledge of + the instrument once acquired never left Shakespeare. It is true that the + lyric note becomes increasingly clear in his late comedies; but prose too + is used by him with the same mastery that he showed in his maturity. + </p> + <p> + In the first period Shakespeare was often unable to give his puppets + individual life; in maturity he was interested in the puppets themselves + and used them with considerable artistry; in the third period he had grown + a little weary of them and in “The Tempest” showed himself inclined, just + as Goethe in later life was inclined, to turn his characters into symbols + or types. + </p> + <p> + The place of “Twelfth Night” is as clearly marked in Shakespeare's works + as “Romeo and Juliet” or “The Tempest.” It stands on the dividing line + between his light, joyous comedies and the great tragedies; it was all + done at the topmost height of happy hours, but there are hints in it which + we shall have to notice later, which show that when writing it Shakespeare + had already looked into the valley of disillusion which he was about to + tread. But “Twelfth Night” is written in the spirit of “As You Like It” or + “Much Ado,” only it is still more personal-ingenuous and less dramatic + than these; it is, indeed, a lyric of love and the joy of living. + </p> + <p> + There is no intenser delight to a lover of letters than to find + Shakespeare singing, with happy unconcern, of the things he loved best—not + the Shakespeare of Hamlet or Macbeth, whose intellect speaks in critical + judgements of men and of life, and whose heart we are fain to divine from + slight indications; nor Shakespeare the dramatist, who tried now and again + to give life to puppets like Coriolanus and Iago, with whom he had little + sympathy; but Shakespeare the poet, Shakespeare the lover, Shakespeare + whom Ben Jonson called “the gentle,” Shakespeare the sweet-hearted singer, + as he lived and suffered and enjoyed. If I were asked to complete the + portrait given to us by Shakespeare of himself in Hamlet-Macbeth with one + single passage, I should certainly choose the first words of the Duke in + “Twelfth Night.” I must transcribe the poem, though it will be in every + reader's remembrance; for it contains the completest, the most + characteristic, confession of Shakespeare's feelings ever given in a few + lines: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If music be the food of love, play on; + Give me excess of it, that surfeiting + The appetite may sicken, and so die. + That strain again;—it had a dying fall: + Oh, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south + That breathes upon a bank of violets, + Stealing and giving odour.—Enough! no more + 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.” + </pre> + <p> + Every one will notice that Shakespeare as we know him in Romeo is here + depicted again with insistence on a few salient traits; here, too, we have + the poet of the Sonnets masquerading as a Duke and the protagonist of yet + another play. There is still less art used in characterizing this Duke + than there is in characterizing Macbeth; Shakespeare merely lets himself + go and sings his feelings in the most beautiful words. This is his + philosophy of music and of love: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Give me excess of it, that surfeiting, + The appetite may sicken, and so die”; +</pre> + <p> + and then: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Enough, no more; 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.” + </pre> + <p> + —the quick revulsion of the delicate artist-voluptuary who wishes to + keep unblunted in memory the most exquisite pang of pleasure. + </p> + <p> + Speech after speech discovers the same happy freedom and absolute + abandonment to the “sense of beauty.” Curio proposes hunting the hart, and + at once the Duke breaks out: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why, so I do, the noblest that I have. + O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, + Methought she purged the air of pestilence. + That instant was I turned into a hart, + And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, + E'er since pursue me.”— +</pre> + <p> + Valentine then comes to tell him that Olivia is still mourning for her + brother, and the Duke seizes the opportunity for another lyric: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame + To pay this debt of love but to a brother, + How will she love, when the rich golden shaft + Hath killed the flock of all affections else + That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart, + These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and filled— + Her sweet perfections—with one self King!— + Away before me to sweet beds of flowers, + Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.” + </pre> + <p> + The last two lines show clearly enough that Shakespeare was not troubled + with any thought of reality as he wrote: he was transported by Fancy into + that enchanted country of romance where beds of flowers are couches and + bowers, canopies of love. But what a sensuality there is in him! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When liver, brain, and heart, + These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and filled— + Her sweet perfections—with one self King!—” + </pre> + <p> + Of course, too, this Duke is inconstant, and swings from persistent + pursuit of Olivia to love of Viola without any other reason than the + discovery of Viola's sex. In the same way Romeo turns from Rosaline to + Juliet at first sight. This trait has been praised by Coleridge and others + as showing singular knowledge of a young man's character, but I should + rather say that inconstancy was a characteristic of sensuality and + belonged to Shakespeare himself, for Orsino, like Romeo, has no reason to + change his love; and the curious part of the matter is that Shakespeare + does not seem to think that the quick change in Orsino requires any + explanation at all. Moreover, the love of Duke Orsino for Olivia is merely + the desire of her bodily beauty—the counterpart of the sensual + jealousy of Othello. Speaking from Shakespeare's very heart, the Duke + says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Tell her, my love, more noble than the world, + Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; + The parts that Fortune hath bestowed upon her, + Tell her, I hold as giddily as Fortune; + But 'tis that miracle and queen of gems + That nature pranks her in attracts my soul.” + </pre> + <p> + So the body wins the soul according to this Orsino, who is, I repeat + again, Shakespeare in his most ingenuous and frankest mood; the contempt + of wealth—“dirty lands”—and the sensuality—“that miracle + and queen of gems”—are alike characteristic. A few more touches and + the portrait of this Duke will be complete; he says to the pretended + Cesario when sending him as ambassador to Olivia: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Cesario, Thou knowest no less but all; I have unclasped + To thee the book even of my secret soul; Therefore, good youth,”— +</pre> + <p> + and so forth. + </p> + <p> + It is a matter of course that this Duke should tell everything to his + friend; a matter of course, too, that he should love books and bookish + metaphors. Without being told, one knows that he delights in all beautiful + things—pictures with their faërie false presentment of forms and + life; the flesh-firm outline of marble, the warmth of ivory and the + sea-green patine of bronze—was not the poop of the vessel beaten + gold, the sails purple, the oars silver, and the very water amorous? + </p> + <p> + This Duke shows us Shakespeare's most intimate traits even when the action + does not suggest the self-revelation. When sending Viola to woo Olivia for + him he adds: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Some four or five, attend him; + All if you will; for I myself am best + When least in company.” + </pre> + <p> + Like Vincentio, that other mask of Shakespeare, this Duke too loves + solitude and “the life removed”; he is “best when least in company.” + </p> + <p> + If there is any one who still doubts the essential identity of Duke Orsino + and Shakespeare, let him consider the likeness in thought and form between + the Duke's lyric effusions and the Sonnets, and if that does not convince + him I might use a hitherto untried argument. When a dramatist creates a + man's character he is apt to make him, as the French say, too much of a + piece—too logical. But, in this instance, though Shakespeare has + given the Duke only a short part, he has made him contradict himself with + the charming ease that belongs peculiarly to self-revealing. The Duke + tells us: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For such as I am all true lovers are, + —Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, + Save in the constant image of the creature + That is beloved.” + </pre> + <p> + The next moment he repeats this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, + Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, + More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, + Than women's are.” + </pre> + <p> + And the moment after he asserts: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is no woman's sides + Can bide the beating of so strong a passion + As love doth give my heart; no woman's heart + So big, to hold so much; they lack retention. + Alas! their love may be called appetite, + No motion of the liver, but the palate, + That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt!” + </pre> + <p> + Hamlet contradicts himself, too: at one moment he declares that his soul + is immortal, and at the next is full of despair. But Hamlet is so + elaborate a portrait, built up of so many minute touches, that + self-contradiction is a part, and a necessary part, of his many-sided + complexity. But the Duke in “Twelfth Night” reveals himself as it were + accidentally; we know little more of him than that he loves music and + love, books and flowers, and that he despises wealth and company; + accordingly, when he contradicts himself, we may suspect that Shakespeare + is letting himself speak freely without much care for the coherence of + characterization. And the result of this frankness is that he has given a + more intimate, a more confidential, sketch of himself in Duke Orsino of + “Twelfth Night” than he has given us in any play except perhaps “Hamlet” + and “Macbeth.” + </p> + <p> + I hardly need to prove that Shakespeare in his earliest plays, as in his + latest, in his Sonnets as in his darkest tragedy, loved flowers and music. + In almost every play he speaks of flowers with affection and delight. One + only needs to recall the song in “A Midsummer's Night's Dream,” “I know a + bank,” or Perdita's exquisite words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Daffodils, + That come before the swallow dares, and take + The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, + But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes + Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, + That die unmarried ere they can behold + Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady + Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and + The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds, + The flower-de-luce being one”; +</pre> + <p> + or Arviragus' praise of Imogen: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou shalt not lack + The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor + The azured harebell like thy veins; no, nor + The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander + Outsweetened not thy breath.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare praises music so frequently and so enthusiastically that we + must regard the trait as characteristic of his deepest nature. Take this + play which we are handling now. Not only the Duke, but both the heroines, + Viola and Olivia, love music. Viola can sing “in many sorts of music,” and + Olivia admits that she would rather hear Viola solicit love than “music + from the spheres.” Romeo almost confounds music with love, as does Duke + Orsino: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, + Like softest music to attending ears!” + </pre> + <p> + And again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And let rich music's tongue + Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both + Receive in either by this dear encounter.” + </pre> + <p> + It is a curious and characteristic fact that Shakespeare gives almost the + same words to Ferdinand in the “Tempest” that he gave ten years earlier to + the Duke in “Twelfth Night.” In both passages music goes with passion to + allay its madness: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This music crept by me upon the waters, + Allaying both their fury and my passion + With its sweet air” + </pre> + <p> + and Duke Orsino says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “That old and antique song we heard last night, + Methought it did relieve my passion much.” + </pre> + <p> + This confession is so peculiar; shows, too, so exquisitely fine a + sensibility, that its repetition makes me regard it as Shakespeare's. The + most splendid lyric on music is given to Lorenzo in the “Merchant of + Venice,” and it may be remarked in passing that Lorenzo is not a + character, but, like Claudio, a mere name and a mouthpiece of + Shakespeare's feeling. Shakespeare was almost as well content, it appears, + to play the lover as to play the Duke. I cannot help transcribing the + magical verses, though they must be familiar to every lover of our English + tongue: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! + Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music + Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night + Become the touches of sweet harmony. + Sit, Jessica: Look how the floor of heaven + Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold. + There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st + But in his motion like an angel sings, + Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims. + Such harmony is in immortal souls; + But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay + Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.” + </pre> + <p> + The first lines of this poem are conceived in the very spirit of the poems + of “Twelfth Night,” and in the last lines Shakespeare puts to use that + divine imagination which lifts all his best verse into the higher air of + life, and reaches its noblest in Prospero's solemn-sad lyric. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare's love of music is so much a part of himself that he condemns + those who do not share it; this argument, too, is given to Lorenzo: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The man that hath no music to himself, + Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, + Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; + The motions of his spirit are dull as night, + And his affections dark as Erebus: + Let no such man be trusted.” + </pre> + <p> + That this view was not merely the expression of a passing mood is shown by + the fact that Shakespeare lends no music to his villains; but Timon gives + welcome to his friends with music, just as Hamlet welcomes the players + with music and Portia calls for music while her suitors make their + eventful choice. Titania and Oberon both seek the aid of music to help + them in their loves, and the war-worn and time-worn Henry IV. prays for + music to bring some rest to his “weary spirit”; in much the same mood + Prospero desires music when he breaks his wand and resigns his magical + powers. + </p> + <p> + Here, again, in “Twelfth Night” in full manhood Shakespeare shows himself + to us as Romeo, in love with flowers and music and passion. True, this + Orsino is a little less occupied with verbal quips, a little more frankly + sensual, too, than Romeo; but then Romeo would have been more frankly + sensual had he lived from twenty-five to thirty-five. As an older man, + too, Orsino has naturally more of Hamlet-Shakespeare's peculiar traits + than Romeo showed; the contempt of wealth and love of solitude are + qualities hardly indicated in Romeo, while in Orsino as in the mature + Shakespeare they are salient characteristics. To sum up: Hamlet-Macbeth + gives us Shakespeare's mind; but in Romeo-Orsino he has discovered his + heart and poetic temperament to us as ingenuously, though not, perhaps, so + completely, as he does in the Sonnets. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. SHAKESPEARE'S HUMOUR: FALSTAFF + </h2> + <p> + Shakespeare's portraits of himself are not to be mistaken; the changes in + him caused by age bring into clearer light the indestructible + individuality, and no difference of circumstance or position has any + effect upon this distinctive character: whether he is the lover, Romeo; + the murderer, Macbeth; the courtier, Hamlet; or the warrior, Posthumus; he + is always the same—a gentle yet impulsive nature, sensuous at once + and meditative; half poet, half philosopher, preferring nature and his own + reveries to action and the life of courts; a man physically fastidious to + disgust, as is a delicate woman, with dirt and smells and common things; + an idealist daintily sensitive to all courtesies, chivalries, and + distinctions. The portrait is not yet complete—far from it, indeed; + but already it is manifest that Shakespeare's nature was so complex, so + tremulously poised between world-wide poles of poetry and philosophy, of + what is individual and concrete on the one hand and what is abstract and + general on the other, that the task of revealing himself was singularly + difficult. It is not easy even to describe him as he painted himself: it + may be that, wishing to avoid a mere catalogue of disparate qualities, I + have brought into too great prominence the gentle passionate side of + Shakespeare's nature; though that would be difficult and in any case no + bad fault; for this is the side which has hitherto been neglected or + rather overlooked by the critics. + </p> + <p> + My view of Shakespeare can be made clearer by examples. I began by taking + Hamlet the philosopher as Shakespeare's most profound and complex study, + and went on to prove that Hamlet is the most complete portrait which + Shakespeare has given of himself, other portraits being as it were sides + of Hamlet or less successful <i>replicas</i> of him; and finally I tried + to complete the Hamlet by uniting him with Duke Orsino, Orsino the + poet-lover being, so to speak, Shakespeare's easiest and most natural + portrait. In Hamlet, if one may dare to say so, Shakespeare has discovered + too much of himself: Hamlet is at one and the same time philosopher and + poet, critic and courtier, lover and cynic—the extremes that + Shakespeare's intellect could cover—and he fills every part so + easily that he might almost be a bookish Admirable Crichton, a type of + perfection rather than an individual man, were it not for his feminine + gentleness and forgivingness of nature, and particularly for the brooding + melancholy and disbelief which darkened Shakespeare's outlook at the time. + But though the melancholy scepticism was an abiding characteristic of + Shakespeare, to be found in his Richard II. as in his Prospero, it did not + overshadow all his being as it does Hamlet's. There was a summer-time, + too, in Shakespeare's life, and in his nature a capacity for sunny gaiety + and a delight in life and love which came to full expression in the golden + comedies, “Much Ado,” “As You Like It” and “Twelfth Night.” The complement + to Hamlet the sad philosopher-sceptic is the sensuous happy poet-lover + Orsino, and when we take these seeming antitheses and unite them we have a + good portrait of Shakespeare. But these two, Hamlet and Orsino, are in + reality one; every quality of Orsino is to be found or divined in Hamlet, + and therefore the easiest and surest way to get at Shakespeare is to take + Hamlet and deepen those peculiarities in him which we find in Orsino. + </p> + <p> + Some critics are sure to say that I have now given a portrait of Coleridge + rather than a portrait of Shakespeare. This is not altogether the fact, + though I for one see no shame in acknowledging the likeness. Coleridge had + a “smack of Hamlet” in him, as he himself saw; indeed, in his rich + endowment as poet and philosopher, and in his gentleness and sweetness of + disposition, he was more like Shakespeare than any other Englishman whom I + can think of; but in Coleridge the poet soon disappeared, and a little + later the philosopher in him faded into the visionary and sophist; he + became an upholder of the English Church and found reasons in the + immutable constitution of the universe for aprons and shovel-hats. + Shakespeare, on the other hand, though similarly endowed, was far more + richly endowed: he had stronger passions and greater depth of feeling; the + sensuousness of Keats was in him; and this richness of nature not only + made him a greater lyric poet than Coleridge and a far saner thinker, but + carried him in spite of a constitutional dislike of resolve and action to + his astounding achievement. + </p> + <p> + But even when we thus compare Shakespeare with Coleridge, as we compare + trees of the same species, showing that as the roots of the one go deeper + and take a firmer hold of earth, so in exact measure the crest rises into + higher air, still there is something lacking to our comparison. Even when + we hold Hamlet-Orsino before us as the best likeness of the master-poet, + our impression of him is still incomplete. + </p> + <p> + There remains a host of creations from Launce to Autolycus, and from Dame + Quickly to Maria, which proves that Shakespeare was something more than + the gentle lover-thinker-poet whom we have shown. It is Shakespeare's + humour that differentiates him not only from Coleridge and Keats, but also + from the world-poets, Goethe, Dante, and Homer. It is this unique + endowment that brings him into vital touch with reality and common life, + and hinders us from feeling his all-pervading ideality as disproportioned + or one-sided. Strip him of his humour and he would have been seen long ago + in his true proportions. His sympathies are not more broad and generous + than Balzac's; his nature is too delicate, too sensitive, too sensuous; + but his humour blinds us to the truth. Of course his comic characters, + like his captains and men of action, are due originally to his faculty of + observation; but while his observation of the fighting men is always + superficial and at times indifferent, his humorous observation is so + intensely interested and sympathetic that its creations are only inferior + in artistic value to his portraits of the poet-philosopher-lover. + </p> + <p> + The intellect in him had little or nothing to go upon in the case of the + man of action; he never loved the Captain or watched him at work; it is + his mind and second-hand knowledge that made Henry V. and Richard III.; + and how slight and shallow are these portraits in comparison with the + portrait of a Parolles or a Sir Toby Belch, or the ever-famous Nurse, + where the same intellect has played about the humorous trait and + heightened the effect of loving observation. The critics who have + ignorantly praised his Hotspur and Bastard as if he had been a man of + deeds as well as a man of words have only obscured the truth that + Shakespeare the poet-philosopher, the lover <i>quand même</i>, only + reached a sane balance of nature through his overflowing humour. He whose + intellect and sensibilities inspired him with nothing but contempt and + loathing for the mass of mankind, the aristocrat who in a dozen plays + sneers at the greasy caps and foul breaths of the multitude, fell in love + with Dogberry, and Bottom, Quickly and Tearsheet, clod and clown, pimp and + prostitute, for the laughter they afforded. His humour is rarely sardonic; + it is almost purged of contempt; a product not of hate but of love; full + of sympathy; summer-lightning humour, harmless and beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes the sympathy fails and the laughter grows grim, and these lapses + are characteristic. He hates false friends and timeservers, the whole + tribe of the ungrateful, the lords of Timon's acquaintance and his + artists; he loathes Shylock, whose god is greed and who battens on others' + misfortunes; he laughs at the self-righteous Malvolio and not with him, + and takes pleasure in unmasking the pretended ascetic and Puritan Angelo; + but for the frailties of the flesh he has an ever-ready forgiveness. Like + the greatest of ethical teachers, he can take the publican and the sinner + to his heart, but not the hypocrite or the Pharisee or the money-lender. + </p> + <p> + It does not come within the scope of this essay to attempt a detailed + criticism of Shakespeare's comic characters; it will be enough for my + purpose to show that even in his masterpiece of humour, the incomparable + Falstaff, he betrays himself more than once: more than once we shall find + Shakespeare, the poet, or Shakespeare, the thinker, speaking through + Falstaff's mouth. Yet to criticize Falstaff is difficult, and if easy, it + would still be an offence to those capable of gratitude. I would as soon + find fault with Ariel's most exquisite lyric, or the impeccable loveliness + of the “Dove Sono,” as weigh the rich words of the Lord of Comedy in small + balances of reason. But such considerations must not divert me from my + purpose; I have undertaken to discover the very soul of Shakespeare, and I + must, therefore, trace him in Falstaff as in Hamlet. + </p> + <p> + Falstaff enters and asks the Prince the time. The Prince answers that + unless “hours were cups of sack and so forth, he can't understand why + Falstaff should care about anything so superfluous as time.” Falstaff + replies: “Indeed you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go by + the moon and the seven stars and not by Phoebus, he, 'that wandering + knight so fair.'” Here we have a sort of lyrical strain in Falstaff and + then a tag of poetry which gives food for thought; but his next speech is + unmistakable: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, + minions of the moon; and let men say we be men of + good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our + noble and chaste mistress, the moon, under whose + countenance we—steal.” + </pre> + <p> + This is Shakespeare speaking, and Shakespeare alone: the phrases sing to + us in the unmistakable music of the master-poet, though the fall at the + last to “—steal,” seems to be an attempt to get into the character + of Falstaff. It is, of course, difficult to make the first words of a + person sharply characteristic; a writer is apt to work himself into a new + character gradually; it is only the sensitive self-consciousness of our + time that demands an absolute fidelity in characterization from the first + word to the last. Yet this scene is so excellent and natural, that the + uncertainty in the painting of Falstaff strikes me as peculiar. But this + first speech is not the only speech of Falstaff in which Shakespeare + betrays himself; again and again we catch the very accent of the poet. It + is not Falstaff but Shakespeare who says that “the poor abuses of the time + want countenance”; and later in the play, when the character of Falstaff + is fully developed, it is Shakespeare, the thinker, who calls Falstaff's + ragged regiment “the cankers of a calm world and a long peace.” In just + the same way Hamlet speaks of the expedition of Fortinbras: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace, + That inward breaks.” + </pre> + <p> + But though the belief that Shakespeare sometimes falls out of the + character and slips phrases of his own into Falstaff's mouth is + well-founded, it should nevertheless be put aside as a heresy, for the + true faith is that the white-bearded old footpad who cheered on his + fellow-ruffians with + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Strike.... Bacon-fed knaves! they hate us youth: + down with them! fleece them!” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +and again: + “On, bacons, on! What, ye knaves! young men + must live!” + </pre> + <p> + is the most splendid piece of humorous portraiture in the world's fiction. + </p> + <p> + Who but Falstaff would have found his self-justification in his youth?—<i>splendide + mendax</i>! and yet the excuse is as true to his sack-heated blood when he + uses it on Gadshill as it was true also to fact when he first used it + forty years before. And who but Falstaff would have had the words of + repentance always on his lips and never in his heart? I ascribe these + illuminating flashes to Falstaff, and not to Shakespeare, for no + imagination in the world has yet accomplished such a miracle; as a miracle + of representment Falstaff is astonishing enough, as a miracle of creation + he is simply unthinkable. I would almost as soon believe that Falstaff + made Shakespeare as that Shakespeare made Falstaff without a living model. + All hail to thee, inimitable, incomparable Jack! Never before or since has + poet been blessed with such a teacher, as rich and laughterful, as + mendacious and corrupting as life itself. + </p> + <p> + I must not be taken to mean that the living original of Falstaff was as + richly humorous, as inexhaustibly diverting as the dramatic counterfeit + who is now a citizen and chief personage in that world of literature which + outlasts all the fleeting shows of the so-called real world. It seems to + me to be possible for a good reader to notice not only Shakespeare's + lapses and faults in the drawing of this character, but also to make a + very fair guess at his heightening touches, and so arrive at last at the + humorous old lewdster who furnished the living model for the inimitable + portrait. The first scene in which Falstaff appears talking with Prince + Henry will supply examples to illustrate my meaning. + </p> + <p> + Falstaff's very first speech after he asks Hal the time of day gives us + the key; he ends it with: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And I pr'ythee, sweet wag, when thou art king,—as, + God save thy grace—majesty, I should say, for grace + thou wilt have none,—” + </pre> + <p> + Here he is interrupted and breaks off, but a minute or two later he comes + back again to his argument, and curiously enough uses exactly the same + words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But, I pr'ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows + standing in England when thou art king? and resolution + thus fobbed as it is with the rusty curb of old father + Antick, the law?” + </pre> + <p> + Now, this question and the hope it expresses that justice would be put to + shame in England on Prince Henry's accession to the throne is taken from a + speech of the Prince in the old play, “The Famous Victories of Henry the + Fifth.” Shakespeare would have done better to leave it out, for Falstaff + has far too good brains to imagine that all thieves could ever have his + licence and far too much conceit ever to desire so unholy a consummation. + And Shakespeare must have felt that the borrowed words were too + shallow-common, for he immediately falls back on his own brains for the + next phrase and gives us of his hoarded best. The second part of the + question, “resolution thus fobbed,” and so forth, is only another + statement of the famous couplet in “Richard III.”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Conscience is but a word that cowards use, + Devised at first to keep the strong in awe.” + </pre> + <p> + These faults show that Shakespeare is at first unsure of his personage; he + fumbles a little; yet the vivacity, the roaring life, is certainly a + quality of the original Falstaff, for it attends him as constantly as his + shadow; the pun, too, is his, and the phrase “sweet wag” is probably taken + from his mouth, for he repeats it again, “sweet wag,” and again “mad wag.” + The shamelessness, too, and the lechery are marks of him, and the love of + witty word-warfare, and, above all, the pretended repentance: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art, indeed, + able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm + upon me, Hal,—God forgive thee for it. Before I knew + thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man + should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. + I must give over this life, and I will give it over; by the + Lord, an I do not, I am a villain; I'll be damned for + never a king's son in Christendom.” + </pre> + <p> + In this first scene between Falstaff and Prince Henry, Shakespeare is + feeling his way, so to speak, blindfold to Falstaff, with gropings of + memory and dashes of poetry that lead him past the mark. In this first + scene, as we noticed, he puts fine lyric phrases in Falstaff's mouth; but + he never repeats the experiment; Falstaff and high poetry are anti-podes—all + of which merely proves that at first Shakespeare had not got into the skin + of his personage. But the real Falstaff had probably tags of verse in + memory and lilts of song, for Shakespeare repeats this trait. Here we + reach the test: Whenever a feature is accentuated by repetition, we may + guess that it belongs to the living model. There was assuredly a strong + dash of Puritanism in the real Falstaff, for when Shakespeare comes to + render this, he multiplies the brush-strokes with perfect confidence; + Falstaff is perpetually repenting. + </p> + <p> + After the first scene Shakespeare seems to have made up his mind to keep + closely to his model and only to permit himself heightening touches. + </p> + <p> + In order to come closer to the original, I will now take another passage + later in the play, when Shakespeare is drawing Falstaff with a sure hand: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Fal</i>. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance + too! marry and amen!—Give me a cup of sack, boy.— + Ere I lead this life long, I'll sew netherstocks, and mend + them, and foot them, too. A plague of all cowards!— + give me a cup of sack, rogue.—Is there no virtue extant? + {<i>Drinks</i>.}” + </pre> + <p> + Here is surely the true Falstaff; he will not lead this life long; this is + the soul of him; but the exquisite heightening phrase, “Is there no virtue + extant?” is pure Shakespeare, Shakespeare generalizing as we saw him + generalizing in just the same way in the scene where Cade is talked of in + the Second Part of “King Henry VI.” The form too is Shakespeare's. Who + does not remember the magic line in “The Two Noble Kinsmen “? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “She is all the beauty extant.” + </pre> + <p> + And the next speech of Falstaff is just as illuminating: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Fal</i>. You rogue, here's lime in this sack, too; there is + nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man: yet a coward + is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it—a villainous + coward.—Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, + good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I + a shotten herring. There live not three good men unhanged in + England, and one of them is fat and grows old: God help the + while! A bad world I say——” + </pre> + <p> + At the beginning the concrete fact, then generalization, and then merely a + repetition of the traits marked in the first scene, with the addition of + bragging. Evidently Shakespeare has the model in memory as he writes. I + say “evidently,” for Falstaff is the only character in Shakespeare that + repeats the same words with damnable iteration, and in whom the same + traits are shown again and again and again. When Shakespeare is painting + himself in Richard II. he depicts irresolution again and again as he + depicts it also in Hamlet; but neither Hamlet nor Richard repeats the same + words, nor is any trait in either of them accentuated so grossly as are + the principal traits of Falstaff's character. The features in Falstaff + which are so harped upon, are to me the features of the original model. + Shakespeare did not know Falstaff quite as well as he knew himself; so he + has to confine himself to certain qualities which he had observed, and + stick, besides, to certain tags of speech, which were probably favourites + with the living man. + </p> + <p> + In another important particular, too, Falstaff is unlike any other comic + character in Shakespeare: he tells the truth about himself in a magical + way. The passage I allude to is the first speech made by Falstaff in the + Second Part of “Henry IV.”; it shows us Shakespeare getting into the + character again—after a certain lapse of time: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Fal</i>. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me; the + brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able + to invent anything that tends to laughter, more than I + invent or is invented on me: I am not only witty in myself, + but the cause that wit is in other men—” + </pre> + <p> + Just as in the first act Shakespeare introducing Falstaff makes him talk + poetically, so here there is a certain exaltation and lyrical swing which + betrays the poet-creator. “Foolish-compounded,” too, shows Shakespeare's + hand, but the boast, I feel sure, was a boast often made by the original, + and thus brings Shakespeare into intimate union with the character; for + after this introduction Falstaff goes on to talk pure Falstaff, unmixed + with any slightest dash of poetry. + </p> + <p> + Who was the original of Falstaff? Is a guess possible? It seems to me it + must have been some lover of poetry—perhaps Chettle, the Chettle who + years before had published Greene's attack upon Shakespeare and who + afterwards made amends for it. In Dekker's tract, “A Knight's Conjuring,” + Chettle figures among the poets in Elysium: “In comes Chettle sweating and + blowing by reason of his fatnes; to welcome whom, because hee was of olde + acquaintance, all rose up, and fell presentlie on their knees, to drinck a + health to all the louers of Hellicon.” Here we have a fat man greeted with + laughter and mock reverence by the poets—just such a model as + Shakespeare needed, but the guess is mere conjecture: we don't know enough + about Chettle to be at all sure. Yet Chettle was by way of being a poet, + and Falstaff uses tags of verse—still, as I say, it is all pure + guesswork. The only reason I put his name forward is that some have talked + of Ben Jonson as Falstaff's original merely because he was fat. I cannot + believe that gentle Shakespeare would ever have treated Jonson with such + contempt; but Chettle seems to have been a butt by nature. + </p> + <p> + That Falstaff was taken from one model is to me certain. Shakespeare very + seldom tells us what his characters look like; whenever he gives us a + photograph, so to speak, of a person, it is always taken from life and + extraordinarily significant. We have several portraits of Falstaff: the + Prince gives a picture of the “old fat man,...” that trunk of humours “... + that old white-bearded Satan”; the Chief Justice gives us another of his + “moist eye, white beard, increasing belly and double chin.” Falstaff + himself has another: “a goodly portly man, i' faith and a corpulent; of a + cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage.” Such physical + portraiture alone would convince me that there was a living model for + Falstaff. But there are more obvious arguments: the other humorous + characters of Shakespeare are infinitely inferior to Falstaff, and the + best of them are merely sides of Falstaff or poor reflections of him. + Autolycus and Parolles have many of his traits, but they are not old, and + taken together, they are only a faint <i>replica</i> of the immortal + footpad. + </p> + <p> + Listening with my heart in my ears, I catch a living voice, a round, fat + voice with tags of “pr'ythee,” “wag,” and “marry,” and behind the + inimitable dramatic counterfeit I see a big man with a white head and + round belly who loved wine and women and jovial nights, a Triton among the + minnows of boon companions, whose shameless effrontery was backed by + cunning, whose wit though common was abundant and effective through long + practice—a sort of licensed tavern-king, whose mere entrance into a + room set the table in a roar. Shakespeare was attracted by the many-sided + racy ruffian, delighted perhaps most by his easy mastery of life and men; + he studied him with infinite zest, absorbed him wholly, and afterwards + reproduced him with such richness of sympathy, such magic of enlarging + invention that he has become, so to speak, the symbol of laughter + throughout the world, for men of all races the true Comic Muse. + </p> + <p> + In any case I may be allowed one last argument. The Falstaff of “The Merry + Wives of Windsor” is not the Falstaff of the two parts of “King Henry + IV.”; it is but a shadow of the great knight that we see, an echo of him + that we hear in the later comedy. Falstaff would never have written the + same letter to Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page; there was too much fancy in him, + too much fertility, too much delight in his own mind- and word-wealth ever + to show himself so painfully stinted and barren. Nor is it credible that + Falstaff would ever have fallen three times running into the same trap; + Falstaff made traps; he did not fall into them. We know, too, that + Falstaff would not fight “longer than he saw reason”; his instinct of + self-preservation was largely developed; but he could face a sword; he + drew on Pistol and chased him from the room; he was not such a pitiful + coward as to take Ford's cudgelling. Finally, the Falstaff whom we all + know could never have been befooled by the Welshman and his child-fairies. + And this objection Shakespeare himself felt, for he meets it by making + Falstaff explain how near he came to discovering the fraud, and how wit is + made “a Jack-a-Lent when 'tis upon ill employment.” But the fact that some + explanation is necessary is an admission of the fault. Falstaff must + indeed have laid his brains in the sun before he could have been taken in + by foppery so gross and palpable. This is not the same man who at once + recognized the Prince and Poins through their disguise as drawers. Yet + there are moments when the Falstaff of “The Merry Wives” resumes his old + nature. For example, when he is accused by Pistol of sharing in the + proceeds of the theft, he answers with all the old shameless wit: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Reason, you rogue, reason; think'st thou I'll endanger + my soul gratis?” + </pre> + <p> + and, again, when he has been cozened and beaten, he speaks almost in the + old way: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. + Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my + prayers, I would repent.” + </pre> + <p> + But on the whole the Falstaff of “The Merry Wives” is but a poor thin + shadow of the Falstaff of the two parts of “Henry IV.” + </p> + <p> + Had “The Merry Wives” been produced under ordinary conditions, one would + have had to rack one's brains to account for its feebleness. Not only is + the genial Lord of Humour degraded in it into a buffoon, but the amusement + of it is chiefly in situation; it is almost as much a farce as a comedy. + For these and other reasons I believe in the truth of the tradition that + Elizabeth was so pleased with the character of Falstaff that she ordered + Shakespeare to write another play showing the fat knight in love, and that + in obedience to this command Shakespeare wrote “The Merry Wives” in a + fortnight. For what does a dramatist do when he is in a hurry to strike + while the iron is hot and to catch a Queen's fancy before it changes? + Naturally he goes to his memory for his characters, to that vivid memory + of youth which makes up by precision of portraiture for what it lacks in + depth of comprehension. And this is the distinguishing characteristic of + “The Merry Wives,” particularly in the beginning. Even without “the dozen + white luces” in his coat, one would swear that this Justice Shallow, with + his pompous pride of birth and his stilted stupidity, is a portrait from + life, some Sir Thomas Lucy or other, and Justice Shallow is not so deeply + etched in as his cousin, Master Slender—“a little wee face, with a + little yellow beard,—a cane-coloured beard.” Such physical + portraiture, as I have said, is very rare and very significant in + Shakespeare. This photograph is slightly malevolent, too, as of one whose + malice is protected by a Queen's commission. Those who do not believe + traditions when thus circumstantially supported would not believe though + one rose from the dead to witness to them. “The Merry Wives” is worthful + to me as the only piece of Shakespeare's journalism that we possess; here + we find him doing task-work, and doing it at utmost speed. Those who wish + to measure the difference between the conscious, deliberate work of the + artist and the hurried slap-dash performance of the journalist, have only + to compare the Falstaff of “The Merry Wives” with the Falstaff of the two + parts of “Henry IV.” But if we take it for granted that “The Merry Wives” + was done in haste and to order, can any inference be fairly drawn from the + feebleness of Falstaff and the unreality of his love-making? I think so; + it seems to me that, if Falstaff had been a creation, Shakespeare must + have reproduced him more effectively. His love-making in the second part + of “Henry IV.” is real enough. But just because Falstaff was taken from + life, and studied from the outside, Shakespeare having painted him once + could not paint him again, he had exhausted his model and could only echo + him. + </p> + <p> + The heart of the matter is that, whereas Shakespeare's men of action, when + he is not helped by history or tradition, are thinly conceived and poorly + painted, his comic characters—Falstaff, Sir Toby Belch, and + Dogberry; Maria, Dame Quickly, and the Nurse, creatures of observation + though they be, are only inferior as works of art to the portraits of + himself which he has given us in Romeo, Hamlet, Macbeth, Orsino, and + Posthumus. It is his humour which makes Shakespeare the greatest of + dramatists, the most complete of men. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK II. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. SHAKESPEARE'S EARLY ATTEMPTS TO PORTRAY HIMSELF AND HIS WIFE: + BIRON, ADRIANA, VALENTINE + </h2> + <p> + In the preceding chapters I have considered those impersonations of + Shakespeare which revealed most distinctly the salient features of his + character. I now regard this part of my work as finished: the outlines at + least of his nature are established beyond dispute, and I may therefore be + permitted to return upon my steps, and beginning with the earliest works + pass in review most of the other personages who discover him, however + feebly or profoundly. Hitherto I have rather challenged contradiction than + tried to conciliate or persuade; it was necessary to convince the reader + that Shakespeare was indeed Hamlet-Orsino, plus an exquisite sense of + humour; and as the proofs of this were almost inexhaustible, and as the + stability of the whole structure depended on the firmness of the + foundations, I was more than willing to call forth opposition in order + once for all to strangle doubt. But now that I have to put in the finer + traits of the portrait I have to hope for the goodwill at least of my + readers. Even then my task is not easy. The subtler traits of a man's + character often elude accurate description, to say nothing of exact proof; + the differences in tone between a dramatist's own experiences of life and + his observation of the experiences of others are often so slight as to be + all but unnoticeable. In the case of some peculiarities I have only a mere + suggestion to go upon, in that of others a bare surmise, a hint so + fleeting that it may well seem to the judicious as if the meshes of + language were too coarse to catch such evanescent indication. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately in this work I am not called on to limit myself to that which + can be proved beyond question, or to the ordinary man. I think my reader + will allow me, or indeed expect me, now to throw off constraint and finish + my picture as I please. + </p> + <p> + In this second book then I shall try to correct Shakespeare's portraits of + himself by bringing out his concealed faults and vices—the + shortcomings one's vanity slurs over and omits. Above all I shall try to + notice anything that throws light upon his life, for I have to tell here + the story of his passion and his soul's wreck. At the crisis of his life + he revealed himself almost without affectation; in agony men forget to + pose. And this more intimate understanding of the man will enable us to + reconstruct, partially at least, the happenings of his life, and so trace + not only his development, but the incidents of his life's journey from his + school days in 1575 till he crept home to Stratford to die nearly forty + years later. + </p> + <p> + The chief academic critics, such as Professor Dowden and Dr. Brandes, take + pains to inform us that Biron in “Love's Labour's Lost” is nothing but an + impersonation of Shakespeare. This would show much insight on the part of + the Professors were it not that Coleridge as usual has been before them, + and that Coleridge's statement is to be preferred to theirs. Coleridge was + careful to say that the whole play revealed many of Shakespeare's + characteristic features, and he added finely, “as in a portrait taken of + him in his boyhood.” This is far truer than Dowden's more precise + statement that “Berowne is the exponent of Shakespeare's own thought.” For + though, of course, Biron is especially the mouthpiece of the poet, yet + Shakespeare reveals himself in the first speech of the King as clearly as + he does in any speech of Biron: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let Fame, that all hunt after in their lives, + Live registered upon our brazen tombs, + And then grace us in the disgrace of death; + When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, + The endeavour of this present breath may buy + That honour which shall 'bate his scythe's keen edge, + And make us heirs of all eternity.” + </pre> + <p> + The King's criticism, too, of Armado in the first scene is more finely + characteristic of Shakespeare than Biron's criticism of Boyet in the last + act. In this, his first drama, Shakespeare can hardly sketch a sympathetic + character without putting something of himself into it. + </p> + <p> + I regard “Love's Labour's Lost” as Shakespeare's earliest comedy, not only + because the greater part of it is in rhymed verse, but also because he was + unable in it to individualize his serious personages at all; the comic + characters, on the other hand, are already carefully observed and + distinctly differenced. Biron himself is scarcely more than a charming + sketch: he is almost as interested in language as in love, and he plays + with words till they revenge themselves by obscuring his wit; he is filled + with the high spirits of youth; in fact, he shows us the form and pressure + of the Renaissance as clearly as the features of Shakespeare. It is, + however, Biron-Shakespeare, who understands that the real world is built + on broader natural foundations than the King's womanless Academe, and + therefore predicts the failure of the ascetic experiment. Another trait in + Biron that brings us close to Shakespeare is his contempt for + book-learning; + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Small have continual plodders ever won + Save bare authority from others' books. + - - - - - - - - + Too much to know is to know nought but fame; + And every godfather can give a name.” + </pre> + <p> + Again and again he returns to the charge: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To study now it is too late, + Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate.” + </pre> + <p> + The summing up is triumphant: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “So, study evermore is overshot.” + </pre> + <p> + In fine, Biron ridicules study at such length and with such earnestness + and pointed phrase that it is manifest the discussion was intensely + interesting to Shakespeare himself. But we should have expected + Shakespeare's <i>alter ego</i> to be arguing on the other side; for again + and again we have had to notice that Shakespeare was a confirmed lover of + books; he was always using bookish metaphors, and Hamlet was a student by + nature. This attitude on the part of Biron, then, calls for explanation, + and it seems to me that the only possible explanation is to be found in + Shakespeare's own experience. Those who know England as she was in the + days of Elizabeth, or as she is to-day, will hardly need to be told that + when Shakespeare first came to London he was regarded as an unlettered + provincial (“with little Latin and less Greek”), and had to bear the mocks + and flouts of his beschooled fellows, who esteemed learning and gentility + above genius. In his very first independent play he answered the scorners + with scorn. But this disdain of study was not Shakespeare's real feeling; + and his natural loyalty to the deeper truth forced him to make Biron + contradict and excuse his own argument in a way which seems to me + altogether charming; but is certainly undramatic: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “—Though I have for barbarism spoke more + Than for that angel knowledge you can say.” + </pre> + <p> + Undramatic the declaration is because it is at war with the length and + earnestness with which Biron has maintained his contempt for learning; but + here undoubtedly we find the true Shakespeare who as a youth speaks of + “that angel, knowledge,” just as in “Cymbeline” twenty years later he + calls reverence, “that angel of the world.” + </p> + <p> + When we come to his “Life” we shall see that Shakespeare, who was thrown + into the scrimmage of existence as a youth, and had to win his own way in + the world, had, naturally enough, a much higher opinion of books and + book-learning than Goethe, who was bred a student and knew life only as an + amateur: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Einen Blick in's Buch hinein und zwei in's Leben + Das muss die rechte Form dem Geiste geben.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare would undoubtedly have given “two glances” to books and one to + life, had he been free to choose; but perhaps after all Goethe was right + in warning us that life is more valuable to the artist than any transcript + of it. + </p> + <p> + To return to our theme; Biron is not among Shakespeare's successful + portraits of himself. As might be expected in a first essay, the drawing + is now over-minute, now too loose. When Biron talks of study, he reveals, + as we have seen, personal feelings that are merely transient; on the other + hand, when he talks about Boyet he talks merely to hear “the music of his + own vain tongue.” He is, however, always nimble-witted and impulsive; + “quick Biron” as the Princess calls him, a gentleman of charming manners, + of incomparable fluent, graceful, and witty speech, which qualities + afterwards came to blossom in Mercutio and Gratiano. The faults in + portraiture are manifestly due to inexperience: Shakespeare was still too + youthful-timid to paint his chief features boldly, and it is left for + Rosaline to picture Biron for us as Shakespeare doubtless desired to + appear: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A merrier man, + Within the limits of becoming mirth, + I never spent an hour's talk withal. + His eye begets occasion for his wit; + For every object that the one doth catch, + The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, + Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor, + Delivers in such apt and gracious words + That agèd ears play truant at his tales, + And younger hearings are quite ravishèd, + So sweet and voluble is his discourse.” + </pre> + <p> + Every touch of this self-painted portrait deserves to be studied: it is + the first photograph of our poet which we possess—a photograph, too, + taken in early manhood. Shakespeare's wit we knew, his mirth too, and that + his conversation was voluble and sweet enough to ravish youthful ears and + enthrall the aged we might have guessed from Jonson's report. But it is + delightful to hear of his mirth-moving words and to know that he regarded + himself as the best talker in the world. But just as the play at the end + turns from love-making and gay courtesies to thoughts of death and + “world-without-end” pledges, so Biron's merriment is only the + effervescence of youth, and love brings out in him Shakespeare's + characteristic melancholy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to + rhyme, and to be melancholy.” + </pre> + <p> + Again and again, as in his apology to Rosaline and his appeal at the end + of the play to “honest plain words,” he shows a deep underlying + seriousness. The soul of quick talkative mirthful Biron is that he loves + beauty whether of women or of words, and though he condemns “taffeta + phrases,” he shows his liking for the “silken terms precise” in the very + form of his condemnation. + </p> + <p> + Of course all careful readers know that the greater seriousness of the + last two acts of “Love's Labour's Lost,” and the frequent use of blank + verse instead of rhymed verse in them, are due to the fact that + Shakespeare revised the play in 1597, some eight or nine years probably + after he had first written it. Every one must have noticed the repetitions + in Biron's long speech at the end of the fourth act, which show the + original garment and the later, finer embroidery. As I shall have to + return to this revision for other reasons, it will be enough here to + remark that it is especially the speeches of Biron which Shakespeare + improved in the second handling + </p> + <p> + Dr. Brandes, or rather Coleridge, tells us that in Biron and his Rosaline + we have the first hesitating sketch of the masterly Benedick and Beatrice + of “Much Ado about Nothing”; but in this I think Coleridge goes too far. + Unformed as Biron is, he is Shakespeare in early youth, whereas in + Benedick the likeness is not by any means so clear. In fact, Benedick is + merely an admirable stage silhouette and needs to be filled out with an + actor's personality. Beatrice, on the other hand, is a woman of a very + distinct type, whereas Rosaline needs pages of explanation, which + Coleridge never dreamed of. A certain similarity rather of situation than + of character seems to have misled Coleridge in this instance. Boyet jests + with Maria and Rosaline just as Biron does, and just as Benedick jests + with Beatrice: all these scenes simply show how intensely young + Shakespeare enjoyed a combat of wits, spiced with the suggestiveness that + nearly always shows itself when the combatants are of different sexes. + </p> + <p> + It is almost certain that “Love's Labour's Lost” was wholly conceived and + constructed as well as written by Shakespeare; no play or story has yet + been found which might, in this case, have served him as a model. For the + first and probably the last time he seems to have taken the entire drama + from his imagination, and the result from a playwright's point of view is + unfortunate; “Love's Labour's Lost” is his slightest and feeblest play. It + is scarcely ever seen on the stage—is, indeed, practically + unactable. This fact goes to confirm the view already put forth more than + once in these pages, that Shakespeare was not a good playwright and took + little or no interest in the external incidents of his dramas. The plot + and action of the story, so carefully worked out by the ordinary + playwright and so highly esteemed by critics and spectators, he always + borrows, as if he had recognized the weakness of this first attempt, and + when he sets himself to construct a play, it has no action, no plot—is, + indeed, merely a succession of fantastic occurrences that give occasion + for light love-making and brilliant talk. Even in regard to the grouping + of characters the construction of his early plays is puerile, mechanical; + in “Love's Labour's Lost” the King with his three courtiers is set against + the Princess and her three ladies; in “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” there + is the faithful Valentine opposed to the inconstant Proteus, and each of + them has a comic servant; and when later his plays from this point of view + were not manufactured but grew, and thus assumed the beautiful irregular + symmetry of life, the incidents were still neglected. Neither the poet nor + the philosopher in Shakespeare felt much of the child's interest in the + story; he chose his tales for the sake of the characters and the poetry, + and whether they were effective stage-tales or not troubled him but + little. There is hardly more plot or action in “Lear” than in “Love's + Labour's Lost.” + </p> + <p> + It is probable that “The Comedy of Errors” followed hard on the heels of + “Love's Labour's Lost.” It practically belongs to the same period: it has + fewer lines of prose in it than “Love's Labour's Lost”; but, on the other + hand, the intrigue-spinning is clever, and the whole play shows a riper + knowledge of theatrical conditions. Perhaps because the intrigue is more + interesting, the character-drawing is even feebler than that of the + earlier comedy: indeed, so far as the men go there is hardly anything + worth calling character-drawing at all. Shakespeare speaks through this or + that mask as occasion tempts him: and if the women are sharply, crudely + differentiated, it is because Shakespeare, as I shall show later, has + sketched his wife for us in Adriana, and his view of her character is + decided enough if not over kind. Still, any and every peculiarity of + character deserves notice, for in these earliest works Shakespeare is + compelled to use his personal experience, to tell us of his own life and + his own feelings, not having any wider knowledge to draw upon. Every word, + therefore, in these first comedies, is important to those who would learn + the story of his youth and fathom the idiosyncrasies of his being. When + AEgeon, in the opening scenes, tells the Duke about the shipwreck in which + he is separated from his wife and child, he declares that he himself + “would gladly have embraced immediate death.” No reason is given for this + extraordinary contempt of living. It was the “incessant weepings” of his + wife, the “piteous plainings of the pretty babes,” that forced him, he + says, to exert himself. But wives don't weep incessantly in danger, nor + are the “piteous plainings of the pretty babes” a feature of shipwreck; I + find here a little picture of Shakespeare's early married life in + Stratford—a snapshot of memory. AEgeon concludes his account by + saying that his life was prolonged in order + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To tell sad stories of my own mishaps” + </pre> + <p> + —which reminds one of similar words used later by Richard II. This + personal, melancholy note is here forced and false, for Aegeon surely + lives in hope of finding his wife and child and not in order to tell of + his misfortunes. Aegeon is evidently a breath of Shakespeare himself, and + not more than a breath, because he only appears again when the play is + practically finished. Deep-brooding melancholy was the customary habit of + Shakespeare even in youth. + </p> + <p> + Just as in “Love's Labour's Lost” we find Shakespeare speaking first + through the King and then more fully through the hero, Biron, so here he + first speaks through Aegeon and then at greater length through the + protagonist Antipholus of Syracuse. Antipholus is introduced to us as new + come to Ephesus, and Shakespeare is evidently thinking of his own first + day in London when he puts in his mouth these words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Within this hour it will be dinner-time: + Till that, I'll view the manners of the town, + Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings, + And then return and sleep within mine inn; + For with long travel I am stiff and weary.” + </pre> + <p> + Though “stiff and weary” he is too eager-young to rest; he will see + everything—even “peruse the traders”—how the bookish metaphor + always comes to Shakespeare's lips!—before he will eat or sleep. The + utterly needless last line, with its emphatic description—“stiff and + weary”—corroborates my belief that Shakespeare in this passage is + telling us what he himself felt and did on his first arrival in London. In + the second scene of the third act Antipholus sends his servant to the + port: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I will not harbour in this town to-night + If any bark put forth.” + </pre> + <p> + From the fact that Shakespeare represented Antipholus to himself as + wishing to leave Ephesus by sea, it is probable that he pictured him + coming to Ephesus in a ship. But when Shakespeare begins to tell us what + he did on reaching London he recalls his own desires and then his own + feelings; he was “stiff and weary” on that first day because he rode, or + more probably walked, into London; one does not become “stiff and weary” + on board ship. This is another snapshot at that early life of Shakespeare, + and his arrival in London, which one would not willingly miss. And surely + it is the country-bred lad from Stratford who, fearing all manner of + town-tricks, speaks in this way: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They say this town is full of cozenage; + As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, + Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, + Soul-killing witches that deform the body, + Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, + And many such-like liberties of sin: + - - - - - - - - + I greatly fear my money is not safe.” + </pre> + <p> + This Antipholus is most ingenuous-talkative; without being questioned he + tells about his servant: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A trusty villain, sir; that very oft, + When I am dull with care and melancholy, + Lightens my humour with his merry jests.” + </pre> + <p> + And as if this did not mark his peculiar thoughtful temperament + sufficiently, he tells the merchant: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I will go lose myself, + And wander up and down to view the city.” + </pre> + <p> + And when the merchant leaves him, commending him to his own content, he + talks to himself in this strain: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He that commends me to mine own content, + Commends me to the thing I cannot get, + - - - - - - - - - - + So I, to find a mother and a brother, + In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.” + </pre> + <p> + A most curious way, it must be confessed, to seek for any one; but + perfectly natural to the refined, melancholy, meditative, book-loving + temperament which was already Shakespeare's. In this “unhappy” and + “mother” I think I hear an echo of Shakespeare's sorrow at parting from + his own mother. + </p> + <p> + This Antipholus, although very free and open, has a reserve of dignity, as + we see in the second scene of the second act, when he talks with his + servant, who, as he thinks, has played with him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Because that I familiarly sometimes + Do use you for my fool, and chat with you, + Your sauciness will jest upon my love, + And make a common of my serious hours. + When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, + But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.” + </pre> + <p> + The self-esteem seems a little exaggerated here; but, after all, it is + only natural; the whole scene is taken from Shakespeare's experience: the + man who will chat familiarly with his servant, and jest with him as well, + must expect to have to pull him up at times rather sharply. Antipholus + proceeds to play with his servant in a fencing match of wit—a + practice Shakespeare seems to have delighted in. But it is when Antipholus + falls in love with Luciana that he shows us Shakespeare at his most + natural as a lover. Luciana has just taken him to task for not loving her + sister Adriana, who, she thinks, is his wife. Antipholus answers her thus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sweet mistress,—what your name is else, I know not, + Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,— + Less in your knowledge and your face you show not, + Than our earth's wonder; more than earth divine, + Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; + Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, + Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, + The folded meaning of your words' deceit. ...” + </pre> + <p> + He declares, in fact, that he loves her and not her sister: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote: + Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs, + And as a bed I'll take them and there lie; + - - - - - - - - + It is thyself, mine own self's better part, + Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart.” + </pre> + <p> + And as if this were not enough he goes on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, + My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.” + </pre> + <p> + The word-conceits were a fashion of the time; but in spite of the verbal + affectation, the courting shows the cunning of experience, and has, + besides, a sort of echo of sincere feeling. How Shakespeare delights in + making love! It reminds one of the first flutings of a thrush in early + spring; over and over again he tries the notes with delighted iteration + till he becomes a master of his music and charms the copses to silence + with his song: and so Shakespeare sings of love again and again till at + length we get the liquid notes of passion and the trills of joy all + perfected in “Romeo and Juliet”; but the voice is the voice we heard + before in “Venus and Adonis” and “The Comedy of Errors.” + </p> + <p> + Antipholus' other appearances are not important. He merely fills his part + till in the last scene he assures Luciana that he will make good his + earlier protestations of love; but so far as he has any character at all, + or distinctive individuality, he is young Shakespeare himself and his + experiences are Shakespeare's. + </p> + <p> + Now a word or two about Adriana. Shakespeare makes her a jealous, nagging, + violent scold, who will have her husband arrested for debt, though she + will give money to free him. But the comedy of the play would be better + brought out if Adriana were pictured as loving and constant, inflicting + her inconvenient affection upon the false husband as upon the true. Why + did Shakespeare want to paint this unpleasant bitter-tongued wife? + </p> + <p> + When Adriana appears in the first scene of the second act she is at once + sketched in her impatience and jealousy. She wants to know why her husband + should have more liberty than she has, and declares that none but asses + will be bridled so. Then she will strike her servant. In the first five + minutes of this act she is sketched to the life, and Shakespeare does + nothing afterwards but repeat and deepen the same strokes: it seems as if + he knew nothing about her or would depict nothing of her except her + jealousy and nagging, her impatience and violence. We have had occasion to + notice more than once that when Shakespeare repeats touches in this way, + he is drawing from life, from memory, and not from imagination. Moreover, + in this case, he shows us at once that he is telling of his wife, because + she defends herself against the accusation of age, which no one brings + against her, though every one knows that Shakespeare's wife was eight + years older than himself. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His company must do his minions grace, + Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. + Hath homely age the alluring beauty took + From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it ... + ... My decayed fair + A sunny look of his would soon repair: + But, poor unruly deer, he breaks the pale, + And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.” + </pre> + <p> + The appeal is pathetic; but Luciana will not see it. She cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence!” + </pre> + <p> + In the second scene of this second act Adriana goes on nagging in almost + the same way. + </p> + <p> + In the second scene of the third act there is a phrase from the hero, + Antipholus of Syracuse, about Adriana which I find significant: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “She that doth call me husband, even my soul + Doth for a wife abhor!” + </pre> + <p> + There is no reason in the comedy for such strong words. Most men would be + amused or pleased by a woman who makes up to them as Adriana makes up to + Antipholus. I hear Shakespeare in this uncalled-for, over-emphatic “even + my soul doth for a wife abhor.” + </p> + <p> + In the fifth act Adriana is brought before the Abbess, and is proved to be + a jealous scold. Shakespeare will not be satisfied till some impartial + great person of Adriana's own sex has condemned her. Adriana admits that + she has scolded her husband in public and in private, too; the Abbess + replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And thereof came it that the man was mad.” + </pre> + <p> + And she adds: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The venom clamours of a jealous woman + Poisons more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.” + </pre> + <p> + Again, a needlessly emphatic condemnation. But Adriana will not accept the + reproof: she will have her husband at all costs. The whole scene discovers + personal feeling. Adriana is the portrait that Shakespeare wished to give + us of his wife. + </p> + <p> + The learned commentators have seemingly conspired to say as little about + “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” as possible. No one of them identifies the + protagonist, Valentine, with Shakespeare, though all of them identified + Biron with Shakespeare, and yet Valentine, as we shall see, is a far + better portrait of the master than Biron. This untimely blindness of the + critics is, evidently, due to the fact that Coleridge has hardly mentioned + “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” and they have consequently been unable to + parrot his opinions. + </p> + <p> + “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” is manifestly a later work than “Love's + Labour's Lost”; there is more blank verse and less rhyme in it, and a + considerable improvement in character-drawing. Julia, for example, is + individualized and lives for us in her affection and jealousy; her talks + with her maid Lucetta are taken from life; they are indeed the first + sketch of the delightful talks between Portia and Nerissa, and mark an + immense advance upon the wordy <i>badinage</i> of the Princess and her + ladies in “Love's Labour's Lost,” where there was no attempt at + differentiation of character. It seems indubitable to me that “The Two + Gentlemen of Verona” is also later than “The Comedy of Errors,” and just + as far beyond doubt that it is earlier than “A Midsummer Night's Dream,” + in spite of Dr. Furnival's “Trial Table.” + </p> + <p> + The first three comedies, “Love's Labour's Lost,” “The Comedy of Errors,” + and “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” are all noteworthy for the light they + throw on Shakespeare's early life. + </p> + <p> + In “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” Shakespeare makes similar youthful + mistakes in portraiture to those we noticed in “Love's Labour's Lost”; + mistakes which show that he is thinking of himself and his own + circumstances. At the beginning of the play the only difference between + Proteus and Valentine is that one is in love, and the other, heart-free, + is leaving home to go to Milan. In this first scene Shakespeare speaks + frankly through both Proteus and Valentine, just as he spoke through both + the King and Biron in the first scene of “Love's Labour's Lost,” and + through both AEgeon and Antipholus of Syracuse in “The Comedy of Errors.” + But whilst the circumstances in the earliest comedy are imaginary and + fantastic, the circumstances in “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” are + manifestly, I think, taken from the poet's own experience. In the dialogue + between Valentine and Proteus I hear Shakespeare persuading himself that + he should leave Stratford. Some readers may regard this assumption as + far-fetched, but it will appear the more plausible, I think, the more the + dialogue is studied. Valentine begins the argument: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits,”— +</pre> + <p> + he will “see the wonders of the world abroad” rather than live “dully + sluggardiz'd at home,” wearing out “youth with shapeless idleness.” But + all these reasons are at once superfluous and peculiar. The audience needs + no persuasion to believe that a young man is eager to travel and go to + Court. Shakespeare's quick mounting spirit is in the lines, and the + needlessness of the argument shows that we have here a personal + confession. Valentine, then, mocks at love, because it was love that held + Shakespeare so long in Stratford, and when Proteus defends it, he replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Even so by Love the young and tender wit + Is turned to folly; blasting in the bud, + Losing his verdure even in the prime, + And all the fair effects of future hopes.” + </pre> + <p> + Here is Shakespeare's confession that his marriage had been a failure, not + only because of his wife's mad jealousy and violent temper, which we have + been forced to realize in “The Comedy of Errors,” but also because love + and its home-keeping ways threatened to dull and imprison the eager artist + spirit. In the last charming line I find not only the music of + Shakespeare's voice, but also one of the reasons—perhaps, indeed, + the chief because the highest reason—which drew him from Stratford + to London. And what the “future hope” was, he told us in the very first + line of “Love's Labour's Lost.” The King begins the play with” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let Fame, that all hunt after in their lives.” + </pre> + <p> + Now all men don't hunt after fame; it was Shakespeare who felt that Fame + pieced out Life's span and made us “heirs of all eternity”; it was young + Shakespeare who desired fame so passionately that he believed all other + men must share his immortal longing, the desire in him being a forecast of + capacity, as, indeed, it usually is. If any one is inclined to think that + I am here abusing conjecture let him remember that Proteus, too, tells us + that Valentine is hunting after honour. + </p> + <p> + When Proteus defends love we hear Shakespeare just as clearly as when + Valentine inveighs against it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud + The eating canker dwells, so eating love + Inhabits in the finest wits of all.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare could not be disloyal to that passion of desire in him which + he instinctively felt was, in some way or other, the necessary complement + of his splendid intelligence. We must take the summing-up of Proteus when + Valentine leaves him as the other half of Shakespeare's personal + confession: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He after honour hunts, I after love: + He leaves his friends to dignify them more; + I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. + Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me,— + Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, + War with good counsel, set the world at naught; + Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.” + </pre> + <p> + Young Shakespeare hunted as much after love as after honour, and these + verses show that he has fully understood what a drag on him his foolish + marriage has been. That all this is true to Shakespeare appears from the + fact that it is false to the character of Proteus. Proteus is supposed to + talk like this in the first blush of passion, before he has won Julia, + before he even knows that she loves him. Is that natural? Or is it not + rather Shakespeare's confession of what two wasted years of married life + in Stratford had done for him? It was ambition—desire of fame and + new love—that drove the tired and discontented Shakespeare from Anne + Hathaway's arms to London. + </p> + <p> + When his father tells Proteus he must to Court on the morrow, instead of + showing indignation or obstinate resolve to outwit tyranny, he generalizes + in Shakespeare's way, exactly as Romeo and Orsino generalize in poetic + numbers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, how this spring of love resembleth + The uncertain glory of an April day.” + </pre> + <p> + Another reason for believing that this play deals with Shakespeare's own + experiences is to be found in the curious change that takes place in + Valentine. In the first act Valentine disdains love: he prefers to travel + and win honour; but as soon as he reaches Milan and sees Silvia, he falls + even more desperately in love than Proteus. What was the object, then, in + making him talk so earnestly against love in the first act? It may be + argued that Shakespeare intended merely to contrast the two characters in + the first act; but he contrasts them in the first act on this matter of + love, only in the second act to annul the distinction himself created. + Moreover, and this is decisive, Valentine rails against love in the first + act as one who has experienced love's utmost rage: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To be + In love: when scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, + With heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth, + With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights.” + </pre> + <p> + The man who speaks like this is not the man who despises love and prefers + honour, but one who has already given himself to passion with an absolute + abandonment. Such inconsistencies and flaws in workmanship are in + themselves trivial, but, from my point of view, significant; for whenever + Shakespeare slips in drawing character, in nine cases out of ten he slips + through dragging in his own personality or his personal experience, and + not through carelessness, much less incompetence; his mistakes, therefore, + nearly always throw light on his nature or on his life's story. From the + beginning, too, Valentine like Shakespeare is a born lover. + </p> + <p> + As soon, moreover, as he has gone to the capital and fallen in love he + becomes Shakespeare's avowed favourite. He finds Silvia's glove and cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine—” + </pre> + <p> + the exclamation reminding us of how Romeo talks of Juliet's glove. Like + other men, Shakespeare learned life gradually, and in youth poverty of + experience forces him to repeat his effects. + </p> + <p> + Again, when Valentine praises his friend Proteus to the Duke, we find a + characteristic touch of Shakespeare. Valentine says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His years but young; but his experience old; + His head unmellowed; but his judgement ripe.” + </pre> + <p> + In “The Merchant of Venice” Bellario, the learned doctor of Padua, praises + Portia in similar terms: + </p> + <p> + “I never knew so young a body with so old a head.” + </p> + <p> + But it is when Valentine confesses his love that Shakespeare speaks + through him most clearly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ay, Proteus, but that life is altered now, + I have done penance for contemning love; + - - - - - - - - + For in revenge of my contempt of love + Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes + And made them watchers of my own heart's sorrow. + O gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord,”— +</pre> + <p> + and so on. + </p> + <p> + Every word in this confession is characteristic of the poet and especially + the fact that his insomnia is due to love. Valentine then gives himself to + passionate praise of Silvia, and ends with the “She is alone” that recalls + “She is all the beauty extant” of “The Two Noble Kinsmen.” Valentine the + lover reminds us of Romeo as the sketch resembles the finished picture; + when banished, he cries: + </p> + <p> + “And why not death, rather than living torment? To die is to be banished + from myself; And Silvia is myself: banished from her, Is self from self; a + deadly banishment. What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is + joy, if Silvia be not by? Unless it be to think that she is by And feed + upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night There is + no music in the nightingale,” + </p> + <p> + and so forth. I might compare this with what Romeo says of his banishment, + and perhaps infer from this two-fold treatment of the theme that + Shakespeare left behind in Stratford some dark beauty who may have given + Anne Hathaway good cause for jealous rage. It must not be forgotten here + that Dryasdust tells us he was betrothed to another girl when Anne + Hathaway's relations forced him to marry their kinswoman. + </p> + <p> + A moment later and this lover Valentine uses the very words that we found + so characteristic in the mouth of the lover Orsino in Twelfth Night”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O I have fed upon this woe already, + And now excess of it will make me surfeit.” + </pre> + <p> + Valentine, indeed, shows us traits of nearly all Shakespeare's later + lovers, and this seems to me interesting, because of course all the + qualities were in the youth, which were later differenced into various + characters. His advice to the Duke, who pretends to be in love, is far too + ripe, too contemptuous-true, to suit the character of such a votary of + fond desire as Valentine was; it is mellow with experience and + man-of-the-world wisdom, and the last couplet of it distinctly + fore-shadows Benedick: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; + Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces. + That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man + If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.” + </pre> + <p> + But this is only an involuntary <i>aperçu</i> of Valentine, as indeed + Benedick is only an intellectual mood of Shakespeare. And here Valentine + is contrasted with Proteus, who gives somewhat different advice to Thurio, + and yet advice which is still more characteristic of Shakespeare than + Valentine-Benedick's counsel. Proteus says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You must lay lime to tangle her desires + By wailful sonnets, whose composéd rhymes + Should be full fraught with serviceable vows.” + </pre> + <p> + In this way the young poet sought to give expression to different views of + life, and so realize the complexity of his own nature. + </p> + <p> + The other traits of Valentine's character that do not necessarily belong + to him as a lover are all characteristic traits of Shakespeare. When he is + playing the banished robber-chief far from his love, this is how Valentine + consoles himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, + I better brook than flourishing peopled towns: + Here can I sit alone unseen of any, + And to the nightingale's complaining notes + Tune my distresses and record my woes.” + </pre> + <p> + This idyllic love of nature, this marked preference for the country over + the city, however peculiar in a highway robber, are characteristics of + Shakespeare from youth to age. Not only do his comedies lead us + continually from the haunts of men to the forest and stream, but also his + tragedies. He turns to nature, indeed, in all times of stress and trouble + for its healing unconsciousness, its gentle changes that can be foreseen + and reckoned upon, and that yet bring fresh interests and charming + surprises; and in times of health and happiness he pictures the pleasant + earth and its diviner beauties with a passionate intensity. Again and + again we shall have to notice his poet's love for “unfrequented woods,” + his thinker's longing for “the life removed.” + </p> + <p> + At the end of the drama Valentine displays the gentle forgivingness of + disposition which we have already had reason to regard as one of + Shakespeare's most marked characteristics. As soon as “false, fleeting + Proteus” confesses his sin Valentine pardons him with words that echo and + re-echo through Shakespeare's later dramas: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then I am paid, + And once again I do receive thee honest. + Who by repentance is not satisfied + Is nor of heaven nor earth; for these are pleased; + By patience the Eternal's wrath's appeased.” + </pre> + <p> + He even goes further than this, and confounds our knowledge of human + nature by adding: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And that my love may appear plain and free + All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.” + </pre> + <p> + And that the meaning may be made more distinct than words can make it, he + causes Julia to faint on hearing the proposal. One cannot help recalling + the passage in “The Merchant of Venice” when Bassanio and Gratiano both + declare they would sacrifice their wives to free Antonio, and a well-known + sonnet which seems to prove that Shakespeare thought more of a man's + friendship for a man than of a man's love for a woman. But as I shall have + to discuss this point at length when I handle the Sonnets, I have, + perhaps, said enough for the moment. Nor need I consider the fact here + that the whole of this last scene of the last act was manifestly revised + or rewritten by Shakespeare <i>circa</i> 1598—years after the rest + of the play. + </p> + <p> + I think every one will admit now that Shakespeare revealed himself in “The + Two Gentlemen of Verona,” and especially in Valentine, much more fully + than in Biron and in “Love's Labour's Lost” The three earliest comedies + prove that from the very beginning of his career Shakespeare's chief aim + was to reveal and realize himself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. SHAKESPEARE AS ANTONIO, THE MERCHANT + </h2> + <p> + No one, so far as I know, has yet tried to identify Antonio, the Merchant + of Venice, with Shakespeare, and yet Antonio is Shakespeare himself, and + Shakespeare in what to us, children of an industrial civilization, is the + most interesting attitude possible. Here in Antonio for the first time we + discover Shakespeare in direct relations with real life, as real life is + understood in the twentieth century. From Antonio we shall learn what + Shakespeare thought of business men and business methods—of our + modern way of living. Of course we must be on our guard against drawing + general conclusions from this solitary example, unless we find from other + plays that Antonio's attitude towards practical affairs was indeed + Shakespeare's. But if this is the case, if Shakespeare has depicted + himself characteristically in Antonio, how interesting it will be to hear + his opinion of our money-making civilization. It will be as if he rose + from the dead to tell us what he thinks of our doings. He has been + represented by this critic and by that as a master of affairs, a prudent + thrifty soul; now we shall see if this monstrous hybrid of tradesman-poet + ever had any foundation in fact. + </p> + <p> + The first point to be settled is: Did Shakespeare reveal himself very + ingenuously and completely in Antonio, or was the “royal merchant” a mere + pose of his, a mood or a convention? Let us take Antonio's first words, + the words, too, which begin the play: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: + It wearies me; you say it wearies you; + But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, + What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, + I am to learn; + And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, + That I have much ado to know myself.” + </pre> + <p> + It is this very sadness that makes it easy for us to know Shakespeare, + even when he disguises himself as a Venetian merchant. A little later and + Jaques will describe and define the disease as “humorous melancholy”; but + here it is already a settled habit of mind. + </p> + <p> + Antonio then explains that his sadness has no cause, and incidentally + attributes his wealth to fortune and not to his own brains or endeavour. + The modern idea of the Captain of Industry who enriches others as well as + himself, had evidently never entered into Shakespeare's head. Salarino + says Antonio is “sad to think upon his merchandise”; but Antonio answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it. + My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, + Nor to one place: nor is my whole estate + Upon the fortune of this present year: + Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.” + </pre> + <p> + This tone of modest gentle sincerity is Shakespeare's habitual tone from + about his thirtieth year to the end of his life: it has the accent of + unaffected nature. In bidding farewell to Salarino Antonio shows us the + exquisite courtesy which Shakespeare used in life. Salarino, seeing + Bassanio approaching, says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I would have stayed till I had made you merry, + If worthier friends had not prevented me.” + </pre> + <p> + Antonio answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Your worth is very dear in my regard. + I take it, your own business calls on you, + And you embrace the occasion to depart.” + </pre> + <p> + More characteristic still is the dialogue between Gratiano and Antonio in + the same scene. Gratiano, the twin-brother surely of Mercutio, tells + Antonio that he thinks too much of the things of this world, and warns + him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They lose it that do buy it with much care.” + </pre> + <p> + Antonio replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; + A stage, where every man must play a part, + And mine a sad one.” + </pre> + <p> + Every one who has followed me so far will admit that this is Shakespeare's + most usual and most ingenuous attitude towards life; “I do not esteem + worldly possessions,” he says; “life itself is too transient, too unreal + to be dearly held.” Gratiano's reflection, too, is Shakespeare's, and puts + the truth in a nutshell: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They lose it that do buy it with much care.” + </pre> + <p> + We now come to the most salient peculiarity in this play. When Bassanio, + his debtor, asks him for more money, Antonio answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My purse, my person, my extremes! means, + Lie all unlocked to your occasions.” + </pre> + <p> + And, though Bassanio tells him his money is to be risked on a romantic and + wild adventure, Antonio declares that Bassanio's doubt does him more wrong + than if his friend had already wasted all he has, and the act closes by + Antonio pressing Bassanio to use his credit “to the uttermost.” Now, this + contempt of money was, no doubt, a pose, if not a habit of the + aristocratic society of the time, and Shakespeare may have been aping the + tone of his betters in putting to show a most lavish generosity. But even + if his social superiors encouraged him in a wasteful extravagance, it must + be admitted that Shakespeare betters their teaching. The lord was + riotously lavish, no doubt, because he had money, or could get it without + much trouble; but, put in Antonio's position, he would not press his last + penny on his friend, much less strain his credit “to the uttermost” for + him as Antonio does for Bassanio. Here we have the personal note of + Shakespeare: “Your affection,” says the elder man to the younger, “is all + to me, and money's less than nothing in the balance. Don't let us waste a + word on it; a doubt of me were an injury!” But men will do that for + affection which they would never do in cool blood, and therefore one + cannot help asking whether Shakespeare really felt and practised this + extreme contempt of wealth? For the moment, if we leave his actions out of + the account, there can be, I think, no doubt about his feelings. His + dislike of money makes him disfigure reality. No merchant, it may fairly + be said, either of the sixteenth century or the twentieth, ever amassed or + kept a fortune with Antonio's principles. In our day of world-wide + speculation and immense wealth it is just possible for a man to be a + millionaire and generous; but in the sixteenth century, when wealth was + made by penurious saving, by slow daily adding of coin to coin, merchants + like this Antonio were unheard of, impossible. + </p> + <p> + Moreover all the amiable characters in this play regard money with + unaffected disdain; Portia no sooner hears of Shylock's suit than she + cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; + Double six thousand, and then treble that, + Before a friend of this description + Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault.” + </pre> + <p> + And if we attribute this outburst to her love we must not forget that, + when it comes to the test in court, and she holds the Jew in her hand and + might save her gold, she again reminds him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee.” + </pre> + <p> + A boundless generosity is the characteristic of Portia, and Bassanio, the + penniless fortune-hunter, is just as extravagant; he will pay the Jew's + bond twice over, and, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If that will not suffice, + I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, + On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart.” + </pre> + <p> + It may, of course, be urged that these Christians are all prodigal in + order to throw Shylock's avarice and meanness into higher light; but that + this disdain of money is not assumed for the sake of any artistic effect + will appear from other plays. At the risk of being accused of + super-subtlety, I must confess that I find in Shylock himself traces of + Shakespeare's contempt of money; Jessica says of him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I have heard him swear + To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, + That he would rather have Antonio's flesh + Than twenty times the value of the sum + That he did owe him.” + </pre> + <p> + Even Shylock, it appears, hated Antonio more than he valued money, and + this hatred, though it may have its root in love of money, half redeems + him in our eyes. Shakespeare could not imagine a man who loved money more + than anything else; his hated and hateful usurer is more a man of passion + than a Jew. + </p> + <p> + The same prodigality and contempt of money are to be found in nearly all + Shakespeare's plays, and, curiously enough, the persons to show this + disdain most strongly are usually the masks of Shakespeare himself. A + philosophic soliloquy is hardly more characteristic of Shakespeare than a + sneer at money. It should be noted, too, that this peculiarity is not a + trait of his youth chiefly, as it is with most men who are free-handed. It + rather seems, as in the case of Antonio, to be a reasoned attitude towards + life, and it undoubtedly becomes more and more marked as Shakespeare grows + older. Contempt of wealth is stronger in Brutus than in Antonio; stronger + in Lear than in Brutus, and stronger in Timon than in Lear. + </p> + <p> + But can we be at all certain that Antonio's view of life in this respect + was Shakespeare's? It may be that Shakespeare pretended to this generosity + in order to loosen the purse-strings of his lordly patrons. Even if his + motive for writing in this strain were a worthy motive, who is to assure + us that he practised the generosity he preached? When I come to his life I + think I shall be able to prove that Shakespeare was excessively careless + of money; extravagant, indeed, and generous to a fault. Shakespeare did + not win to eminence as a dramatist without exciting the envy and jealousy + of many of his colleagues and contemporaries, and if these sharp-eyed + critics had found him in drama after drama advocating lavish + free-handedness while showing meanness or even ordinary prudence in his + own expenditure, we should probably have heard of it as we heard from + Greene how he took plays from other playwrights. But the silence of his + contemporaries goes to confirm the positive testimony of Ben Jonson, that + he was of “an open and free nature,”—openhanded always, and liberal, + we may be sure, to a fault. In any case, the burden of proof lies with + those who wish us to believe that Shakespeare was “a careful and prudent + man of business,” for in a dozen plays the personages who are his heroes + and incarnations pour contempt on those who would lock “rascal counters” + from their friends, and, in default of proof to the contrary, we are + compelled to assume that he practised the generosity which he so earnestly + and sedulously praised. At least it will be advisable for the moment to + assume that he pictured himself as generous Antonio, without difficulty or + conscious self-deception. + </p> + <p> + But this Antonio has not only the melancholy, courtesy and boundless + generosity of Shakespeare; he has other qualities of the master which need + to be thrown into relief. + </p> + <p> + First of all, Antonio has that submission to misfortune, that resignation + in face of defeat and suffering which we have already seen as + characteristics of Richard II. The resignation might almost be called + saintly, were it not that it seems to spring rather from the natural + melancholy and sadness of Shakespeare's disposition; “the world is a hard, + all-hating world,” he seems to say, “and misery is the natural lot of man; + defeat comes to all; why should I hope for any better fortune?” At the + very beginning of the trial he recognizes that he is certain to lose; + Bassanio and Gratiano appeal to the Duke for him; but he never speaks in + his own defence; he says of his opponent at the outset: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I do oppose + My patience to his fury, and am arm'd + To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, + The very tyranny and rage of his.” + </pre> + <p> + and again he will not contend, but begs the Court, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “.... with all brief and plain conveniency + Let me have judgement and the Jew his will.” + </pre> + <p> + Even when Bassanio tries to cheer him, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What, man, courage yet! + The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all, + Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.” + </pre> + <p> + Antonio answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am a tainted wether of the flock, + Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit + Drops earliest to the ground: and so let me: + You cannot better be employed, Bassanio, + Than to live still and write mine epitaph.” + </pre> + <p> + He will not be saved: he gives himself at once to that “sweet way of + despair” which we have found to be the second Richard's way and + Shakespeare's way. + </p> + <p> + Just as we noticed, when speaking of Posthumus in “Cymbeline,” that + Shakespeare's hero and <i>alter ego</i> is always praised by the other + personages of the drama, so this Antonio is praised preposterously by the + chief personages of the play, and in the terms of praise we may see how + Shakespeare, even in early manhood, liked to be considered. He had no + ambition to be counted stalwart, or bold, or resolute like most young + males of his race, much less “a good hater,” as Dr. Johnson confessed + himself: he wanted his gentle qualities recognized, and his intellectual + gifts; Hamlet wished to be thought a courtier, scholar, gentleman; and + here Salarino says of Antonio: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A kinder gentleman treads not the earth,” + </pre> + <p> + and he goes on to tell how Antonio, when parting from Bassanio, had “eyes + big with tears”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, + And with affection wondrous sensible + He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted.” + </pre> + <p> + This Antonio is as tender-hearted and loving as young Arthur. And Lorenzo + speaks of Antonio to Portia just as Salarino spoke of him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Lor</i>. But if you knew to whom you show this honour. + How true a gentleman you send relief, + How dear a lover of my lord your husband, + I know you would be prouder of the work + Than customary bounty can enforce you.” + </pre> + <p> + and finally Bassanio sums Antonio up in enthusiastic superlatives: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, + The best-condition'd and unwearied spirit + In doing courtesies, and one in whom + The ancient Roman honour more appears + Than any that draws breath in Italy.” + </pre> + <p> + It is as a prince of friends and most courteous gentleman that Antonio + acts his part from the beginning to the end of the play with one notable + exception to which I shall return in a moment. It is astonishing to find + this sadness, this courtesy, this lavish generosity and contempt of money, + this love of love and friendship and affection in any man in early + manhood; but these qualities were Shakespeare's from youth to old age. + </p> + <p> + I say that Antonio was most courteous to all with one notable exception, + and that exception was Shylock. + </p> + <p> + It has become the custom on the English stage for the actor to try to turn + Shylock into a hero; but that was assuredly not Shakespeare's intention. + True, he makes Shylock appeal to the common humanity of both Jew and + Christian. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew + hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? + fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, + subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, + warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as + a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you + tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not + die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?” + </pre> + <p> + But if Shakespeare was far in advance of his age in this intellectual + appreciation of the brotherhood of man; yet as an artist and thinker and + poet he is particularly contemptuous of the usurer and trader in other + men's necessities, and therefore, when Antonio meets Shylock, though he + wants a favour from him, he cannot be even decently polite to him. He + begins by saying in the third scene of the first act: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Although I neither lend nor borrow + By taking nor by giving of excess, + Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend, + I'll break a custom.” + </pre> + <p> + The first phrase here reminds me of Polonius: “neither a borrower nor a + lender be.” When Shylock attempts to defend himself by citing the way + Jacob cheated Laban, Antonio answers contemptuously “The devil can cite + Scripture for his purpose.” Shylock then goes on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Signor Antonio, many a time and oft, + In the Rialto you have rated me + About my moneys and my usances: + Still, I have borne it with a patient shrug, + For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe. + You call me mis-believer, cut-throat dog, + And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, + And all for use of that which is mine own. + Well then, it now appears you need my help: + Go to, then; you come to me, and you say, + 'Shylock, we would have moneys:' you say so + You that did void your rheum upon my beard + And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur + Over your threshold: moneys is your suit. + What should I say to you? Should I not say + 'Hath a dog money? is it possible + A cur can lend three thousand ducats?'” + </pre> + <p> + Antonio answers this in words which it would be almost impossible to take + for Shakespeare's because of their brutal rudeness, were it not, as we + shall see later, that Shakespeare loathed the Jew usurer more than any + character in all his plays. Here are the words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Ant</i>. I am as like to call thee so again, + To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. + If thou will lend this money, lend it not + As to thy friends; for when did friendship take + A breed for barren metal of his friend? + But lend it rather to thine enemy + Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face + Exact the penalty.” + </pre> + <p> + Then Shylock makes peace, and proposes his modest penalty. Bassanio says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You shall not seal to such a bond for me: + I'll rather dwell in my necessity.” + </pre> + <p> + Antonio is perfectly careless and content: he says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Content, i' faith: I'll seal to such a bond, + And say there is much kindness in the Jew.” + </pre> + <p> + Antonio's heedless trust of other men and impatience are qualities most + foreign to the merchant; but are shown again and again by Shakespeare's + impersonations. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it will be well here to prove once for all that Shakespeare did + really hate the Jew. In the first place he excites our sympathy again and + again for him on the broad grounds of common humanity; but the moment it + comes to a particular occasion he represents him as hateful, even where a + little thought would have taught him that the Jew must be at his best. It + is a peculiarity of humanity which Shakespeare should not have overlooked, + that all pariahs and outcasts display intense family affection; those whom + the world scouts and hates are generally at their noblest in their own + homes. The pressure from the outside, Herbert Spencer would say, tends to + bring about cohesion among the members of the despised caste. The family + affection of the Jew, his kindness to his kindred, have become proverbial. + But Shakespeare admits no such kindness in Shylock: when his daughter + leaves Shylock one would think that Shakespeare would picture the father's + desolation and misery, his sorrow at losing his only child; but here there + is no touch of sympathy in gentle Shakespeare: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “.... I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in + her ear! would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her + coffin!” + </pre> + <p> + But there is even better proof than this: when Shylock is defeated in his + case and leaves the Court penniless and broken, Shakespeare allows him to + be insulted by a gentleman. Shylock becomes pathetic in his defeat, for + Shakespeare always sympathized with failure, even before he came to grief + himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Shy</i>. Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that: + You take my house when you do take the prop + That doth sustain my house; you take my life + When you do take the means whereby I live.” + + “<i>Por</i>. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? + + <i>Gra</i>. A halter gratis; nothing else for God's sake.” + </pre> + <p> + And then Antonio offers to “quit the fine for one-half his goods.” Utterly + broken now, Shylock says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I pray you, give me leave to go from hence; + I am not well: send the deed after me, + And I will sign it. + + <i>Duke</i>. Get thee gone, but do it. + + <i>Gra</i>. In christening shalt thou have two godfathers: + Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more, + To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.” + </pre> + <p> + A brutal insult from a gallant gentleman to the broken Jew: it is the only + time in all Shakespeare when a beaten and ruined man is so insulted. + </p> + <p> + Antonio, it must be confessed, is a very charming sketch of Shakespeare + when he was about thirty years of age, and it is amusing to reflect that + it is just the rich merchant with all his wealth at hazard whom he picks + out to embody his utter contempt of riches. The “royal merchant,” as he + calls him, trained from youth to barter, is the very last man in the world + to back such a venture as Bassanio's—much less would such a man + treat money with disdain. But Shakespeare from the beginning of the play + put himself quite naively in Antonio's place, and so the astounding + antinomy came to expression. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. THE SONNETS: PART I. + </h2> + <p> + Ever since Wordsworth wrote that the sonnets were the key to Shakespeare's + heart, it has been taken for granted (save by those who regard even the + sonnets as mere poetical exercises) that Shakespeare's real nature is + discovered in the sonnets more easily and more surely than in the plays. + Those readers who have followed me so far in examining his plays will + hardly need to be told that I do not agree with this assumption. The + author whose personality is rich and complex enough to create and vitalize + a dozen characters, reveals himself more fully in his creations than he + can in his proper person. It was natural enough that Wordsworth, a great + lyric poet, should catch Shakespeare's accent better in his sonnets than + in his dramas; but that is owing to Wordsworth's limitations. And if the + majority of later English critics have agreed with Wordsworth, it only + shows that Englishmen in general are better judges of lyric than of + dramatic work. We have the greatest lyrics in the world; but our dramas, + with the exception of Shakespeare's, are not remarkable. And in that + modern extension of the drama, the novel, we are distinctly inferior to + the French and Russians. This inferiority must be ascribed to the + new-fangled prudery of language and thought which emasculates all our + later fiction; but as that prudery is not found in our lyric verse it is + evident that here alone the inspiration is full and rich enough to + overflow the limits of epicene convention. + </p> + <p> + Whether the reader agrees with me or not on this point, it may be accepted + that Shakespeare revealed himself far more completely in his plays than as + a lyric poet. Just as he chose his dramatic subjects with some felicity to + reveal his many-sided nature, so he used the sonnets with equal artistry + to discover that part of himself which could hardly be rendered + objectively. Whatever is masculine in a man can be depicted superbly on + the stage, but his feminine qualities—passionate self-abandonment, + facile forgivingness, self-pity—do not show well in the dramatic + struggle. What sort of a drama would that be in which the hero would have + to confess that when in the vale of years he had fallen desperately in + love with a girl, and that he had been foolish enough to send a friend, a + young noble, to plead his cause, with the result that the girl won the + friend and gave herself to him? The protagonist would earn mocking + laughter and not sympathy, and this Shakespeare no doubt foresaw. Besides, + to Shakespeare, this story, which is in brief the story of the sonnets, + was terribly real and intimate, and he felt instinctively that he could + not treat it objectively; it was too near him, too exquisitely painful for + that. + </p> + <p> + At some time or other life overpowers the strongest of us, and that defeat + we all treat lyrically; when the deepest depth in us is stirred we cannot + feign, or depict ourselves from the outside dispassionately; we can only + cry our passion, our pain and our despair; this once we use no art, simple + truth is all we seek to reach. The crisis of Shakespeare's life, the hour + of agony and bloody sweat when his weakness found him out and life's + handicap proved too heavy even for his strength—that is the subject + of the sonnets. + </p> + <p> + Now what was Shakespeare's weakness? his besetting temptation? “Love is my + sin,” he says; “Love of love and her soft hours” was his weakness: passion + the snare that meshed his soul. No wonder Antony cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Whither hast thou led me, Egypt?” + </pre> + <p> + for his gipsy led Shakespeare from shame to shame, to the verge of + madness. The sonnets give us the story, the whole terrible, sinful, + magical story of Shakespeare's passion. + </p> + <p> + As might have been expected, Englishmen like Wordsworth, with an intense + appreciation of lyric poetry, have done good work in criticism of the + sonnets, and one Englishman has read them with extraordinary + understanding. Mr. Tyler's work on the sonnets ranks higher than that of + Coleridge on the plays. I do not mean to say that it is on the same + intellectual level with the work of Coleridge, though it shows wide + reading, astonishing acuteness, and much skill in the marshalling of + argument. But Mr. Tyler had the good fortune to be the first to give to + the personages of the sonnets a local habitation and a name, and that + unique achievement puts him in a place by himself far above the mass of + commentators. Before his book appeared in 1890 the sonnets lay in the dim + light of guess-work. It is true that Hallam had adopted the hypothesis of + Boaden and Bright, and had identified William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, + with the high-born, handsome youth for whom Shakespeare, in the sonnets, + expressed such passionate affection; but still, there were people who + thought that the Earl of Southampton filled the requirements even better + than William Herbert, and as I say, the whole subject lay in the twilight + of surmise and supposition. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Tyler, working on a hint of the Rev. W. A. Harrison, identified + Shakespeare's high-born mistress, the “dark lady” of the sonnets, with + Mistress Mary Fitton, a maid of honour to Queen Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + These, then, are the personages of the drama, and the story is very + simple: Shakespeare loved Mistress Fitton and sent his friend, the young + Lord Herbert, to her on some pretext, but with the design that he should + commend Shakespeare to the lady. Mistress Fitton fell in love with William + Herbert, wooed and won him, and Shakespeare had to mourn the loss of both + friend and mistress. + </p> + <p> + It would be natural to speak of this identification of Mr. Tyler's as the + best working hypothesis yet put forward; but it would be unfair to him; it + is more than this. Till his book appeared, even the date of the sonnets + was not fixed; many critics regarded them as an early work, as early + indeed, as 1591 or 1592; he was the first person to prove that the time + they cover extends roughly from 1598 to 1601. Mr. Tyler then has not only + given us the names of the actors, but he has put the tragedy in its proper + place in Shakespeare's life, and he deserves all thanks for his + illuminating work. + </p> + <p> + I bring to this theory fresh corroboration from the plays. Strange to say, + Mr. Tyler has hardly used the plays, yet, as regards the story told in the + sonnets, the proof that it is a real and not an imaginary story can be + drawn from the plays. I may have to point out, incidentally, what I regard + as mistakes and oversights in Mr. Tyler's work; but in the main it stands + four-square, imposing itself on the reason and satisfying at the same time + instinct and sympathy. + </p> + <p> + Let us first see how far the story told in the sonnets is borne out by the + plays. For a great many critics, even to-day, reject the story altogether, + and believe that the sonnets were nothing but poetic exercises. + </p> + <p> + The sonnets fall naturally into two parts: from 1 to 126 they tell how + Shakespeare loved a youth of high rank and great personal beauty; sonnet + 127 is an <i>envoi</i>; from 128 to 152 they tell of Shakespeare's love + for a “dark lady.” What binds the two series together is the story told in + both, or at least told in one and corroborated in the other, that + Shakespeare first sent his friend to the lady, most probably to plead his + cause, and that she wooed his friend and gave herself to him. Now this is + not a common or easily invented story. No one would guess that Shakespeare + could be so foolish as to send his friend to plead his love for him. + That's a mistake that no man who knows women would be likely to make: but + the unlikelihood of the story is part of the evidence of its truth—<i>credo + quia incredibile</i> has an element of persuasion in it. + </p> + <p> + No one has yet noticed that the story of the sonnets is treated three + times in Shakespeare's plays. The first time the story appears it is + handled so lightly that it looks to me as if he had not then lived through + the incidents which he narrates. In the “Two Gentlemen of Verona” Proteus + is asked by the Duke to plead Thurio's cause with Silvia, and he promises + to do so; but instead, presses his own suit and is rejected. The incident + is handled so carelessly (Proteus not being Thurio's friend) that it seems + to me to have no importance save as a mere coincidence. When the scene + between Proteus and Silvia was written Shakespeare had not yet been + deceived by his friend. Still in “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” there is + one speech which certainly betrays personal passion. It is in the last + scene of the fifth act, when Valentine surprises Proteus offering violence + to Silvia. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Val.(coming forward)</i> Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil + touch,— + Thou friend of an ill fashion! + + <i>Pro</i>. Valentine! + + <i>Val. Thou common friend, that's without faith or love,— + For such is a friend now;</i>—treacherous man! + Thou hast beguiled my hopes: nought but mine eye + Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say + I have one friend alive: thou would'st disprove me. + Who should be trusted when one's own right hand + Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, + I am sorry I must never trust thee more, + But count the world a stranger for thy sake. + <i>The private wound is deepest: time most accurst + 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!</i>” + </pre> + <p> + The first lines which I have italicised are too plain to be misread; when + they were written Shakespeare had just been cheated by his friend; they + are his passionate comment on the occurrence—“For such is a friend + now”—can hardly be otherwise explained. The last couplet, too, which + I have also put in italics, is manifestly a reflection on his betrayal: it + is a twin rendering of the feeling expressed in sonnet 40: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And yet love knows it is a greater grief + To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.” + </pre> + <p> + It contrasts “foe and friend,” just as the sonnet contrasts “love and + hate.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Israel Gollancz declares that “several critics are inclined to + attribute this final scene to another hand,” and to his mind “it bears + evident signs of hasty composition.” No guess could be wider from the + truth. The scene is most manifestly pure Shakespeare—I take the + soliloquy of Valentine, with which the scene opens, as among Shakespeare's + most characteristic utterances—but the whole scene is certainly + later than the rest of the play. The truth probably is that after his + friend had deceived him, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” was played again, + and that Shakespeare rewrote this last scene under the influence of + personal feeling. The 170 lines of it are full of phrases which might be + taken direct from the sonnets. Here 's such a couplet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved, + When women cannot love where they're beloved.” + </pre> + <p> + The whole scene tells the story a little more frankly than we find it in + the sonnets, as might be expected, seeing that Shakespeare's rival was a + great noble and not to be criticised freely. This fact explains to me + Valentine's unmotived renunciation of Silvia; explains, too, why he is + reconciled to his friend with such unseemly haste. Valentine's last words + in the scene are illuminating: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.” + </pre> + <p> + The way this scene in “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” is told throws more + light on Shakespeare's feelings at the moment of his betrayal than the + sonnets themselves. Under the cover of fictitious names Shakespeare + ventured to show the disgust and contempt he felt for Lord Herbert's + betrayal more plainly than he cared, or perhaps dared, to do when speaking + in his own person. + </p> + <p> + There is another play where the same incident is handled in such fashion + as to put the truth of the sonnet-story beyond all doubt. + </p> + <p> + In “Much Ado about Nothing” the incident is dragged in by the ears, and + the whole treatment is most remarkable. Every one will remember how + Claudio tells the Prince that he loves Hero, and asks his friend's + assistance: “your highness now may do me good.” There's no reason for + Claudio's shyness: no reason why he should call upon the Prince for help + in a case where most men prefer to use their own tongues; but Claudio is + young, and so we glide over the inherent improbability of the incident. + The Prince at once promises to plead for Claudio with Hero and with her + father: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And thou shalt have her. Was't not to this end + That thou began'st to twist so fine a story?” + </pre> + <p> + Now comes the peculiar handling of the incident. Claudio knows the Prince + is wooing Hero for him, therefore when Don John tells him that the Prince + “is enamoured on Hero,” he should at once infer that Don John is mistaken + through ignorance of this fact; but instead of that he falls suspicious, + and questions: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How know you he loves her? + + <i>D. John</i>. I heard him swear his affection. + + <i>Bor</i>. So did I too, and he swore he would marry her + to-night.” + </pre> + <p> + There is absolutely nothing even in this corroboration by Borachio to + shake Claudio's trust in the Prince: neither Don John nor Borachio knows + what he knows, that the Prince is wooing for him (Claudio) and at his + request. He should therefore smile at the futile attempt to excite his + jealousy. But at once he is persuaded of the worst, as a man would be who + had already experienced such disloyalty: he cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Tis certain so; the prince woos for himself.” + </pre> + <p> + And then we should expect to hear him curse the prince as a traitorous + friend, and dwell on his own loyal service by way of contrast, and so keep + turning the dagger in the wound with the thought that no one but himself + was ever so repaid for such honesty of love. But, no! Claudio has no + bitterness in him, no reproachings; he speaks of the whole matter as if it + had happened months and months before, as indeed it had; for “Much Ado + about Nothing” was written about 1599. Reflection had already shown + Shakespeare the unreason of revolt, and he puts his own thought in the + mouth of Claudio: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Tis certain so; the prince woos for himself. + Friendship is constant in all other things + Save in the office and affairs of love: + Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; + Let every eye negotiate for itself, + And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch, + Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. + <i>This is an accident of hourly proof, + Which I mistrusted not</i>. Farewell, therefore, Hero.” + </pre> + <p> + The Claudio who spoke like this in the first madness of love lost and + friendship cheated would be a monster. Here we have Shakespeare speaking + in all calmness of something that happened to himself a considerable time + before. The lines I have put in italics admit no other interpretation: + they show Shakespeare's philosophic acceptance of things as they are; what + has happened to him is not to be assumed as singular but is the common lot + of man—“an accident of hourly proof”—which he blames himself + for not foreseeing. In fact, Claudio's temper here is as detached and + impartial as Benedick's. Benedick declares that Claudio should be whipped: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>D. Pedro</i>. To be whipped! What's his fault? + + <i>Benedick</i>. The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who + being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his + companion and he steals it.” + </pre> + <p> + That is the view of the realist who knows life and men, and plays the game + according to the rules accepted. Shakespeare understood this side of life + as well as most men. But Don Pedro is a prince—a Shakespearean + prince at that—full of all loyalties and ideal sentiments; he + answers Benedick from Shakespeare's own heart: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? + The transgression is in the stealer.” + </pre> + <p> + It is curious that Shakespeare doesn't see that Claudio must feel this + truth a thousand times more keenly than the Prince. As I have said, + Claudio's calm acceptance of the fact is a revelation of Shakespeare's own + attitude, an attitude just modified by the moral reprobation put in the + mouth of the Prince. The recital itself shows that the incident was a + personal experience of Shakespeare, and as one might expect in this case + it does not accelerate but retard the action of the drama; it is, indeed, + altogether foreign to the drama, an excrescence upon it and not an + improvement but a blemish. Moreover, the reflective, disillusioned, + slightly pessimistic tone of the narrative is alien and strange to the + optimistic temper of the play; finally, this garb of patient sadness does + not suit Claudio, who should be all love and eagerness, and diminishes + instead of increasing our sympathy with his later actions. Whoever + considers these facts will admit that we have here Shakespeare telling us + what happened to himself, and what he really thought of his friend's + betrayal. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The transgression is in the stealer.” + </pre> + <p> + That is Shakespeare's mature judgement of Lord Herbert's betrayal. + </p> + <p> + The third mention of this sonnet-story in a play is later still: it is in + “Twelfth Night.” The Duke, as we have seen, is an incarnation of + Shakespeare himself, and, indeed, the finest incarnation we have of his + temperament. In the fourth scene of the first act he sends Viola to plead + his cause for him with Olivia, much in the same way, no doubt, as + Shakespeare sent Pembroke to Miss Fitton. The whole scene deserves careful + reading. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Cesario, + Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd + To thee the book even of my secret soul: + Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her + Be not denied access, stand at her doors, + And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow + Till thou have audience. + + <i>Vio</i>. Sure, my noble lord, + If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow + As it is spoke, she never will admit me. + + <i>Duke</i>. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds + Rather than make unprofited return. + + <i>Vio</i>. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then? + + <i>Duke</i>. O, then unfold the passion of my love, + Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith: + It shall become thee well to act my woes; + <i>She will attend it better in thy youth + Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect.</i> + + <i>Vio</i>. I think not so, my lord. + + <i>Duke</i>. Dear lad, believe it; + For they shall yet belie thy happy years, + That say thou art a man: Diana's lip + Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe + Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound; + And all is semblative a woman's part. + I know thy constellation is right apt + For this affair. Some four or five attend him; + All if you will; for I myself am best + When least in company.” + </pre> + <p> + I do not want to find more here than is in the text: the passage simply + shows that this idea of sending some one to plead his love was constantly + in Shakespeare's mind in these years. The curious part of the matter is + that he should pick a youth as ambassador, and a youth who is merely his + page. He can discover no reason for choosing such a boy as Viola, and so + simply asserts that youth will be better attended to, which is certainly + not the fact. Lord Herbert's youth was in his mind: but he could not put + the truth in the play that when he chose his ambassador he chose him for + his high position and personal beauty and charm, and not because of his + youth. The whole incident is treated lightly as something of small import; + the bitterness in “Much Ado” has died out: “Twelfth Night” was written + about 1601, a year or so later than “Much Ado.” + </p> + <p> + I do not want to labour the conclusion I have reached; but it must be + admitted that I have found in the plays, and especially in “The Two + Gentlemen of Verona” and “Much Ado,” the same story which is told in the + sonnets; a story lugged into the plays, where, indeed, its introduction is + a grave fault in art and its treatment too peculiar to be anything but + personal. Here in the plays we have, so to speak, three views of the + sonnet-story; the first in “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” when the + betrayal is fresh in Shakespeare's memory and his words are embittered + with angry feeling: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou common friend that's without faith or love.” + </pre> + <p> + The second view is taken in “Much Ado About Nothing” when the pain of the + betrayal has been a little salved by time. Shakespeare now moralizes the + occurrence. He shows us how it would be looked upon by a philosopher (for + that is what the lover, Claudio, is in regard to his betrayal) and by a + soldier and man of the world, Benedick, and by a Prince. Shakespeare + selects the prince to give effect to the view that the fault is in the + transgressor and not in the man who trusts. The many-sided treatment of + the story shows all the stages through which Shakespeare's mind moved, and + the result is to me a more complete confession than is to be found in the + sonnets. Finally the story is touched upon in “Twelfth Night,” when the + betrayal has faded into oblivion, but the poet lets out the fact that his + ambassador was a youth, and the reason he gives for this is plainly + insufficient. If after these three recitals any one can still believe that + the sonnet-story is imaginary, he is beyond persuasion by argument. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. THE SONNETS: PART II. + </h2> + <p> + Now that we have found the story of the sonnets repeated three times in + the plays, it may be worth our while to see if we can discover in the + plays anything that throws light upon the circumstances or personages of + this curious triangular drama. At the outset, I must admit that save in + these three plays I can find no mention whatever of Shakespeare's + betrayer, Lord Herbert. He was “a false friend,” the plays tell us, a + “common friend without faith or love,” “a friend of an ill fashion”; + young, too, yet trusted; but beyond this summary superficial + characterization there is silence. <i>Me judice</i> Lord Herbert made no + deep or peculiar impression on Shakespeare; an opinion calculated to give + pause to the scandal-mongers. For there can be no doubt whatever that + Shakespeare's love, Mistress Fitton, the “dark lady” of the sonnet-series + from 128 to 152 is to be found again and again in play after play, + profoundly modifying the poet's outlook upon life and art. Before I take + in hand this identification of Miss Fitton and her influence upon + Shakespeare, let me beg the reader to bear in mind the fact that + Shakespeare was a sensualist by nature, a lover, which is as rare a thing + as consummate genius. The story of his idolatrous passion for Mary Fitton + is the story of his life. This is what the commentators and critics + hitherto have failed to appreciate. Let us now get at the facts and see + what light the dramas throw upon the chief personage of the story, + Mistress Fitton. The study will probably teach us that Shakespeare was the + most impassioned lover and love-poet in all literature. + </p> + <p> + History tells us that Mary Fitton became a maid of honour to Queen + Elizabeth in 1595 at the age of seventeen. From a letter addressed by her + father to Sir Robert Cecil on January 29th, 1599, it is fairly certain + that she had already been married at the age of sixteen; the union was + probably not entirely valid, but the mere fact suggests a certain + recklessness of character, or overpowering sensuality, or both, and shows + that even as a girl Mistress Fitton was no shrinking, timid, modest + maiden. Wrapped in a horseman's cloak she used to leave the Palace at + night to meet her lover, Lord William Herbert. Though twice married, she + had an illegitimate child by Herbert, and two later by Sir Richard + Leveson. + </p> + <p> + This extraordinary woman is undoubtedly the sort of woman Shakespeare + depicted as the “dark lady” of the sonnets. Nearly every sonnet of the + twenty-six devoted to his mistress contains some accusation against her; + and all these charges are manifestly directed against one and the same + woman. First of all she is described in sonnet 131 as “tyrannous”; then in + sonnet 133 as “faithless”; in sonnet 137 as “the bay where all men ride + ... the wide world's commonplace”; in sonnet 138 as “false”; in 139, she + is “coquettish”; 140, “proud”; “false to the bonds of love”; “black as + hell... dark as night”—in both looks and character; “full of foul + faults “; “cruel”; “unworthy,” but of “powerful” personality; “unkind—inconstant... + unfaithful... forsworn.” + </p> + <p> + Now, the first question is: Can we find this “dark lady” of the sonnets in + the plays? The sonnets tell us she was of pale complexion with black eyes + and hair; do the plays bear out this description? And if they do bear it + out do they throw any new light upon Miss Fitton's character? Did Miss + Fitton seem proud and inconstant, tyrannous and wanton, to Shakespeare + when he first met her, and before she knew Lord Herbert? + </p> + <p> + The earliest mention of the poet's mistress in the plays is to be found, I + think, in “Romeo and Juliet.” “Romeo and Juliet” is dated by Mr. Furnival + 1591-1593; it was first mentioned in 1595 by Meres; first published in + 1597. I think in its present form it must be taken to date from 1597. + Romeo, who as we have already seen, is an incarnation of Shakespeare, is + presented to us in the very first scene as in love with one Rosaline. This + in itself tells me nothing; but the proof that Shakespeare stands in + intimate relation to the girl called Rosaline comes later, and so the + first introductory words have a certain significance for me. Romeo himself + tells us that “she hath Dian's wit,” one of Shakespeare's favourite + comparisons for his love, and speaks of her chastity, or rather of her + unapproachableness; he goes on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O she is rich in beauty, only poor + That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.” + </pre> + <p> + which reminds us curiously of the first sonnets. In the second scene + Benvolio invites Romeo to the feast of Capulet, where his love, “the fair + Rosaline,” is supping, and adds: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Compare her face with some that I shall shew, + And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.” + </pre> + <p> + Romeo replies that there is none fairer than his love, and Benvolio + retorts: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Tut! You saw her fair, none else being by.” + </pre> + <p> + This bantering is most pointed if we assume that Rosaline was dark rather + than fair. + </p> + <p> + In the second act Mercutio comes upon the scene, and, mocking Romeo's + melancholy and passion, cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I conjure thee, by Rosaline's bright eyes, + By her high forehead and her scarlet lip....” + </pre> + <p> + This description surprises me. Shakespeare rarely uses such physical + portraiture of his personages, and Mercutio is a side of Shakespeare + himself; a character all compact of wit and talkativeness, a character + wholly invented by the poet. + </p> + <p> + A little later my suspicion is confirmed. In the fourth scene of the + second act Mercutio talks to Benvolio about Romeo; they both wonder where + he is, and Mercutio says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ah, that same pale-hearted wench, that Rosaline, + Torments him so that he will sure run mad.” + </pre> + <p> + And again, a moment later, Mercutio laughs at Romeo as already dead, + “stabbed with a white wench's black eye.” Now, here is confirmation of my + suspicion. It is most unusual for Shakespeare to give the physical + peculiarities of any of his characters; no one knows how Romeo looked, or + Juliet or even Hamlet or Ophelia; and here he repeats the description. + </p> + <p> + The only other examples we have as yet found in Shakespeare of such + physical portraiture is the sketching of Falstaff in “Henry IV.” and the + snapshot of Master Slender in “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” as a “little + wee face, with a little yellow beard,—a cane-coloured beard.” Both + these photographs, as we noticed at the time, were very significant, and + Slender's extraordinarily significant by reason of its striking and + peculiar realism. Though an insignificant character, Slender is + photographed for us by Shakespeare's contempt and hatred, just as this + Rosaline is photographed by his passionate love, photographed again and + again. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare's usual way of describing the physical appearance of a man or + woman, when he allowed himself to do it at all, which was seldom, was what + one might call the ideal or conventional way. A good example is to be + found in Hamlet's description of his father; he is speaking to his mother: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself, + An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, + A station like the herald Mercury + New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.” + </pre> + <p> + In the special case I am considering Rosaline is less even than a + secondary character; she is not a personage in the play at all. She is + merely mentioned casually by Benvolio and then by Mercutio, and even + Mercutio is not the protagonist; yet his mention of her is strikingly + detailed, astonishingly realistic, in spite of its off-hand brevity. We + have a photographic snapshot, so to speak, of this girl: she “torments” + Romeo; she is “hard-hearted”; a “white wench” with “black eyes”; twice in + four lines she is called now “pale,” now “white”—plainly her + complexion had no red in it, and was in startling contrast to her black + eyes and hair. Manifestly this picture is taken from life, and it is just + as manifestly the portrait of the “dark lady” of the sonnets. + </p> + <p> + As if to make assurance doubly sure, there is another description of this + same Rosaline in another play, so detailed and striking, composed as it is + of contrasting and startling peculiarities that I can only wonder that its + full significance has not been appreciated ages ago. To have missed its + meaning only proves that men do not read Shakespeare with love's fine wit. + </p> + <p> + The repetition of the portrait is fortunate for another reason: it tells + us when the love story took place. The allusion to the “dark lady” in + “Romeo and Juliet” is difficult to date exactly; the next mention of her + in a play can be fixed in time with some precision. “Love's Labour's Lost” + was revised by Shakespeare for production at Court during the Christmas + festivities of 1597. When the quarto was published in 1598 it bore on its + title-page the words, “A pleasant conceited comedy called 'Love's Labour's + Lost.' As it was presented before Her Highnes this last Christmas. Newly + corrected and augmented By W. Shakespeare.” It is in the revised part that + we find Shakespeare introducing his dark love again, and this time, too, + curiously enough, under the name of Rosaline. Evidently he enjoyed the + mere music of the word. Biron is an incarnation of Shakespeare himself, as + we have already seen, and the meeting of Biron and his love, Rosaline, in + the play is extremely interesting for us as Shakespeare in this revised + production, one would think, would wish to ingratiate himself with his + love, more especially as she would probably be present when the play was + produced. Rosaline is made to praise Biron, before he appears, as a merry + man and a most excellent talker; but when they meet they simply indulge in + a tourney of wit, in which Rosaline more than holds her own, showing + indeed astounding self-assurance, spiced with a little contempt of Biron; + “hard-hearted” Mercutio called it. Every word deserves to be weighed: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Biron</i>. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? + + <i>Ros</i>. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? + + <i>Biron</i>. I know you did. + + <i>Ros</i>. How needless was it, then, to ask the question! + + <i>Biron</i>. You must not be so quick. + + <i>Ros</i>. 'Tis long of you that spur me with such questions. + + <i>Biron</i>. Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire. + + <i>Ros</i>. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. + + <i>Biron</i>. What time o' day? + + <i>Ros</i>. The hour that fools should ask. + + <i>Biron</i>. Now fair befall your mask! + + <i>Ros</i>. Fair fall the face it covers! + + <i>Biron</i>. And send you many lovers! + + <i>Ros</i>. Amen, so you be none. + + <i>Biron</i>. Nay, then will I be gone.” + </pre> + <p> + Clearly this Rosaline, too, has Dian's wit and is not in love with Biron, + any more than the Rosaline of “Romeo and Juliet” was in love with Romeo. + </p> + <p> + The next allusion is even more characteristic. Biron and Longaville and + Boyet are talking; Longaville shows his admiration for one of the + Princess's women, “the one in the white” he declares, is a most sweet + lady....” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Biron</i>. What is her name in the cap? + + <i>Boyet</i>. Rosaline, by good hap. + + <i>Biron</i>. Is she wedded or no? + + <i>Boyet</i>. To her will, sir, or so. + + <i>Biron</i>. You are welcome, sir: adieu.” + </pre> + <p> + This, “To her will, sir, or so,” is exactly in the spirit of the sonnets: + every one will remember the first two lines of sonnet 135: + </p> + <p> + “Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy <i>Will</i>, And <i>Will</i> to + boot, and <i>Will</i> in overplus;” + </p> + <p> + That, “To her will, sir, or so,” I find astonishingly significant, for not + only has it nothing to do with the play and is therefore unexpected, but + the character-drawing is unexpected, too; maids are not usually wedded to + their will in a double sense, and no other of these maids of honour is + described at all. + </p> + <p> + A little later Biron speaks again of Rosaline in a way which shocks + expectation. First of all, he rages at himself for being in love at all. + “And I, forsooth in love! I, that have been love's whip!” Here I pause + again, it seems to me that Shakespeare is making confession to us, just as + when he admitted without reason that Jaques was lewd. Be that as it may, + he certainly goes on in words which are astounding, so utterly unforeseen + are they, and therefore the more characteristic: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nay, to be perjured, which is worst of all; + And, among three, to love the worst of all;” + </pre> + <p> + The first line of this couplet, that he is perjured in loving Rosaline may + be taken as applying to the circumstances of the play; but Shakespeare + also talks of himself in sonnet 152 as “perjured,” for he only swears in + order to misuse his love, or with a side glance at the fact that he is + married and therefore perjured when he swears love to one not his wife. It + is well to keep this “perjured” in memory. + </p> + <p> + But it is the second line which is the more astonishing; there Biron tells + us that among the three of the Princess's women he loves “the worst of + all.” Up to this moment we have only been told kindly things of Rosaline + and the other ladies; we had no idea that any one of them was bad, much + less that Rosaline was “the worst of all.” The suspicion grows upon us, a + suspicion which is confirmed immediately afterwards, that Shakespeare is + speaking of himself and of a particular woman; else we should have to + admit that his portraiture of Rosaline's character was artistically bad, + and bad without excuse, for why should he lavish all this wealth of + unpleasant detail on a mere subsidiary character? He goes on, however, to + make the fault worse; he next speaks of his love Rosaline as— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A whitely wanton with a velvet brow, + With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes; + Ay, and by heaven, one that will do the deed; + Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard: + And I to sigh for her! to watch for her! + To pray for her! Go to! it is a plague.” + </pre> + <p> + It is, of course, a blot upon the play for Biron to declare that his love + is a wanton of the worst. It is not merely unexpected and uncalled-for; it + diminishes our sympathy with Biron and his love, and also with the play. + But we have already found the rule trustworthy that whenever Shakespeare + makes a mistake in art it is because of some strong personal feeling and + not for want of wit, and this rule evidently holds good here. + Shakespeare-Biron is picturing the woman he himself loves; for not only + does he describe her as a wanton to the detriment of the play; but he + pictures her precisely, and this Rosaline is the only person in the play + of whom we have any physical description at all. Moreover, he has given + such precise and repeated photographs of no other character in any of his + plays: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A whitely wanton with a velvet brow, + With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes.” + </pre> + <p> + This is certainly the same Rosaline we found depicted in “Romeo and + Juliet”; but the portraiture here, both physical and moral, is more + detailed and peculiar than it was in the earlier play. Shakespeare now + knows his Rosaline intimately. The mere facts that here again her physical + appearance is set forth with such particularity, and that the + “hard-heartedness” which Mercutio noted in her has now become “wantonness” + is all-important, especially when we remember that Miss Fitton was + probably listening to the play. Even at Christmas, 1597, Shakespeare's + passion has reached the height of a sex-duel. Miss Fitton has tortured him + so that he delights in calling her names to her face in public when the + play would have led one to expect ingratiating or complimentary + courtesies. It does not weaken this argument to admit that the general + audience would not perhaps have understood the allusions. + </p> + <p> + It is an almost incredible fact that not a single one of his hundreds of + commentators has even noticed any peculiarity in this physical portraiture + of Rosaline; Shakespeare uses this realism so rarely one would have + thought that every critic would have been astounded by it; but no, they + all pass over it without a word, Coleridge, Mr. Tyler, all of them. + </p> + <p> + The fourth act of “Love's Labour's Lost” begins with a most characteristic + soliloquy of Biron: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Biron</i>. The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing + myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in a + pitch—pitch that defiles: defile! a foul word.” + </pre> + <p> + Here Biron is manifestly playing on the “pitch-balls” his love has for + eyes, and also on the “foul faults” Shakespeare speaks of in the sonnets + and in Othello. Biron goes on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, but her eye—by this light, but for her eye, I + would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do + nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By + heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and + to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and + here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets + already: the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady + hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady!” + </pre> + <p> + This proves to me that some of Shakespeare's sonnets were written in 1597. + True, Mr. Tyler would try to bind all the sonnets within the three years + from 1598 to 1601, the three years which Shakespeare speaks about in + sonnet 104: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Three winters cold + Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, + Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd + In process of the seasons have I seen. + Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, + Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.” + </pre> + <p> + Lord Herbert first came to Court in the spring of 1598, and so sonnet 104 + may have represented the fact precisely so far as Herbert was concerned; + but I am not minded to take the poet so literally. Instead of beginning in + the spring of 1598, some of the sonnets to the lady were probably written + in the autumn of 1597, or even earlier, and yet Shakespeare would be quite + justified in talking of three years, if the period ended in 1601. A poet + is not to be bound to an almanack's exactitude. + </p> + <p> + In the fourth act of “Love's Labour's Lost,” when Biron confesses his love + for “the heavenly Rosaline,” the King banters him in the spirit of the + time: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>King</i>. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. + + <i>Biron</i>. Is ebony like her? O wood divine! + A wife of such wood were felicity. + O, who can give an oath? Where is a book? + That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack, + If that she learn not of her eye to look: + No face is fair that is not full so black.” + </pre> + <p> + Here we have Shakespeare again describing his mistress for us, though he + has done it better earlier in the play; he harps upon her dark beauty here + to praise it, just as he praised it in sonnet 127; it is passion's trick + to sound the extremes of blame and praise alternately. + </p> + <p> + In the time of Elizabeth it was customary for poets and courtiers to + praise red hair and a fair complexion as “beauty's ensign,” and so + compliment the Queen. The flunkeyism, which is a characteristic of all the + Germanic races, was peculiarly marked in England from the earliest times, + and induced men, even in those “spacious days,” not only to overpraise + fair hair, but to run down dark hair and eyes as ugly. The King replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O paradox! Black is the badge of hell, + The hue of dungeons and the school of night; + And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.” + </pre> + <p> + Biron answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. + O, if in black my lady's brow be deck'd + It mourns that painting and usurping hair + Should ravish doters with a false aspect; + And therefore is she born to make black fair. + Her favour turns the fashion of the days, + For native blood is counted painting now; + And therefore red that would avoid dispraise, + Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.” + </pre> + <p> + Our timid poet is bold enough, when cloaked under a stage-name, to uphold + the colour of his love's hair against the Queen's; the mere fact speaks + volumes to those who know their Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + Sonnet 127 runs in almost the same words; though now the poet speaking in + his own person is less bold: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In the old age black was not counted fair, + Or, if it were, it bore not beauty's name; + But now is black beauty's successive heir, + And beauty slandered with a bastard shame: + For since each hand hath put on nature's power, + Fairing the soul with art's false borrow'd face, + Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, + But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. + Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, + Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem + At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, + Slandering creation with a false esteem: + Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe + That every tongue says beauty should look so.” + </pre> + <p> + There can be no doubt that in this Rosaline of “Romeo and Juliet” and of + “Love's Labour's Lost,” Shakespeare is describing the “dark lady” of the + second sonnet-series, and describing her, against his custom in + play-writing, even more exactly than he described her in the lyrics. + </p> + <p> + There is a line at the end of this act which is very characteristic when + considered with what has gone before; it is clearly a confession of + Shakespeare himself, and a perfect example of what one might call the + conscience that pervades all his mature work: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn.” + </pre> + <p> + We were right, it seems, in putting some stress on that “perjured” when we + first met it. + </p> + <p> + In the second scene of the fifth act, which opens with a talk between the + Princess and her ladies, our view of Rosaline is confirmed. Katherine + calls Rosaline light, and jests upon this in lewd fashion; declares, too, + that she is “a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,” in fact, tells her that + she is + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A light condition in a beauty dark.” + </pre> + <p> + All these needless repetitions prove to me that Shakespeare is describing + his mistress as she lived and moved. Those who disagree with me should + give another instance in which he has used or abused the same precise + portraiture. But there is more in this light badinage of the girls than a + description of Rosaline. When Rosaline says that she will torture Biron + before she goes, and turn him into her vassal, the Princess adds, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “None are so surely caught when they are catch'd + As wit turned fool.” + </pre> + <p> + Rosaline replies, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The blood of youth burns not with such excess + As gravity's revolt to wantonness.” + </pre> + <p> + This remark has no pertinence or meaning in Rosaline's mouth. Biron is + supposed to be young in the play, and he has never been distinguished for + his gravity, but for his wit and humour: the Princess calls him “quick + Biron.” The two lines are clearly Shakespeare's criticism of himself. When + he wrote the sonnets he thought himself old, and certainly his years + (thirty-four) contrasted badly with those of Mary Fitton who was at this + time not more than nineteen. + </p> + <p> + Late in 1597 then, before William Herbert came upon the scene at all, + Shakespeare knew that his mistress was a wanton: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ay, and by heaven, one that will do the deed; + Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare has painted his love for us in these plays as a most + extraordinary woman: in person she is tall, with pallid complexion and + black eyes and black brows, “a gipsy,” he calls her; in nature imperious, + lawless, witty, passionate—a “wanton”; moreover, a person of birth + and position. That a girl of the time has been discovered who united all + these qualities in herself would bring conviction to almost any mind; but + belief passes into certitude when we reflect that this portrait of his + mistress is given with greatest particularity in the plays, where in fact + it is out of place and a fault in art. When studying the later plays we + shall find this gipsy wanton again and again; she made the deepest + impression on Shakespeare; was, indeed, the one love of his life. It was + her falseness that brought him to self-knowledge and knowledge of life, + and turned him from a light-hearted writer of comedies and histories into + the author of the greatest tragedies that have ever been conceived. + Shakespeare owes the greater part of his renown to Mary Fitton. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. THE SONNETS: PART III. + </h2> + <p> + The most interesting question in the sonnets, the question the vital + importance of which dwarfs all others, has never yet been fairly tackled + and decided. As soon as English critics noticed, a hundred years or so + ago, that the sonnets fell into two series, and that the first, and + longer, series was addressed to a young man, they cried, “shocking! + shocking!” and registered judgement with smug haste on evidence that would + not hang a cat. Hallam, “the judicious,” held that “it would have been + better for Shakespeare's reputation if the sonnets had never been + written,” and even Heine, led away by the consensus of opinion, accepted + the condemnation, and regretted “the miserable degradation of humanity” to + be found in the sonnets. But before giving ourselves to the novel + enjoyment of moral superiority over Shakespeare, it may be worth while to + ask, is the fact proved? is his guilt established? + </p> + <p> + No one, I think, who has followed me so far will need to be told that I + take no interest in white-washing Shakespeare: I am intent on painting him + as he lived and loved, and if I found him as vicious as Villon, or as + cruel as a stoat, I would set it all down as faithfully as I would give + proof of his generosity or his gentleness. + </p> + <p> + Before the reader can fairly judge of Shakespeare's innocence or guilt, he + must hold in mind two salient peculiarities of the man which I have + already noted; but which must now be relieved out into due prominence so + that one will make instinctive allowance for them at every moment, his + sensuality and his snobbishness. + </p> + <p> + His sensuality is the quality, as we have seen, which unites the creatures + of his temperament with those of his intellect, his poets with his + thinkers, and proves that Romeo and Jaques, the Duke of “Twelfth Night” + and Hamlet, are one and the same person. If the matter is fairly + considered it will be found that this all-pervading sensuality is the + source, or at least a natural accompaniment of his gentle kindness and his + unrivalled sympathy. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare painted no portrait of the hero or of the adventurer; found no + new word for the virile virtues or virile vices, but he gave immortal + expression to desire and its offspring, to love, jealousy, and despair, to + every form of pathos, pleading and pity, to all the gentler and more + feminine qualities. Desire in especial has inspired him with phrases more + magically expressive even than those gasped out by panting Sappho when + lust had made her body a lyre of deathless music. Her lyric to the belovèd + is not so intense as Othello's: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, thou weed + Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet + That the sense aches at thee”; +</pre> + <p> + or as Cleopatra's astonishing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is gold, and here + My bluest veins to kiss”; +</pre> + <p> + —the revelation of a lifetime devoted to vanity and sensuality, + sensuality pampered as a god and adored with an Eastern devotion. + </p> + <p> + I do not think I need labour this point further; as I have already + noticed, Orsino, the Duke of “Twelfth Night,” sums up Shakespeare's + philosophy of love in the words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, + The appetite may sicken, and so die.”— +</pre> + <p> + Shakespeare told us the truth about himself when he wrote in sonnet 142, + “Love is my sin.” We can expect from him new words or a new method in the + painting of passionate desire. + </p> + <p> + The second peculiarity of Shakespeare which we must establish firmly in + our minds before we attempt to construe the sonnets is his extraordinary + snobbishness. + </p> + <p> + English snobbishness is like a London fog, intenser than can be found in + any other country; it is so extravagant, indeed, that it seems different + in kind. One instance of this: when Mr. Gladstone was being examined once + in a case, he was asked by counsel, Was he a friend of a certain lord? + Instead of answering simply that he was, he replied that he did not think + it right to say he was a friend of so great a noble: “he had the honour of + his acquaintance.” Only in England would the man who could make noblemen + at will be found bowing before them with this humility of soul. + </p> + <p> + In Shakespeare's time English snobbishness was stronger than it is to-day; + it was then supported by law and enforced by penalties. To speak of a lord + without his title was regarded as defamation, and was punished as such + more than once by the Star Chamber. Shakespeare's position, too, explains + how this native snobbishness in him was heightened to flunkeyism. He was + an aristocrat born, as we have seen, and felt in himself a kinship for the + courtesies, chivalries, and generosities of aristocratic life. This + tendency was accentuated by his calling. The middle class, already steeped + in Puritanism, looked upon the theatre as scarcely better than the + brothel, and showed their contempt for the players in a thousand ways. The + groundlings and common people, with their “greasy caps” and “stinking + breath” were as loathsome to Shakespeare as the crop-headed, gain-loving + citizens who condemned him and his like pitilessly. He was thrown back, + therefore, upon the young noblemen who had read the classics and loved the + arts. His works show how he admires them. He could paint you Bassanio or + Benedick or Mercutio to the life. Everybody has noticed the predilection + with which he lends such characters his own poetic spirit and charm. His + lower orders are all food for comedy or farce: he will not treat them + seriously. + </p> + <p> + His snobbishness carries him to astounding lengths. One instance: every + capable critic has been astonished by the extraordinary fidelity to fact + he shows in his historical plays; he often takes whole pages of an earlier + play or of Plutarch, and merely varying the language uses them in his + drama. He is punctiliously careful to set down the fact, whatever it may + be, and explain it, even when it troubles the flow of his story; but as + soon as the fact comes into conflict with his respect for dignitaries, he + loses his nice conscience. He tells us of Agincourt without ever + mentioning the fact that the English bowmen won the battle; he had the + truth before him; the chronicler from whom he took the story vouched for + the fact; but Shakespeare preferred to ascribe the victory to Henry and + his lords. Shakespeare loved a lord with a passionate admiration, and when + he paints himself it is usually as a duke or prince. + </p> + <p> + Holding these truths in our mind, Shakespeare's intense sensitiveness and + sensuality, and his almost inconceivable snobbishness, we may now take up + the sonnets. + </p> + <p> + The first thing that strikes one in the sonnets is the fact that, though a + hundred and twenty-five of them are devoted to a young man, and + Shakespeare's affection for him, and only twenty-six to the woman, every + one of those to the woman is characterized by a terrible veracity of + passion, whereas those addressed to the youth are rather conventional than + convincing. He pictures the woman to the life; strong, proud, with dark + eyes and hair, pale complexion—a wanton with the rare power of + carrying off even a wanton's shame. He finds a method new to literature to + describe her. He will have no poetic exaggeration; snow is whiter than her + breasts; violets sweeter than her breath: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare + As any she belied with false compare.” + </pre> + <p> + His passion is so intense that he has no desire to paint her seduction as + greater than it was. She has got into his blood, so to speak, and each + drop of it under the microscope would show her image. Take any sonnet at + haphazard, and you will hear the rage of his desire. + </p> + <p> + But what is the youth like?—“the master-mistress” of his passion, to + give him the title which seems to have convinced the witless of + Shakespeare's guilt. Not one word of description is to be found anywhere; + no painting epithet—nothing. Where is the cry of this terrible, + shameless, outrageous passion that mastered Shakespeare's conscience and + enslaved his will? Hardly a phrase that goes beyond affection—such + affection as Shakespeare at thirty-four might well feel for a gifted, + handsome aristocrat like Lord Herbert, who had youth, beauty, wealth, wit + to recommend him. Herbert was a poet, too: a patron unparagoned! “If + Southampton gave me a thousand pounds,” Shakespeare may well have argued, + “perhaps Lord Herbert will get me made Master of the Revels, or even give + me a higher place.” An aristocratic society tends to make parasites even + of the strong, as Dr. Johnson's famous letter to Lord Chesterfield proves. + But let us leave supposition and come to the sonnets themselves, which are + addressed to the youth. The first sonnet begins: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “From fairest creatures we desire increase, + That thereby beauty's rose might never die.” + </pre> + <p> + This is a very good argument indeed when addressed to a woman; but when + addressed to a man by a man it rings strained and false. Yet it is the + theme of the first seventeen sonnets. It is precisely the same argument + which Shakespeare set forth in “Venus and Adonis” again and again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty; + Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.” + “And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive, + In that thy likeness still is left alive ...” + (173-4.) + + “Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, + But gold that's put to use more gold begets.” + (767-8.) +</pre> + <p> + At the end of the third sonnet we find the same argument: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But if thou live, remember'd not to be, + Die single, and thine image dies with thee.” + </pre> + <p> + Again, in the fourth, sixth, and seventh sonnets the same plea is urged. + In the tenth sonnet the poet cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Make thee another self, for love of me, + That beauty still may live in thine or thee.” + </pre> + <p> + And again at the end of the thirteenth sonnet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You had a father; let your son say so.” + </pre> + <p> + Every one of these sonnets contains simply the argument which is set forth + with equal force and far superior pertinence in “Venus and Adonis.” + </p> + <p> + That is, Shakespeare makes use of the passion he has felt for a woman to + give reality to the expression of his affection for the youth. No better + proof could be imagined of the fact that he never loved the youth with + passion. + </p> + <p> + In sonnet 18 Shakespeare begins to alter his note. He then tells the youth + that he will achieve immortality, not through his children, but through + Shakespeare's verses. Sonnet 19 is rounded with the same thought: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, + My love shall in my verse ever live young.” + </pre> + <p> + Sonnet 20 is often referred to as suggesting intimacy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted, + Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; + A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted + With shifting change, as is false woman's fashion; + An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling + Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; + A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling, + Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. + And for a woman wert thou first created; + Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, + And by addition me of thee defeated, + By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. + But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure + Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.” + </pre> + <p> + The sextet of this sonnet absolutely disproves guilty intimacy, and is, I + believe, intended to disprove it; Shakespeare had already fathomed the + scandal-loving minds of his friends, and wanted to set forth the noble + disinterestedness of his affection. + </p> + <p> + Sonnet 22 is more sincere, though not so passionate; it neither + strengthens nor rebuts the argument. Sonnet 23 is the sonnet upon which + all those chiefly rely who wish to condemn Shakespeare. Here it is: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “As an unperfect actor on the stage, + Who with his fear is put beside his part, + Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, + Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; + So I, for fear of trust, forget to say + The perfect ceremony of love's rite, + And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, + O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might. + O, let my looks be then the eloquence + And dumb presagers of my speaking breast; + Who plead for love, and look for recompense, + More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. + O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: + To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.” + </pre> + <p> + We can interpret the phrases, “the perfect ceremony of love's rite” and + “look for recompense” as we will; but it must be admitted that even when + used to the uttermost they form an astonishingly small base on which to + raise so huge and hideous a superstructure. + </p> + <p> + But we shall be told that the condemnation of Shakespeare is based, not + upon any sonnet or any line; but upon the way Shakespeare speaks as soon + as he discovers that his mistress has betrayed him in favour of his + friend. One is inclined to expect that he will throw the blame on the + friend, and, after casting him off, seek to win again the affections of + his mistress. Nine men out of ten would act in this way. But the sonnets + tell us with iteration and most peculiar emphasis that Shakespeare does + not condemn the friend. As soon as he hears of the traitorism he cries + (sonnet 33): + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Full many a glorious morning have I seen + Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, + Kissing with golden face the meadows green, + Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy; + Anon permit the basest clouds to ride + With ugly rack on his celestial face, + And from the forlorn world his visage hide, + Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: + Even so my sun one early morn did shine + With all triumphant splendour on my brow; + But out! alack! he was but one hour mine, + The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. + Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; + Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.” + </pre> + <p> + It is the loss of his friend he regrets, rather than the loss of his + mistress; she is not mentioned save by comparison with “basest clouds.” + Yet even when read by Gradgrind and his compeers the thirteenth line of + this sonnet is utterly inconsistent with passion. + </p> + <p> + In the next sonnet the friend repents, and weeps the “strong offence,” and + Shakespeare accepts the sorrow as salve that “heals the wound”; his + friend's tears are pearls that “ransom all ill deeds.” The next sonnet + begins with the line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done”; +</pre> + <p> + Shakespeare will be an “accessory” to his friend's “theft,” though he + admits that the robbery is still sour. Then come four sonnets in which he + is content to forget all about the wrong he has suffered, and simply + exhausts himself in praise of his friend. Sonnet 40 begins: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; + What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? + No love, my love, that thou may'st true love call; All mine was +thine, before thou hadst this more.” + </pre> + <p> + This is surely the very soul of tender affection; but it is significant + that even here the word “true” is emphasized and not “love”; he goes on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, + Although thou steal thee all my poverty; + And yet love knows it is a greater grief + To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury.” + </pre> + <p> + Never before was a man so gentle-kind; we might be listening to the lament + of a broken-hearted woman who smiles through her tears to reassure her + lover; yet there is no attempt to disguise the fact that Herbert has done + “wrong.” The next sonnet puts the poet's feeling as strongly as possible. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, + When I am sometime absent from thy heart, + Thy beauty and thy years full well befits, + For still temptation follows where thou art. + Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, + Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd; + And when a woman woos, what woman's son + Will sourly leave her till she have prevail'd? + Ay me! but yet thou might'st my seat forbear, + And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, + Who lead thee in their riot even there + Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth; + Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee, + Thine by thy beauty being false to me.” + </pre> + <p> + The first lines show that Shakespeare is pretending; he attempts not only + to minimize the offence, but to find it charming. A mother who caught her + young son kissing a girl would reproach him in this fashion; to her his + faults would be the “pretty wrongs that liberty commits.” But this is not + the way passion speaks, and here again the sextet condemns Herbert in the + plainest terms. At length we have the summing-up: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “That thou hast her, it is not all my grief, + And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly; + That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, + A loss in love that touches me more nearly. + Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye: + Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her; + And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, + Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. + If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain, + And losing her, my friend hath found that loss; + Both find each other, and I lose both twain, + And both for my sake lay on me this cross: + But here's the joy; my friend and I are one; + Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.” + </pre> + <p> + This sonnet, with its affected word-play and wire-drawn consolation, + leaves one gaping: Shakespeare's verbal affectations had got into his very + blood. To my mind the whole sonnet is too extravagant to be sincere; it is + only to be explained by the fact that Shakespeare's liking for Herbert was + heightened by snobbishness and by the hope of patronage. None of it rings + true except the first couplet. Yet the argument of it is repeated, strange + to say, and emphasized in the sonnets addressed to the “dark lady” whom + Shakespeare loved. Sonnet 144 is clear enough: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Two loves I have of comfort and despair, + Which like two spirits do suggest me still: + The better angel is a man, right fair, + The worser spirit a woman, colour'd ill. + To win me soon to hell, my female evil + Tempteth my better angel from my side, + And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, + Wooing his purity with her foul pride. + And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend + Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; + But being both from me, both to each friend, + I guess one angel in another's hell: + Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, + Till my bad angel fire my good one out.” + </pre> + <p> + As soon as his mistress comes on the scene Shakespeare's passionate + sincerity cannot be questioned. The truth is the intensity of his passion + leads him to condemn and spite the woman, while the absence of passion + allows him to pretend affection for the friend. Sonnet 133, written to the + woman, is decisive: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan + For that deep wound it gives my friend and me! + Is't not enough to torture me alone, + But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? + Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken, + And my next self thou harder hast engross'd: + Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken; + A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd. + Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward, + But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail; + Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; + Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol: + And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee, + Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.” + </pre> + <p> + The last couplet is to me “perforce” conclusive. But let us take it that + these sonnets prove the contention of the cry of critics that Shakespeare + preferred friendship to love, and held his friend dearer than his + mistress, and let us see if the plays corroborate the sonnets on this + point. We may possibly find that the plays only strengthen the doubt which + the sonnets implant in us. + </p> + <p> + “The Merchant of Venice” has always seemed to me important as helping to + fix the date of the sonnets. Antonio, as I have shown, is an impersonation + of Shakespeare himself. It seems to me Shakespeare would have found it + impossible to write of Antonio's self-sacrificing love for Bassanio after + he himself had been cheated by his friend. This play then must have been + written shortly before his betrayal, and should give us Shakespeare's + ordinary attitude. Many expressions in the play remind us of the sonnets, + and one in especial of sonnet 41. In the sixth scene of the second act, + Jessica, when escaping from her father's house, uses Shakespeare's voice + to say: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But love is blind and lovers cannot see + The pretty follies that themselves commit.” + </pre> + <p> + Here we have “the pretty follies” which is used again as “pretty wrongs” + in sonnet 41. Immediately afterwards Lorenzo, another mask of Shakespeare, + praises Jessica as “wise, fair, and true,” just as in sonnet 105 + Shakespeare praises his friend as “kind, fair, and true,” using again + words which his passion for a woman has taught him. + </p> + <p> + The fourth act sets forth the same argument we find in the sonnets. When + it looks as if Antonio would have to give his life as forfeit to the Jew, + Bassanio exclaims: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Antonio, I am married to a wife + Which is as dear to me as life itself; + But life itself, my wife and all the world + Are not with me esteem'd above thy life. + I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all + Here to this devil to deliver you.” + </pre> + <p> + This is the language of passionate exaggeration, one might say. Antoniois + suffering in Bassanio's place, paying the penalty, so to speak, for + Bassanio's happiness. No wonder Bassanio exaggerates his grief and the + sacrifice he would be prepared to make. But Gratiano has no such excuse + for extravagant speech, and yet Gratiano follows in the self-same vein: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I have a wife whom, I protest, I love: + I would she were in heaven, so she could + Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.” + </pre> + <p> + The peculiarity of this attitude is heightened by the fact that the two + wives, Portia and Nerissa, both take the ordinary view. Portia says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Your wife would give you little thanks for that + If she were by to hear you make the offer.” + </pre> + <p> + And Nerissa goes a little further: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Tis well you offer it behind her back, + The wish would make else an unquiet house.” + </pre> + <p> + The blunder is monstrous; not only is the friend prepared to sacrifice all + he possesses, including his wife, to save his benefactor, but the friend's + friend is content to sacrifice his wife too for the same object. + Shakespeare then in early manhood was accustomed to put friendship before + love; we must find some explanation of what seems to us so unnatural an + attitude. + </p> + <p> + In the last scene of “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” which is due to a + later revision, the sonnet-case is emphasized. And at this time + Shakespeare has suffered Herbert's betrayal. As soon as the false friend + Proteus says he is sorry and asks forgiveness, Valentine, another + impersonation of Shakespeare, replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then I am paid; + And once again I do receive thee honest: + Who by repentance is not satisfied, + Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleas'd; + By penitence the Eternal's wrath's appeased; + And that my love may appear plain and free, + All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.” + </pre> + <p> + This incarnation of Shakespeare speaks of repentance in Shakespeare's most + characteristic fashion, and then coolly surrenders the woman he loves to + his friend without a moment's hesitation, and without even considering + whether the woman would be satisfied with the transfer. The words admit of + no misconstruction; they stand four-square, not to be shaken by any + ingenuity of reason, and Shakespeare supplies us with further + corroboration of them. + </p> + <p> + “Coriolanus” was written fully ten years after “The Merchant of Venice,” + and long after the revision of “The Two Gentlemen of Verona.” And yet + Shakespeare's attitude at forty-three is, in regard to this matter, just + what it was at thirty-three. When Aufidius finds Coriolanus in his house, + and learns that he has been banished from Rome and is now prepared to turn + his army against his countrymen, he welcomes him as “more a friend than + e'er an enemy,” and this is the way he takes to show his joy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Know thou first, + I loved the maid I married: never man + Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, + Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart + Than when I first my wedded mistress saw + Bestride my threshold.” + </pre> + <p> + Here's the same attitude; the same extravagance; the same insistence on + the fact that the man loves the maid and yet has more delight in the + friend. What does it mean? When we first find it in “The Merchant of + Venice” it must give the reader pause; in “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” it + surprises us; in the sonnets, accompanied as it is by every flattering + expression of tender affection for the friend, it brings us to question; + but its repetition in “Coriolanus” must assure us that it is a mere pose. + Aufidius was not such a friend of Coriolanus that we can take his + protestation seriously. The argument is evidently a stock argument to + Shakespeare: a part of the ordinary furniture of his mind: it is like a + fashionable dress of the period—the wearer does not notice its + peculiarity. + </p> + <p> + The truth is, Shakespeare found in the literature of his time, and in the + minds of his contemporaries, a fantastically high appreciation of + friendship, coupled with a corresponding disdain for love as we moderns + understand it. In “Wit's Commonwealth,” published in 1598, we find: “The + love of men to women is a thing common and of course, but the friendship + of man to man, infinite and immortal.” Passionate devotion to friendship + is a sort of mark of the Renaissance, and the words “love” and “lover” in + Elizabethan English were commonly used for “friend” and “friendship.” + Moreover, one must not forget that Lyly, whose euphuistic speech affected + Shakespeare for years, had handled this same incident in his “Campaspe,” + where Alexander gives up his love to his rival, Apelles. Shakespeare, not + to be outdone in any loyalty, sets forth the same fantastical devotion in + the sonnets and plays. He does this, partly because the spirit of the time + infected him, partly out of sincere admiration for Herbert, but oftener, I + imagine, out of self-interest. It is pose, flunkeyism and the hope of + benefits to come and not passion that inspired the first series of + sonnets. + </p> + <p> + Whoever reads the scene carefully in “Much Ado About Nothing,” cannot + avoid seeing that Shakespeare at his best not only does not minimize his + friend's offence, but condemns it absolutely: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The transgression is in the stealer.” + </pre> + <p> + And in the sonnets, too, in spite of himself, the same true feeling + pierces through the snobbish and affected excuses. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ay me! but yet them might'st my seat forbear, + And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, + Who lead thee in their riot even there + Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth, + Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee, + Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare was a sycophant, a flunkey if you will, but nothing worse. + </p> + <p> + Further arguments suggest themselves. Shakespeare lived, as it were, in a + glass house with a score of curious eyes watching everything he did and + with as many ears pricked for every word he said; but this foul accusation + was never even suggested by any of his rivals. In especial Ben Jonson was + always girding at Shakespeare, now satirically, now good-humouredly. Is it + not manifest that if any such sin had ever been attributed to him, Ben + Jonson would have given the suspicion utterance? There is a passage in his + “Bartholomew Fair” which I feel sure is meant as a skit upon the relations + we find in the Sonnets. In Act V, scene iii, there is a puppet-show + setting forth “the ancient modern history of Hero and Leander, otherwise + called the Touchstone of true Love, with as true a trial of Friendship + between Damon and Pythias, two faithful friends o' the Bankside.” Hero is + a “wench o' the Bankside,” and Leander swims across the Thames to her. + Damon and Pythias meet at her lodgings, and abuse each other violently, + only to finish as perfect good friends. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Damon</i>. Whore-master in thy face; + Thou hast lain with her thyself, I'll prove it in this place. + + <i>Leatherhead</i>. They are whore-masters both, sir, that's + a plain case. + + <i>Pythias</i>. Thou lie like a rogue. + + <i>Leatherhead</i>. Do I lie like a rogue? + + <i>Pythias</i>. A pimp and a scab. + + <i>Leatherhead</i>. A pimp and a scab! + I say, between you you have both but one drab. + + <i>Pythias and Damon</i>. Come, now we'll go together to + breakfast to Hero. + + <i>Leatherhead</i>. Thus, gentles, you perceive without any + denial + 'Twixt Damon and Pythias here friendship's true trial.” + </pre> + <p> + Rare Ben Jonson would have been delighted to set forth the viler charge if + it had ever been whispered. + </p> + <p> + Then again, it seems to me certain that if Shakespeare had been the sort + of man his accusers say he was, he would have betrayed himself in his + plays. Consider merely the fact that young boys then played the girls' + parts on the stage. Surely if Shakespeare had had any leaning that way, we + should have found again and again ambiguous or suggestive expressions + given to some of these boys when aping girls; but not one. The temptation + was there; the provocation was there, incessant and prolonged for + twenty-five years, and yet, to my knowledge, Shakespeare has never used + one word that malice could misconstrue. Yet he loved suggestive and lewd + speech. + </p> + <p> + Luckily, however, there is stronger proof of Shakespeare's innocence than + even his condemnation of his false friend, proof so strong, that if all + the arguments for his guilt were tenfold stronger than they are, this + proof would outweigh them all and bring them to nought. Nor should it be + supposed, because I have only mentioned the chief arguments for and + against, that I do not know all those that can be urged on either side. I + have confined myself to the chief ones simply because by merely stating + them, their utter weakness must be admitted by every one who can read + Shakespeare, by every one who understands his impulsive sensitiveness, and + the facility with which affectionate expressions came to his lips. + Moreover, it must not be forgotten that while the sonnets were being + written he was in rivalry with Chapman for this very patron's favour, and + this rivalry alone would explain a good deal of the fervour, or, should I + say, the affected fervour he put into the first series of sonnets; but now + for the decisive and convincing argument for Shakespeare's innocence. + </p> + <p> + Let us first ask ourselves how it is that real passion betrays itself and + proves its force. Surely it is by its continuance; by its effect upon the + life later. I have assumed, or inferred, as my readers may decide, that + Shakespeare's liking for Herbert was chiefly snobbish, and was deepened by + the selfish hope that he would find in him a patron even more powerful and + more liberally disposed than Lord Southampton. He probably felt that young + Herbert owed him a great deal for his companionship and poetical advice; + for Herbert was by way of being a poet himself. If my view is correct, + after Shakespeare lost Lord Herbert's affection, we should expect to hear + him talking of man's forgetfulness and ingratitude, and that is just what + Lord Herbert left in him, bitterness and contempt. Never one word in all + his works to show that the loss of this youth's affection touched him more + nearly. As we have seen, he cannot keep the incident out of his plays. + Again and again he drags it in; but in none of these dramas is there any + lingering kindness towards the betrayer. And as soon as the incident was + past and done with, as soon as the three or four years' companionship with + Lord Herbert was at an end, not one word more do we catch expressive of + affection. Again and again Shakespeare rails at man's ingratitude, but + nothing more. Think of it. Pembroke, under James, came to great power; + was, indeed, made Lord Chamberlain, and set above all the players, so that + he could have advanced Shakespeare as he pleased with a word: with a word + could have made him Master of the Revels, or given him a higher post. He + did not help him in any way. He gave books every Christmas to Ben Jonson, + but we hear of no gift to Shakespeare, though evidently from the + dedication to him of the first folio, he remained on terms of careless + acquaintance with Shakespeare. Ingratitude is what Shakespeare found in + Lord Pembroke; ingratitude is what he complains of in him. What a + different effect the loss of Mary Fitton had upon Shakespeare. Just + consider what the plays teach us when the sonnet-story is finished. The + youth vanishes; no reader can find a trace of him, or even an allusion to + him. But the woman comes to be the centre, as we shall see, of tragedy + after tragedy. She flames through Shakespeare's life, a fiery symbol, till + at length she inspires perhaps his greatest drama, “Antony and Cleopatra,” + filling it with the disgrace of him who is “a strumpet's fool,” the shame + of him who has become “the bellows and the fan to cool a harlot's lust.” + </p> + <p> + The passion for Mary Fitton was the passion of Shakespeare's whole life. + The adoration of her, and the insane desire of her, can be seen in every + play he wrote from 1597 to 1608. After he lost her, he went back to her; + but the wound of her frailty cankered and took on proud flesh in him, and + tortured him to nervous breakdown and to madness. When at length he won to + peace, after ten years, it was the peace of exhaustion. His love for his + “gipsy-wanton” burned him out, as one is burnt to ashes at the stake, and + his passion only ended with his life. + </p> + <p> + There is no room for doubt in my mind, no faintest suspicion. Hallam and + Heine, and all the cry of critics, are mistaken in this matter. + Shakespeare admired Lord Herbert's youth and boldness and beauty, hoped + great things from his favour and patronage; but after the betrayal, he + judged him inexorably as a mean traitor, “a stealer” who had betrayed “a + twofold trust”; and later, cursed him for his ingratitude, and went about + with wild thoughts of bloody revenge, as we shall soon see in “Hamlet” and + “Othello,” and then dropped him into oblivion without a pang. + </p> + <p> + It is bad enough to know that Shakespeare, the sweetest spirit and finest + mind in all literature, should have degraded himself to pretend such an + affection for the profligate Herbert as has given occasion for + misconstruction. It is bad enough, I say, to know that Shakespeare could + play flunkey to this extent; but after all, that is the worst that can be + urged against him, and it is so much better than men have been led to + believe that there may be a certain relief in the knowledge. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST-FRUIT OF THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE: BRUTUS + </h2> + <p> + The play of “Julius Caesar” was written about 1600 or 1601. As “Twelfth + Night” was the last of the golden comedies, so “Julius Caesar” is the + first of the great tragedies, and bears melancholy witness to us that the + poet's young-eyed confidence in life and joy in living are dying, if not + dead. “Julius Caesar” is the first outcome of disillusion. Before it was + written Shakespeare had been deceived by his mistress, betrayed by his + friend; his eyes had been opened to the fraud and falsehood of life; but, + like one who has just been operated on for cataract, he still sees + realities as through a mist, dimly. He meets the shock of traitorous + betrayal as we should have expected Valentine or Antonio or Orsino to meet + it—with pitying forgiveness. Suffering, instead of steeling his + heart and drying up his sympathies, as it does with most men, softened + him, induced him to give himself wholly to that “angel, Pity.” He will not + believe that his bitter experience is universal; in spite of Herbert's + betrayal, he still has the courage to declare his belief in the existence + of the ideal. At the very last his defeated Brutus cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My heart doth joy that yet in all my life + I found no man but he was true to me.” + </pre> + <p> + The pathos of this attempt still to believe in man and man's truth is over + the whole play. But the belief was fated to disappear. No man who lives in + the world can boast of loyalty as Brutus did; even Jesus had a Judas among + the Twelve. But when Shakespeare wrote “Julius Caesar” he still tried to + believe, and this gives the play an important place in his life's story. + </p> + <p> + Before I begin to consider the character of Brutus I should like to draw + attention to three passages which place Brutus between the melancholy + Jaques of “As You Like It,” whose melancholy is merely temperamental, and + the almost despairing Hamlet. Jaques says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Invest me in my motley; give me leave + To speak my mind, and I will through and through + Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, + If they will patiently receive my medicine.” + </pre> + <p> + This is the view of early manhood which does not doubt its power to cure + all the evils which afflict mortality. Then comes the later, more hopeless + view, to which Brutus gives expression: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this; + Brutus had rather be a villager + Than to repute himself a son of Rome + Under these hard conditions as this time + Is like to lay upon us.” + </pre> + <p> + And later still, and still more bitter, Hamlet's: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, + That ever I was born to set it right!” + </pre> + <p> + But Shakespeare is a meliorist even in Hamlet, and believes that the + ailments of man can all be set right. + </p> + <p> + The likenesses between Brutus and Hamlet are so marked that even the + commentators have noticed them. Professor Dowden exaggerates the + similarities. “Both (dramas),” he writes, “are tragedies of thought rather + than of passion; both present in their chief characters the spectacle of + noble natures which fail through some weakness or deficiency rather than + through crime; upon Brutus as upon Hamlet a burden is laid which he is not + able to bear; neither Brutus nor Hamlet is fitted for action, yet both are + called to act in dangerous and difficult affairs.” Much of this is + Professor Dowden's view and not Shakespeare's. When Shakespeare wrote + “Julius Caesar” he had not reached that stage in self-understanding when + he became conscious that he was a man of thought rather than of action, + and that the two ideals tend to exclude each other. In the contest at + Philippi Brutus and his wing win the day; it is the defeat of Cassius + which brings about the ruin; Shakespeare evidently intended to depict + Brutus as well “fitted for action.” + </p> + <p> + Some critics find it disconcerting that Shakespeare identified himself + with Brutus, who failed, rather than with Caesar, who succeeded. But even + before he himself came to grief in his love and trust, Shakespeare had + always treated the failures with peculiar sympathy. He preferred Arthur to + the Bastard, and King Henry VI. to Richard III., and Richard II. to proud + Bolingbroke. And after his agony of disillusion, all his heroes are + failures for years and years: Brutus, Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, Troilus, + Antony, and Timon—all fail as he himself had failed. + </p> + <p> + There is some matter for surprise in the fact that Brutus is an ideal + portrait of Shakespeare. Disillusion usually brings a certain bitter + sincerity, a measure of realism, into artistic work; but its first effect + on Shakespeare was to draw out all the kindliness in him; Brutus is + Shakespeare at his sweetest and best. Yet the soul-suffering of the man + has assuredly improved his art: Brutus is a better portrait of him than + Biron, Valentine, Romeo, or Antonio, a more serious and bolder piece of + self-revealing even than Orsino. Shakespeare is not afraid now to depict + the deep underlying kindness of his nature, his essential goodness of + heart. A little earlier, and occupied chiefly with his own complex growth, + he could only paint sides of himself; a little later, and the personal + interest absorbed all others, so that his dramas became lyrics of anguish + and despair. Brutus belongs to the best time, artistically speaking, to + the time when passion and pain had tried the character without benumbing + the will or distracting the mind: it is a masterpiece of portraiture, and + stands in even closer relation to Hamlet than Romeo stands to Orsino. As + Shakespeare appears to us in Brutus at thirty-seven, so he was when they + bore him to his grave at fifty-two—the heart does not alter greatly. + </p> + <p> + Let no one say or think that in all this I am drawing on my imagination; + what I have said is justified by all that Brutus says and does from one + end of the play to the other. According to his custom, Shakespeare has + said it all of himself very plainly, and has put his confession into the + mouth of Brutus on his very first appearance (Act i. sc. 2): + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Cassius + Be not deceived: if I have veiled my look + I turn the trouble of my countenance + Merely upon myself. Vexed I am + Of late with passions of some difference, + Conceptions only proper to myself, + Which gives some soil, perhaps, to my behaviours, + But let not therefore my good friends be grieved,— + Among which number, Cassius, be you one,— + Nor construe any further in neglect, + Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, + Forgets the shows of love to other men.” + </pre> + <p> + What were these “different passions,” complex personal passions, too, + which had vexed Brutus and changed his manners even to his friends? There + is no hint of them in Plutarch, no word about them in the play. It was not + “poor Brutus,” but poor Shakespeare, racked by love and jealousy, tortured + by betrayal, who was now “at war with himself.” + </p> + <p> + I assume the identity of Brutus with Shakespeare before I have absolutely + proved it because it furnishes the solution to the difficulties of the + play. As usual, Coleridge has given proof of his insight by seeing and + stating the chief difficulty, without, however, being able to explain it, + and as usual, also, the later critics have followed him as far as they + can, and in this case have elected to pass over the difficulty in silence. + Coleridge quotes some of the words of Brutus when he first thinks of + killing Caesar, and calls the passage a speech of Brutus, but it is in + reality a soliloquy of Brutus, and must be considered in its entirety. + Brutus says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It must be by his death: and for my part, + I know no personal cause to spurn at him + But for the general. He would be crowned:— + How that might change his nature, there's the question? + It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, + And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that; + And then, I grant, we put a sting in him + That at his will he may do danger with. + The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins + Remorse from power: and to speak truth of Caesar, + I have known his affections swayed + More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof, + That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, + Whereto the climber-upwards turns his face; + But when he once attains the topmost round, + He then unto the ladder turns his back, + Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees + By which he did ascend. So Caesar may: + Then, lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrel + Will bear no colour for the thing he is, + Fashion it thus: that, what he is, augmented, + Would run to these and these extremities: + And therefore think him as a serpent's egg, + Which, hatched, would as his kind grow mischievous; + And kill him in the shell.” + </pre> + <p> + Coleridge's comment on this deserves notice. He wrote: “This speech is + singular; at least, I do not at present see into Shakespeare's motive, his + <i>rationale</i>, or in what point of view he meant Brutus' character to + appear. For surely ... nothing can seem more discordant with our + historical preconceptions of Brutus, or more lowering to the intellect of + the Stoico-Platonic tyrannicide, than the tenets here attributed to him—to + him, the stern Roman republican; namely, that he would have no objection + to a king, or to Caesar, a monarch in Rome, would Caesar but be as good a + monarch as he now seems disposed to be! How, too, could Brutus say that he + found no personal cause—none in Caesar's past conduct as a man? Had + he not passed the Rubicon? Had he not entered Rome as a conqueror? Had he + not placed his Gauls in the Senate? Shakespeare, it may be said, has not + brought these things forward. True;—and this is just the ground of + my perplexity. What character did Shakespeare mean his Brutus to be?” + </p> + <p> + All this is sound criticism, and can only be answered by the truth that + Shakespeare from the beginning of the play identified himself with Brutus, + and paid but little attention to the historic Brutus whom he had met in + Plutarch. Let us push criticism a little further, and we shall see that + this is the only possible way to read the riddle. We all know why + Plutarch's Brutus killed Caesar; but why does Shakespeare's Brutus kill + the man he so esteems? Because Caesar may change his nature when king; + because like the serpent's egg he may “grow mischievous”? But when he + speaks “truth” of Caesar he has to admit Caesar's goodness. The “serpent's + egg” reason then is inapplicable. Besides, when speaking of himself on the + plains of Philippi, Shakespeare's Brutus explicitly contradicts this false + reasoning: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I know not how + But I do find it cowardly and vile, + <i>For fear of what might fall</i>, so to prevent + The term of life.” + </pre> + <p> + It would seem, therefore, that Brutus did not kill Caesar, as one crushes + a serpent's egg, to prevent evil consequences. It is equally manifest that + he did not do it for “the general,” for if ever “the general” were shown + to be despicable and worthless it is in this very play, where the citizens + murder Cinna the poet because he has the same name as Cinna the + conspirator, and the lower classes are despised as the “rabblement,” “the + common herd,” with “chapped hands,” “sweaty night-caps,” and “stinking + breath.” + </p> + <p> + It is Dr. Brandes' idea and not Shakespeare's that Brutus is a “man of + uncompromising character and principle.” That is the Brutus of Plutarch, + who finds in his stern republican love of the common good an ethical + motive for killing the ambitious Caesar. But Shakespeare had no + understanding of the republican ideal, and no sympathy with the public; + accordingly, his Brutus has no adequate reason for contriving Caesar's + death. Shakespeare followed Plutarch in freeing Brutus from the suspicion + of personal or interested motive, but he didn't see that by doing this he + made his Brutus a conspirator without a cause, a murderer without a motive. + The truth is our gentle poet could never find a convincing ground for + cold-blooded murder. It will be remembered that Macbeth only murders, as + the deer murders, out of fear, and the fact that his Brutus can find no + justification of any sort for killing Caesar, confirms our view of + Shakespeare's gentle kindness. The “uncompromising character and + principle” of the severe republican we find in Plutarch, sit uneasily on + Shakespeare's Brutus; it is apparent that the poet had no conception of + what we call a fanatic. His difficulties arise from this limitation of + insight. He begins to write the play by making Brutus an idealized + portrait of himself; he, therefore, dwells on Brutus' perfect nobility, + sincerity, and unselfishness, but does not realize that the more perfect + he makes Brutus, the more clear and cogent Brutus' motive must be for + undertaking Caesar's assassination. + </p> + <p> + In this confusion Shakespeare's usually fine instinct is at fault, and he + blunders from mistake to mistake. His idealizing tendency makes him + present Brutus as perfect, and at the same time he uses the historical + incident of the anonymous letters, which goes to show Brutus as conceited + and vain. If these letters influenced Brutus—and they must be taken + to have done so, or else why were they introduced?—we have a noble + and unselfish man murdering out of paltry vanity. In Plutarch, where + Brutus is depicted as an austere republican, the incident of the letters + only throws a natural shade of doubt on the rigid principles by which + alone he is supposed to be guided. We all feel that rigid principles rest + on pride, and may best be led astray through pride. But Shakespeare's + Brutus is pure human sweetness, and the letters are worse than out of + place when addressed to him. Shakespeare should never have used this + incident; it is a blot on his conception. + </p> + <p> + All through the first acts of the play Brutus is incredible, for he is in + an impossible position. Shakespeare simply could not find any valid reason + why his <i>alter ego</i>, Brutus, should kill Caesar. But from the moment + the murder is committed to the end of the play Brutus- Shakespeare is at + peace with himself. And as soon as the dramatist lets himself go and + paints Brutus with entire freedom and frankness, he rises to the height of + tragic pathos, and we can all recognize the original of the portrait. At + first Brutus is merely ideal; his perfect unsuspiciousness—he trusts + even Antony; his transparent honesty—he will have no other oath + among the conspirators + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Than honesty to honesty engaged”; +</pre> + <p> + his hatred of bloodshed—he opposes Cassius, who proposes to murder + Antony; all these noble qualities may be contrasted with the subtler + shortcomings which make of Hamlet so vital a creation. Hamlet is + suspicious even of Ophelia; Hamlet is only “indifferent honest”; Hamlet + makes his friends swear to keep the ghost's appearance a profound secret; + Hamlet lives from the beginning, while Brutus at first is a mere bundle of + perfections individualized only by that personal intimate confession which + I have already quoted, which, however, has nothing to do with the play. + But later in the drama Shakespeare begins to lend Brutus his own + weaknesses, and forthwith Brutus lives. His insomnia is pure Shakespeare: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, + I have not slept.” + </pre> + <p> + The character of Brutus is superbly portrayed in that wonderful scene with + Cassius in the fourth act. With all the superiority of conscious genius he + treats his confederate as a child or madman, much as Hamlet treats + Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?” + </pre> + <p> + Cassius is mean, too, whereas Brutus is kindly and generous to a degree: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For I can raise no money by vile means: + By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, + And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring + From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash + By any indirection.... + - - - - - - - - + When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, + To lock such rascal counters from his friends, + Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, + Dash him to pieces.” + </pre> + <p> + And, above all, as soon as Cassius appeals to his affection, Brutus is + disarmed: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb + That carries anger, as the flint bears fire; + Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, + And straight is cold again.” + </pre> + <p> + This is the best expression of Shakespeare's temper; the “hasty spark” is + Hamlet's temper, as we have seen, and Macbeth's, and Romeo's. + </p> + <p> + And now everything that Brutus does or says is Shakespeare's best. In a + bowl of wine he buries “all unkindness.” His affection for Cassius is not + a virtue to one in especial. The scene in the fourth act, in which he begs + the pardon of his boy Lucius, should be learned by heart by those who wish + to understand our loving and lovable Shakespeare. This scene, be it + remarked, is not in Plutarch, but is Shakespeare's own invention. His care + for the lad's comfort, at a time when his own life is striking the supreme + hour, is exquisitely pathetic. Then come his farewell to Cassius and his + lament over Cassius' body; then the second fight and the nobly generous + words that hold in them, as flowers their perfume, all Shakespeare's + sweetness of nature: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My heart doth joy, that yet in all my life + I found no man, but he was true to me.” + </pre> + <p> + And then night hangs upon the weary, sleepless eyes, and we are all ready + to echo Antony's marvellous valediction: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This was the noblest Roman of them all; + - - - - - - - - - - - - + His life was gentle; and the elements + So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up + And say to all the world, 'This was a man!'” + </pre> + <p> + But this Brutus was no murderer, no conspirator, no narrow republican + fanatic, but simply gentle Shakespeare discovering to us his own sad heart + and the sweetness which suffering had called forth in him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. DRAMAS OF REVENGE AND JEALOUSY: HAMLET. + </h2> + <p> + “A beautiful, pure and most moral nature, without the strength of nerve + which makes the hero, sinks beneath a burden which it can neither bear nor + throw off; every duty is holy to him,—this too hard. The impossible + is required of him,—not the impossible in itself, but the impossible + to him. How he winds, turns, agonizes, advances and recoils, ever + reminded, ever reminding himself, and at last almost loses his purpose + from his thoughts, without ever again recovering his peace of mind....”—“<i>Hamlet</i>” + by <i>Goethe</i>. + </p> + <p> + Goethe's criticism of Hamlet is so much finer than any English criticism + that I am glad to quote it. It will serve, I think, as a standard to + distinguish the best criticism of the past from what I shall set forth in + the course of this analysis. In this chapter I shall try to show what new + light our knowledge of Shakespeare throws on the play, and conversely what + new light the play throws on its maker. + </p> + <p> + The first moment of disillusion brought out, as we have seen in Brutus, + all the kindness in Shakespeare's nature. He will believe in men in spite + of experience; but the idealistic pose could not be kept up: sooner or + later Shakespeare had to face the fact that he had been befooled and + scorned by friend and mistress—how did he meet it? Hamlet is the + answer: Shakespeare went about nursing dreams of revenge and murder. + Disillusion had deeper consequences; forced to see other men as they were, + he tried for a moment to see himself as he was. The outcome of that + objective vision was Hamlet—a masterpiece of self-revealing. + </p> + <p> + Yet, when he wrote “Hamlet,” nothing was clear to him; the significance of + the catastrophe had only dawned upon him; he had no notion how complete + his soul-shipwreck was, still less did he dream of painting himself + realistically in all his obsequious flunkeyism and ungovernable + sensuality. He saw himself less idealistically than heretofore, and, + trying to look at himself fairly, honestly, he could not but accuse + himself of irresolution at the very least; he had hung on with Herbert, as + the sonnets tell us, hoping to build again the confidence which had been + ruined by betrayal, hoping he knew not what of gain or place, to the + injury of his own self-respect; while brooding all the time on quite + impossible plans of revenge, impossible, for action had been “sicklied + o'er with the pale cast of thought.” Hamlet could not screw his courage to + the sticking point, and so became a type for ever of the philosopher or + man of letters who, by thinking, has lost the capacity for action. + </p> + <p> + Putting ourselves in Shakespeare's place for the moment we see at once why + he selected this story for treatment at this time. He knew, none better, + that no young aristocrat would have submitted patiently to the wrong he + had suffered from Lord Herbert; he created Laertes to show how instant and + determined such a man would be in taking murderous revenge; but he still + felt that what others would regard as faults, his irresolution and + shrinking from bloodshed were in themselves nobler, and so, whilst half + excusing, half realizing himself, he brought forth a masterpiece. This + brooding on revenge, which is the heart and explanation of his great play, + shows us how little Shakespeare cared for Herbert, how completely he had + condemned him. The soliloquy on this point in “Hamlet” is the most + characteristic thing in the drama: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This is most brave, + That I, the son of a dear father murder'd + Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, + Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words, + And fall a-cursing like a very drab.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare is thinking of Herbert's betrayal; “here I am,” he says, + “prompted to revenge by reason and custom, yet instead of acting I fall + a-cursing like a drab.” But behind his irresolution is his hatred of + bloodshed: he could whip out his sword and on a sudden kill Polonius, + mistaking him for the king (Herbert), but he could not, in cold blood, + make up his mind to kill and proceed to execution. Like his own Hubert, + Shakespeare had to confess: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Within this bosom never enter'd yet + The dreadful motion of a murderous thought.” + </pre> + <p> + He had none of the direct, passionate, conscienceless resolution of + Laertes. He whips himself to anger against the king by thinking of Herbert + in the king's place; but lackey-like has to admit that mere regard for + position and power gives him pause: Lord Herbert was too far above him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There's such divinity doth hedge a king, + That treason can but peep to what it would.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare's personal feeling dominates and inspires the whole play. One + crucial instance will prove this. Why did Hamlet hate his mother's + lechery? Most men would hardly have condemned it, certainly would not have + suffered their thoughts to dwell on it beyond the moment; but to Hamlet + his mother's faithlessness was horrible, shameful, degrading, simply + because Hamlet-Shakespeare had identified her with Miss Fitton, and it was + Miss Fitton's faithlessness, it was her deception he was condemning in the + bitterest words he could find. He thus gets into a somewhat unreal + tragedy, a passionate intensity which is otherwise wholly inexplicable. + This is how he talks to his mother: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Have you eyes? + Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, + And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes ... + ... ... ... What devil was't + That thus cozen'd you at hoodman-blind? + Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, + Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, + Or but a sickly part of one true sense + Could not so mope. + O, shame! where is thy blush?” + </pre> + <p> + If anyone can imagine that this is the way a son thinks of a mother's slip + he is past my persuading. In all this Shakespeare is thinking of himself + in comparison with Herbert; and his advice to his mother is almost as + self-revealing, showing, as it does, what he would wish to say to Miss + Fitton: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Repent what's past; avoid what is to come; + And do not spread the compost on the weeds + To make them ranker.... + Assume a virtue if you have it not....” + </pre> + <p> + In his description of the king and queen we get Shakespeare's view of Lord + Herbert and Miss Fitton: the king (Herbert) is “mildew'd” and foul in + comparison with his modest poet-rival—“A satyr to Hyperion.” + </p> + <p> + Hamlet's view of his mother (Miss Fitton), though bitterer still, is yet + the bitterness of disappointed love: he will have her repent, refrain from + the adultery, and be pure and good again. When the Queen asks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What shall I do?” + </pre> + <p> + Hamlet answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: + Let the king tempt you again to bed; + Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse; + And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, + Or paddling in your neck with his damned fingers....” + </pre> + <p> + Maddened with jealousy he sees the act, scourges himself with his own lewd + imagining as Posthumus scourges himself. No one ever felt this intensity + of jealous rage about a mother or a sister. The mere idea is absurd; it is + one's own passion-torture that speaks in such words as I have here quoted. + </p> + <p> + Hamlet's treatment of Ophelia, too, and his advice to her are all the + outcome of Shakespeare's own disappointment: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a + breeder of sinners?” + </pre> + <p> + We all expect from Hamlet some outburst of divine tenderness to Ophelia; + but the scenes with the pure and devoted girl whom he is supposed to love + are not half realized, are nothing like so intense as the scenes with the + guilty mother. It is jealousy that is blazing in Shakespeare at this time, + and not love; when Hamlet speaks to the Queen we hear Shakespeare speaking + to his own faithless, guilty love. Besides, Ophelia is not even realized; + she is submissive affection, an abstraction, and not a character. + Shakespeare did not take interest enough in her to give her flesh and + blood. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare's jealousy and excessive sensuality come to full light in the + scene between Hamlet and Ophelia, when they are about to witness the play + before the king: he persists in talking smut to her, which she pretends + not to understand. The lewdness, we all feel, is out of place in “Hamlet,” + horribly out of place when Hamlet is talking to Ophelia, but Shakespeare's + sensuality has been stung to ecstasy by Miss Fitton's frailty, and he + cannot but give it voice. As soon as Ophelia goes out of her mind she, + too, becomes coarse—all of which is but a witness to Shakespeare's + tortured animality. Yet Goethe can talk of Hamlet's “pure and most moral + nature.” A goat is hardly less pure, though Hamlet was moral enough in the + high sense of the word. + </p> + <p> + There are one or two minor questions still to be considered, and the chief + of these is how far, even in this moment of disillusion, did our + Shakespeare see himself as he was? Hamlet says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more + offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, +</pre> + <p> + imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such + fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth? We are arrant knaves, + all; believe none of us.” + </p> + <p> + All this is mere rhetoric, and full of clever self-excusing. Hamlet is not + very revengeful or very ambitious; he is weakly-irresolute, and + excessively sensual, with all the faults that accompany these frailties. + Even at this moment, when he must know that he is not very revengeful, + that forgiveness were easier to him, Shakespeare will pose to himself, and + call himself revengeful: he is such an idealist that he absolutely refuses + to see himself as he is. In later dramas we shall find that he grows to + deeper self-knowledge. Hamlet is but the half-way house to complete + understanding. + </p> + <p> + Fortunately we have each of us an infallible touchstone by which we can + judge of our love of truth. Any of us, man or woman, would rather be + accused of a mental than a physical shortcoming. Do we see our bodily + imperfections as they are? Can we describe ourselves pitilessly with snub + nose, or coarse beak, bandy legs or thin shanks; gross paunch or sedgy + beard? Shakespeare in Hamlet can hardly bear even to suggest his physical + imperfections. Hamlet lets out inadvertently that he was fat, but he will + not say so openly. His mother says to Hamlet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You are fat and scant of breath.” + </pre> + <p> + Many people, especially actors, have been so determined to see Hamlet as + slight and student-like, that they have tried to criticize this phrase, + and one of them, Mr. Beerbohm Tree, even in our day, went so far as to + degrade the text to “faint and scant of breath.” But the fatness is there, + and comes to view again in another phrase of Hamlet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, + Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.” + </pre> + <p> + No thin man ever spoke of his flesh in that way. Shakespeare was probably + small, too. We know that he used to play Adam in “As You Like it,” and in + the play Orlando has to take Adam up and carry him off the stage, a thing + no actor would attempt if the Adam had been a big man. Shakespeare was + probably of middle height, or below it, and podgy. I always picture him to + myself as very like Swinburne. Yet even in Hamlet he would make himself + out to be a devil of a fellow: “valiant Hamlet,” a swordsman of the + finest, a superb duellist, who can touch Laertes again and again, though + lacking practice. At the last push of fate Shakespeare will pose and + deceive himself. + </p> + <p> + It is curiously characteristic of Shakespeare that when Hamlet broods on + retaliation he does not brood like a brave man, who gloats on challenging + his enemy to a fair fight, and killing him by sheer force or resolution; + his passion, his revenge, is almost that of an Italian bravo. Not once + does Hamlet think of forcing the king (Herbert) to a duel; he goes about + with ideas of assassination, and not of combat. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now might I do it pat” + </pre> + <p> + he cries as he sees the king praying; and he does not do it because he + would thus send the king's soul to Heaven—shrill wordy intensity to + excuse want of nerve. Whenever we get under the skin, it is Shakespeare's + femininity which startles us. + </p> + <p> + One cannot leave this great picture of Hamlet-Shakespeare without noticing + one curious fact, which throws a flood of light on the relations of + literary art to life. Shakespeare, as we have seen, is boiling with + jealous passion, brooding continually on murderous revenge, and so becomes + conscious of his own irresolution. He dwells on this, and makes this + irresolution the chief feature of Hamlet's character, and yet because he + is writing about himself he manages to suggest so many other qualities, + and such amiable and noble ones, that we are all in love with Hamlet, in + spite of his irresolution, erotic mania and bloody thoughts. + </p> + <p> + In later dramas Shakespeare went on to deal with the deeper and more + elemental things in his nature, with jealousy in “Othello,” and passionate + desire in “Antony and Cleopatra”; but he never, perhaps, did much better + work than in this drama where he chooses to magnify a secondary and + ancillary weakness into the chief defect of his whole being. The pathos of + the drama is to be found in the fact that Shakespeare realizes he is + unable to take personal vengeance on Herbert. “Hamlet” is a drama of + pathetic weakness, strengthened by a drama of revenge and jealousy. In + these last respects it is a preparatory study for “Othello.” + </p> + <p> + In “Hamlet” Shakespeare let out some of the foul matter which Herbert's + mean betrayal had bred in him. Even in “Hamlet,” however, his passion for + Mary Fitton, and his jealousy of her, constitute the real theme. We shall + soon see how this passion coloured all the rest of his life and art, and + at length brought about his ruin. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. DRAMAS OF REVENGE AND JEALOUSY: PART II “OTHELLO” + </h2> + <p> + There is perhaps no single drama which throws such light on Shakespeare + and his method of work as “Othello”: it is a long conflict between the + artist in him and the man, and, in the struggle, both his artistic ideals + and his passionate soul come to clearest view. From it we see that + Shakespeare's nature gave itself gradually to jealousy and revenge. The + fire of his passion burned more and more fiercely for years; was + infinitely hotter in 1604, when “Othello” was written, than it had been + when “Julius Caesar” was written in 1600. This proves to me that + Shakespeare's connection with Mary Fitton did not come to an end when he + first discovered her unfaithfulness. The intimacy continued for a dozen + years. In Sonnet 136 he prays her to allow him to be one of her lovers. + That she was liberal enough to consent appears clearly from the growth of + passion in his plays. It is certain, too, that she went on deceiving him + with other lovers, or his jealousy would have waned away, ebbing with + fulfilled desire. But his passion increases in intensity from 1597 to + 1604, whipped no doubt to ecstasy by continual deception and wild + jealousy. Both lust and jealousy swing to madness in “Othello,” But + Shakespeare was so great an artist that, when he took the story from + Cinthio, he tried to realize it without bringing in his own personality: + hence a conflict between his art and his passion. + </p> + <p> + At first sight “Othello” reminds one of a picture by Titian or Veronese; + it is a romantic conception; the personages are all in gala dress; the + struggle between Iago and the Moor is melodramatic; the whole picture + aglow with a superb richness of colour. It is Shakespeare's finest play, + his supreme achievement as a playwright. It is impossible to read + “Othello” without admiring the art of it. The beginning is so easy: the + introduction of the chief characters so measured and impressive that when + the action really begins, it develops and increases in speed as by its own + weight to the inevitable end; inevitable—for the end in this case is + merely the resultant of the shock of these various personalities. But if + the action itself is superbly ordered, the painting of character leaves + much to be desired, as we shall see. There is one notable difference + between “Othello” and those dramas, “Hamlet,” “Macbeth,” and “Cymbeline,” + wherein Shakespeare has depicted himself as the protagonist. In the + self-revealing dramas not only does Shakespeare give his hero licence to + talk, in and out of season, and thus hinder the development of the story, + but he also allows him to occupy the whole stage without a competitor. The + explanation is obvious enough. Dramatic art is to be congratulated on the + fact that now and then Shakespeare left himself for a little out of the + play, for then not only does the construction of the play improve, but the + play grows in interest through the encounter of evenly-matched + antagonists. The first thing we notice in “Othello” is that Iago is at + least as important a character as the hero himself. “Hamlet,” on the other + hand, is almost a lyric; there is no counterpoise to the student-prince. + </p> + <p> + Now let us get to the play itself. Othello's first appearance in converse + with Iago in the second scene of the first act does not seem to me to + deserve the praise that has been lavished on it. Though Othello knows that + “boasting is (not) an honour,” he nevertheless boasts himself of royal + blood. We have noticed already Shakespeare's love of good blood, and + belief in its wondrous efficacy; it is one of his permanent and most + characteristic traits. The passage about royal descent might be left out + with advantage; if these three lines are omitted, Othello's pride in his + own nature—his “parts and perfect soul”—is far more strongly + felt. But such trivial flaws are forgotten when Brabantio enters and + swords are drawn. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.” + </pre> + <p> + is excellent in its contemptuous irony. A little later, however, Othello + finds an expression which is intensely characteristic of a great man of + action: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hold your hands, + Both you of my inclining, and the rest; + Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it + Without a prompter.” + </pre> + <p> + This last line and a half is addressed especially to Iago who is bent on + provoking a fight, and is, I think, the best piece of character-painting + in all “Othello”; the born general knows instinctively the moment to + attack just as the trained boxer's hand strikes before he consciously sees + the opening. When Othello speaks before the Duke, too, he reveals himself + with admirable clearness and truth to nature. His pride is so deep-rooted, + his self-respect so great, that he respects all other dignitaries: the + Senators are his “very noble and approved good masters.” Every word + weighed and effectual. Admirable, too, is the expression “round + unvarnished tale.” + </p> + <p> + But pride and respect for others' greatness are not qualities peculiar to + the man of action; they belong to all men of ability. As soon as Othello + begins to tell how he won Desdemona, he falls out of his character. + Feeling certain that he has placed his hero before us in strong outlines, + Shakespeare lets himself go, and at once we catch him speaking and not + Othello. In “antres vast and deserts idle” I hear the poet, and when the + verse swings to— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “.... men whose heads + Do grow beneath their shoulders,” + </pre> + <p> + it is plain that Othello, the lord and lover of realities, has deserted + the firm ground of fact. But Shakespeare pulls himself in almost before he + has yielded to the charm of his own words, and again Othello speaks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This to hear + Would Desdemona seriously incline, + But still the house-affairs would draw her thence, +</pre> + <p> + and so forth. + </p> + <p> + The temptation, however, was overpowering, and again Shakespeare yields to + it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And often did beguile her of her tears + When I did speak of some distressful stroke + That my youth suffered.” + </pre> + <p> + It is a characteristic of the man of action that he thinks lightly of + reverses; he loves hard buffets as a swimmer high waves, and when he tells + his life-story he does not talk of his “distress.” This “distressful + stroke that my youth suffered” is manifestly pure Shakespeare—tender-hearted + Shakespeare, who pitied himself and the distressful strokes his youth + suffered very profoundly. The characterization of Othello in the rest of + this scene is anything but happy. He talks too much; I miss the short + sharp words which would show the man used to command, and not only does he + talk too much, but he talks in images like a poet, and exaggerates: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The tyrant Custom, most grave senators, + Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war + My thrice-driven bed of down.” + </pre> + <p> + Even the matter here is insincere; this is the poet's explanation of the + Captain's preference for a hard bed and hard living: “has been accustomed + to it,” says Shakespeare, not understanding that there are born hunter and + soldier natures who absolutely prefer hardships to effeminate luxury. + Othello's next speech is just as bad; he talks too much of things + particular and private, and the farther he goes, the worse he gets, till + we again hear the poet speaking, or rather mouthing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No, when light-winged toys + Of feathered Cupid seel with wanton dullness + My speculative and officed instruments, + That my disports corrupt and taint my business, + Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, + And all indign and base adversities + Make head against my estimation.” + </pre> + <p> + Again when he says— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Come, Desdemona: I have but an hour + Of love, of worldly matters and direction + To spend with thee; we must obey the time,” + </pre> + <p> + I find no sharp impatience to get to work such as Hotspur felt, but a + certain reluctance to leave his love—a natural touch which indicates + that the poet was thinking of himself and not of his puppet. + </p> + <p> + The first scene of the second act shows us how Shakespeare, the dramatist, + worked. Cassio is plainly Shakespeare the poet; any of his speeches taken + at haphazard proves it. When he hears that Iago has arrived he breaks out: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He has had most favourable and happy speed; + Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds, + The guttered rocks and congregated sands— + Traitors ensteeped to clog the guiltless keel— + As having sense of beauty, do omit + Their mortal natures, letting go safely by + The divine Desdemona.” + </pre> + <p> + And when Desdemona lands, Cassio's first exclamation is sufficient to + establish the fact that he is merely the poet's mask: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, behold, + The riches of the ship is come on shore!” + </pre> + <p> + And just as clearly as Cassio is Shakespeare, the lyric poet, so is Iago, + at first, the embodiment of Shakespeare's intelligence. Iago has been + described as immoral; he does not seem to me to be immoral, but amoral, as + the intellect always is. He says to the women: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Come on, come on; you're pictures out of doors, + Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens, + Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, + Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your + beds.” + </pre> + <p> + Iago sees things as they are, fairly and not maliciously; he is “nothing + if not critical,” but his criticism has a touch of Shakespeare's erotic + mania in it. Think of that “housewives in your beds”! He will not deceive + himself, however; in spite of Cassio's admiration of Desdemona Iago does + not imagine that Cassio is in love with her; “well kissed,” he says, “an + excellent courtesy,” finding at once the true explanation. {Footnote: At + the end of this scene Iago says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “That Cassio loves her I do well believe it,” + </pre> + <p> + but that is merely one of the many inconsistencies in Shakespeare's + drawing of Iago. There are others; at one time he talks of Cassio as a + mere book soldier, at another equals him with Cæsar. Had Coleridge noted + these contradictions he would have declared them to be a higher perfection + than logical unity, and there is something to be said for the argument, + though in these instances I think the contradictions are due to + Shakespeare's carelessness rather than to his deeper insight.} + </p> + <p> + But having taken up this intellectual attitude in order to create Iago, + Shakespeare tries next to make his puppet concrete and individual by + giving him revenge for a soul, but in this he does not succeed, for + intellect is not maleficent. At moments Iago lives for us; “drown cats and + blind puppies ... put money in your purse”—his brains delight us; + but when he pursues Desdemona to her end, we revolt; such malignity is + inhuman. Shakespeare was so little inclined to evil, knew so little of + hate and revenge that his villain is unreal in his cruelty. Again and + again the reader asks himself why Iago is so venomous. He hates Othello + because Othello has passed him over and preferred Cassio; because he + thinks he has had reason to be jealous of Othello, because——-but + every one feels that these are reasons supplied by Shakespeare to explain + the inexplicable; taken all together they are inadequate, and we are apt + to throw them aside with Coleridge as the “motive hunting of motiveless + malignity.” But such a thing as “motiveless malignity” is not in nature, + Iago's villainy is too cruel, too steadfast to be human; perfect pitiless + malignity is as impossible to man as perfect innate goodness. + </p> + <p> + Though Iago and Othello hold the stage for nine-tenths of the play + Shakespeare does not realize them so completely as he realizes Cassio, an + altogether subordinate character. The drinking episode of Cassio was not + found by Shakespeare in Cinthio, and is, I think, clearly the confession + of Shakespeare himself, for though aptly invented to explain Cassio's + dismissal it is unduly prolonged, and thus constitutes perhaps the most + important fault in the construction of the play. Consider, too, how the + moral is applied by Iago to England in especial, with which country + neither Iago nor the story has anything whatever to do. + </p> + <p> + Othello's appearance stilling the riot, his words to Iago and his + dismissal of Cassio are alike honest work. The subsequent talk between + Cassio and Iago about “reputation” is scarcely more than a repetition of + what Falstaff said of “honour.” + </p> + <p> + Coleridge has made a great deal of the notion that Othello was justified + in describing himself as “not easily jealous”; but poor Coleridge's + perverse ingenuity never led him further astray. The exact contrary must, + I think, be admitted; Othello was surely very quick to suspect Desdemona; + he remembers Iago's first suspicious phrase, ponders it and asks its + meaning; he is as quick as Posthumus was to believe the worst of Imogen, + as quick as Richard II. to suspect his friends Bagot and Green of + traitorism, and this proneness to suspicion is the soul of jealousy. And + Othello is not only quick to suspect but easy to convince—impulsive + at once and credulous. His quick wits jump to the conclusion that Iago, + “this honest creature!” doubtless + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.” + </pre> + <p> + On hinted imputation he is already half persuaded, and persuaded as only a + sensualist would be that it is lust which has led Desdemona astray: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O curse of marriage! + That we can call these delicate creatures ours, + And not their appetites.” + </pre> + <p> + He is, indeed, so disposed to catch the foul infection that Iago cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Trifles light as air + Are to the jealous confirmations strong + As proofs of holy writ.” + </pre> + <p> + And well he may, for before he uses the handkerchief or any evidence, on + mere suspicion Othello is already racked with doubt, distraught with + jealousy, maddened with passion; “his occupation's gone”; he rages against + Iago and demands proof, Iago answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I do not like the office; + But, sith I am entered in this cause so far + - - - - - - - - - - - - + I will go on.” + </pre> + <p> + This is the same paltry reason Richard III. and Macbeth adduced for adding + to the number of their crimes, the truth being that Shakespeare could find + no reason in his own nature for effective hatred. + </p> + <p> + Othello gives immediate credence to Iago's dream, thinks it “a shrewd + doubt”; he is a “credulous fool,” as Iago calls him, and it is only our + sense of Iago's devilish cleverness that allows us to excuse Othello's + folly. The strawberry-spotted handkerchief is not needed: the magic in its + web is so strong that the mere mention of it blows his love away and + condemns both Cassio and Desdemona to death. If this Othello is not easily + jealous then no man is prone to doubt and quick to turn from love to + loathing. + </p> + <p> + The truth of the matter is that in the beginning of the play Othello is a + marionette fairly well shaped and exceedingly picturesque; but as soon as + jealousy is touched upon, the mask is thrown aside; Othello, the + self-contained captain, disappears, the poet takes his place and at once + shows himself to be the aptest subject for the green fever. The emotions + then put into Othello's mouth are intensely realized; his jealousy is + indeed Shakespeare's own confession, and it would be impossible to find in + all literature pages of more sincere and terrible self-revealing. + Shakespeare is not more at home in showing us the passion of Romeo and + Juliet or the irresolution of Richard II. or the scepticism of Hamlet than + in depicting the growth and paroxysms of jealousy; his overpowering + sensuality, the sensuality of Romeo and of Orsino, has sounded every note + of love's mortal sickness: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Oth.</i> I had been happy if the general camp, + Pioneers and all, had tasted her sweet body, + So I had nothing known. + - - - - - - - - + Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her!” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +We have here the proof that the jealousy of Othello was Shakespeare's +jealousy; it is all compounded of sensuality. But, and this is the +immediate point of my argument, the captain, Othello, is not presented +to us as a sensualist to whom such a suspicion would be, of course, the +nearest thought. On the contrary, Othello is depicted as sober +{Footnote: Shakespeare makes Lodovico speak of Othello's “solid +virtue”—“the nature whom passion could not shake.” Even Iago finds +Othello's anger ominous because of its rarity: + + “There's matter in't, indeed, if he be angry."} +and solid, slow to anger, and master of himself and his desires; he +expressly tells the lords of Venice that he does not wish Desdemona to +accompany him: + + “To please the palate of my appetite + Nor to comply with heat—the young affects, + In me defunct—and proper satisfaction.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare goes out of his way to put this unnecessary explanation in + Othello's mouth; he will not have us think of him as passion's fool, but + as passion's master; Othello is not to be even suspicious; he tells Iago: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Tis not to make me jealous + To say—my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, + Is free of speech, sings, plays and dances well; + Where virtue is, these are more virtuous: + Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw + The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt; + For she had eyes and chose me.” + </pre> + <p> + It was all this, no doubt, that misled Coleridge. He did not realize that + this Othello suddenly changes his nature; the sober lord of himself + becomes in an instant very quick to suspect, and being jealous, is nothing + if not sensual; he can think of no reason for Desdemona's fall but her + appetite; the imagination of the sensual act throws him into a fit; it is + this picture which gives life to his hate. The conclusion is not to be + avoided; as soon as Othello becomes jealous he is transformed by + Shakespeare's own passion. For this is the way Shakespeare conceived + jealousy and the only way. The jealousy of Leontes in “The Winter's Tale” + is precisely the same; Hermione gives her hand to Polixenes, and at once + Leontes suspects and hates, and his rage is all of “paddling palms {1} and + pinching fingers.” The jealousy of Posthumus, too, is of the same kind: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Never talk on 't; + She hath been colted by him.” + </pre> + <p> + {Footnote 1: Iago's expression, too; cf. “Othello,” II. 1, and “Hamlet,” + III. 4.} + </p> + <p> + It is the imagining of the sensual act that drives him to incoherence and + the verge of madness, as it drove Othello. In all these characters + Shakespeare is only recalling the stages of the passion that desolated his + life. + </p> + <p> + The part that imagination usually plays in tormenting the jealous man with + obscene pictures is now played by Iago; the first scene of the fourth act + is this erotic self-torture put in Iago's mouth. As Othello's passion + rises to madness, as the self-analysis becomes more and more intimate and + personal, we have Shakespeare's re-lived agony clothing itself in his + favourite terms of expression: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O! it comes o'er my memory, + As doth the raven o'er the infected house, + Boding to all,—he had my handkerchief.” + </pre> + <p> + The interest swings still higher; the scene in which Iago uses Cassio's + conceit and laughter to exasperate further the already mad Othello is one + of the notable triumphs of dramatic art. But just as the quick growth of + his jealousy, and its terrible sensuality, have shown us that Othello is + not the self-contained master of his passions that he pretends to be and + that Shakespeare wishes us to believe, so this scene, in which the + listening Othello rages in savagery, reveals to us an intense femininity + of nature. For generally the man concentrates his hatred upon the woman + who deceives him, and is only disdainful of his rival, whereas the woman + for various reasons gives herself to hatred of her rival, and feels only + angry contempt for her lover's traitorism. But Othello—or shall we + not say Shakespeare?—discovers in the sincerest ecstasy of this + passion as much of the woman's nature as of the man's. After seeing his + handkerchief in Bianca's hands he asks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How shall I murder him, Iago?” + </pre> + <p> + Manifestly, Shakespeare is thinking of Herbert and his base betrayal. + Othello would have Cassio thrown to the dogs, would have him “nine years + a-killing”; and though he adds that Desdemona shall “rot and perish and be + damned to-night,” immediately afterwards we see what an infinite affection + for her underlies his anger: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, the world hath not a sweeter creature: she might + lie by an emperor's side and command him tasks.” + </pre> + <p> + And then Shakespeare uses his brains objectively, so to speak, to excuse + his persistent tenderness, and at once he reveals himself and proves to us + that he is thinking of Mary Fitton, and not of poor Desdemona: + </p> + <p> + “Hang her! I do but say what she is.—So delicate with her needle!—An + admirable musician! O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear.—Of + so high and plenteous wit and invention.” + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare himself speaks in this passage. For when has Desdemona shown + high and plenteous wit or invention? She is hardly more than a symbol of + constancy. It is Mary Fitton who has “wit and invention,” and is “an + admirable musician.” + </p> + <p> + The feminine tenderness in Shakespeare comes to perfect expression in the + next lines; no woman has a more enduring affection: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Iago</i>. She's the worse for all this. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oth</i>. O! a thousand, a thousand times. And, then of so gentle a + condition! + </p> + <p> + <i>Iago</i>. Ay, too gentle. + </p> + <p> + <i>Oth</i>. Nay, that's certain:—but yet the pity of it, Iago!—O, + Iago, the pity of it, Iago!” + </p> + <p> + The tenderness shrills to such exquisite poignancy that it becomes a + universal cry, the soul's lament for traitorism: “The pity of it, Iago! O, + Iago, the pity of it!” Othello's jealous passion is at its height in the + scene with Desdemona when he gives his accusations precise words, and + flings money to Emilia as the guilty confidante. And yet even here, where + he delights to soil his love, his tenderness reaches its most passionate + expression: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O thou weed, + Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet, + That the sense aches at thee—would thou hadst ne'er + been born!” + </pre> + <p> + As soon as jealousy reaches its end, and passes into revenge, Shakespeare + tries to get back into Othello the captain again. Othello's first speech + in the bedchamber is clear enough in all conscience, but it has been so + mangled by unintelligent actors such as Salvini that it cries for + explanation. Every one will remember how Salvini and others playing this + part stole into the room like murderers, and then bellowed so that they + would have waked the dead. And when the foolish mummers were criticised + for thus misreading the character, they answered boldly that Othello was a + Moor, that his passion was Southern, and I know not what besides. It is + clear that Shakespeare's Othello enters the room quietly as a justicer + with a duty to perform: he keeps his resolution to the sticking-point by + thinking of the offence; he says solemnly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul—” + </pre> + <p> + and, Englishman-like, finds a moral reason for his intended action: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.” + </pre> + <p> + But the reason fades and the resolution wavers in the passion for her + “body and beauty,” and the tenderness of the lover comes to hearing again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “{<i>Kissing her</i>."} O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade + Justice to break her sword!—one more, one more.— + Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, + And love thee after.—One more, and this the last. + So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, + But they are cruel tears; this sorrow's heavenly; + It strikes where it doth love.—She wakes.” + </pre> + <p> + So gentle a murderer was never seen save Macbeth, and the “heavenly + sorrow” that strikes where it doth love is one of the best examples in + literature of the Englishman's capacity for hypocritical self-deception. + The subsequent dialogue shows us in Othello the short, plain phrases of + immitigable resolution; in this scene Shakespeare comes nearer to + realizing strength than anywhere else in all his work. But even here his + nature shows itself; Othello has to be misled by Desdemona's weeping, + which he takes to be sorrow for Cassio's death, before he can pass to + action, and as soon as the murder is accomplished, he regrets: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, insupportable! O heavy hour!” + </pre> + <p> + His frank avowal, however, is excellently characteristic of the soldier + Othello: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Twas I that killed her.” + </pre> + <p> + A moment later there is a perfect poetic expression of his love: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nay, had she been true + If Heaven would make me such another world + Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, + I'd not have sold her for it.” + </pre> + <p> + Then comes a revelation of sensuality and physical fastidiousness so + peculiar that by itself it proves much of what I have said of Shakespeare: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Oth</i>. ... Ay 'twas he that told me first; + An honest man he is, and hates the slime + That sticks on filthy deeds.” + </pre> + <p> + For a breathing-space now before he is convinced of his fatal error, + Othello speaks as the soldier, but in spite of the fact that he has + fulfilled his revenge, and should be at his sincerest, we have no word of + profound self-revealing. But as soon as he realizes his mistake, his + regret becomes as passionate as a woman's and magical in expression: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Cold, cold, my girl! + Even like thy chastity.” + </pre> + <p> + Another proof that Shakespeare discards the captain, Othello, in order to + give utterance to his own jealousy and love, is to be found in the + similarity between this speech of Othello and the corresponding speech of + Posthumus in “Cymbeline.” As soon as Posthumus is convinced of his + mistake, he calls Iachimo “Italian fiend” and himself “most credulous + fool,” “egregious murderer,” and so forth. He asks for “some upright + justicer” to punish him as he deserves with “cord or knife or poison,” + nay, he will have “torturers ingenious.” He then praises Imogen as “the + temple of virtue,” and again shouts curses at himself and finally calls + upon his love: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Imogen! + My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, + Imogen, Imogen!” + </pre> + <p> + Othello behaves in precisely the same manner; he calls Iago that + “demi-devil,” and himself “an honourable murderer”; and Iago calls him a + “credulous fool.” Othello, too, cries for punishment; instead of + “torturers ingenious,” he will have “devils” to “whip” him, and “roast him + in sulphur.” He praises Desdemona as chaste, “ill-starred wench,” “my + girl,” and so forth; then curses himself lustily and ends his lament with + the words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Desdemon! dead, Desdemon! dead! O!” + </pre> + <p> + The same changes in mood, the same words even—the likeness is so + close that it can only be explained as I have explained it; from beginning + to end of “Cymbeline” Posthumus is Shakespeare, and as soon as jealousy, + pity, remorse, or any tender emotion seizes Othello he becomes Shakespeare + too, and speaks with Shakespeare's voice. + </p> + <p> + From here on, it is all good work if not great work to Othello's last + speech, which merits particular consideration. He begins as the captain, + but soon passes into the poet; and then towards the end talks again in + quick measure as the man of action. I quote the whole speech, {Footnote: + This speech is curiously like the long speech of Richard II. which I have + already noticed; at the beginning Shakespeare speaks as a king for a few + lines, then naturally as a poet, and at the end pulls himself up and tries + to resume the character.} putting into italics the phrases in which the + poet betrays himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Oth</i>. Soft you; a word or two, before you go. + I have done the State some service, and they know it; + No more of that.—<i>I pray you</i> in your letters, + When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, + Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, + Nor set down aught in malice; then must you speak + <i>Of one that loved not wisely, but too well; + Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought + Perplexed in the extreme; of one whose hand, + Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away + Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, + Albeit unuséd to the melting mood, + Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees + Their medicinal gum.</i> Set you down this; + And say, besides, that in Aleppo once, + When a malignant and a turban'd Turk + Beat a Venetian, and traduced the State, + I took by the throat the circumcized dog + And smote him—thus.” + </pre> + <p> + All the memorable words here are the words of the gentle poet revealing + his own nature ingenuously. The relief given by tears is exquisitely + expressed, but the relief itself is a feminine experience; men usually + find that tears humiliate them, and take refuge from their scalding shame + in anger. The deathless phrases of the poet's grief must be contrasted + with the braggart mouthings of the captain at the end in order to realize + how impossible it was for Shakespeare to depict a man of deeds. + </p> + <p> + In the first two acts Shakespeare has tried to present Othello with some + sincerity and truth to the dramatic fiction. But as soon as jealousy + touches Othello, he becomes the transparent vessel of Shakespeare's own + emotion, and is filled with it as with his heart's blood. All the magical + phrases in the play are phrases of jealousy, passion, and pity. The + character of the captain in Othello is never deeply realized. It is a + brave sketch, but, after all, only the merest sketch when compared with + Hamlet or Macbeth. We know what they thought of life and death, and of all + things in the world and over it; but what do we know of Othello's thoughts + upon the deepest matters that concern man? Did he believe even in his + stories to Desdemona?—in the men whose heads do grow beneath their + shoulders? in his magic handkerchief? in what Iago calls his “fantastical + lies”? This, I submit, is another important indication that Shakespeare + drew Othello, the captain, from the outside; the jealous, tender heart of + him is Shakespeare's, but take that away and we scarcely know more of him + than the colour of his skin. What interests us in Othello is not his + strength, but his weakness, Shakespeare's weakness—his passion and + pity, his torture, rage, jealousy and remorse, the successive stages of + his soul's Calvary! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. DRAMAS OF LUST: PART I. <i>Troilus and Cressida</i> + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He probed from hell to hell + Of human passions, but of love deflowered + His wisdom was not....” + —<i>Meredith's Sonnet on Shakespeare</i>. +</pre> + <p> + With “Hamlet” and his dreams of an impossible revenge Shakespeare got rid + of some of the perilous stuff which his friend's traitorism had bred in + him. In “Othello” he gave deathless expression to the madness of his + jealous rage and so cleared his soul, to some extent, of that poisonous + infection. But passion in Shakespeare survived hatred of the betrayer and + jealousy of him; he had quickly finished with Herbert; but Mary Fitton + lived still for him and tempted him perpetually—the lust of the + flesh, the desire of the eye, insatiable, cruel as the grave. He will now + portray his mistress for us dramatically—unveil her very soul, show + the gipsy-wanton as she is. He who has always painted in high lights is + now going to paint French fashion, in blackest shadows, for with the years + his passion and his bitterness have grown in intensity. Mary Fitton is now + “false Cressid.” Pandarus says of her in the first scene of the first act: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen's—well, + go to—there were no more comparison between + the women.” + </pre> + <p> + Mary Fitton's hair, we know, was raven-black, but the evidence connecting + Shakespeare's mistress with “false Cressid” is stronger, as we shall see, + than any particular line or expression. + </p> + <p> + “Troilus and Cressida” is a wretched, invertebrate play without even a + main current of interest. Of course there are fine phrases in it, as in + most of the productions of Shakespeare's maturity; but the + characterization is worse than careless, and at first one wonders why + Shakespeare wrote the tedious, foolish stuff except to get rid of his own + bitterness in the railing of Thersites, and in the depicting of Cressida's + shameless wantonness. It is impossible to doubt that “false Cressid” was + meant for Mary Fitton. The moment she appears the play begins to live; + personal bitterness turns her portrait into a caricature; every fault is + exaggerated and lashed with rage; it is not so much a drama as a scene + where Shakespeare insults his mistress. + </p> + <p> + Let us look at this phase of his passion in perspective. Almost as soon as + he became acquainted with Miss Fitton, about Christmas 1597, Shakespeare + wrote of her as a wanton; yet so long as she gave herself to him he + appears to have been able to take refuge in his tenderness and endure her + strayings. But passion in him grew with what it fed on, and after she + faulted with Lord Herbert, we find him in a sonnet threatening her that + his “pity-wanting pain” may induce him to write of her as she was. No + doubt her pride and scornful strength revolted under this treatment and + she drew away from him. Tortured by desire he would then praise her with + some astonishing phrases; call her “the heart's blood of beauty, love's + invisible soul,” and after some hesitation she would yield again. No + sooner was the “ruined love” rebuilt than she would offend again, and + again he would curse and threaten, and so the wretched, half-miserable, + half-ecstatic life of passion stormed along, one moment in Heaven, the + next in Hell. + </p> + <p> + All the while Shakespeare was longing, or thought he was longing for truth + and constancy, and at length he gave form and name to his desire for + winnowed purity of love and perfect constancy, and this consoling but + impalpable ideal he called Ophelia, Desdemona, Cordelia. But again and + again Miss Fitton reconquered him and at length his accumulated bitterness + compelled him to depict his mistress realistically. Cressida is his first + attempt, the first dramatic portrait of the mistress who got into + Shakespeare's blood and infected the current of his being, and the + portrait is spoiled by the poet's hatred and contempt just as the whole + drama is spoiled by a passion of bitterness that is surely the sign of + intense personal suffering. Cressida is depicted as a vile wanton, a drab + by nature; but it is no part even of this conception to make her soulless + and devilish. On the contrary, an artist of Shakespeare's imaginative + sympathy loves to put in high relief the grain of good in things evil and + the taint of evil in things good that give humanity its curious + complexity. Shakespeare observed this rule of dramatic presentation more + consistently than any of his predecessors or contemporaries—more + consistently, more finely far than Homer or Sophocles, whose heroes had + only such faults as their creators thought virtues; why then did he forget + nature so far as to picture “false Cressida” without a redeeming quality? + He first shows her coquetting with Troilus, and her coquetry even is + unattractive, shallow, and obvious; then she gives herself to Troilus out + of passionate desire; but Shakespeare omits to tell us why she takes up + with Diomedes immediately afterwards. We are to understand merely that she + is what Ulysses calls a “sluttish spoil of opportunity,” and “daughter of + the game.” But as passionate desire is not of necessity faithless we are + distressed and puzzled by her soulless wantonness. And when she goes on to + present Diomedes with the scarf that Troilus gave her, we revolt; the + woman is too full of blood to be so entirely heartless. Here is the scene + embittered by the fact that Troilus witnesses Cressida's betrayal: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Diomedes.</i> I had your heart before, this follows it. + + <i>Troilus.</i> {<i>Aside.</i>} I did swear patience. + + <i>Cressida.</i> You shall not have it, Diomed, faith you shall not; + I'll give you something else. + + <i>Diomedes.</i> I will have this: whose was it? + + <i>Cressida.</i> It is no matter. + + <i>Diomedes.</i> Come, tell me whose it was? + + <i>Cressida</i>. 'Twas one that loved me better than you will, + But, now you have it, take it.” + </pre> + <p> + The scene is a splendid dramatic scene, a piece torn from life, so + realistic that it convinces, and yet we revolt; we feel that we have not + got to the heart of the mystery. There is so much evil in Cressida that we + want to see the spark of goodness in her, however fleeting and ineffective + the spark may be. But Shakespeare makes her attempt at justification a + confession of absolute faithlessness: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee, + But with my heart the other eye doth see. + Ah! poor our sex! This fault in us I find, + The error of our eye directs our mind.” + </pre> + <p> + This is plainly Shakespeare's reflection and not Cressida's apology, and + if we contrast this speech with the dialogue given above, it becomes + plain, I think, that the terrible scene with Diomedes is taken from life, + or is at least Shakespeare's vision of the way Mary Fitton behaved. + There's a magic in those devilish words of Cressida that outdoes + imagination: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Twas one that loved me better than you will, + But, now you have it, take it.” + </pre> + <p> + And then: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sweet, honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly:” + </pre> + <p> + The very power of the characterization makes the traitress hateful. If + Mary Fitton ever gave any gift of Shakespeare to Lord Herbert, the + dramatist should have known that she no longer loved him, had in reality + already forgotten him in her new passion; but to paint a woman as + remembering a lover, indeed as still loving him, and yet as giving his + gift to another, is an offence in art though it may be true to nature. It + is a fault in art because it is impossible to motive it in a few lines. + The fact of the gift is bad enough; without explanation it is horrible. + For this and other reasons I infer that Shakespeare took the fact from his + own experience: he had suffered, it seems to me, from some such traitorism + on the part of his mistress, or he ascribed to Mary Fitton some traitorism + of his own. + </p> + <p> + In sonnet 122 he finds weighty excuse for having given away the table-book + which his friend had given to him. His own confessed shortcoming might + have taught him to exercise more lenient judgment towards his frail love. + </p> + <p> + But when Shakespeare wrote “Troilus and Cressida” a passion of bitterness + possessed him; he not only vilified Cressida but all the world, Agamemnon, + Nestor, Achilles, Ajax; he seems indeed to have taken more pleasure in the + railing of Thersites than in any other part of the work except the + scourging of Cressida. He shocks us by the picture of Achilles and his + myrmidons murdering Hector when they come upon him unarmed. + </p> + <p> + One or two incidental difficulties must be settled before we pass to a + greater play. + </p> + <p> + “Troilus and Cressida” has always been regarded as a sort of enigma. + Professor Dowden asks: “With what intention and in what spirit did + Shakespeare write this strange comedy? All the Greek heroes who fought + against Troy are pitilessly exposed to ridicule?” And from this fact and + the bitterness of “Timon” some German critics have drawn the inference + that Shakespeare was incapable of comprehending Greek life, and that + indeed he only realized his Romans so perfectly because the Roman was very + like the Briton in his mastery of practical affairs, of the details of + administration and of government. This is an excellent instance of German + prejudice. No one could have been better fitted than Shakespeare to + understand Greek civilization and Greek art with its supreme love of + plastic beauty, but his master Plutarch gave him far better pictures of + Roman life than of Greek life, partly because Plutarch lived in the time + of Roman domination and partly because he was in far closer sympathy with + the masters of practical affairs than with artists in stone like Phidias + or artists in thought like Plato. The true explanation of Shakespeare's + caricatures of Greek life, whether Homeric or Athenian, is to be found in + the fact that he was not only entirely ignorant of it but prejudiced + against it. And this prejudice in him had an obvious root. Chapman had + just translated and published the first books of his Iliad, and Chapman + was the poet whom Shakespeare speaks of as his rival in Sonnets 78-86. He + cannot help smiling at the “strained touches” of Chapman's rhetoric and + his heavy learning. Those who care to remember the first scene of “Love's + Labour's Lost” will recall how Shakespeare in that early work mocked at + learning and derided study. When he first reached London he was no doubt + despised for his ignorance of Greek and Latin; he had had to bear the + sneers and flouts of the many who appraised learning, an university + training and gentility above genius. He took the first opportunity of + answering his critics: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Small have continual plodders ever won, + Save bare authority from others' books.” + </pre> + <p> + But the taunts rankled, and when the bitter days came of disappointment + and disillusion he took up that Greek life which his rival had tried to + depict in its fairest colours, and showed what he thought was the seamy + side of it. But had he known anything of Greek life and Greek art it would + have been his pleasure to outdo his rival by giving at once a truer and a + fairer presentation of Greece than Chapman could conceive. It is the + rivalry of Chapman that irritates Shakespeare into pouring contempt on + Greek life in “Troilus and Cressida.” As Chapman was for the Greeks, + Shakespeare took sides with the Trojans. + </p> + <p> + But why do I assume that “Troilus and Cressida” is earlier than “Antony + and Cleopatra?” Some critics, and among them Dr. Brandes, place it later, + and they have some reason for their belief. The bitterness in “Troilus and + Cressida,” they say rightly, is more intense; and as Shakespeare's + disappointment with men and things appears to have increased from “Hamlet” + to “Timon,” or from 1602 to 1607-8, they put the bitterer play later. + Cogent as is this reasoning, I cannot believe that Shakespeare could have + painted Cressida after having painted Cleopatra. The same model has + evidently served for both women; but while Cleopatra is perhaps the most + superb portrait of a courtesan in all literature, Cressida is a crude and + harsh sketch such as a Dumas or a Pinero might have conceived. + </p> + <p> + It is more than probable, I think, that “Troilus and Cressida” was planned + and the love-story at least written about 1603, while Shakespeare's memory + of one of his mistress's betrayals was still vivid and sharp. The play was + taken up again four or five years later and the character of Ulysses + deepened and strengthened. In this later revision the outlook is so + piercing-sad, the phrases of such pregnancy, that the work must belong to + Shakespeare's ripest maturity. Moreover, he has grown comparatively + careless of characterization as in all his later work; he gives his wise + sayings almost as freely to Achilles as to Ulysses. + </p> + <p> + “Troilus and Cressida” is interesting because it establishes the opinion + that Chapman was indeed the rival poet whom Shakespeare referred to in the + sonnets, and especially because it shows us the poet's mistress painted in + a rage of erotic passion so violent that it defeats itself, and the + portrait becomes an incredible caricature—that way madness lies. + “Troilus and Cressida” points to “Lear” and “Timon.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. DRAMAS OF LUST: PART II. <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i> + </h2> + <p> + We now come to the finest work of Shakespeare's maturity, to the drama in + which his passion for Mary Fitton finds supreme expression. + </p> + <p> + “Antony and Cleopatra” is an astonishing production not yet fairly + appreciated even in England, and perhaps not likely to be appreciated + anywhere at its full worth for many a year to come. But when we English + have finally left that dark prison of Puritanism and lived for some time + in the sun-light where the wayside crosses are hidden under climbing + roses, we shall probably couple “Antony and Cleopatra” with “Hamlet” in + our love as Shakespeare's supremest works. It was fitting that the same + man who wrote “Romeo and Juliet,” the incomparable symphony of first love, + should also write “Antony and Cleopatra,” the far more wonderful and more + terrible tragedy of mature passion. + </p> + <p> + Let us begin with the least interesting part of the play, and we shall see + that all the difficulties in it resolve themselves as soon as we think of + it as Shakespeare's own confession. Wherever he leaves Plutarch, it is to + tell his own story. + </p> + <p> + Some critics have reproached Shakespeare with the sensualism of “Romeo and + Juliet”; no one, so far as I can remember, has blamed the Sapphic + intensity of “Antony and Cleopatra,” where the lust of the flesh and + desire of the eye reign triumphant. Professor Dowden indeed says: “The + spirit of the play, though superficially it appear voluptuous, is + essentially severe. That is to say, Shakespeare is faithful to the fact.” + Antony and Cleopatra kill themselves, forsooth, and thus conventional + virtue is justified by self-murder. So superficial and false a judgement + is a quaint example of mid-Victorian taste: it reminds me of the horsehair + sofa and the antimacassar. Would Professor Dowden have had Shakespeare + alter the historical facts, making Antony conquer Caesar and Cleopatra + triumph over death? Would this have been sufficient to prove to the + professor that Shakespeare's morals are not his, and that the play is + certainly the most voluptuous in modern literature? Well, this is just + what Shakespeare has done. Throughout the play Caesar is a subordinate + figure while Antony is the protagonist and engages all our sympathies; + whenever they meet Antony shows as the larger, richer, more generous + nature. In every act he conquers Caesar; leaving on us the gorgeous + ineffaceable impression of a great personality whose superb temperament + moves everyone to admiration and love; Caesar, on the other hand, affects + one as a calculating machine. + </p> + <p> + But Shakespeare's fidelity to the fact is so extraordinary that he gives + Caesar one speech which shows his moral superiority to Antony. When his + sister weeps on hearing that Antony has gone back to Cleopatra, Caesar + bids her dry her tears, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... + But let determined things to destiny + Hold unbewailed their way ...” + </pre> + <p> + This line alone suffices to show why Antony was defeated; the force of + imperial Rome is in the great phrase; but Shakespeare will not admit his + favourite's inferiority, and in order to explain Antony's defeat + Shakespeare represents luck as being against him, luck or fate, and this + is not the only or even the chief proof of the poet's partiality. Pompey, + who scarcely notices Caesar when Antony is by, says of Antony: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “his soldiership + Is twice the other twain.” + </pre> + <p> + And, indeed, Antony in the play appears to be able to beat Caesar whenever + he chooses or whenever he is not betrayed. + </p> + <p> + All the personages of the play praise Antony, and when he dies the most + magnificent eulogy of him is pronounced by Agrippa, Caesar's friend: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A rarer spirit never + Did steer humanity; but you, Gods, will give us + Some faults to make us men.” + </pre> + <p> + Antony is even permitted at the last to console himself; he declares + exultantly that in the other world the ghosts shall come to gaze at him + and Cleopatra, and: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare makes conquering Caesar admit the truth of this boast: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “No grave upon the earth shall clip in it + A pair so famous.” + </pre> + <p> + To win in life universal admiration and love, and in death imperishable + renown, is to succeed in spite of failure and suicide, and this is the + lesson which Shakespeare read into Plutarch's story. Even Enobarbus is + conquered at the last by Antony's noble magnanimity. But why does + Shakespeare show this extraordinary, this extravagant liking for him who + was “the bellows and the fan to cool a gipsy's lust,” for that Marc Antony + who might have been the master of the world, and who threw away empire, + life, and honour to be “a strumpet's fool?” There is only one possible + explanation: Shakespeare felt the most intense, the most intimate sympathy + with Antony because he, too, was passion's slave, and had himself + experienced with his dark mistress, Mary Fitton, the ultimate degradation + of lust. For this reason he took Plutarch's portrait of Antony, and, by + emphasizing the kingly traits, transformed it. In the play, as Dr. Brandes + sees, Antony takes on something of the “artist-nature.” It is Antony's + greatness and weakness; the spectacle of a high intellect struggling with + an overpowering sensuality; of a noble nature at odds with passionate + human frailty, that endeared him to Shakespeare. The pomp of Antony's + position, too, and his kingly personality pleased our poet. As soon as + Shakespeare reached maturity, he began to depict himself as a monarch; + from “Twelfth Night” on he assumed royal state in his plays, and surely in + this figure of Antony he must for the moment have satisfied his longing + for regal magnificence and domination. From the first scene to the last + Antony is a king of men by right divine of nature. + </p> + <p> + It is, however, plain that Antony's pride, his superb mastery of life, the + touch of imperious brutality in him, are all traits taken from Plutarch, + and are indeed wholly inconsistent with Shakespeare's own character. Had + Shakespeare possessed these qualities his portraits of men of action would + have been infinitely better than they are, while his portraits of the + gentle thinker and lover of the arts, his Hamlets and his Dukes, would + have been to seek. + </p> + <p> + The personal note of every one of his great tragedies is that Shakespeare + feels he has failed in life, failed lamentably. His Brutus, we feel, + failed of necessity because of his aloofness from practical life; his + Coriolanus, too, had to fail, and almost forgoes sympathy by his faults; + but this Antony ought not to have failed: we cannot understand why the man + leaves the sea-battle to follow Cleopatra's flight, who but an act or two + before, with lesser reason, realized his danger and was able to break off + from his enchantress. Yet the passion of desire that sways Antony is so + splendidly portrayed; is, too, so dominant in all of us, that we accept it + at once as explaining the inexplicable. + </p> + <p> + In measure as Shakespeare ennobled Antony, the historical fact of ultimate + defeat and failure allowed him to degrade Cleopatra. And this he did + willingly enough, for from the moment he took up the subject he identified + the Queen of Egypt with his own faithless mistress, Mary Fitton, whom he + had already tried to depict as “false Cressid.” This identification of + himself and his own experience of passion with the persons and passions of + the story explains some of the faults of the drama; while being the + source, also, of its singular splendour. + </p> + <p> + In this play we have the finest possible example of the strife between + Shakespeare's yielding poetic temperament and the severity of his + intellect. He heaps praises on Antony, as we have seen, from all sides; he + loved the man as a sort of superb <i>alter ego</i>, and yet his + intellectual fairness is so extraordinary that it compelled him to create + a character who should uphold the truth even against his heart's + favourite. Dr. Brandes speaks of Enobarbus as a “sort of chorus”; he is + far more than that; he is the intellectual conscience of the play, a + weight, so to speak, to redress the balance which Shakespeare used this + once and never again. What a confession this is of personal partiality! A + single instance will suffice to prove my point: Shakespeare makes Antony + cast the blame for the flight at Actium on Cleopatra, and manages almost + to hide the unmanly weakness of the plaint by its infinitely pathetic + wording: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Whither hast them led me, Egypt? +</pre> + <p> + A little later Cleopatra asks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Is Antony or we in fault for this?” + </pre> + <p> + and at once Enobarbus voices the exact truth: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Antony only, that would make his will + Lord of his reason. What though you fled + . . . . . . + . . . why should he follow?” + </pre> + <p> + Again and again Antony reproaches Cleopatra, and again and again Enobarbus + is used to keep the truth before us. Some of these reproaches, it seems to + me, are so extravagant and so ill-founded that they discover the personal + passion of the poet. For example, Antony insults Cleopatra: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You have been a boggler ever.” + </pre> + <p> + And the proof forsooth is: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I found you as a morsel cold upon + Dead Caesar's trencher.” + </pre> + <p> + But to have been Caesar's mistress was Cleopatra's chief title to fame. + Shakespeare is here probably reviling Mary Fitton for being deserted by + some early lover. Curiously enough, this weakness of Antony increases the + complexity of his character, while the naturalistic passion of his words + adds enormously to the effect of the play. Again and again in this drama + Shakespeare's personal vindictiveness serves an artistic purpose. The + story of “Troilus and Cressida” is in itself low and vile, and when loaded + with Shakespeare's bitterness outrages probability; but the love of Antony + and Cleopatra is so overwhelming that it goes to ruin and suicide and + beyond, and when intensified by Shakespeare's personal feeling becomes a + world's masterpiece. + </p> + <p> + We have already seen that the feminine railing Shakespeare puts in the + mouth of Antony increases the realistic effect, and just in the same way + the low cunning, temper, and mean greed which he attributes to Cleopatra, + transform her from a somewhat incomprehensible historical marionette into + the most splendid specimen of the courtesan in the world's literature. + Heine speaks of her contemptuously as a “kept woman,” but the epithet only + shows how Heine in default of knowledge fell back on his racial gift of + feminine denigration. Even before she enters we see that Shakespeare has + not forgiven his dark scornful mistress; Cleopatra is the finest picture + he ever painted of Mary Fitton; but Antony's friends tell us, at the + outset, she is a “lustful gipsy,” a “strumpet,” and at first she merely + plays on Antony's manliness; she sends for him, and when he comes, + departs. A little later she sends again, telling her messenger: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I did not send you: if you find him sad, + Say, I am dancing; if in mirth, report + That I am sudden sick: quick, and return.” + </pre> + <p> + And when Charmian, her woman, declares that the way to keep a man is to + “cross him in nothing,” she replies scornfully: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou teachest, like a fool, the way to lose him.” + </pre> + <p> + She uses a dozen taunts to prevent her lover from leaving her; but when + she sees him resolved, she wishes him victory and success. And so through + a myriad changes of mood and of cunning wiles we discover that love for + Antony which is the anchor to her unstable nature. + </p> + <p> + The scene with the eunuch Mardian is a little gem. She asks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hast thou affections? + <i>Mar</i>. Yes, gracious madam. + <i>Cleo</i>. Indeed? + <i>Mar</i>. Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing. + But what indeed is honest to be done; + Yet have I fierce affections, and think + What Venus did with Mars. + <i>Cleo</i>. O, Charmian! + Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?” + </pre> + <p> + She is with her lover again, and recalls his phrase for her, “my serpent + of old Nile,” and feeds herself with love's “delicious poison.” + </p> + <p> + No sooner does she win our sympathy by her passion for Antony than + Shakespeare chills our admiration by showing her as the courtesan: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Cleo</i>. Did I, Charmian, + Ever love Caesar so? + + <i>Char</i>. O, that brave Caesar! + + <i>Cleo</i>. Be choked with such another emphasis! + Say, the brave Antony. + + <i>Char</i>. The valiant Caesar! + + <i>Cleo</i>. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth + If thou with Caesar paragon again + My man of men. + + <i>Char</i>. By your most gracious pardon, + I sing but after you. + + <i>Cleo</i>. My salad days, + When I was green in judgement: cold in blood, + To say as I said then!” + </pre> + <p> + Already we see and know her, her wiles, her passion, her quick temper, her + chameleon-like changes, her subtle charms of person and of word, and yet + we have not reached the end of the first act. Next to Falstaff and to + Hamlet, Cleopatra is the most astonishing piece of portraiture in all + Shakespeare. Enobarbus gives the soul of her: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Ant</i>. She is cunning past man's thought. + + <i>Eno</i>. Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing + but the finest part of pure love.... + + <i>Ant</i>. Would I had never seen her! + + <i>Eno</i>. O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful + piece of work; which not to have been blest withal would + have discredited your travel.” + </pre> + <p> + Here Shakespeare gives his true opinion of Mary Fitton: then comes the + miraculous expression: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale + Her infinite variety. Other women cloy + The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry + Where most she satisfies.” + </pre> + <p> + Act by act Shakespeare makes the portrait more complex and more perfect. + In the second act she calls for music like the dark lady of the Sonnets: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Music—moody food of us that trade in love,” + </pre> + <p> + and then she'll have no music, but will play billiards, and not billiards + either, but will fish and think every fish caught an Antony. And again she + flies to memory: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “That time—O times!— + I laughed him out of patience; and that night + I laughed him into patience; and next morn, + Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed; + Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst + I wore his sword Philippan.” + </pre> + <p> + The charm of it all, the deathless charm and the astounding veracity! The + messenger enters, and she promises him for good news “gold and her bluest + veins to kiss.” When she hears that Antony is well she pours more gold on + him, but when he pauses in his recital she has a mind to strike him. When + he tells that Caesar and Antony are friends, it is a fortune she'll give; + but when she learns that Antony is betrothed to Octavia she turns to her + women with “I am pale, Charmian,” and when she hears that Antony is + married she flies into a fury, strikes the messenger down and hales him up + and down the room by his hair. When he runs from her knife she sends for + him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I will not hurt him. + These hands do lack nobility, that they strike + A meaner than myself.” + </pre> + <p> + She has the fascination of great pride and the magic of manners. When the + messenger returns she is a queen again, most courteous-wise: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Come hither, sir. + Though it be honest, it is never good + To bring bad news.” + </pre> + <p> + She wants to know the features of Octavia, her years, her inclination, the + colour of her hair, her height—everything. + </p> + <p> + A most veracious full-length portrait, with the minute finish of a + miniature; it shows how Shakespeare had studied every fold and foible of + Mary Fitton's soul. In the third act Cleopatra takes up again the theme of + Octavia's appearance, only to run down her rival, and so salve her wounded + vanity and cheat her heart to hope. The messenger, too, who lends himself + to her humour now becomes a proper man. Shakespeare seizes every + opportunity to add another touch to the wonderful picture. + </p> + <p> + Cleopatra appears next in Antony's camp at Actium talking with Enobarbus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Cleo</i>. I will be even with thee, doubt it not. + + <i>Eno</i>. But why, why, why? + + <i>Cleo</i>. Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars, + And say'st it is not fit.” + </pre> + <p> + Each phrase of the dialogue reveals her soul, dark fold on fold. + </p> + <p> + She is the only person who strengthens Antony in his quixotic-foolish + resolve to fight at sea. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Cleo</i>. I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.” + </pre> + <p> + And then the shameful flight. + </p> + <p> + I have pursued this bald analysis thus far, not for pleasure merely, but + to show the miracle of that portraiture the traits of which can bear + examination one by one. So far Cleopatra is, as Enobarbus calls her, “a + wonderful piece of work,” a woman of women, inscrutable, cunning, + deceitful, prodigal, with a good memory for injuries, yet as quick to + forgiveness as to anger, a minion of the moon, fleeting as water yet + loving-true withal, a sumptuous bubble, whose perpetual vagaries are but + perfect obedience to every breath of passion. But now Shakespeare without + reason makes her faithless to Antony and to love. In the second scene of + the third act Thyreus comes to her with Caesar's message: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Thyr</i>. He knows that you embrace not Antony + As you did love but as you feared him. + + <i>Cleo</i>. O! + + <i>Thyr</i>. The scars upon your honour therefore he + Does pity as constrained blemishes, + Not as deserved. + + <i>Cleo</i>. He is a god, and knows + What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded, + But conquered merely. + + <i>Eno</i>. {<i>Aside</i>.} To be sure of that + I will ask Antony.—Sir, sir, thou'rt so leaky + That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for + Thy dearest quit thee.” + </pre> + <p> + And when Thyreus asks her to leave Antony and put herself under Caesar's + protection, who “desires to give,” she tells him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am prompt + To lay my crown at his feet, and there to kneel.” + </pre> + <p> + Thyreus then asks for grace to lay his duty on her hand. She gives it to + him with the words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Your Caesar's father oft, + When he hath mused of taking kingdoms in, + Bestowed his lips on that unworthy place + As it rained kisses.” + </pre> + <p> + It is as if Antony were forgotten, clean wiped from her mind. The whole + scene is a libel upon Cleopatra and upon womanhood. When betrayed, women + are faithless out of anger, pique, desire of revenge; they are faithless + out of fear, out of ambition, for fancy's sake—for fifty motives, + but not without motive. It would have been easy to justify this scene. All + the dramatist had to do was to show us that Cleopatra, a proud woman and + scorned queen, could not forget Antony's faithlessness in leaving her to + marry Octavia; but she never mentions Octavia, never seems to remember her + after she has got Antony back. This omission, too, implies a slur upon + her. Nor does she kiss Caesar's “conquering hand” out of fear. Thyreus has + told her it would please Caesar if she would make of his fortunes a staff + to lean upon; she has no fear, and her ambitions are wreathed round + Antony: Caesar has nothing to offer that can tempt her, as we shall see + later. The scene is a libel upon her. The more one studies it, the clearer + it becomes that Shakespeare wrote it out of wounded personal feeling. + Cleopatra's prototype, Mary Fitton, had betrayed him again and again, and + the faithlessness rankled. Cleopatra, therefore, shall be painted as + faithless, without cause, as Cressid was, from incurable vice of nature. + Shakespeare tried to get rid of his bitterness in this way, and if his art + suffered, so much the worse for his art. Curiously enough, in this + instance, for reasons that will appear later, the artistic effect is + deepened. + </p> + <p> + The conclusion of this scene, where Thyreus is whipped and Cleopatra + overwhelmed with insults by Antony, does not add much to our knowledge of + Cleopatra's character: one may notice, however, that it is the reproach of + cold-heartedness that she catches up to answer. The scene follows in which + she plays squire to Antony and helps to buckle on his armour. But this + scene (invented by Shakespeare), which might bring out the sweet + woman-weakness in her, and so reconcile us to her again, is used against + her remorselessly by the poet. When Antony wakes and cries for his armour + she begs him to “sleep a little”; the touch is natural enough, but coming + after her faithlessness to her lover and her acceptance of Caesar it shows + more than human frailty. It is plain that, intent upon ennobling Antony, + Shakespeare is willing to degrade Cleopatra beyond nature. Then comes + Antony's victory, and his passion at length finds perfect lyrical + expression: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O thou day o' the world, + Chain mine armed neck; leap thou, attire and all, + Through proof of harness to my heart, and there + Ride on the pants triumphing.” + </pre> + <p> + At once Cleopatra catches fire with that responsive flame of womanhood + which was surely her chiefest charm: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Lord of lords! + O infinite virtue! Com'st thou smiling from + The world's great snare uncaught?” + </pre> + <p> + What magic in the utterance, what a revelation of Cleopatra's character + and of Shakespeare's! To Cleopatra's feminine weakness the world seems one + huge snare which only cunning may escape. + </p> + <p> + Another day, and final irremediable defeat drives her in fear to the + monument and to that pretended suicide which is the immediate cause of + Antony's despair: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Unarm, Eros: the long day's task is done, + And we must sleep.” + </pre> + <p> + When Antony leaves the stage, Shakespeare's idealizing vision turns to + Cleopatra. About this point, too, the historical fact fetters Shakespeare + and forces him to realize the other side of Cleopatra. After Antony's + death Cleopatra did kill herself. One can only motive and explain this + suicide by self-immolating love. It is natural that at first Shakespeare + will have it that Cleopatra's nobility of nature is merely a reflection, a + light borrowed from Antony. She will not open the monument to let the + dying man enter, but her sincerity and love enable us to forgive this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I dare not, dear,— + Dear my lord, pardon,—I dare not, + Lest I be taken....” + </pre> + <p> + Here occurs a fault of taste which I find inexplicable. While Cleopatra + and her women are drawing Antony up, he cries; + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O quick, or I am gone.” + </pre> + <p> + And Cleopatra answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here's sport, indeed!—How heavy weighs my lord! + Our strength has all gone into heaviness, + That makes the weight.” + </pre> + <p> + The “Here's sport, indeed”! seems to me a terrible fault, an inexcusable + lapse of taste. I should like to think it a misprint or misreading, but it + is unfortunately like Shakespeare in a certain mood, possible to him, at + least, here as elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + Cleopatra's lament over Antony's dead body is a piece of Shakespeare's + self-revealing made lyrical by beauty of word and image. The allusion to + his boy-rival, Pembroke, is unmistakable; for women are not contemptuous + of youth: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Young boys and girls + Are level now with men; the odds is gone, + And there is nothing left remarkable + Beneath the visiting moon.” + </pre> + <p> + When Cleopatra comes to herself after swooning, her anger is + characteristic because wholly unexpected; it is one sign more that + Shakespeare had a living model in his mind: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It were for me + To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods; + To tell them that this world did equal theirs + Till they had stolen our jewel. All's but naught.” + </pre> + <p> + Her resolve to kill herself is borrowed: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's noble, + Let's do it after the high Roman fashion, + And make death proud to take us.” + </pre> + <p> + But the resolution holds: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It is great + To do that thing that ends all other deeds, + Which shackles accidents and bolts up change.” + </pre> + <p> + It is this greatness of soul in Cleopatra which Shakespeare has now to + portray. Caesar's messenger, Proculeius, whom Antony has told her to + trust, promises her everything in return for her “sweet dependency.” On + being surprised she tries to kill herself, and when disarmed shows again + that characteristic petulant anger: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sir, I will eat no meat, I'll not drink, sir; + . . . . . This mortal house I'll ruin, + Do Caesar what he can.” + </pre> + <p> + And her reasons are all of pride and hatred of disgrace. She'll not be + “chastised with the sober eye of dull Octavia,” nor shown “to the shouting + varletry of censuring Rome.” Her imagination is at work now, that quick + forecast of the mind that steels her desperate resolve: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Rather on Nilus' mud + Lay me stark nak'd, and let the water-flies + Blow me into abhorring.” + </pre> + <p> + The heroic mood passes. She tries to deceive Caesar as to her wealth, and + is shamed by her treasurer Seleucus. The scene is appalling; poor human + nature stripped to the skin—all imperfections exposed; Cleopatra + cheating, lying, raging like a drab; her words to Seleucus are merciless + while self-revealing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O slave, of no more trust + Than love that's hired.” + </pre> + <p> + This scene deepens and darkens the impression made by her unmotived + faithlessness to Antony. It is, however, splendidly characteristic and I + think needful; but it renders that previous avowal of faithlessness to + Antony altogether superfluous, the sole fault in an almost perfect + portrait. For, as I have said already, Shakespeare's mistakes in + characterization nearly always spring from his desire to idealize; but + here his personal vindictiveness comes to help his art. The historical + fact compels him now to give his harlot, Cleopatra, heroic attributes; in + spite of Caesar's threats to treat her sons severely if she dares to take + her own life and thus deprive his triumph of its glory, she outwits him + and dies a queen, a worthy descendant, as Charmian says, of “many royal + kings.” Nothing but personal bitterness could have prevented Shakespeare + from idealizing such a woman out of likeness to humanity. But in this + solitary and singular case his personal suffering bound him to realism + though the history justified idealization. The high lights were for once + balanced by the depths of shadow, and a masterpiece was the result. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare leaves out Caesar's threats to put Cleopatra's sons to death; + had he used these menaces he would have made Caesar more natural in my + opinion, given a touch of characteristic brutality to the calculating + intellect; but he omitted them probably because he felt that Cleopatra's + pedestal was high enough without that addition. + </p> + <p> + The end is very characteristic of Shakespeare's temper. Caesar becomes + nobly generous; he approves Cleopatra's wisdom in swearing falsehoods + about her treasure; he will not reckon with her like “a merchant,” and + Cleopatra herself puts on the royal robes, and she who has played wanton + before us so long becomes a queen of queens. And yet her character is + wonderfully maintained; no cunning can cheat this mistress of duplicity: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He words me, girls, he words me that I should not + Be noble to myself.” + </pre> + <p> + She holds to her heroic resolve; she will never be degraded before the + base Roman public; she will not see + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness.” + </pre> + <p> + It is, perhaps, worth noting here that Shakespeare lends Cleopatra, as he + afterwards lent Coriolanus, his own delicate senses and neuropathic + loathing for mechanic slaves with “greasy aprons” and “thick breaths rank + of gross diet”; it is Shakespeare too and not Cleopatra who speaks of + death as bringing “liberty.” In “Cymbeline,” Shakespeare's mask Posthumus + dwells on the same idea. But these lapses are momentary; the superb + declaration that follows is worthy of the queen: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My resolution's placed, and I have nothing + Of woman in me: now from head to foot + I am marble-constant; now the fleeting moon + No planet is of mine.” + </pre> + <p> + The scene with the clown who brings the “pretty worm” is the solid ground + of reality on which Cleopatra rests for a breathing space before rising + into the blue: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Cleo</i>. Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have + Immortal longings in me. Now no more + The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip.— + Yare, yare, good Iras! quick.—Methinks I hear + Antony call; I see him rouse himself + To praise my noble act; I hear him mock + The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men + To excuse their after-wrath. Husband, I come, + Now to that name my courage prove my title! + I am fire and air; my other elements + I give to baser life.” + </pre> + <p> + The whole speech is miraculous in speed of mounting emotion, and when Iras + dies first, this Cleopatra finds again the perfect word in which truth and + beauty meet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This proves me base: + If she first meet the curled Antony + He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss + Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou mortal wretch, + {<i>To the asp, which she applies to her breast</i>.} + With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate + Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool, + Be angry, and despatch. O, could'st thou speak, + That I might hear thee call great Caesar, ass + Unpolicied!” + </pre> + <p> + The characteristic high temper of Mary Fitton breaking out again—“ass + unpolicied”—and then the end: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Peace, peace! + Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, + That sucks the nurse asleep?” + </pre> + <p> + The final touch is of soft pleasure: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “As sweet a balm, as soft as air, as gentle,— + Antony!—Nay, I will take thee too. + {<i>Applying another asp to her arm</i>.} + What should I stay—” + </pre> + <p> + For ever fortunate in her self-inflicted death Cleopatra thereby frees + herself from the ignominy of certain of her actions: she is woman at once + and queen, and if she cringes lower than other women, she rises, too, to + higher levels than other women know. The historical fact of her + self-inflicted death forced the poet to make false Cressid a Cleopatra—and + his wanton gipsy-mistress was at length redeemed by a passion of heroic + resolve. The majority of critics are still debating whether indeed + Cleopatra is the “dark lady” of the sonnets or not. Professor Dowden puts + forward the theory as a daring conjecture; but the identity of the two + cannot be doubted. It is impossible not to notice that Shakespeare makes + Cleopatra, who was a fair Greek, gipsy-dark like his sonnet-heroine. He + says, too, of the “dark lady” of the sonnets: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill, + That in the very refuse of thy deeds + There is such strength and warrantise of skill, + That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?” + </pre> + <p> + Enobarbus praises Cleopatra in precisely the same words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Vilest things, + Become themselves in her.” + </pre> + <p> + Antony, too, uses the same expression: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Fie, wrangling queen! + Whom everything becomes—to chide, to laugh, + To weep; whose every passion fully strives + To make itself, in thee, fair and admired.” + </pre> + <p> + These professors have no distinct mental image of the “dark lady” or of + Cleopatra, or they would never talk of “daring conjecture” in regard to + this simple identification. The points of likeness are numberless. + Ninety-nine poets and dramatists out of a hundred would have followed + Plutarch and made Cleopatra's love for Antony the mainspring of her being, + the <i>causa causans</i> of her self-murder. Shakespeare does not do this; + he allows the love of Antony to count with her, but it is imperious pride + and hatred of degradation that compel his Cleopatra to embrace the + Arch-fear. And just this same quality of pride is attributed to the “dark + lady.” Sonnet 131 begins: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, + As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel.” + </pre> + <p> + Both are women of infinite cunning and small regard for faith or truth; + hearts steeled with an insane pride, and violent tempers suited with + scolding slanderous tongues. Prolonged analysis is not needed. A point of + seeming difference between them establishes their identity. Cleopatra is + beautiful, “a lass unparalleled,” as Charmian calls her, and accordingly + we can believe that all emotions became her, and that when hopping on the + street or pretending to die she was alike be-witching; beauty has this + magic. But how can all things become a woman who is not beautiful, whose + face some say “hath not the power to make love groan,” who cannot even + blind the senses with desire? And yet the “dark lady” of the sonnets who + is thus described, has the “powerful might” of personality in as full + measure as Egypt's queen. The point of seeming unlikeness is as convincing + as any likeness could be; the peculiarities of both women are the same and + spring from the same dominant quality. Cleopatra is cunning, wily, + faithless, passionately unrestrained in speech and proud as Lucifer, and + so is the sonnet-heroine. We may be sure that the faithlessness, scolding, + and mad vanity of his mistress were defects in Shakespeare's eyes as in + ours; these, indeed, were “the things ill” which nevertheless became her. + What Shakespeare loved in her was what he himself lacked or possessed in + lesser degree—that dæmonic power of personality which he makes + Enobarbus praise in Cleopatra and which he praises directly in the + sonnet-heroine. Enobarbus says of Cleopatra: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I saw her once + Hop forty paces through the public street, + And, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted, + That she did make defect perfection, + And, breathless, power breathe forth.” + </pre> + <p> + One would be willing to wager that Shakespeare is here recalling a + performance of his mistress; but it is enough for my purpose now to draw + attention to the unexpectedness of the attribute “power.” The sonnet + fastens on the same word: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, from what power hast thou this powerful might + With insufficiency my heart to sway?” + </pre> + <p> + In the same sonnet he again dwells upon her “strength”: she was bold, too, + to unreason, and of unbridled tongue, for, “twice forsworn herself,” she + had yet urged his “amiss,” though guilty of the same fault. What he + admired most in her was force of character. Perhaps the old saying held in + her case: <i>ex forti dulcedo</i>; perhaps her confident strength had + abandonments more flattering and complete than those of weaker women; + perhaps in those moments her forceful dark face took on a soulful beauty + that entranced his exquisite susceptibility; perhaps—but the + suppositions are infinite. + </p> + <p> + Though a lover and possessed by his mistress Shakespeare was still an + artist. In the sonnets he brings out her overbearing will, boldness, pride—the + elemental force of her nature; in the play, on the other hand, while just + mentioning her “power,” he lays the chief stress upon the cunning wiles + and faithlessness of her whose trade was love. But just as Cleopatra has + power, so there can be no doubt of the wily cunning—“the warrantise + of skill”—of the sonnet-heroine, and no doubt her faithlessness was + that “just cause of hate” which Shakespeare bemoaned. + </p> + <p> + It is worth while here to notice his perfect comprehension of the powers + and limits of the different forms of his art. Just as he has used the + sonnets in order to portray certain intimate weaknesses and maladies of + his own nature that he could not present dramatically without making his + hero ridiculously effeminate, so also he used the sonnets to convey to us + the domineering will and strength of his mistress—qualities which if + presented dramatically would have seemed masculine-monstrous. + </p> + <p> + By taking the sonnets and the play together we get an excellent portrait + of Shakespeare's mistress. In person she was probably tall and vain of her + height, as Cleopatra is vain of her superiority in this respect to + Octavia, with dark complexion, black eyebrows and hair, and pitch-black + eyes that mirrored emotion as the lakelet mirrors the ever-changing skies; + her cheeks are “damask'd white”; her breath fragrant with health, her + voice melodious, her movements full of dignity—a superb gipsy to + whom beauty may be denied but not distinction. + </p> + <p> + If we have a very good idea of her person we have a still better idea of + her mind and soul. I must begin by stating that I do not accept implicitly + Shakespeare's angry declarations that his mistress was a mere strumpet. A + nature of great strength and pride is seldom merely wanton; but the fact + stands that Shakespeare makes a definite charge of faithlessness against + his mistress; she is, he tells us, “the bay where all men ride”; no + “several plot,” but “the wide world's common place.” The accusation is + most explicit. But if it were well founded why should he devote two + sonnets (135 and 136) to imploring her to be as liberal as the sea and to + receive his love-offering as well as the tributes of others? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Among a number one is reckon'd none + Then in the number let me pass untold.” + </pre> + <p> + It is plain that Mistress Fitton drew away from Shakespeare after she had + given herself to his friend, and this fact throws some doubt upon his + accusations of utter wantonness. A true “daughter of the game,” as he says + in “Troilus and Cressida,” is nothing but “a sluttish spoil of + opportunity” who falls to Troilus or to Diomedes in turn, knowing no + reserve. It must be reckoned to the credit of Mary Fitton, or to her + pride, that she appears to have been faithful to her lover for the time + being, and able to resist even the solicitings of Shakespeare. But her + desires seem to have been her sole restraint, and therefore we must add an + extraordinary lewdness to that strength, pride, and passionate temper + which Shakespeare again and again attributes to her. Her boldness is so + reckless that she shows her love for his friend even before Shakespeare's + face; she knows no pity in her passion, and always defends herself by + attacking her accuser. But she is cunning in love's ways and dulls + Shakespeare's resentment with “I don't hate you.” Unwilling perhaps to + lose her empire over him and to forego the sweetness of his honeyed + flatteries, she blinded him to her faults by occasional caresses. Yet this + creature, with the soul of a strumpet, the tongue of a fishwife and the + “proud heart” of a queen, was the crown and flower of womanhood to + Shakespeare, his counterpart and ideal. Hamlet in love with Cleopatra, the + poet lost in desire of the wanton—that is the tragedy of + Shakespeare's life. + </p> + <p> + In this wonderful world of ours great dramatic writers are sure to have + dramatic lives. Again and again in his disgrace Antony cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Whither hast thou led me, Egypt?” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare's passion for Mary Fitton led him to shame and madness and + despair; his strength broke down under the strain and he never won back + again to health. He paid the price of passion with his very blood. It is + Shakespeare and not Antony who groans: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,— + - - - - - - - - + Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose, + Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare's love for Mary Fitton is to me one of the typical tragedies + of life—a symbol for ever. In its progress through the world genius + is inevitably scourged and crowned with thorns and done to death; + inevitably, I say, for the vast majority of men hate and despise what is + superior to them: Don Quixote, too, was trodden into the mire by the + swine. But the worst of it is that genius suffers also through its own + excess; is bound, so to speak, to the stake of its own passionate + sensibilities, and consumed, as with fire. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. THE DRAMA OF MADNESS: “LEAR” + </h2> + <p> + Ever since Lessing and Goethe it has been the fashion to praise + Shakespeare as a demi-god; whatever he wrote is taken to be the rose of + perfection. This senseless hero-worship, which reached idolatry in the + superlatives of the “Encyclopaedia Britannica” and elsewhere in England, + was certain to provoke reaction, and the reaction has come to vigorous + expression in Tolstoi, who finds nothing to praise in any of Shakespeare's + works, and everything to blame in most of them, especially in “Lear.” Lamb + and Coleridge, on the other hand, have praised “Lear” as a world's + masterpiece. Lamb says of it: + </p> + <p> + “While we read it, we see not Lear; but we are Lear,—we are in his + mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles the malice of daughters + and storms; in the aberrations of his reason we discover a mighty + irregular power of reasoning, immethodised from the ordinary purposes of + life, but exerting its powers, as the wind bloweth where it listeth, at + will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind.” + </p> + <p> + Coleridge calls “Lear,” “the open and ample playground of Nature's + passions.” + </p> + <p> + These dithyrambs show rather the lyrical power of the writers than the + thing described. + </p> + <p> + Tolstoi, on the other hand, keeps his eyes on the object, and sets himself + to describe the story of “Lear” “as impartially as possible.” He says of + the first scene: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Not to mention the pompous, characterless language + of King Lear, the same in which all Shakespeare's kings + speak, the reader or spectator cannot conceive that a + king, however old and stupid he may be, could believe + the words of the vicious daughters with whom he had + passed his whole life, and not believe his favourite + daughter, but curse and banish her; and therefore, the + spectator or reader cannot share the feelings of the + persons participating in this unnatural scene.” + </pre> + <p> + He goes on to condemn the scene between Gloucester and his sons in the + same way. The second act he describes as “absurdly foolish.” The third act + is “spoiled, by the characteristic Shakespearean language.” The fourth act + is “marred in the making,” and of the fifth act, he says: “Again begin + Lear's awful ravings, at which one feels ashamed, as at unsuccessful + jokes.” He sums up in these words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Such is this celebrated drama. However absurd it + may appear in my rendering (which I have endeavoured + to make as impartial as possible), I may confidently say + that in the original it is yet more absurd. For any man + of our time—if he were not under the hypnotic suggestion + that this drama is the height of perfection—it would + be enough to read it to its end (were he to have sufficient + patience for this) in order to be convinced that, far from + being the height of perfection, it is a very bad, carelessly-composed + production, which, if it could have been of + interest to a certain public at a certain time, cannot evoke + amongst us anything but aversion and weariness. Every + reader of our time who is free from the influence of suggestion + will also receive exactly the same impression from + all the other extolled dramas of Shakespeare, not to mention + the senseless dramatized tales, 'Pericles,' 'Twelfth + Night,' 'The Tempest,' 'Cymbeline,' and 'Troilus and + Cressida.'” + </pre> + <p> + Every one must admit, I think, that what Tolstoi has said of the + hypothesis of the play is justified. Shakespeare, as I have shown, was + nearly always an indifferent playwright, careless of the architectural + construction of his pieces, contemptuous of stage-craft. So much had + already been said in England, if not with the authority of Tolstoi. + </p> + <p> + It may be conceded, too, that the language which Shakespeare puts into + Lear's mouth in the first act is “characterless and pompous,” even silly; + but Tolstoi should have noticed that as soon as Lear realizes the + ingratitude of his daughters, his language becomes more and more simple + and pathetic. Shakespeare's kings are apt to rant and mouth when first + introduced; he seems to have thought pomp of speech went with royal robes; + but when the action is engaged even his monarchs speak naturally. + </p> + <p> + The truth is, that just as the iambics of Greek drama were lifted above + ordinary conversation, so Shakespeare's language, being the language + mainly of poetic and romantic drama, is a little more measured and, if you + will, more pompous than the small talk of everyday life, which seems to + us, accustomed as we are to prose plays, more natural. Shakespeare, + however, in his blank verse, reaches heights which are not often reached + by prose, and when he pleases, his verse becomes as natural-easy as any + prose, even that of Tolstoi himself. Tolstoi finds everything Lear says + “pompous,” “artificial,” “unnatural,” but Lear's words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Pray do not mock me, + I am a very foolish-fond old man + Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less, + And, to deal plainly + I fear I am not in my perfect mind.” + </pre> + <p> + touch us poignantly, just because of their childish simplicity; we feel as + if Lear, in them, had reached the heart of pathos. Tolstoi, I am afraid, + has missed all the poetry of Lear, all the deathless phrases. Lear says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am a man, + More sinn'd against than sinning,” + </pre> + <p> + and the new-coined phrase passed at once into the general currency. Who, + too, can ever forget his description of the poor? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, + That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, + How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, + Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you + From seasons such as these?” + </pre> + <p> + The like of that “looped and windowed raggedness” is hardly to be found in + any other literature. In the fourth and fifth acts Lear's language is + simplicity itself, and even in that third act which Tolstoi condemns as + “incredibly pompous and artificial,” we find him talking naturally: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ha! here 's three on's are sophisticated: thou art + the thing itself, unaccommodated man is no more but + such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.” + </pre> + <p> + There is still another reason why some of us cannot read “Lear” with the + cold eyes of reason, contemptuously critical. “Lear” marks a stage in + Shakespeare's agony. We who know the happy ingenuousness of his youth + undimmed by doubts of man or suspicions of woman, cannot help sympathizing + with him when we see him cheated and betrayed, drinking the bitter cup of + disillusion to the dregs. In “Lear” the angry brooding leads to madness; + and it is only fitting that the keynote of the tragedy, struck again and + again, should be the cry. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet Heaven! + Keep me in temper: I would not be mad.” + </pre> + <p> + “Lear” is the first attempt in all literature to paint madness, and not + the worst attempt. + </p> + <p> + In “Lear,” Shakespeare was intent on expressing his own disillusion and + naked misery. How blind Lear must have been, says Tolstoi; how incredibly + foolish not to know his daughters better after living with them for twenty + years; but this is just what Shakespeare wishes to express: How blind I + was, he cries to us, how inconceivably trusting and foolish! How could I + have imagined that a young noble would be grateful, or a wanton true? + “Lear” is a page of Shakespeare's autobiography, and the faults of it are + the stains of his blistering tears. + </p> + <p> + “Lear” is badly constructed, but worse was to come. The next tragedy, + “Timon,” is merely a scream of pain, and yet it, too, has a deeper than + artistic interest for us as marking the utmost limit of Shakespeare's + suffering. The mortal malady of perhaps the finest spirit that has ever + appeared among men has an interest for us profounder than any tragedy. And + to find that in Shakespeare's agony and bloody sweat he ignores the rules + of artistry is simply what might have been expected, and, to some of us, + deepens the personal interest in the drama. + </p> + <p> + In “Lear” Edgar is peculiarly Shakespeare's mouthpiece, and to Edgar + Shakespeare gives some of the finest words he ever coined: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices + Make instruments to plague us.” + </pre> + <p> + Here, too, in what Edgar says of himself, is the moral of all passion: it + is manifestly Shakespeare's view of himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A most poor man, made tame to Fortune's blows, + Who by the art of knowing and feeling sorrows + Am pregnant to good pity.” + </pre> + <p> + Then we find the supreme phrase—perhaps the finest ever written: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Men must endure + Their going hence even as their coming hither. + Ripeness is all.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare speaks through Lear in the last acts as plainly as through + Edgar. In the third scene of the fifth act Lear talks to Cordelia in the + very words Shakespeare gave to the saint Henry VI. at the beginning of his + career. Compare the extracts on pages 118-9 with the following passage, + and you will see the similarity and the astounding growth in his art. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “... Come, let's away to prison: + We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage: + When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down + And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live, + And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh + At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues + Talk of court news; ...” + </pre> + <p> + More characteristic still of Shakespeare is the fact that when Lear is at + his bitterest in the fourth act, he shows the erotic mania which is the + source of all Shakespeare's bitterness and misery; but which is utterly + out of place in Lear. The reader will mark how “adultery” is dragged in: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “... Ay, every inch a king: + When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. + I pardon that man's life. What was thy cause? + Adultery? + Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No: + The wren goes to 't, and the small gilded fly + Does lecher in my sight. + Let copulation thrive; ... + ... + Down from the waist they are Centaurs, + Though women all above; + But to the girdle do the gods inherit, + Beneath is all the fiends'; ...” + </pre> + <p> + Thus Lear raves for a whole page: Shakespeare on his hobby: in the same + erotic spirit he makes both Goneril and Regan lust after Edmund. + </p> + <p> + The note of this tragedy is Shakespeare's understanding of his insane + blind trust in men; but the passion of it springs from erotic mania and + from the consciousness that he is too old for love's lists. Perhaps his + imagination never carried him higher than when Lear appeals to the heavens + because they too are old: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “... O heavens, + If you do love old men, if your sweet sway + Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, + Make it your cause.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. THE DRAMA OF DESPAIR: “TIMON OF ATHENS” + </h2> + <p> + “Timon” marks the extremity of Shakespeare's suffering. It is not to be + called a work of art, it is hardly even a tragedy; it is the causeless + ruin of a soul, a ruin insufficiently motived by complete trust in men and + spendthrift generosity. If there was ever a man who gave so lavishly as + Timon, if there was ever one so senseless blind in trusting, then he + deserved his fate. There is no gradation in his giving, and none in his + fall; no artistic crescendo. The whole drama is, as I have said, a scream + of suffering, or rather, a long curse upon all the ordinary conditions of + life. The highest qualities of Shakespeare are not to be found in the + play. There are none of the magnificent phrases which bejewel “Lear”; + little of high wisdom, even in the pages which are indubitably + Shakespeare's, and no characterization worth mentioning. The honest + steward, Flavius, is the honest Kent again of “Lear,” honest and loyal + beyond nature; Apemantus is another Thersites. Words which throw a high + light on Shakespeare's character are given to this or that personage of + the play without discrimination. One phrase of Apemantus is as true of + Shakespeare as of Timon and is worth noting: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the + extremity of both ends.” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The tragic sonnet-note is given to Flavius: + “What viler thing upon the earth than friends + Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends!” + </pre> + <p> + In so far as Timon is a character at all he is manifestly Shakespeare, + Shakespeare who raves against the world, because he finds no honesty in + men, no virtue in women, evil everywhere—“boundless thefts in + limited professions.” This Shakespeare-Timon swings round + characteristically as soon as he finds that Flavius is honest: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Had I a steward + So true, so just, and now so comfortable? + It almost turns my dangerous nature mild. + Let me behold thy face. Surely this man + Was born of woman. + <i>Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, + You perpetual-sober gods</i>! I do proclaim + One honest man—mistake me not—but one ...” + </pre> + <p> + I cannot help putting the great and self-revealing line {Footnote: This + passage is among those rejected by the commentators as un-Shakespearean: + “it does not stand the test,” says the egregious Gollancz.} in italics; a + line Tolstoi would, no doubt, think stupid-pompous. Timon ought to have + known his steward, one might say in Tolstoi's spirit, as Lear should have + known his daughters; but this is still the tragedy, which Shakespeare + wishes to emphasize that his hero was blind in trusting. + </p> + <p> + Towards the end Shakespeare speaks through Timon quite unfeignedly: + Richard II. said characteristically: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nor I nor any man that but man is + With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased + With being nothing:” + </pre> + <p> + And Timon says to Flavius: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My long sickness + Of health and living now begins to mend + And nothing brings me all things.” + </pre> + <p> + Then the end: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Timon hath made his everlasting mansion + Upon the beachèd verge of the salt flood....” + </pre> + <p> + We must not leave this play before noticing the overpowering erotic strain + in Shakespeare which suits Timon as little as it suited Lear. The long + discussion with Phrynia and Timandra is simply dragged in: neither woman + is characterized: Shakespeare-Timon eases himself in pages of erotic + raving: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “... Strike me the counterfeit matron; + It is her habit only that is honest, + Herself's a bawd:...” + </pre> + <p> + And then: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Consumptions sow + In hollow bones of man........... + ...............Down with the nose, + Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away ...” + </pre> + <p> + The “damned earth” even is “the common whore of mankind.” + </p> + <p> + “Timon” is the true sequel to “The Merchant of Venice.” Antonio gives + lavishly, but is saved at the crisis by his friends. Timon gives with both + hands, but when he appeals to his friends, is treated as a bore. + Shakespeare had travelled far in the dozen years which separate the two + plays. + </p> + <p> + All Shakespeare's tragedies are phases of his own various weaknesses, and + each one brings the hero to defeat and ruin. Hamlet cannot carry revenge + to murder and fails through his own irresolution. Othello comes to grief + through mad jealousy. Antony fails and falls through excess of lust; Lear + through trust in men, and Timon through heedless generosity. All these are + separate studies of Shakespeare's own weaknesses; but the ruin is + irretrievable, and reaches its ultimate in Timon. Trust and generosity, + Shakespeare would like to tell us, were his supremest faults. In this he + deceived himself. Neither “Lear” nor “Timon” is his greatest tragedy; but + “Antony and Cleopatra,” for lust was his chief weakness, and the tragedy + of lust his greatest play. + </p> + <p> + Much of “Timon” is not Shakespeare's, the critics tell us, and some of it + is manifestly not his, though many of the passages rejected with the best + reason have, I think, been touched up by him. The second scene of the + first act is as bad as bad can be; but I hear his voice in the line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Methinks, I could deal kingdoms to my friends, + And ne'er be weary.” + </pre> + <p> + At any rate, this is the keynote of the tragedy, which is struck again and + again. Shakespeare probably exaggerated his generosity out of aristocratic + pose; but that he was careless of money and freehanded to a fault, is, I + think, certain from his writings, and can be proved from the facts known + to us of his life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. SHAKESPEARE'S LAST ROMANCES: ALL COPIES. + </h2> + <h3> + <i>“Winters Tale”: “Cymbeline”: “The Tempest.”</i> + </h3> + <p> + The wheel has swung full circle: Timon is almost as weak as “Titus + Andronicus”; the pen falls from the nerveless hand. Shakespeare wrote + nothing for some time. Even the critics make a break after “Timon,” which + closes what they are pleased to call his third period; but they do not + seem to see that the break was really a breakdown in health. In “Lear” he + had brooded and raged to madness; in “Timon” he had spent himself in + futile, feeble cursings. His nerves had gone to pieces. He was now + forty-five years of age, the forces of youth and growth had left him. He + was prematurely old and feeble. + </p> + <p> + His recovery, it seems certain, was very slow, and he never again, if I am + right, regained vigorous health, I am almost certain he went down to + Stratford at this crisis and spent some time there, probably a couple of + years, trying, no doubt, to staunch the wound in his heart, and win back + again to life. The fear of madness had frightened him from brooding: he + made up his mind to let the dead past bury its dead; he would try to + forget and live sanely. After all, life is better than death. + </p> + <p> + It was probably his daughter who led him back from the brink of the grave. + Almost all his latest works show the same figure of a young girl. He seems + now, for the first time, to have learned that a maiden can be pure, and in + his old idealizing way which went with him to the end, he deified her. + Judith became a symbol to him, and he lent her the ethereal grace of + abstract beauty. In “Pericles” she is Marina; in “The Winter's Tale” + Perdita; in “The Tempest” Miranda. It is probable when one comes to think + of it, that Ward was right when he says that Shakespeare spent his “elder + years” in Stratford; he was too broken to have taken up his life in London + again. + </p> + <p> + The assertion that Shakespeare broke down in health, and never won back to + vigorous life, will be scorned as my imagining. The critics who have + agreed to regard “Cymbeline,” “The Winter's Tale,” and “The Tempest” as + his finest works are all against me on this point, and they will call for + “Proofs, proofs. Give us proofs,” they will cry, “that the man who went + mad and raved with Lear, and screamed and cursed in “Timon” did really + break down, and was not imagining madness and despair.” The proofs are to + be found in these works themselves, plain for all men to read. + </p> + <p> + The three chief works of his last period are romances and are all copies; + he was too tired to invent or even to annex; his own story is the only one + that interests him. The plot of “The Winter's Tale” is the plot of “Much + Ado about Nothing.” Hero is Hermione. Another phase of “Much Ado About + Nothing” is written out at length in “Cymbeline”; Imogen suffers like Hero + and Hermione, under unfounded accusation. It is Shakespeare's own history + turned from this world to fairyland: what would have happened, he asks, if + the woman whom I believed false, had been true? This, the theme of “Much + Ado,” is the theme also of “The Winter's Tale” and of “Cymbeline.” The + idealism of the man is inveterate: he will not see that it was his own + sensuality which gave him up to suffering, and not Mary Fitton's + faithlessness. “The Tempest” is the story of “As you Like it.” We have + again the two dukes, the exiled good Duke, who is Shakespeare, and the bad + usurping Duke, Shakespeare's rival, Chapman, who has conquered for a time. + Shakespeare is no longer able or willing to discover a new play: he can + only copy himself, and in one of the scenes which he wrote into “Henry + VIII.” the copy is slavish. + </p> + <p> + I allude to the third scene in the second act; the dialogue between Anne + Bullen and the Old Lady is extraordinarily reminiscent. When Anne Bullen + says— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'Tis better to be lowly born, + And range with humble livers in content, + Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief + And wear a golden sorrow” + </pre> + <p> + I am reminded of Henry VI. And the contention between Anne Bullen and the + Old Lady, in which Anne Bullen declares that she would not be a queen, and + the Old Lady scorns her: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Beshrew me, I would, + And venture maidenhead for't; and so would you, + For all this spice of your hypocrisy.” + </pre> + <p> + is much the same contention, and is handled in the same way as the + contention between Desdemona and Emilia in “Othello.” + </p> + <p> + There are many other proofs of Shakespeare's weakness of hand throughout + this last period, if further proofs were needed. The chief characteristics + of Shakespeare's health are his humour, his gaiety, and wit—his love + of life. A correlative characteristic is that all his women are sensuous + and indulge in coarse expressions in and out of season. This is said to be + a fault of his time; but only professors could use an argument which shows + such ignorance of life. Homer was clean enough, and Sophocles, Spenser, + too; sensuality is a quality of the individual man. Still another + characteristic of Shakespeare's maturity is that his characters, in spite + of being idealized, live for us a vigorous, pulsing life. + </p> + <p> + All these characteristics are lacking in the works after “Timon.” There is + practically no humour, no wit, the clowns even are merely boorish-stupid + with the solitary exception of Autolycus, who is a pale reflex of one or + two characteristics of Falstaff. Shakespeare's humour has disappeared, or + is so faint as scarcely to be called humour; all the heroines, too, are + now vowed away from sensuality: Marina passes through the brothel + unsoiled; Perdita might have milk in her veins, and not blood, and Miranda + is but another name for Perdita. Imogen, too, has no trace of natural + passion in her: she is a mere washing-list, so to speak, of sexless + perfections. In this last period Shakespeare will have nothing to do with + sensuality, and his characters, and not the female characters alone, are + hardly more than abstractions; they lack the blood of emotion; there is + not one of them could cast a shadow. How is it that the critics have + mistaken these pale, bloodless silhouettes for Shakespeare's masterpieces? + </p> + <p> + In his earliest works he was compelled, as we have seen, to use his own + experiences perpetually, not having had any experience of life, and in + these, his latest plays, he also uses when he can his own experiences to + give his pictures of the world from which he had withdrawn, some sense of + vivid life. For example, in “Winter's Tale” his account of the death of + the boy Mamillius is evidently a reflex of his own emotion when he lost + his son, Hamnet, an emotion which at the time he pictured deathlessly in + Arthur and the grief of the Queen-mother Constance. Similarly, in + “Cymbeline,” the joy of the brothers in finding the sister is an echo of + his own pleasure in getting to know his daughter. + </p> + <p> + I have an idea about the genesis of these last three plays as regards + their order which may be wholly false, though true, I am sure, to + Shakespeare's character. I imagine he was asked by the author to touch up + “Pericles.” On reading the play, he saw the opportunity of giving + expression to the new emotion which had been awakened in him by the + serious sweet charm of his young daughter, and accordingly he wrote the + scenes in which Marina figures. Judith's modesty was a perpetual wonder to + him. + </p> + <p> + His success induced him to sketch out “The Winter's Tale,” in which tale + he played sadly with what might have been if his accused love, Mary + Fitton, had been guiltless instead of guilty. I imagine he saw that the + play was not a success, or supreme critic as he was, that his hand had + grown weak, and seeking for the cause he probably came to the conclusion + that the comparative failure was due to the fact that he did not put + himself into “The Winter's Tale,” and so he determined in the next play to + draw a full-length portrait of himself again, as he had done in “Hamlet,” + and accordingly he sketched Posthumus, a staider, older, idealized Hamlet, + with lymph in his veins, instead of blood. In the same idealizing spirit, + he pictured his rose of womanhood for us in Imogen, who is, however, not a + living woman at all, any more than his earliest ideal, Juliet, was a + woman. The contrast between these two sketches is the contrast between + Shakespeare's strength and his weakness. Here is how the fourteen-year-old + Juliet talks of love: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, + That runaways' eyes may wink, and Romeo + Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen. + Lovers can see to do their amorous rites + By their own beauties.” + </pre> + <p> + And here what Posthumus says of Imogen: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd, + And pray'd me oft forbearance: did it with + A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't + Might well have warmed old Saturn.” + </pre> + <p> + Neither of these statements is very generally true: but the second is out + of character. When Shakespeare praises restraint in love he must have been + very weak; in full manhood he prayed for excess of it, and regarded a + surfeit as the only rational cure. + </p> + <p> + I think Shakespeare liked Posthumus and Imogen; but he could not have + thought “Cymbeline” a great work, and so he pulled himself together for a + masterpiece. He seems to have said to himself, “All that fighting of + Posthumus is wrong; men do not fight at forty-eight; I will paint myself + simply in the qualities I possess now; I will tell the truth about myself + so far as I can.” The result is the portrait of Prospero in “The Tempest.” + </p> + <p> + Let me just say before I begin to study Prospero that I find the + introduction of the Masque in the fourth act extraordinarily interesting. + Ben Jonson had written classic masques for this and that occasion; masques + which were very successful, we are told; they had “caught on,” in fact, to + use our modern slang. Shakespeare will now show us that he, too, can write + a masque with classic deities in it, and better Jonson's example. It is + pitiful, and goes to prove, I think, that Shakespeare was but little + esteemed by his generation. + </p> + <p> + Jonson answered him conceitedly, as Jonson would, in the Introduction to + his “Bartholomew Fair” (1612-14), “If there be never a <i>Servant monster</i> + i' the Fayre, who can help it, he sayes; nor a nest of <i>Antiques</i>. He + is loth to make nature afraid in his <i>Playes</i>, like those that beget + <i>Tales</i>, <i>Tempests</i>, and such like <i>Drolleries</i>.” + </p> + <p> + At the very end, the creator of Hamlet, the finest mind in the world, was + eager to show that he could write as well in any style as the author of + “Every Man in his Humour.” To me the bare fact is full of interest, and + most pitiful. + </p> + <p> + Let us now turn to “The Tempest,” and see how our poet figures in it. It + is Shakespeare's last work, and one of his very greatest; his testament to + the English people; in wisdom and high poetry a miracle. + </p> + <p> + The portrait of Shakespeare we get in Prospero is astonishingly faithful + and ingenuous, in spite of its idealization. His life's day is waning to + the end; shadows of the night are drawing in upon him, yet he is the same + bookish, melancholy student, the lover of all courtesies and generosities, + whom we met first as Biron in “Love's Labour's Lost.” The gaiety is gone + and the sensuality; the spiritual outlook is infinitely sadder—that + is what the years have done with our gentle Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + Prospero's first appearance in the second scene of the first act is as a + loving father and magician; he says to Miranda: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I have done nothing but in care of thee, + Of thee, my dear one! thee, my daughter.” + </pre> + <p> + He asks Miranda what she can remember of her early life, and reaches + magical words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What seest thou else + In the dark backward and abysm of time?” + </pre> + <p> + Miranda is only fifteen years of age. Shakespeare turned Juliet, it will + be remembered, from a girl of sixteen into one of fourteen; now, though + the sensuality has left him, he makes Miranda only fifteen; clearly he is + the same admirer of girlish youth at forty-eight as he was twenty years + before. Then Prospero tells Miranda of himself and his brother, the + “perfidious” Duke: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And Prospero, the prime Duke, being so reputed + In dignity, and for the liberal arts + Without a parallel; those being all my study.” + </pre> + <p> + He will not only be a Prince now, but a master “without a parallel” in the + liberal arts. He must explain, too, at undue length, how he allowed + himself to be supplanted by his false brother, and speaks about himself in + Shakespeare's very words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicate + To closeness, and the bettering of my mind + With that, which, but by being so retired, + O'erprized all popular rate, in my false brother + Awaked an evil nature: and my trust, + Like a good parent, did beget of him, + A falsehood, in its contrary as great + As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit, + A confidence sans bound.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare, too, “neglecting worldly ends,” had dedicated himself to + “bettering of his mind,” we may be sure. Prospero goes on to tell us + explicitly how Shakespeare loved books, which we were only able to infer + from his earlier plays: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Me, poor man, my library + Was dukedom large enough.” + </pre> + <p> + And again, Gonzalo (another name for Kent and Flavius) having given him + some books, he says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Of his gentleness, + Knowing I loved my books, he furnished me + From my own library, with volumes that + I prize above my dukedom.” + </pre> + <p> + His daughter grieves lest she had been a trouble to him: forthwith + Shakespeare-Prospero answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O, a cherubim + Thou wast, that did preserve me. Thou didst smile + Infused with a fortitude from heaven, + When I have deck'd the sea with drops full salt + Under my burden groan'd; which raised in me + An undergoing stomach, to bear up + Against what should ensue.” + </pre> + <p> + But why should the magician weep or groan under a burden? had he no + confidence in his miraculous powers? All this is Shakespeare's confession. + Every word is true; his daughter did indeed “preserve” Shakespeare, and + enable him to bear up under the burden of life's betrayals. + </p> + <p> + No wonder Prospero begins to apologize for this long-winded confession, + which indeed is “most impertinent” to the play, as he admits, though most + interesting to him and to us, for he is simply Shakespeare telling us his + own feelings at the time. The gentle magician then hears from Ariel how + the shipwreck has been conducted without harming a hair of anyone. + </p> + <p> + The whole scene is an extraordinarily faithful and detailed picture of + Shakespeare's soul. I find significance even in the fact that Ariel wants + his freedom “a full year” before the term Prospero had originally + proposed. Shakespeare finished “The Tempest,” I believe, and therewith set + the seal on his life's work a full year earlier than he had intended; he + feared lest death might surprise him before he had put the pinnacle on his + work. Ariel's torment, too, is full of meaning for me; for Ariel is + Shakespeare's “shaping spirit of imagination,” who was once the slave of + “a foul witch,” and by her “imprisoned painfully” for “a dozen years.” + </p> + <p> + That “dozen years” is to me astonishingly true and interesting: it shows + that my reading of the duration of his passion-torture was absolutely + correct—Shakespeare's “delicate spirit” and best powers bound to + Mary Fitton's “earthy” service from 1597 to 1608. + </p> + <p> + We can perhaps fix this latter date with some assurance. Mistress Fitton + married for the second time a Captain or Mr. Polwhele late in 1607, or + some short time before March, 1608, when the fact of her recent marriage + was recorded in the will of her great uncle. It seems to me probable, or + at least possible, that this event marks her complete separation from + Shakespeare; she may very likely have left the Court and London on ceasing + to be a Maid of Honour. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare is so filled with himself in this last play, so certain that + he is the most important person in the world, that this scene is more + charged with intimate self-revealing than any other in all his works. And + when Ferdinand comes upon the stage Shakespeare lends him, too, his own + peculiar qualities. His puppets no longer interest him; he is careless of + characterization. Ferdinand says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “This music crept by me upon the waters + Allaying both their fury and my passion + With its sweet air.” + </pre> + <p> + Music, it will be remembered, had precisely the same peculiar effect upon + Duke Orsino in “Twelfth Night.” Ferdinand, too, is extraordinarily + conceited: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am the best of them that speak this speech. + .... Myself am Naples.” + </pre> + <p> + Shakespeare's natural aristocratic pride as a Prince reinforced by his + understanding of his own real importance. Ferdinand then declares he will + be content with a prison if he can see Miranda in it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Space enough + Have I in such a prison.” + </pre> + <p> + Which is Hamlet's: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself + a king of infinite space.” + </pre> + <p> + The second act, with its foiled conspiracy, is wretchedly bad, and the + meeting of Caliban and Trinculo with Stephanie does not improve it much, + Shakespeare has little interest now in anything outside himself: age and + greatness are as self-centred as youth. + </p> + <p> + In the third act the courtship of Ferdinand and Miranda is pretty, but + hardly more. Ferdinand is bloodless, thin, and Miranda swears “by her + modesty,” as the jewel in her dower, which takes away a little from the + charming confession of girl-love: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I would not wish + Any companion in the world but you.” + </pre> + <p> + The comic relief which follows is unspeakably dull; but the words of + Ariel, warning the King of Naples and the usurping Duke that the wrong + they have done Prospero is certain to be avenged unless blotted out by + “heart-sorrow and a clear life ensuing,” are most characteristic and + memorable. + </p> + <p> + In the fourth act Prospero preaches, as we have seen, self-restraint to + Ferdinand in words which, in their very extravagance, show how deeply he + regretted his own fault with his wife before marriage. I shall consider + the whole passage when treating of Shakespeare's marriage as an incident + in his life. Afterwards comes the masque, and the marvellous speech of + Prospero, which touches the highest height of poetry: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “These our actors, + As I foretold you, were all spirits, and + Are melted into air, into thin air: + And, like the baseless fabric of this vision + The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, + The solemn temples, the great globe itself, + Yea, all which it inhabit, shall dissolve + And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, + Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff + As dreams are made of; and our little life + Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex'd; + Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled: + Be not disturb'd with my infirmity: + If you be pleased, retire into my cell, + And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk, + To still my beating mind.” + </pre> + <p> + I have given the verses to the very end, for I find the insistence on his + age and weakness (which are not in keeping with the character of a + magician), a confession of Shakespeare himself: the words “beating mind” + are extraordinarily characteristic, proving as they do that his thoughts + and emotions were too strong for his frail body. + </p> + <p> + In the fifth act Shakespeare-Prospero shows himself to us at his noblest: + he will forgive his enemies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, + Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury + Do I take part: the rarer action is + In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, + The sole drift of my purpose doth extend + Not a frown further.” + </pre> + <p> + In “The Two Gentlemen of Verona” we saw how Shakespeare-Valentine forgave + his faithless friend as soon as he repented: here is the same creed + touched to nobler expression. + </p> + <p> + And then, with all his wishes satisfied, his heart's desire accomplished, + Prospero is ready to set out for Milan again and home. We all expect some + expression of joy from him, but this is what we get: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And thence retire me to my Milan, where + Every third thought shall be my grave.” + </pre> + <p> + The despair is wholly unexpected and out of place, as was the story of his + weakness and infirmity, his “beating mind.” It is evidently Shakespeare's + own confession. After writing “The Tempest” he intends to retire to + Stratford, where “every third thought shall be my grave.” + </p> + <p> + I have purposely drawn special attention to Shakespeare's weakness and + despair at this time, because the sad, rhymed Epilogue which has to be + spoken by Prospero has been attributed to another hand by a good many + scholars. It is manifestly Shakespeare's, out of Shakespeare's very heart + indeed; though Mr. Israel Gollancz follows his leaders in saying that the + “Epilogue to the play is evidently by some other hand than Shakespeare's”: + “evidently” is good. Here it is: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now my charms are all o'erthrown, + And what strength I have's mine own, + Which is most faint: now, 'tis true, + I must be here confined by you, + Or sent to Naples. Let me not + Since I have my dukedom got, + And pardon'd the deceiver, dwell + In this bare island by your spell; + But release me from my bands + With the help of your good hands: + Gentle breath of yours my sails + Must fill, or else my project fails, + Which was to please. Now I want, + Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; + And my ending is despair, + Unless I be relieved by prayer, + Which pierces so that it assaults + Mercy itself, and frees all faults + As you from crimes would pardon'd be + Let your indulgence set me free.” + </pre> + <p> + From youth to age Shakespeare occupied himself with the deepest problems + of human existence; again and again we find him trying to pierce the + darkness that enshrouds life. Is there indeed nothing beyond the grave—nothing? + Is the noble fabric of human thought, achievement and endeavour to fade + into nothingness and pass away like the pageant of a dream? He will not + cheat himself with unfounded hopes, nor delude himself into belief; he + resigns himself with a sigh—it is the undiscovered country, from + whose bourn no traveller returns. But Shakespeare always believed in + repentance and forgiveness, and now, world-weary, old and weak, he turns + to prayer, {Footnote: Hamlet, too, after speaking with his father's ghost, + cries: “I'll go pray."} prayer that— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “assaults + Mercy itself and frees all faults.” + </pre> + <p> + Poor, broken Shakespeare! “My ending is despair”: the sadness of it, and + the pity, lie deeper than tears. + </p> + <p> + What a man! to produce a masterpiece in spite of such weakness. What a + play is this “Tempest”! At length Shakespeare sees himself as he is, a + monarch without a country; but master of a very “potent art,” a great + magician, with imagination as an attendant spirit, that can conjure up + shipwrecks, or enslave enemies, or create lovers at will; and all his + powers are used in gentle kindness. Ariel is a higher creation, more + spiritual and charming than any other poet has ever attempted; and + Caliban, the earth-born, half-beast, half-man—these are the poles of + Shakespeare's genius. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE + </h2> + <p> + Our long travail is almost at an end. We have watched Shakespeare painting + himself at various periods of his life, and at full length in twenty + dramas, as the gentle, sensuous poet-thinker. We have studied him when + given over to wild passion in the sonnets and elsewhere, and to insane + jealousy in “Othello”; we have seen him as Hamlet brooding on revenge and + self-murder, and in “Lear,” and “Timon” raging on the verge of madness, + and in these ecstasies, when the soul is incapable of feigning, we have + discovered his true nature as it differed from the ideal presentments + which his vanity shaped and coloured. We have corrected his personal + estimate by that “story of faults conceal'd” which Shakespeare himself + referred to in sonnet 88. It only remains for me now to give a brief + account of his life and the incidents of it to show that my reading of his + character is borne out by the known facts, and thus put the man in his + proper setting, so to speak. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, our knowledge of Shakespeare's character will help us + to reconstruct his life-story. What is known positively of his life could + be given in a couple of pages; but there are traditions of him, tales + about him, innumerable scraps of fact and fiction concerning him which are + more or less interesting and authentic; and now that we know the man, we + shall be able to accept or reject these reports with some degree of + confidence, and so arrive at a credible picture of his life's journey, and + the changes which Time wrought in him. In all I may say about him I shall + keep close to the facts as given in his works. When tradition seems + consonant with what Shakespeare has told us about himself, or with what + Ben Jonson said of him, I shall use it with confidence. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare was a common name in Warwickshire; other Shakespeares besides + the poet's family were known there in the sixteenth century, and at least + one other William Shakespeare in the neighbourhood of Stratford. The + poet's father, John Shakespeare, was of farmer stock, and seems to have + had an adventurous spirit: he left Snitterfield, his birthplace, as a + young man, for the neighbouring town of Stratford, where he set up in + business for himself. Aubrey says he was a butcher; he certainly dealt in + meat, skins, and leather, as well as in corn, wool, and malt—an + adaptable, quick man, who turned his hand to anything—a + Jack-of-all-trades. He appears to have been successful at first, for in + 1556, five years after coming to Stratford, he purchased two freehold + tenements, one with a garden in Henley Street, and the other in Greenhill + Street, with an orchard. In 1557 he was elected burgess, or town + councillor, and shortly afterwards did the best stroke of business in his + life by marrying Mary Arden, whose father had been a substantial farmer. + Mary inherited the fee simple of Asbies, a house with some fifty acres of + land at Wilmcote, and an interest in property at Snitterfield; the whole + perhaps worth some £80 or £90, or, say, £600 of our money. His marriage + turned John Shakespeare into a well-to-do citizen; he filled various + offices in the borough, and in 1568 became a bailiff, the highest position + in the corporation. During his year of office, we are told, he entertained + two companies of actors at Stratford. + </p> + <p> + Mary Arden seems to have been her father's favourite child, and though she + could not sign her own name, must have possessed rare qualities; for the + poet, as we learn from “Coriolanus,” held her in extraordinary esteem and + affection, and mourned her after her death as “the noblest mother in the + world.” + </p> + <p> + William Shakespeare, the first son and third child of this couple, was + born on the 22nd or 23rd April, 1564, no one knows which day; the + Stratford parish registers prove that he was baptized on 26th April. And + if the date of his birth is not known, neither is the place of it; his + father owned two houses in Henley Street, and it is uncertain which he was + born in. + </p> + <p> + John Shakespeare had, fortunately, nothing to pay for the education of his + sons. They had free tuition at the Grammar School at Stratford. The poet + went to school when he was seven or eight years of age, and received an + ordinary education together with some grounding in Latin. He probably + spent most of his time at first making stories out of the frescoes on the + walls. There can be no doubt that he learned easily all he was taught, and + still less doubt that he was not taught much. He mastered Lyly's “Latin + Grammar,” and was taken through some conversation books like the + “Sententiae Pueriles,” and not much further, for he puts Latin phrases in + the mouth of the schoolmasters, Holofernes in “Love's Labour's Lost,” and + Hugh Evans in “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” and all these phrases are + taken word for word either from Lyly's Grammar or from the “Sententiae + Pueriles.” In “Titus Andronicus,” too, one of Tamora's sons, on reading a + Latin couplet, says it is a verse of Horace, but he “read it in the + grammar,” which was probably the author's case. Ben Jonson's sneer was + well-founded, Shakespeare had “little Latine and lesse Greeke.” His + French, as shown in his “Henry V.,” was anything but good, and his Italian + was probably still slighter. + </p> + <p> + It was lucky for Shakespeare that his father's increasing poverty withdrew + him from school early, and forced him into contact with life. Aubrey says + that “when he was a boy he exercised his father's trade {of butcher}; but + when he kill'd a calfe he would doe it in high style and make a speech.” I + daresay young Will flourished about with a knife and made romantic + speeches; but I am pretty sure he never killed a calf. Killing a calf is + not the easiest part of a butcher's business; nor a task which Shakespeare + at any time would have selected. The tradition is simply sufficient to + prove that the town folk had already noticed the eager, quick, spouting + lad. + </p> + <p> + Of Shakespeare's life after he left school, say from thirteen to eighteen, + we know almost nothing. He probably did odd jobs for his father from time + to time; but his father's business seems to have run rapidly from bad to + worse; for in 1586 a creditor informed the local Court that John + Shakespeare had no goods on which distraint could be levied, and on 6th + September of the same year he was deprived of his alderman's gown. During + this period of steadily increasing poverty in the house it was only to be + expected that young Will Shakespeare would run wild. + </p> + <p> + The tradition as given by Rowe says that he fell “into low company, and + amongst them some that made a frequent practice of deer-stealing engaged + him with them more than once in robbing the park of Sir Thomas Lucy of + Charlecot, near Stratford. For this he was prosecuted by that gentleman, + as he then thought somewhat too severely, and in order to revenge that + ill-usage he made a ballad upon him.” + </p> + <p> + Another story has it that Sir Thomas Lucy got a lawyer from Warwick to + prosecute the boys, and that Shakespeare stuck his satirical ballad to the + park gates at Charlecot. The ballad is said to have been lost, but certain + verses were preserved which fit the circumstances and suit Shakespeare's + character so perfectly that I for one am content to accept them. I give + the first and the last verses as most characteristic: + </p> + <h3> + SONG + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A parliament member, a Justice of peace, + At home a poor scarecrow, in London an asse, + If Lowsie is lucy, as some volke miscalle it + Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befalle it. + He thinks himself greate + Yet an asse in his state, + We allowe by his ears but with asses to mate. + If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it + Sing lowsie Lucy whatever befalle it. + - - - - - - - - + “If a juvenile frolick he cannot forgive, + We'll sing lowsie Lucy as long as we live, + And Lucy, the lowsie, a libel may calle it + Sing lowsie Lucy whatever befalle it. + He thinks himself greate + Yet an asse in his state, + We allowe by his ears but with asses to mate. + If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it + Sing lowsie Lucy, Whatever befalle it.” + </pre> + <p> + The last verse, so out of keeping in its curious impartiality with the + scurrilous refrain, appears to me to carry its own signature. There can be + no doubt that the verses give us young Shakespeare's feelings in the + matter. It was probably reading ballads and tales of “Merrie Sherwood” + that first inclined him to deer-stealing; and we have already seen from + his “Richard II.” and “Henry IV.” and “Henry V.” that he had been led + astray by low companions. + </p> + <p> + In his idle, high-spirited youth, Shakespeare did worse than break bounds + and kill deer; he was at a loose end and up to all sorts of mischief. At + eighteen he had already courted and won Anne Hathaway, a farmer's daughter + of the neighbouring village of Shottery. Anne was nearly eight years older + than he was. Her father had died a short time before and left Anne, his + eldest daughter, £6 13<i>s</i>. 4<i>d</i>., or, say, £50 of our money. The + house at Shottery, now shown as Anne Hathaway's cottage, once formed part + of Richard Hathaway's farmhouse, and there, and in the neighbouring lanes, + the lovers did their courting. The wooing on Shakespeare's side was + nothing but pastime, though it led to marriage. + </p> + <p> + His marriage is perhaps the first serious mistake that Shakespeare made, + and it certainly influenced his whole life. It is needful, therefore, to + understand it as accurately as may be, however we may judge it. A man's + life, like a great river, may be limpid-pure in the beginning, and when + near its source; as it grows and gains strength it is inevitably sullied + and stained with earth's soilure. + </p> + <p> + The ordinary apologists would have us believe that the marriage was happy; + they know that Shakespeare was not married in Stratford, and, though a + minor, his parents' consent to the marriage was not obtained; but they + persist in talking about his love for his wife, and his wife's devoted + affection for him. Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, the bell-wether of the flock, + has gone so far as to tell us how on the morning of the day he died “his + wife, who had smoothed the pillow beneath his head for the last time, felt + that her right hand was taken from her.” Let us see if there is any + foundation for this sentimental balderdash. Here are some of the facts. + </p> + <p> + In the Bishop of Worcester's register a licence was issued on 27th + November, 1582, authorizing the marriage of William Shakespeare with Anne + Whately, of Temple Grafton. On the very next day in the register of the + same Bishop there is a deed, wherein Fulk Sandells and John Richardson, + farmers of Shottery, bound themselves in the Bishop's court under a surety + of £40 to free the Bishop of all liability should a lawful impediment—“by + reason of any pre-contract or consanguinity”—be subsequently + disclosed to imperil the validity of the marriage, then in contemplation, + of William Shakespeare with Anne Hathaway. + </p> + <p> + Dryasdust, of course, argues that there is no connection whatever between + these two events. He is able to persuade himself easily that the William + Shakespeare who got a licence to marry Anne Whately, of Temple Grafton, on + 27th November, 1582, is not the same William Shakespeare who is being + forced to marry Anne Hathaway on the next day by two friends of Anne + Hathaway's father. Yet such a coincidence as two William Shakespeares + seeking to be married by special licence in the same court at the same + moment of time is too extraordinary to be admitted. Besides, why should + Sandells and Richardson bind themselves as sureties in £40 to free the + Bishop of liability by reason of any pre-contract if there were no + pre-contract? The two William Shakespeares are clearly one and the same + person. Sandells was a supervisor of the will of Richard Hathaway, and was + described in the will as “my trustie friende and neighbour.” He showed + himself a trusty friend of the usual sort to his friend's daughter, and + when he heard that loose Will Shakespeare was attempting to marry Anne + Whately, he forthwith went to the same Bishop's court which had granted + the licence, pledged himself and his neighbour, Richardson, as sureties + that there was no pre-contract, and so induced the Bishop, who no doubt + then learned the unholy circumstances for the first time, to grant a + licence in order that the marriage with Anne Hathaway could be celebrated, + “with once asking of the bannes” and without the consent of the father of + the bridegroom, which was usually required when the bridegroom was a + minor. + </p> + <p> + Clearly Fulk Sandells was a masterful man; young Will Shakespeare was + forced to give up Anne Whately, poor lass, and marry Anne Hathaway, much + against his will. Like many another man, Shakespeare married at leisure, + and repented in hot haste. Six months later a daughter was born to him, + and was baptized in the name of Susanna at Stratford Parish Church on the + 26th of May, 1583. There was, therefore, an importunate reason for the + wedding, as Sandells, no doubt, made the Bishop understand. + </p> + <p> + The whole story, it seems to me, is in perfect consonance with + Shakespeare's impulsive, sensual nature; is, indeed, an excellent + illustration of it. Hot, impatient, idle Will got Anne Hathaway into + trouble, was forced to marry her, and at once came to regret. Let us see + how far these inferences from plain facts are borne out from his works. + </p> + <p> + The most important passages seem to have escaped critical scholarship. I + have already said that the earliest works of Shakespeare, and the latest, + are the most fruitful in details about his private life. In the earliest + works he was compelled to use his own experience, having no observation of + life to help him, and at the end of his life, having said almost + everything he had to say, he again went back to his early experience for + little vital facts to lend a colour to the fainter pictures of age. In + “The Winter's Tale,” a shepherd finds the child Perdita, who has been + exposed; one would expect him to stumble on the child by chance and + express surprise; but this shepherd of Shakespeare begins to talk in this + way: + </p> + <p> + “I would there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty, or that youth + would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting + wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting. Hark you + now! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt + this weather?” + </p> + <p> + Now this passage has nothing to do with the play, nor with the shepherd's + occupation; nor is it at all characteristic of a shepherd boy. Between ten + and three-and-twenty a poor shepherd boy is likely to be kept hard at + work; he is not idle and at a loose end like young Shakespeare, free to + rob the ancientry, steal, fight, and get wenches with child. That, in my + opinion, is Shakespeare's own confession. + </p> + <p> + Of course, every one has noticed how Shakespeare again and again in his + plays declares that a woman should take in marriage an “elder than + herself,” and that intimacy before marriage is productive of nothing but + “barren hate and discord.” In “Twelfth Night” he says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let still the woman take + An elder than herself: so wears she to him, + So sways she level in her husband's heart.” + </pre> + <p> + In “The Tempest” he writes again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If thou dost break her virgin knot before + All sanctimonious ceremonies may + With full and holy rite be minister'd, + No sweet aspersions shall the heavens let fall + To make this contract grow; but barren hate, + Sour-ey'd disdain, and discord, shall bestrew + The union of your bed with weeds so loathly + That you shall hate it both.” + </pre> + <p> + These admonitions are so far-fetched and so emphatic that they plainly + discover personal feeling. We have, besides, those quaint, angry passages + in the “Comedy of Errors,” to which we have already drawn attention, which + show that the poet detested his wife. + </p> + <p> + The known facts, too, all corroborate this inference: let us consider them + a little. The first child was born within six months of the marriage; + twins followed in 1585; a little later Shakespeare left Stratford not to + return to it for eight or nine years, and when he did return there was + probably no further intimacy with his wife; at any rate, there were no + more children. Yet Shakespeare, one fancies, was fond of children. When + his son Hamnet died his grief showed itself in his work—in “King + John” and in “The Winter's Tale.” He was full of loving kindness to his + daughters, too, in later life; it was his wife alone for whom he had no + affection, no forgiveness. + </p> + <p> + There are other facts which establish this conclusion. While Shakespeare + was in London he allowed his wife to suffer the extremes of poverty. + Sometime between 1585 and 1595 she appears to have borrowed forty + shillings from Thomas Whittington, who had formerly been her father's + shepherd. The money was still unpaid when Whittington died, in 1601, and + he directed his executor to recover the sum from the poet, and distribute + it among the poor of Stratford. Now Shakespeare was rich when he returned + to Stratford in 1595, and always generous. He paid off his father's heavy + debts; how came it that he did not pay this trifling debt of his wife? The + mere fact proves beyond doubt that Shakespeare disliked her and would have + nothing to do with her. + </p> + <p> + Even towards the end of his life, when he was suffering from increasing + weakness, which would have made most men sympathetic, even if it did not + induce them completely to relent, Shakespeare shows the same aversion to + his poor wife. In 1613, when on a short visit to London, he bought a house + in Blackfriars for £140; in the purchase he barred his wife's dower, which + proceeding seems even to Dryasdust “pretty conclusive proof that he had + the intention of excluding her from the enjoyment of his possessions after + his death.” + </p> + <p> + In the first draft of his will Shakespeare did not mention his wife. The + apologists explain this by saying that, of course, he had already given + her all that she ought to have. But if he loved her he would have + mentioned her with affection, if only to console her in her widowhood. + Before the will was signed he inserted a bequest to her of his + “second-best bed,” and the apologists have been at pains to explain that + the best bed was kept for guests, and that Shakespeare willed to his wife + the bed they both occupied. How inarticulate poor William Shakespeare must + have become! Could the master of language find no better word than the + contemptuous one? Had he said “our bed” it would have been enough; “the + second-best bed” admits of but one interpretation. His daughters, who had + lived with their mother, and who had not been afflicted by her jealousy + and scolding tongue, begged the dying man to put in some mention of her, + and he wrote in that “second-best bed”—bitter to the last. If his + own plain words and these inferences, drawn from indisputable facts, are + not sufficient, then let us take one fact more, and consider its + significance; one fact, so to speak, from the grave. + </p> + <p> + When Shakespeare died he left some lines to be placed over his tomb. Here + they are: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare + To Digg the dust enclosed heare. + Blessed be ye man yt spares thes stones + And Curst be ye yt moves my bones.” + </pre> + <p> + Now, why did Shakespeare make this peculiar request? No one seems to have + seen any meaning in it. It looks to me as if Shakespeare wrote the verses + in order to prevent his wife being buried with him. He wanted to be free + of her in death as in life. At any rate, the fact is that she was not + buried with him, but apart from him; he had seen to that. His grave was + never opened, though his wife expressed a desire to be buried with him. + The man who needs further proofs would not be persuaded though one came + from the dead to convince him. + </p> + <p> + The marriage was an unfortunate one for many reasons, as an enforced + marriage is apt to be, even when it is not the marriage of a boy in his + teens to a woman some eight years his senior. Shakespeare takes trouble to + tell us in “The Comedy of Errors” that his wife was spitefully jealous, + and a bitter scold. She must have injured him, poisoned his life with her + jealous nagging, or Shakespeare would have forgiven her. There is some + excuse for him, if excuse be needed. At the time the marriage must have + seemed the wildest folly to him, seething as he was with inordinate + conceit. He was wise beyond his years, and yet he had been forced to give + hostages to fortune before he had any means of livelihood, before he had + even found a place in life. What a position for a poet—penniless, + saddled with a jealous wife and three children before he was twenty-one. + And this poet was proud, and vain, and in love with all distinctions. + </p> + <p> + But why did Shakespeare nurse such persistent enmity all through his life + to jealous, scolding Anne Hathaway? Shakespeare had wronged her; the + keener his moral sense, the more certain he was to blame his partner in + the fault, for in no other way could he excuse himself. + </p> + <p> + It was overpowering sensuality and rashness which had led Shakespeare into + the noose, and now there was nothing for it but to cut the rope. He had + either to be true to his higher nature or to the conventional view of his + duty; he was true to himself and fled to London, and the world is the + richer for his decision. The only excuse he ever made is to be found in + the sonnet-line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Love is too young to know what conscience is.” + </pre> + <p> + For my part I do not see that any excuse is needed: if Shakespeare had + married Anne Whately he might never have gone to London or written a play. + Shakespeare's hatred of his wife and his regret for having married her + were alike foolish. Our brains are seldom the wisest part of us. It was + well that he made love to Anne Hathaway; well, too, that he was forced to + marry her; well, finally, that he should desert her. I am sorry he treated + her badly and left her unsupplied with money; that was needlessly cruel; + but it is just the kindliest men who have these extraordinary lapses; + Shakespeare's loathing for his wife was measureless, was a part of his own + self-esteem, and his self-esteem was founded on snobbish non-essentials + for many years, if not, indeed, throughout his life. + </p> + <p> + There is a tradition preserved by Rowe that before going to London young + Shakespeare taught school in the country; it may be; but he did not teach + for long, we can be sure, and what he had to teach there were few scholars + in the English country then or now capable of learning. Another tradition + asserts that he obtained employment as a lawyer's clerk, probably because + of the frequent use of legal phrases in his plays. But these apologists + all forget that they are speaking of men like themselves, and of times + like ours. Politics is the main theme of talk in our day; but in the time + of Elizabeth it was rather dangerous to show one's wisdom by criticizing + the government: law was then the chief staple of conversation: every + educated man was therefore familiar with law and its phraseology, as men + are familiar in our day with the jargon of politics. + </p> + <p> + When did Shakespeare fly to London? Some say when he was twenty-one, as + soon as his wife presented him with twins, in 1585. Others say as soon as + Sir Thomas Lucy's persecution became intolerable. Both causes no doubt + worked together, and yet another cause, given in “The Two Gentlemen of + Verona,” was the real <i>causa causans</i>. Shakespeare was naturally + ambitious; eager to measure himself with the best and try his powers. + London was the arena where all great prizes were to be won: Shakespeare + strained towards the Court like a greyhound in leash. But when did he go? + Again in doubt I take the shepherd's words in “The Winter's Tale” as a + guide. Most men would have said from fourteen to twenty was the dangerous + age for a youth; but Shakespeare had perhaps a personal reason for the + peculiar “ten to twenty-three.” He was, no doubt, astoundingly precocious, + and probably even at ten he had learned everything of value that the + grammar school had to teach, and his thoughts had begun to play truant. + Twenty-three, too, is a significant date in his life; in 1587, when he was + twenty-three, two companies of actors, under the nominal patronage of the + Queen and Lord Leicester, returned to London from a provincial tour, + during which they visited Stratford. In Lord Leicester's company were + Burbage and Heminge, with whom we know that Shakespeare was closely + connected in later life. It seems to me probable that he returned with + this company to London, and arrived in London, as he tells us in “The + Comedy of Errors,” “stiff and weary with long travel,” and at once went + out to view the town and “peruse the traders.” + </p> + <p> + There is a tradition that when he came to London in 1587 he held horses + outside the doors of the theatre. This story was first put about by the + compiler of “The Lives of the Poets,” in 1753. According to the author the + story was related by D'Avenant to Betterton; but Rowe, to whom Betterton + must have told it, does not transmit it. Rowe was perhaps right to forget + it or leave it out; though the story is not in itself incredible. Such + work must have been infinitely distasteful to Shakespeare, but necessity + is a hard master, and Greene, who talks of him later as “Shake-scene,” + also speaks in the same connection of these “grooms.” The curious + amplified version of the story that Shakespeare organized a service of + boys to hold the horses is hardly to be believed. The great Doctor was + anything but a poet, or a good judge of the poetic temperament. + </p> + <p> + The Shakespeares of this world are not apt to take up menial employs, and + this one had already shown that he preferred idle musings and parasitic + dependence to uncongenial labour. Whoever reads the second scene of the + second act of “The Comedy of Errors,” will see that Shakespeare, even at + the beginning, had an uncommonly good opinion of himself. He plays + gentleman from the first, and despises trade; he snubs his servant and + will not brook familiarity from him. In “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” he + tells us that he left the country and came to London seeking “honour,” + intending, no doubt, to make a name for himself by his writings. He had + probably “Venus and Adonis” in his pocket when he first reached London. + This would inspire a poet with the self-confidence which a well-filled + purse lends to an ordinary man. + </p> + <p> + I am inclined to accept Rowe's statement that Shakespeare was received + into an actor-company at first in a very mean rank. The parish clerk of + Stratford at the end of the seventeenth century used to tell the visitors + that Shakespeare entered the playhouse as a servitor; but, however he + entered it, it is pretty certain he was not long in a subordinate + position. + </p> + <p> + What manner of man was William Shakespeare when he first fronted life in + London somewhere about 1587? Aubrey tells us that he was “a handsome, + well-shap't man, very good company, and of a very readie and pleasant + smooth witt.” The bust of him in Stratford Church was coloured; it gave + him light hazel eyes, and auburn hair and beard. Rowe says of him that + “besides the advantages of his witt, he was in himself a good-natured man, + of too great sweetness in his manners, and a most agreeable companion.” + </p> + <p> + I picture him to myself very like Swinburne—of middle height or + below it, inclined to be stout; the face well-featured, with forehead + domed to reverence and quick, pointed chin; a face lighted with + hazel-clear vivid eyes and charming with sensuous-full mobile lips that + curve easily to kisses or gay ironic laughter; an exceedingly sensitive, + eager speaking face that mirrors every fleeting change of emotion.... + </p> + <p> + I can see him talking, talking with extreme fluency in a high tenor voice, + the reddish hair flung back from the high forehead, the eyes now dancing, + now aflame, every feature quick with the “beating mind.” + </p> + <p> + And such talk—the groundwork of it, so to speak, very + intimate-careless; but gemmed with thoughts, diamonded with wit, rhythmic + with feeling: don't we know how it ran—“A hundred and fifty tattered + prodigals.... No eye hath seen such scarecrows, ... discarded, unjust + serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters, and + ostlers trade-fallen: the cankers of a calm world and a long peace.” And + after the thought the humour again—“food for powder, food for + powder.” + </p> + <p> + Now let us consider some of his other qualities. In 1592 he published his + “Venus and Adonis,” which he had no doubt written in 1587 or even earlier, + for he called it “the first heir of my invention” when he dedicated it to + Lord Southampton. This work is to me extremely significant. It is all + concerned with the wooing of young Adonis by Venus, an older woman. Now, + goddesses have no age, nor do women, as a rule, woo in this sensual + fashion. The peculiarities point to personal experience. “I, too,” + Shakespeare tells us practically, “was wooed by an older woman against my + will.” He seems to have wished the world to accept this version of his + untimely marriage. Young Shakespeare in London was probably a little + ashamed of being married to some one whom he could hardly introduce or + avow. The apologists who declare that he made money very early in his + career give us no explanation of the fact that he never brought his wife + or children to London. Wherever we touch Shakespeare's intimate life, we + find proof upon proof that he detested his wife and was glad to live + without her. + </p> + <p> + Looked at in this light “Venus and Adonis” is not a very noble thing to + have written; but I am dealing with a young poet's nature, and the + majority of young poets would like to forget their Anne Hathaway if they + could; or, to excuse themselves, would put the blame of an ill-sorted + union upon the partner to it. + </p> + <p> + There is a certain weakness, however, shown in the whole story of his + marriage; a weakness of character, as well as a weakness of <i>morale</i>, + which it is impossible to ignore; and there were other weaknesses in + Shakespeare, especially a weakness of body which must necessarily have had + its correlative delicacies of mind. + </p> + <p> + I have pointed out in the first part of this book that sleeplessness was a + characteristic of Shakespeare, even in youth; he attributes it to Henry + IV. in old age, and to Henry V., a youth at the time, who probably never + knew what a sleepless night meant. Shakespeare's <i>alter ego</i>, + Valentine, in “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” suffers from it, and so do + Macbeth and Hamlet, and a dozen others of his chief characters, in + particular his impersonations—all of which shows, I think, that from + the beginning the mind of Shakespeare was too strong for his body. As we + should say to-day, he was too emotional, and lived on his nerves. I always + think of him as a ship over-engined; when the driving-power is working at + full speed it shakes the ship to pieces. + </p> + <p> + One other weakness is marked in him, and that is that he could not drink, + could not carry his liquor like a man—to use our accepted phrase. + Hamlet thought drinking a custom more honoured in the breach than in the + observance; Cassius, Shakespeare's incarnation in “Othello,” confessed + that he had “poor unhappy brains for drinking”: tradition informs us that + Shakespeare himself died of a “feavour” from drinking—all of which + confirms my opinion that Shakespeare was delicate rather than robust. He + was, also, extraordinarily fastidious: in drama after drama he rails + against the “greasy” caps and “stinking” breath of the common people. This + overstrained disgust suggests to me a certain delicacy of constitution. + </p> + <p> + But there is still another indication of bodily weakness which in itself + would be convincing to those accustomed to read closely; but which would + carry little or no weight to the careless. In sonnet 129 Shakespeare tells + us of lust and its effects, and the confession seems to me purely + personal. Here are four lines of it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight; + Past reason hunted; and no sooner had, + Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait, + On purpose laid to make the taker mad.” + </pre> + <p> + Now, this is not the ordinary man's experience of passion and its effects. + “Past reason hunted,” such an one might say, but he would certainly not go + on “No sooner had, Past reason hated.” He is not moved to hate by + enjoyment, but to tenderness; it is your weakling who is physically + exhausted by enjoyment who is moved to hatred. This sonnet was written by + Shakespeare in the prime of manhood at thirty-four or thirty-five at + latest. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare was probably healthy as a young man, but intensely sensitive + and highly strung; too finely constituted ever to have been strong. One + notices that he takes no pleasure in fighting; his heroes are, of course, + all “valiant,” but he shows no loving interest in the game of fighting as + a game. In fact, we have already seen that he found no wonderful phrase + for any of the manly virtues; he was a neuropath and a lover, and not a + fighter, even in youth, or Fulk Sandells might have rued his interference. + </p> + <p> + The dominating facts to be kept ever in mind about Shakespeare are that he + was delicate in body, and over-excitable; yielding and irresolute in + character; with too great sweetness of manners and inordinately given to + the pleasures of love. + </p> + <p> + How would such a man fare in the world of London in 1587? It was a wild + and wilful age; eager English spirits were beginning to take a part in the + opening up of the new world; the old, limiting horizons were gone; men + dared to think for themselves and act boldly; ten years before Drake had + sailed round the world—the adventurer was the characteristic product + of the time. In ordinary company a word led to a blow, and the fight was + often brought to a fatal conclusion with dagger or sword or both. In those + rough days actors were almost outlaws; Ben Jonson is known to have killed + two or three men; Marlowe died in a tavern brawl. Courage has always been + highly esteemed in England, like gentility and a university training. + Shakespeare possessed none of these passports to public favour. He could + not shoulder his way through the throng. The wild adventurous life of the + time was not to his liking, even in early manhood; from the beginning he + preferred “the life removed” and his books; all given over to the + “bettering of his mind” he could only have been appreciated at any time by + the finer spirits. + </p> + <p> + Entering the theatre as a servitor he no doubt made such acquaintances as + offered themselves, and spent a good deal of his leisure perforce with + second-rate actors and writers in common taverns and studied his Bardolph + and Pistol, and especially his Falstaff at first hand. Perhaps Marlowe was + one of his <i>ciceroni</i> in rough company. Shakespeare had almost + certainly met Marlowe very early in his career, for he worked with him in + the “Third Part of Henry VI.,” and his “Richard III.” is a conscious + imitation of Marlowe, and Marlowe was dissipated enough and wild enough to + have shown him the wildest side of life in London in the '80's. It was the + very best thing that could have happened to delicate Shakespeare, to come + poor and unknown to London, and be soused in common rowdy life like this + against his will by sheer necessity; for if left to his own devices he + would probably have grown up a bookish poet—a second Coleridge. Fate + takes care of her favourites. + </p> + <p> + It was all in his favour that he should have been forced at first to win + his spurs as an actor. He must have been too intelligent, one would think, + ever to have brought it far as a mummer; he looked upon the half-art of + acting with disdain and disgust, as he tells us in the sonnets, and if in + Hamlet he condescends to give advice to actors, it is to admonish them not + to outrage the decencies of nature by tearing a passion to tatters. He had + at hand a surer ladder to fame than the mummer's art. As soon as he felt + his feet in London he set to work adapting plays, and writing plays, while + reading his own poetry to all and sundry who would listen, and I have no + doubt that patrons of the stage, who were also men of rank, were willing + to listen to Shakespeare from the beginning. He was of those who require + no introductions. + </p> + <p> + In 1592, four or five years after his arrival in London, he had already + come to the front as a dramatist, or at least as an adapter of plays, for + Robert Greene, a scholar and playwright, attacked him in his “Groatsworth + of Wit” in this fashion: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is an upstart Crow, beautified in our feathers + that, with his tiger's heart wrapt in a player's hide, supposes + he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as + the best of you, and, being an absolute Johannes fac + totum, is, in his own conceit, the only Shakescene in a + country. Oh, that I might intreat your rare wits to be + employed in more profitable courses, and let these apes + imitate your past excellence, and never more acquaint + them with your admired inventions.” + </pre> + <p> + It is plain from this weird appeal that Shakespeare had already made his + mark. + </p> + <p> + There are further proofs of his rapid success. One of Chettle's references + to Shakespeare (I take Chettle to be the original of Falstaff) throws + light upon the poet's position in London in these early days. Shortly + after Greene had insulted Shakespeare as “Shake-scene” Chettle apologized + for the insult in these terms: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am as sorry,” Chettle wrote, “as if the original + fault had beene my fault, because myselfe have seen his + (<i>i.e.</i>, Shakespeare's) demeanour no less civill than he (is) + exelent in the qualitie he professes. Besides, divers of + worship have reported his uprightnes of dealing, which + argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing that + aprooves his art.” + </pre> + <p> + In 1592, then, Shakespeare was most “civill in demeanour,” and had won + golden opinions from people of importance. + </p> + <p> + Actors and poets of that time could not help knowing a good many of the + young nobles who came to the theatre and sat round the stage listening to + the performances. And Shakespeare, with his aristocratic sympathies and + charming sweetness of nature, must have made friends with the greatest + ease. Chettle's apology proves that early in his career he had the art or + luck to win distinguished patrons who spoke well of him. While still new + to town he came to know Lord Southampton, to whom he dedicated “Venus and + Adonis”; the fulsome dedication of “Lucrece” to the same nobleman two + years later shows that deference had rapidly ripened into affectionate + devotion; no wonder Rowe noticed the “too great sweetness in his manners.” + Thinking of his intimacy with Southampton on the one hand and Bardolph on + the other, one is constrained to say of Shakespeare what Apemantus says of + Timon: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The middle of humanity thou never knewest, + But the extremity of both ends.” + </pre> + <p> + In the extremes characters show themselves more clearly than they do in + the middle classes; at both ends of society speech and deed are + unrestrained. Falstaff and Bardolph and the rest were free of convention + by being below it, just as Bassanio and Mercutio were free because they + were above it, and made the rules. The young lord did what he pleased, and + spoke his mind as plainly as the footpad. Life at both ends was the very + school for quick, sympathetic Shakespeare. But even in early manhood, as + soon as he came to himself and found his work, one other quality is as + plain in Shakespeare as even his humour—high impartial intellect + with sincere ethical judgement. He judges even Falstaff severely, to the + point of harshness, indeed; as he judged himself later in Enobarbus. This + high critical faculty pervades all his work. But it must not be thought + that his conduct was as scrupulous as his principles, or his will as + sovereign as his intelligence. That he was a loose-liver while in London + is well attested. Contemporary anecdotes generally hit off a man's + peculiarities, and the only anecdote of Shakespeare that is known to have + been told about him in his lifetime illustrates this master trait of his + character. Burbage, we are told, when playing Richard III., arranged with + a lady in the audience to visit her after the performance. Shakespeare + overheard the rendezvous, anticipated his fellow's visit, and met Burbage + on his arrival with the jibe that “William the Conqueror came before + Richard III.” The lightness is no doubt as characteristic of Shakespeare + as the impudent humour. + </p> + <p> + There is another fact in Shakespeare's life which throws almost as much + light on his character as his marriage. He seems to have come to riches + very early and very easily. As we have seen, he was never able to paint a + miser, which confirms Jonson's testimony that he was “of an open and free + nature.” In 1597 he went down to Stratford and bought New Place, then in + ruinous condition, but the chief house in the town, for £60; he spent at + least as much more between 1597 and 1599 in rebuilding the house and + stocking the barns with grain. In 1602 we find that he purchased from + William and John Combe, of Stratford, a hundred and seven acres of arable + land near the town, for which he paid £320; in 1605, too, he bought for + £440 a moiety of the tithes of Stratford for an unexpired term of + thirty-one years, which investment seems to have brought him in little + except a wearisome lawsuit. + </p> + <p> + Now, how did the poet obtain this thousand pounds or so? English + apologists naturally assume that he was a “good business man”; with + delicious unconscious irony they one and all picture the man who hated + tradesmen as himself a sort of thrifty tradesman-soul—a master of + practical life who looked after the pennies from the beginning. These + commentators all treat Shakespeare as the Hebrews treated God; they make + him in their own likeness. In Shakespeare's case this practice leads to + absurdity. Let us take the strongest advocate of the accepted view. + Dryasdust is at pains to prove that Shakespeare's emoluments, even as an + actor in the '90's, were not likely to have fallen below a hundred a year; + but even Dryasdust admits that his large earnings came after 1599, from + his shares in the Globe Theatre, and is inclined “to accept the tradition + that Shakespeare received from the Earl of Southampton a large gift of + money.” As Southampton came of age in 1595, he may well out of his riches + have helped the man who had dedicated his poems to him with servile + adulation. Moreover, the statement is put forward by Rowe, who is + certainly more trustworthy than the general run of gossip-mongers, and his + account of the matter proves that he did not accept the story with eager + credulity, but as one compelled by authority. Here is what he says: + </p> + <p> + “There is one story so singular in magnificence of this patron of + Shakspeare that if I had not been assured that the story was handed down + by Sir Wm. D'Avenant, who was probably very well acquainted with his + affairs, I should not have ventured to insert that my lord Southampton, at + one time, gave him a thousand pounds to enable him to go through with a + purchase to which he heard he had a mind. A bounty very great, and very + rare at any time, almost equal to that profuse generosity the present age + has shown to French dancers and Italian Eunuchs.” + </p> + <p> + It seems to me a great deal more likely that this munificent gift of + Southampton was the source of Shakespeare's wealth than that he added coin + to coin in saving, careful fashion. It may be said at once that all the + evidence we have is in favour of Shakespeare's extravagance, and against + his thrift. As we have seen, when studying “The Merchant of Venice,” the + presumption is that he looked upon saving with contempt, and was himself + freehanded to a fault. The Rev. John Ward, who was Vicar of Stratford from + 1648 to 1679, tells us “that he spent at the rate of a thousand a year, as + I have heard.” + </p> + <p> + It is impossible to deny that Shakespeare got rid of a great deal of money + even after his retirement to Stratford; and men accustomed to save are not + likely to become prodigal in old age. + </p> + <p> + On the 10th March, 1613, Shakespeare bought a house in Blackfriars for + £140; the next day he executed another deed, now in the British Museum, + which stipulated that £60 of the purchase-money was to remain on mortgage + until the following Michaelmas; the money was unpaid at Shakespeare's + death, which seems to me to argue a certain carelessness, to say the least + of it. + </p> + <p> + Dryasdust makes out that Shakespeare, in the years from 1600 to 1612, was + earning about six hundred a year in the money of the period, or nearly + five thousand a year of our money, and yet he was unable or unwilling to + pay off a paltry £60. + </p> + <p> + After passing the last five years of his life in village Stratford, where + he could not possibly have found many opportunities of extravagance, he + was only able to leave a little more than one year's income. He willed New + Place to his elder daughter, Susanna Hall, together with the land, barns, + and gardens at and near Stratford (except the tenement in Chapel Lane), + and the house in Blackfriars, London, all together equal, at the most, to + five or six hundred pounds; and to his younger daughter, Judith, he + bequeathed the tenement in Chapel Lane, £150 in money, and another £150 to + be paid if she was alive three years after the date of the will. Nine + hundred pounds, or so, of the money of the period, would cover all he + possessed at death. When we consider these things, it becomes plain, I + think, that Shakespeare was extravagant to lavishness even in cautious + age. While in London he no doubt earned and was given large sums of money; + but he was free-handed and careless, and died far poorer than one would + have expected from an ordinarily thrifty man. The loose-liver is usually a + spendthrift. + </p> + <p> + There are worse faults to be laid to his account than lechery and + extravagance. Every one who has read his works with any care must admit + that Shakespeare was a snob of the purest English water. Aristocratic + tastes were natural to him; inherent, indeed, in the delicate + sensitiveness of his beauty-loving temperament; but he desired the outward + and visible signs of gentility as much as any podgy millionaire of our + time, and stooped as low to get them as man could stoop. In 1596, his + young son, Hamnet, died at Stratford, and was buried on 11th August in the + parish church. This event called Shakespeare back to his village, and + while he was there he most probably paid his father's debts, and certainly + tried to acquire for himself and his successors the position of + gentlefolk. He induced his father to make application to the College of + Heralds for a coat of arms, on the ground not only that his father was a + man of substance, but that he had also married into a “worshipful” family. + The draft grant of arms was not executed at the time. It may have been + that the father's pecuniary position became known to the College, or + perhaps the profession of the son created difficulties; but in any case + nothing was done for some time. In 1597, however, the Earl of Essex became + Earl Marshal and Chief of the Heralds' College, and the scholar and + antiquary, William Camden, joined the College as Clarenceux King of Arms. + Shakespeare must have been known to the Earl of Essex, who was an intimate + friend of the Earl of Southampton; he was indeed almost certainly a friend + and admirer of Essex. The Shakespeares' second application to be admitted + to the status of gentlefolk took a new form. They asserted roundly that + the coat as set out in the draft of 1596 had been assigned to John + Shakespeare while he was bailiff, and the heralds were asked to give him a + “recognition” of it. At the same time John Shakespeare asked for + permission to quarter on his “ancient coat of arms” that of the Ardens of + Wilmscote, his wife's family. But this was going too far, even for a + friend of Essex. To grant such a request might have got the College into + trouble with the influential Warwickshire family of Arden, and so it was + refused; but the grant was “recognized,” and Shakespeare's peculiar + ambition was satisfied. + </p> + <p> + Every single incident in his life bears out what we have learned from his + works. In all his writings he praises lords and gentlemen, and runs down + the citizens and common people, and in his life he spent some years, a + good deal of trouble, and many impudent lies in getting for his father a + grant of arms and recognition as a gentleman—a very pitiful + ambition, but peculiarly English. Shakespeare, one fancies, was a + gentleman by nature, and a good deal more. + </p> + <p> + But his snobbishness had other worse results. Partly because of it he + never got to know the middle classes in England. True, even in his time + they were excessively Puritanical, which quality hedged them off, so to + speak, from the playwright-poet. With his usual gentleness or timidity, + Shakespeare never tells us directly what he thought of the Puritans, but + his half-averted, contemptuous glance at them in passing, is very + significant. Angelo, the would-be Puritan ruler, was a “false seemer,” + Malvolio was a “chough.” The peculiar virtues of the English middle class, + its courage and sheepishness; its good conduct and respect for duties; its + religious sense and cocksure narrow-mindedness, held no attraction for + Shakespeare, and, armoured in snobbishness, he utterly missed what a + knowledge of the middle classes might have given him. + </p> + <p> + Let us take one instance of his loss. Though he lived in an age of + fanaticism, he never drew a fanatic or reformer, never conceived a man as + swimming against the stream of his time. He had but a vague conception of + the few spirits in each age who lead humanity to new and higher ideals; he + could not understand a Christ or a Mahomet, and it seems as if he took but + small interest in Jeanne d'Arc, the noblest being that came within the ken + of his art. For even if we admit that he did not write the first part of + “Henry VI.,” it is certain that it passed through his hands, and that in + his youth, at any rate, he saw nothing to correct in that vile and stupid + libel on the greatest of women. Even the English fanatic escaped his + intelligence; his Jack Cade, as I have already noticed, is a wretched + caricature; no Cade moves his fellows save by appealing to the best in + them, to their sense of justice, or what they take for justice. The Cade + who will wheedle men for his own gross ambitions may make a few dupes, but + not thousands of devoted followers. These elementary truths Shakespeare + never understood. Yet how much greater he would have been had he + understood them; had he studied even one Puritan lovingly and depicted him + sympathetically. For the fanatic is one of the hinges which swing the door + of the modern world. Shakespeare's “universal sympathy”—to quote + Coleridge—did not include the plainly-clad tub-thumper who dared to + accuse him to his face of serving the Babylonish Whore. Shakespeare + sneered at the Puritan instead of studying him; with the result that he + belongs rather to the Renaissance than to the modern world, in spite even + of his Hamlet. The best of a Wordsworth or a Turgenief is outside him; he + would never have understood a Marianna or a Bazarof, and the noble faith + of the sonnet to “Toussaint l'Ouverture” was quite beyond him. He could + never have written: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thou hast left behind + Powers that will work for thee, air, earth and skies; + There's not a breathing of the common wind + That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; + Thy friends are exultations, agonies, + And love, and man's unconquerable mind.” + </pre> + <p> + It is time to speak of him frankly; he was gentle, and witty; gay, and + sweet-mannered, very studious, too, and fair of mind; but at the same time + he was weak in body and irresolute, hasty and wordy, and took habitually + the easiest way out of difficulties; he was ill-endowed in the virile + virtues and virile vices. When he showed arrogance it was always of + intellect and not of character; he was a parasite by nature. But none of + these faults would have brought him to ruin; he was snared again in full + manhood by his master-quality, his overpowering sensuality, and thrown in + the mire. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. SHAKESPEARE'S LIFE—continued + </h2> + <p> + Shakespeare's life seems to fall sharply into two halves. Till he met + Mistress Fitton, about 1597, he must have been happy and well content, I + think, in spite of his deep underlying melancholy. According to my + reckoning he had been in London about ten years, and no man has ever done + so much in the time and been so successful even as the world counts + success. He had not only written the early poems and the early plays, but + in the last three or four years half-a-dozen masterpieces: “A Midsummer's + Night's Dream,” “Romeo and Juliet,” “Richard II.,” “King John,” “The + Merchant of Venice,” “The Two Parts of Henry IV.” At thirty-three he was + already the greatest poet and dramatist of whom Time holds any record. + </p> + <p> + Southampton's bounty had given him ease, and allowed him to discharge his + father's debts, and place his dearly loved mother in a position of comfort + in the best house in Stratford. + </p> + <p> + He had troops of friends, we may be sure, for there was no gentler, gayer, + kindlier creature in all London, and he set store by friendship. Ten years + before he had neither money, place, nor position; now he had all these, + and was known even at Court. The Queen had been kind to him. He ended the + epilogue to the “Second Part of Henry IV.,” which he had just finished, by + kneeling “to pray for the Queen.” Essex or Southampton had no doubt + brought his work to Elizabeth's notice: she had approved his “Falstaff” + and encouraged him to continue. Of all his successes, this royal + recognition was surely the one which pleased him most. He was at the + topmost height of happy hours when he met the woman who was to change the + world for him. + </p> + <p> + In the lives of great men the typical tragedies are likely to repeat + themselves. Socrates was condemned to drain many a poisoned cup before he + was given the bowl of hemlock: Shakespeare had come to grief with many + women before he fell with Mary Fitton. It was his ungovernable sensuality + which drove him in youth to his untimely and unhappy marriage; it was his + ungovernable sensuality, too, which in his maturity led him to worship + Mary Fitton, and threw him into those twelve years of bondage to earthy, + coarse service which he regretted so bitterly when the passion-fever had + burned itself out. + </p> + <p> + One can easily guess how he came to know the self-willed and wild-living + maid-of-honour. Like many of the courtiers, Mistress Fitton affected the + society of the players. Kemp, the clown of his company, knew her, and + dedicated a book to her rather familiarly. I have always thought that + Shakespeare resented Kemp's intimacy with Mistress Fitton, for when Hamlet + advises the players to prevent the clown from gagging, he adds, with a + snarl of personal spite: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.” + </pre> + <p> + Mary Fitton's position, her proud, dark beauty, her daring of speech and + deed took Shakespeare by storm. She was his complement in every failing; + her strength matched his weakness; her resolution his hesitation, her + boldness his timidity; besides, she was of rank and place, and out of pure + snobbery he felt himself her inferior. He forgot that humble worship was + not the way to win a high-spirited girl. He loved her so abjectly that he + lost her; and it was undoubtedly his overpowering sensuality and + snobbishness which brought him to his knees, and his love to ruin. He + could not even keep her after winning her; desire blinded him. He would + not see that Mary Fitton was not a wanton through mere lust. As soon as + her fancy was touched she gave herself; but she was true to the new lover + for the time. We know that she bore a son to Pembroke and two illegitimate + daughters to Sir Richard Leveson. Her slips with these men wounded + Shakespeare's vanity, and he persisted in underrating her. Let us probe to + the root of the secret sore. Here is a page of “Troilus and Cressida,” a + page from that terrible fourth scene of the fourth act, when Troilus, + having to part from Cressida, warns her against the Greeks and their + proficience in the arts of love: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Troilus</i>. I cannot sing + Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk, + Nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all, + To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant: + But I can tell thee in each grace of these + There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil + That tempts most cunningly: but be not tempted. + + <i>Cressida.</i> Do you think I will? + + <i>Troilus. No: but something may be done that we will not.</i>” + </pre> + <p> + The first lines show that poor Shakespeare often felt out of it at Court. + The suggestion, I have put in italics, is unspeakable. Shakespeare made + use of every sensual bait in hope of winning his love, liming himself and + not the woman. His vanity was so inordinate that instead of saying to + himself, “it's natural that a high-born girl of nineteen should prefer a + great lord of her own age to a poor poet of thirty-four”: he strives to + persuade himself and us that Mary Fitton was won away from him by “subtle + games,” and in his rage of wounded vanity he wrote that tremendous libel + on her, which he put in the mouth of Ulysses: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Fie, fie upon her! + There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, + Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out + At every joint and motive of her body. + O, these encounterers, so glib of tongue, + That give accosting welcome ere it comes, + And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts + To every ticklish reader! set them down + For sluttish spoils of opportunity + And daughters of the game.” + </pre> + <p> + His tortured sensuality caricatures her: that “ticklish reader” reveals + him. Mary Fitton was finer than his portraits; we want her soul, and do + not get it even in Cleopatra. It was the consciousness of his own age and + physical inferiority that drove him to jealous denigration of his + mistress. + </p> + <p> + Mary Fitton did not beguile Shakespeare to “the very heart of loss,” as he + cried; but to the innermost shrine of the temple of Fame. It was his + absolute abandonment to passion which made Shakespeare the supreme poet. + If it had not been for his excessive sensuality, and his mad passion for + his “gipsy,” we should never have had from him “Hamlet,” “Macbeth,” + “Othello,” “Antony and Cleopatra,” or “Lear.” He would still have been a + poet and a dramatic writer of the first rank; but he would not have stood + alone above all others: he would not have been Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + His passion for Mary Fitton lasted some twelve years. Again and again he + lived golden hours with her like those Cleopatra boasted of and regretted. + Life is wasted quickly in such orgasms of passion; lust whipped to madness + by jealousy. Mary Fitton was the only woman Shakespeare ever loved, or at + least, the only woman he loved with such intensity as to influence his + art. She was Rosaline, Cressid, Cleopatra, and the “dark lady” of the + sonnets. All his other women are parts of her or reflections of her, as + all his heroes are sides of Hamlet, or reflections of him. Portia is the + first full-length sketch of Mary Fitton, taken at a distance: Beatrice and + Rosalind are mere reflections of her high spirits, her aristocratic pride + and charm: her strength and resolution are incarnate in Lady Macbeth. + Ophelia, Desdemona, Cordelia, are but abstract longings for purity and + constancy called into life by his mistress's faithlessness and passion. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare admired Mary Fitton as intensely as he desired her, yet he + could not be faithful to her for the dozen years his passion lasted. Love + and her soft hours drew him irresistibly again and again: he was the ready + spoil of opportunity. Here is one instance: it was his custom, Aubrey + tells us, to visit Stratford every year, probably every summer: on his way + he was accustomed to put up at an inn in Oxford, kept by John D'Avenant. + Mrs. D'Avenant, we are told, was “a very beautiful woman, and of a very + good witt and of conversation extremely agreeable.” No doubt Shakespeare + made up to her from the first. Her second son, William, who afterwards + became the celebrated playwright, was born in March, 1605, and according + to a tradition long current in Oxford, Shakespeare was his father. In + later life Sir William D'Avenant himself was “contented enough to be + thought his (Shakespeare's) son.” There is every reason to accept the + story as it has been handed down. Shakespeare, as Troilus, brags of his + constancy; talks of himself as “plain and true”; but it was all boasting: + from eighteen to forty-five he was as inconstant as the wind, and gave + himself to all the “subtle games” of love with absolute abandonment, till + his health broke under the strain. + </p> + <p> + In several of the Sonnets, notably in 36 and 37, Shakespeare tells us that + he was “poor and despised ... made lame by fortune's dearest spite.” He + will not even have his friend's name coupled with his for fear lest his + “bewailed guilt” should do him shame: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let me confess that we two must be twain, + Although our undivided loves are one: + So shall those blots that do with me remain + Without thy help, by me be borne alone....” + </pre> + <p> + Spalding and other critics believe that this “guilt” of Shakespeare refers + to his profession as an actor, but that stain should not have prevented + Lord Herbert from honouring him with “public kindness.” It is clear, I + think, from the words themselves, that the guilt refers to the fact that + both Herbert and he were in love with the same woman. Jonson, as we have + seen, had poked fun at their connection, and this is how Shakespeare tries + to take the sting out of the sneer. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare had many of the weaknesses of the neurotic and artistic + temperament, but he had assuredly the noblest virtues of it: he was true + to his friends, and more than generous to their merits. + </p> + <p> + If his ethical conscience was faulty, his aesthetical conscience was of + the very highest. Whenever we find him in close relations with his + contemporaries we are struck with his kindness and high impartial + intelligence. Were they his rivals, he found the perfect word for their + merits and shortcomings. How can one better praise Chapman than by talking + of + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The proud full sail of his great verse”? +</pre> + <p> + How can one touch his defect more lightly than by hinting that his + learning needed feathers to lift it from the ground? And if Shakespeare + was fair even to his rivals, his friends could always reckon on his + goodwill and his unwearied service. All his fine qualities came out when + as an elder he met churlish Ben Jonson. Jonson did not influence him as + much as Marlowe had influenced him; but these were the two greatest of + living men with whom he was brought into close contact, and his relations + with Jonson show him as in a glass. Rowe has a characteristic story which + must not be forgotten: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His acquaintance with Ben Jonson began with a remarkable + piece of humanity and good-nature; Mr. Jonson, + who was at that time altogether unknown, had offered + one of his playes to the Players, in order to have it + acted; but the persons into whose hands it was put, after + having turned it carelessly and superciliously over, were + just upon returning it to him, with an ill-natured answer, + that it would be of no service to their company, when + Shakespeare luckily cast his eye upon it, and found something + so well in it as to encourage him to read through + and afterwards to recommend Ben Jonson and his writings + to the publick. After this they were professed + friends; though I don't know whether the other ever + made him an equal return of gentleness and sincerity. + Ben was naturally proud and indolent, and in the days + of his reputation did so far take upon him the premier + in witt that he could not but look with an evil eye upon + anyone that seemed to stand in competition with him. + And if at times he has affected to commend him, it has + always been with some reserve, insinuating his incorrectness, + a careless manner of writing and a want of judgment; + the praise of seldom altering or blotting out what + he writt which was given him by the players over the first + publish of his works after his death was what Jonson + could not bear....” + </pre> + <p> + The story reads exactly like the story of Goethe and Schiller. It was + Schiller who held aloof and was full of fault-finding criticism: it was + Goethe who made all the advances and did all the kindnesses. It was Goethe + who obtained for Schiller that place as professor of history at Jena which + gave Schiller the leisure needed for his dramatic work. It is always the + greater who gives and forgives. + </p> + <p> + I believe, of course, too, in the traditional account of the unforgettable + evenings at the Mermaid. “Many were the wit-combats,” wrote Fuller of + Shakespeare in his “Worthies” (1662), “betwixt him and Ben Jonson, which + too I behold like a Spanish great galleon and an English man of war. + Master Jonson (like the former) was built far higher in learning, solid + but slow in his performances. Shakespeare, with the English man-of-war, + lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all sides, tack + about, and take advantage of all winds by the quickness of his wit and + invention.” + </p> + <p> + It was natural for the onlooker to compare Ben Jonson and his “mountainous + belly” to some Spanish galleon, and Shakespeare, with his quicker wit, to + the more active English ship. It was Jonson's great size—a quality + which has always been too highly esteemed in England—his domineering + temper and desperate personal courage that induced the gossip to even him + with Shakespeare. + </p> + <p> + Beaumont described these meetings, too, in his poetical letter to his + friend Jonson: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What things have we seen + Done at the Mermaid? Heard words that have been + So nimble and so full of subtle flame, + As if that every one from whence they came + Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, + And had resolved to live a fool the rest + Of his dull life.” + </pre> + <p> + In one respect at least the two men were antitheses. Jonson was + exceedingly combative and quarrelsome, and seems to have taken a chief + part in all the bitter disputes of his time between actors and men of + letters. He killed one actor in a duel and attacked Marston and Dekker in + “The Poetaster”; they replied to him in the “Satiromastix.” More than once + he criticized Shakespeare's writings; more than once jibed at Shakespeare, + unfairly trying to wound him; but Shakespeare would not retort. It is to + Jonson's credit that though he found fault with Shakespeare's “Julius + Caesar” and “Pericles,” he yet wrote of him in the “Poetaster” as a + peacemaker, and, under the name of Virgil, honoured him as the greatest + master of poetry. + </p> + <p> + Tradition gives us one witty story about the relations between the pair + which seems to me extraordinarily characteristic. Shakespeare was + godfather to one of Ben's children, and after the christening, being in a + deep study, Jonson came to cheer him up, and asked him why he was so + melancholy. “No, faith, Ben,” says he; “not I, but I have been considering + a great while what should be the fittest gift for me to bestow upon my + godchild and I have resolved at last.” “I pr'ythee, what?” sayes he. + “I'faith, Ben, I'll e'en give him a dozen good Lattin spoons, and thou + shalt translate them.” Lattin, as everybody knows, was a mixed metal + resembling brass: the play upon words and sly fun poked at Jonson's + scholarship are in Shakespeare's best manner. The story must be regarded + as Shakespeare's answer to Jonson's sneer that he had “little Latine and + lesse Greeke.” + </p> + <p> + Through the mist of tradition and more or less uncertain references in his + poetry, one sees that he had come, probably through Southampton, to admire + Essex, and the fall and execution of Essex had an immense effect upon him. + It is certain, I think, that the noble speech on mercy put into Portia's + mouth in “The Merchant of Venice,” was primarily an appeal to Elizabeth + for Essex or for Southampton. It is plainly addressed to the Queen, and + not to a Jew pariah: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “... It becomes + The throned monarch better than his crown; + His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, + The attribute to awe and majesty, + Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; + But mercy is above this scepter'd sway, + It is enthroned in the heart of kings. + It is an attribute of God Himself, + And earthly power doth then show likest God's, + When Mercy seasons Justice.” + </pre> + <p> + All this must have seemed the veriest irony when addressed to an outcast + Jew. It was clearly intended as an appeal to Elizabeth, and shows how far + gentle Shakespeare would venture in defence of a friend. Like a woman, he + gained a certain courage through his affections. + </p> + <p> + I feel convinced that he resented the condemnation of Essex and the + imprisonment of Southampton very bitterly, for though he had praised + Elizabeth in his salad days again and again, talked about her in “A + Midsummer Night's Dream” as a “fair vestal throned by the west”; walking + in “maiden meditation, fancy-free”; yet, when she died, he could not be + induced to write one word about her. His silence was noticed, and Chettle + challenged him to write in praise of the dead sovereign, because she had + been kind to him; but he would not: he had come to realise the harsh + nature of Elizabeth, and he detested her ruthless cruelties. Like a woman, + he found it difficult to forgive one who had injured those he loved. Now + that I have discussed at some length Shakespeare's character, its powers + and its weaknesses, let us for a moment consider his intellect. All sorts + and conditions of men talk of it in superlatives; but that does not help + us much. It is as easy to sit in Shakespeare's brain and think from there, + as it is from Balzac's. If we have read Shakespeare rightly, his + intelligence was peculiarly self-centred; he was wise mainly through + self-knowledge, and not, as is commonly supposed, through knowledge of + others and observation; he was assuredly anything but worldly-wise. Take + one little point. In nearly every play he discovers an intense love of + music and of flowers; but he never tells you anything about the music he + loves, and he only mentions a dozen flowers in all his works. True, he + finds exquisite phrases for his favourites; but he only seems to have + noticed or known the commonest. His knowledge of birds and beasts is + similarly limited. But when Bacon praises flowers he shows at once the + naturalist's gift of observation; he mentions hundreds of different kinds, + enumerating them month by month; in April alone he names as many as + Shakespeare has mentioned in all his writings. He used his eyes to study + things outside himself, and memory to recall them; but Shakespeare's eyes + were turned inward; he knew little of the world outside himself. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare's knowledge of men and women has been overrated. With all his + sensuality he only knew one woman, Mary Fitton, though he knew her in + every mood, and only one man, himself, profoundly apprehended in every + accident and moment of growth. + </p> + <p> + He could not construct plays or invent stories, though he selected good + ones with considerable certainty. He often enriched the characters, seldom + or never the incidents; even the characters he creates are usually sides + of himself, or humorous masks without a soul. He must have heard of the + statesman Burleigh often enough; but nowhere does he portray him; no hint + in his works of Drake, or Raleigh, or Elizabeth, or Sidney. He has no care + either for novelties; he never mentions forks or even tobacco or potatoes. + A student by nature if ever there was one, all intent, as he tells us, on + bettering his mind, he passes through Oxford a hundred times and never + even mentions the schools: Oxford men had disgusted him with their <i>alma + mater</i>. + </p> + <p> + The utmost reach of this self-student is extraordinary; the main puzzle of + life is hidden from us as from him; but his word on it is deeper than any + of ours, though we have had three centuries in which to climb above him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Men must abide + Their going hence even as their coming hither. + Ripeness is all.” + </pre> + <p> + And if it be said that the men of the Renaissance occupied themselves more + with such questions than we do, and therefore show better in relation to + them, let us take another phrase which has always seemed to me of + extraordinary insight. Antony has beaten Caesar, and returns to Cleopatra, + who greets him with the astounding words: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Lord of lords, + O, infinite virtue, com'st thou smiling from + The world's great snare uncaught?” + </pre> + <p> + This is all more or less appropriate in the mouth of Cleopatra; but it is + to me Shakespeare's own comment on life; he is conscious of his failure; + he has said to himself: “if I, Shakespeare, have failed, it is because + every one fails; life's handicap searches out every weakness; to go + through life as a conqueror would require 'infinite virtue.'” This is + perhaps the furthest throw of Shakespeare's thought. + </p> + <p> + But his worldly wisdom is to seek. After he had been betrayed by Lord + Herbert he raves of man's ingratitude, in play after play. Of course men + are ungrateful; it is only the rarest and noblest natures who can feel + thankful for help without any injury to vanity. The majority of men love + their inferiors, those whom they help; to give flatters self-esteem; but + they hate their superiors, and lend to the word “patron” an intolerable + smirk of condescension. Shakespeare should have understood that at thirty. + </p> + <p> + When his vanity was injured, his blindness was almost inconceivable. He + should have seen Mary Fitton as she was and given us a deathless-true + portrait of her; but the noble side of her, the soul-side a lover should + have cherished, is not even suggested. He deserved to lose her, seeking + only the common, careless of the “silent, silver lights” she could have + shown him. He was just as blind with his wife; she had been unwillingly + the ladder to his advancement; he should have forgiven her on that ground, + if not on a higher. + </p> + <p> + He was inordinately vain and self-centred. He talked incontinently, as he + himself assures us, and as Ben Jonson complains. He was exceedingly quick + and witty and impatient. His language shows his speed of thought; again + and again the images tumble over each other, and the mere music of his + verse is breathlessly rapid, just as the movement of Tennyson's verse is + extremely slow. + </p> + <p> + More than once in his works I have shown how, at the crisis of fate, he + jumps to conclusions like a woman. He seems often to have realized the + faults of his own haste. His Othello says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How poor are they that have not patience.” + </pre> + <p> + With this speed of thought and wealth of language and of wit, he naturally + loved to show off in conversation; but as he wished to get on and make a + figure in the world, he should have talked less and encouraged his patrons + to show off. Poor heedless, witty, charming Shakespeare! One threat which + he used again and again, discovers all his world-blindness to me. Gravely, + in sonnet 140, he warns Mary Fitton that she had better not provoke him or + he will write the truth about her—just as if the maid of honour who + could bear bastard after bastard, while living at court, cared one straw + what poor Shakespeare might say or write or sing of her. And Hamlet runs + to the same weapon: he praises the players to Polonius as + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Brief chronicles of the time; after your death you + were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while + you live.” + </pre> + <p> + It is all untrue; actors were then, as now, only mummers without + judgement. Shakespeare was thinking of himself, the dramatist-poet, who + was indeed a chronicle of the time; but the courtier Lord Polonius would + not care a dam for a rhymester's praise or blame. Posthumus, too, will + write against the wantons he dislikes. Shakespeare's weapon of offence was + his pen; but though he threatened, he seldom used it maliciously; he was + indeed a “harmless opposite,” too full of the milk of human kindness to do + injury to any man. But these instances of misapprehension in the simple + things of life, show us that gentle Shakespeare is no trustworthy guide + through this rough all-hating world. The time has now come for me to + consider how Shakespeare was treated by the men of his own time, and how + this treatment affected his character. The commentators, of course, all + present him as walking through life as a sort of uncrowned king, fêted and + reverenced on all sides during his residence in London, and in the + fullness of years and honours retiring to Stratford to live out the + remainder of his days in the bosom of his family as “a prosperous country + gentleman,” to use Dowden's unhappy phrase. As I have already shown, his + works give the lie to this flattering fiction, which in all parts is of + course absolutely incredible. It is your Tennyson, who is of his time and + in perfect sympathy with it; Tennyson, with his May Queens, prig heroes + and syrupy creed, who passes through life as a conqueror, and after death + is borne in state to rest in the great Abbey. + </p> + <p> + The Shakespeares, not being of an age, but for all time, have another + guess sort of reception. From the moment young Will came to London, he was + treated as an upstart, without gentle birth or college training: to Greene + he was “Maister of Artes in Neither University.” He won through, and did + his work; but he never could take root in life; his children perished out + of the land. He was in high company on sufferance. On the stage he met the + highest, Essex, Pembroke, Southampton, on terms of equality; but at court + he stood among the menials and was despitefully treated. Let no one + misunderstand me: I should delight in painting the other picture if there + were any truth in it: I should have joyed in showing how the English + aristocracy for this once threw off their senseless pride and hailed the + greatest of men at least as an equal. Frederic the Great would have done + this, for he put Voltaire at his own table, and told his astonished + chamberlains that “privileged spirits rank with sovereigns.” Such wisdom + was altogether above the English aristocracy of that or any time. Yet they + might have risen above the common in this one instance. For Shakespeare + had not only supreme genius to commend him, but all the graces of manner, + all the sweetness of disposition, all the exquisite courtesies of speech + that go to ensure social success. His imperial intelligence, however, was + too heavy a handicap. Men resent superiority at all times, and there is + nothing your aristocrat so much dislikes as intellectual superiority, and + especially intellect that is not hall-marked and accredited: the + Southamptons and the Pembrokes must have found Shakespeare's insight and + impartiality intolerable. It was Ben Jonson whom Pembroke made Poet + Laureate; it was Chapman the learned, and not Shakespeare, who was + regarded with reverence. How could these gentlemen appreciate Shakespeare + when it was his “Venus and Adonis” and his “Lucrece” that they chiefly + admired. “Venus and Adonis” went through seven editions in Shakespeare's + lifetime, while “Othello” was not thought worthy of type till the author + had been dead six years. + </p> + <p> + But badly as the aristocrats treated Shakespeare they yet treated him + better than any other class. The shopkeepers in England are infinitely + further removed from art or poetry than the nobles; now as in the time of + Elizabeth they care infinitely more for beef and beer and broadcloth than + for any spiritual enjoyment; while the masses of the people prefer a + dog-fight to any masterpiece in art or letters. + </p> + <p> + Some will say that Shakespeare was perhaps condemned for dissolute living, + and did not come to honour because of his shortcomings in character. Such + a judgement misapprehends life altogether. Had Shakespeare's character + been as high as his intellect he would not have been left contemptuously + on one side; he would have been hated and persecuted, pilloried or thrown + into prison as Bunyan was. It was his dissolute life that commended him to + the liking of the loose-living Pembroke and Essex. Pembroke, we know from + Clarendon, was “immoderately given to women.” Four maids of honour, we + learn, were <i>enceintes</i> to Essex at the same time. Shakespeare was + hardly as dissolute as his noble patrons. The truth was they could not + understand his genius; they had no measure wherewith to measure it, for no + one can see above his own head; and so they treated him with much the same + condescending familiarity that nobles nowadays show to a tenor or a ballet + dancer. In March, 1604, after he had written “Hamlet” and “Macbeth,” + Shakespeare and some other actors walked from the Tower of London to + Westminster in the procession which accompanied King James on his formal + entry into London. Each of the actors received four and a half yards of + scarlet cloth to wear as a cloak on the occasion. The scarlet cloak to + Shakespeare must have been a sort of Nessus' shirt, or crown of thorns—the + livery of derision. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare, who measured both enemies and friends fairly, measured + himself fairly, too. He usually praises his impersonations: Hamlet is “a + noble heart,” Brutus “the noblest Roman of them all”; and speaking + directly he said of himself in a sonnet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I am that I am, and they that level + At my abuses reckon up their own; + I may be straight though they themselves be bevel.” + </pre> + <p> + He knew his own greatness, none better, and as soon as he reached middle + age and began to take stock of himself, he must have felt bitterly that + he, the best mind in the world, had not brought it far in the ordinary + estimation of men. No wonder he showed passionate sympathy with all those + who had failed in life; he could identify himself with Brutus and Antony, + and not with the Caesars. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare's view of England and of Englishmen was naturally affected by + their treatment of him. He is continually spoken of as patriotic, and it + is true that he started in youth with an almost lyrical love of country. + His words in “Richard II.” are often quoted; but they were written before + he had any experience or knowledge of men. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Gaunt</i>. This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, + . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . + This happy breed of men, this little world; + This precious stone set in the silver sea, + Which serves it in the office of a wall, + Or as a moat, defensive to a house, + Against the envy of less happier lands; + This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.” + </pre> + <p> + The apologists who rejoice in his patriotism never realize that + Shakespeare did not hold the same opinions throughout his life; as he grew + and developed, his opinions developed with him. In “The Merchant of + Venice” we find that he has already come to saner vision; when Portia and + Nerissa talk of the English suitor, Portia says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You know I say nothing to him; for he understands + not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor + Italian; and you will come into the court and swear that + I have a poor pennyworth in the Englishman. He is a + proper man's picture; but, alas, who can converse with a + dumb show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought + his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet + in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.” + </pre> + <p> + What super-excellent criticism it all is; true, now as then, “a proper + man's picture but ... a dumb show.” It proves conclusively that + Shakespeare was able to see around and over the young English noble of his + day. From this time on I find no praise of England or of Englishmen in any + of his works, except “Henry V.,” which was manifestly written to catch + applause on account of its jingoism. In his maturity Shakespeare saw his + countrymen as they were, and mentioned them chiefly to blame their love of + drinking. Imogen says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, + Are they not but in Britain?..........................prithee, think + There's livers out of Britain.” + </pre> + <p> + Whoever reads “Coriolanus” carefully will see how Shakespeare loathed the + common Englishman; there can be no doubt at all that he incorporated his + dislike of him once for all in Caliban. The qualities he lends Caliban are + all characteristic. Whoever will give him drink is to Caliban a god. The + brutish creature would violate and degrade art without a scruple, and the + soul of him is given in the phrase that if he got the chance he would + people the world with Calibans. Sometimes one thinks that if Shakespeare + were living to-day he would be inclined to say that his prediction had + come true. + </p> + <p> + One could have guessed without proof that in the course of his life + Shakespeare, like Goethe, would rise above that parochial vanity which is + so much belauded as patriotism. He was in love with the ideal and would + not confine it to any country. + </p> + <p> + There is little to tell of his life after he met Mary Fitton, or rather + the history of his life afterwards is the history of his passion and + jealousy and madness as he himself has told it in the great tragedies. He + appears to have grown fat and scant of breath when he was about thirty-six + or seven. In 1608 his mother died, and “Coriolanus” was written as a sort + of monument to the memory of “the noblest mother in the world.” His + intimacy with Mary Fitton lasted, I feel sure, up to his breakdown in 1608 + or thereabouts, and was probably the chief cause of his infirmity and + untimely death. + </p> + <p> + It only remains for me now to say a word or two about the end of his life. + Rowe says that “the latter part of his life was spent as all men of good + sense will that theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and the conversation + of his friends. He had the good fortune to gather an estate equal to his + occasion, and, in that, to his wish, and is said to have spent some years + before his death at his native Stratford.” Rowe, too, tells us that it is + a story “well remembered in that country, that he had a particular + intimacy with Mr. Combe, an old gentleman noted thereabouts for his wealth + and usury; it happened that in a pleasant conversation amongst their + common friends Mr. Combe told Shakespeare, in a laughing manner, that he + fancied he intended to write his epitaph, if he happened to outlive him; + and since he did not know what might be said of him when he was dead, he + desired it might be done immediately; upon which Shakespeare gave him + these four verses: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ten in the Hundred lies here ingrav'd + 'Tis a Hundred to Ten his soul is not sav'd: + If any Man ask, 'Who lies in this tomb,' + Oh! ho! quoth the Devil, 'tis my John-a-Combe.” + </pre> + <p> + But the sharpness of the Satyr is said to have stung the man so severely + that he never forgave him.” + </p> + <p> + I have given all this because I want the reader to have the sources before + him, and because the contempt of tradesman-gain and usury, even at the + very end, is so characteristic. + </p> + <p> + It appears, too, from the Stratford records, and is therefore certain, + that as early as the year 1614 a preacher was entertained at New Place—“Item, + one quart of sack, and one quart of claret wine, given to a preacher at + the New Place, twenty pence.” The Reverend John Ward, who was vicar of + Stratford, in a manuscript memorandum book written in the year 1664, + asserts that “Shakespeare, Drayton and Ben Johnson had a merie meeting, + and itt seems drank too hard, for Shakespeare died of a feavour there + contracted.” + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare, as we have seen from “The Tempest,” retired to Stratford—“where + every third thought shall be my grave”—in broken health and in a + mood of despairing penitence. I do not suppose the mood lasted long; but + the ill-health and persistent weakness explain to me as nothing else could + his retirement to Stratford. It is incredible to me that Shakespeare + should leave London at forty-seven or forty-eight years of age, in good + health, and retire to Stratford to live as a “prosperous country + gentleman”! What had Stratford to offer Shakespeare—village + Stratford with a midden in the chief street and the charms of the village + usurer's companionship tempered by the ministrations of a wandering + tub-thumper? + </p> + <p> + There is abundant evidence, even in “The Winter's Tale” and “Cymbeline,” + to prove that the storm which wrecked Shakespeare's life had not blown + itself out even when these last works were written in 1611-12; the + jealousy of Leontes is as wild and sensual as the jealousy of Othello; the + attitude of Posthumus towards women as bitter as anything to be found in + “Troilus and Cressida”: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Could I find out + The woman's part in me! For there's no motion + That tends to vice in man but I affirm + It is the woman's part: be it lying, note it, + The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; + Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; + Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, + Nice longing, slanders, mutability, + All faults that may be named, nay, that hell knows, + Why, hers, in part or all, but rather all; + For even to vice + They are not constant, but are changing still + One vice, but of a minute old, for one + Not half so old as that.” + </pre> + <p> + The truth is, that the passions of lust and jealousy and rage had at + length worn out Shakespeare's strength, and after trying in vain to win to + serenity in “The Tempest,” he crept home to Stratford to die. + </p> + <p> + In his native air, I imagine, his health gradually improved; but he was + never strong enough to venture back to residence in London. He probably + returned once or twice for a short visit, and during his absence his pious + daughter, Mrs. Hall, entertained the wandering preacher in New Place. + </p> + <p> + As Shakespeare grew stronger he no doubt talked with Combe, the usurer, + for want of any one better. + </p> + <p> + It is probable, too, that on one of his visits to London he took up + Fletcher's “Henry VIII.” and wrote in some scenes for him and touched up + others, or Fletcher may have visited him in Stratford and there have + begged his help. + </p> + <p> + His youngest daughter, Judith, was married early in 1616; it seems + probable to me that this was the occasion of the visit of Jonson and + Drayton to Stratford. No doubt Shakespeare was delighted to meet them, + talked as few men ever talked before or since, and probably drank too much + with those “poor unhappy brains for drinking” which his Cassius deplored. + Thus fanned, the weak flame of his life wasted quickly and guttered out. + It is all comprehensible enough, and more than likely, that the greatest + man in the world, after the boredom of solitary years spent in Stratford, + died through a merry meeting with his friends; in his joy and excitement + he drank a glass or so of wine, which brought on a fever. It is all true, + true to character, and pitiful beyond words. + </p> + <p> + Shakespeare to me is the perfect type of the artist, and the artist is + gradually coming to his proper place in the world's esteem. In the + introduction to one of his “Lives,” Plutarch apologizes for writing about + a painter, a mere artist, instead of about some statesman or general, who + would be a worthy object of ambition for a well-born youth. But since + Plutarch's time our view of the relative merits of men has changed and + developed: to-day we put the artist higher even than the saint. Indeed, it + seems to us that the hero or statesman, or saint, only ranks in proportion + to the artist-faculty he may possess. The winning of a battle is not + enough to engage all our admiration; it must be won by an artist. In every + department of life this faculty is beginning to be appreciated as the + finest possession of humanity, and Shakespeare was an almost perfect + example of the self-conscious artist. + </p> + <p> + People talk as if his masterpieces were produced at haphazard or by + unconscious fruition; but masterpieces are not brought forth in this + happy-go-lucky fashion. They are of the sort that only come to flower with + perfect tendance. Even if we did not know that Shakespeare corrected his + finest verses again and again with critical care, we should have to assume + it. But we know that he spared no pains to better his finer inspirations, + and he has told us in a sonnet how anxiously he thought about his art and + the art of his rivals: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope + With what I most enjoy contented least.” + </pre> + <p> + He has all the qualities and all the shortcomings of the reflective, + humane, sensuous artist temperament, intensified by the fact that he had + not had the advantage of a middle-class training. + </p> + <p> + In a dozen ways our Puritan discipline and the rubs and buffets one gets + in this work-a-day world where money is more highly esteemed than birth or + sainthood or genius, have brought us beyond Shakespeare in knowledge of + men and things. The courage of the Puritan, his self-denial and + self-control, have taught us invaluable lessons; Puritanism tempered + character as steel is tempered with fire and ice, and the necessity of + getting one's bread not as a parasite, but as a fighter, has had just as + important results on character. Shakespeare is no longer an ideal to us; + no single man can now fill our mental horizon; we can see around and above + the greatest of the past: the overman of to-day is only on the next round + of the ladder, and our children will smile at the fatuity of his conceit. + </p> + <p> + But if we can no longer worship Shakespeare, it is impossible not to + honour him, impossible not to love him. All men—Spenser as well as + Jonson—found him gentle and witty, gay and generous. He was always + willing to touch up this man's play or write in an act for that one. He + never said a bitter or cruel word about any man. Compare him with Dante or + even with Goethe, and you shall find him vastly superior to either of them + in loving kindness. He was more contemptuously treated in life than even + Dante, and yet he never fell away to bitterness as Dante did: he + complained, it is true; but he never allowed his fairness to be warped; he + was of the noblest intellectual temper. + </p> + <p> + It is impossible not to honour him, for the truth is he had more virtue in + him than any other son of man. “By their fruits ye shall know them.” He + produced more masterpieces than any other writer, and the finest sayings + in the world's literature are his. Think of it: Goethe was perfectly + equipped; he had a magnificent mind and body and temperament: he was born + in the better middle classes; he was well off; splendidly handsome; + thoroughly educated; his genius was recognized on all hands when he was in + his teens; and it was developed by travel and princely patronage. Yet what + did Goethe do in proof of his advantages? “Faust” is the only play he ever + wrote that can rank at all with a dozen of Shakespeare's. Poor Shakespeare + brought it further in the sixteenth century than even Goethe at full + strain could bring it in the nineteenth. I find Shakespeare of surpassing + virtue. Cervantes ranks with the greatest because he created Don Quixote + and Sancho Panza; but Hamlet and Falstaff are more significant figures, + and take Hamlet and Falstaff away from Shakespeare's achievement, and more + is left than any other poet ever produced. + </p> + <p> + Harvest after harvest Shakespeare brought forth of astounding quality. Yet + he was never strong, and he died at fifty-two, and the last six years of + his life were wasted with weakness and ill-health. No braver spirit has + ever lived. After “Hamlet” and “Antony and Cleopatra” and “Lear” and + “Timon” he broke down: yet as soon as he struggled back to sanity, he came + to the collar again and dug “The Winter's Tale” out of himself, and + “Cymbeline,” and seeing they were not his best, took breath, and brought + forth “The Tempest”—another masterpiece, though written with a heart + of lead and with the death-sweat dank on his forehead. Think of it; the + noblest autumn fruit ever produced; all kindly-sweet and warm, bathed so + to speak in love's golden sunshine; his last word to men: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The rarer action is + In virtue than in vengeance....” + </pre> + <p> + And then the master of many styles, including the simple, wins to a + childlike simplicity, and touches the source of tears: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “We are such stuff as dreams are made of, + And our little life is rounded with a sleep.” + </pre> + <p> + True, Shakespeare was not the kind of man Englishmen are accustomed to + admire. By a curious irony of fate Jesus was sent to the Jews, the most + unworldly soul to the most material of peoples, and Shakespeare to + Englishmen, the most gentle sensuous charmer to a masculine, rude race. It + may be well for us to learn what infinite virtue lay in that frail, + sensual singer. + </p> + <p> + This dumb struggling world, all in travail between Thought and Being, + longs above everything to realize itself and become articulate, and never + has it found such width of understanding, such melody of speech, as in + this Shakespeare. “I have often said, and will often repeat,” writes + Goethe, “that the final cause and consummation of all natural and human + activity is dramatic poetry.” Englishmen do not appear yet to understand + what arrogance and what profound wisdom there is in this saying; but in a + dull, half-conscious way they are beginning dimly to realize that the + biggest thing they have done in the world yet is to produce Shakespeare. + When I think of his paltry education, his limiting circumstances, the + scanty appreciation of his contemporaries, his indifferent health, and + recall his stupendous achievement, I am fain to apply to him, as most + appropriate, the words he gave to his <i>alter ego</i>, Antony, Antony + who, like himself, was world-worn and passion-weary: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A rarer spirit never + Did steer humanity; but you, gods, will give us + Some faults to make us men.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + THE END. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <b>INDEX</b>. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Abbess + Academe + Achilles + Actium + Adam + Adonis + Adriana + Aegeon + Aeneas + Agamemnon + Agincourt + Agrippa + Ajax + Albany, The Duke of (in “Lear”) + Aleppo + Alexander + Angelo + Anne, Lady + Antigone + Antipholus + Antonio + Antonio (Duke in the “Tempest”), + Antony, Marc + “Antony and Cleopatra” + Apelles + Apemantus + “Arabian Nights' Entertainment” + Archbishop of Canterbury + Arden, Mary + Arden, the family of + Argus + Ariel + Armado + Arnold, Matthew + Arthur, Prince + Arviragus + Asbies + “As You Like It” + Aubrey + Aufidius + Aumerle + Austin, Alfred + Autolycus + + “Babes in a Wood” + Bacon + Bagot + Balzac + Bankside + Banquo + Bardolph + Barnardine + Bartholomew Fair + Bassanio + Bastard (the) + Bazarof + Beatrice + Beaumont + Beckett, Ernest, dedication. + Belarius + Belch, Sir Toby + Bellario + Benedick + Benvolio + Berowne + Bertillon + Betterton + Bevis, Geo. + Bianca + Birnam Wood + Biron + Bishop of Worcester + Blackfriars + Blount, Sir Walter + Boaden + Bolingbroke + Borachio + Bottom + Bourbon + Boyet + Brabant + Brabantio + Brandes + Bright + Browning + Brutus + Bullen, Anne + Bunyan + Burbage + Bushey + Byron + + Cade + Caesar + Caliban + Camden, William + Campaspe + Capulet + Carlyle, Thomas + Cassio + Cassius + Cecil, Sir Robert + Cervantes + Cesario + Chamberlain, the Lord + Chapel Lane + Chapman + Charlecot + Charmian + Chesterfield + Chettle + Chief Justice + Chus + Cinna + Cinthio + Clarenceux (King of Arms) + Clarendon + Claudio + Claudius, King of Denmark + Cleopatra + Clifford + Cloten + “Colbourn's Magazine” + Coleridge + College of Heralds + Combe, John + “Comedy of Errors” + Comic Muse + Condell “Confessio Amantis” + Constance + Cordelia + “Coriolanus” + Cressida + Crichton, Admiral + Cromwell + Cupid + “Cymbeline” + + Damon + Dante + Dark Lady (of the Sonnets) + Dauphin + D'Avenant, John + D'Avenant, Mrs. + D'Avenant, Sir William + Dekker + Desdemona + Diana and Dian + Dido + Diomedes + Dogberry + Don John + Don Pedro + Don Quixote + Douglas + Dowden, Prof. + Drake + Drayton + Dryasdust + Duke (the Exiled in “As You Like It”) + Duke of York + Duke of Milan (“Two Gentlemen of Verona”) + Duke of Venice (“The Merchant of Venice”) + Duke of Venice (“Othello “) + Dumas + Duncan, King + + Eachin + Eastcheap, tavern + Ecclesiastes + Edgar + Egypt, Queen of + Egypt, + Elizabeth, Queen + Ely, Bishop of + Elysium + Emilia + Emerson + “Encyclopedia Britannica” + England + Enobarbus + Ephesus + Erebus + Eros + Escalus + Esmond + Essex, Earl of + Evans, Hugh + “Every Man in his Humour” + + Fair Maid of Perth, the + Falstaff + “Famous Victories of Henry V., The” + Fauconbridge, Philip + Faust + Ferdinand + First Gentleman + First Part of the Contention betwixt the Two Famous Houses of York and + Lancaster + Fitton, Mistress Mary + Flavius + Fleance + Fleet prison + Fletcher (the poet) + Ford, Mrs. + Forman's Diary + Fortinbras + France + Frederick the Great + Fuller + Furnival, Mr. + + Gadshill + Gauls + Gaunt, John of + Germany + Gertrude (Queen: “Hamlet”) + Gill, Sir David + Gladstone + Glendower + Globe Theatre + Gloster + Glostershire + Gloucester + Goethe + Gollancz, Israel + Gonzalo + “Gorgias” + Goneril (“Lear”) + Gower + Gratiano + Greece + Green (“Richard II”) + Greene, Robert (the playwright) + Greenhill Street + “Groatsworth of Wit, The” + Guildenstern + + Hal, Prince + Hall, Susann + Hallam + Halliwell-Phillipps + Hamlet + Hamnet + Harfleur + Haroun-al-Raschid + Harrison, Rev. W. A. + Hathaway, Anne + Hathaway + Richard + Hazlitt + Hector + Heine + Helen + Hellicon + Henley Street + Heminge + Henry IV., King + ——First Part + ——Second Part + Henry V., King + Henry VI., King + ——First Part + ——Second Part + ——Third Part + Henry VIII. + Henry, Prince + Herbert, Lord William + Hermione + Hero + “Hero and Leander” + Holland, John + Holofernes + Homer + Horace + Hotspur, Harry + Hubert + Humphrey, Duke of Gloster + Hyperion + + Iachimo + Iago + Imogen + Iras + Ironsides + Irving, Sir Henry + Isabella + Isis + Ismene + Italy + + Jack + Jack-a-Lent + Jacob + James + Jaques + Jeanne d'Arc + Jena + Jessica + Jesus + Jews + John (Prince: “Henry IV.”) + John, King + Johnson, Dr. + Jonson, Ben + Joubert + Jove + Judas + Judith + Julia + Juliet + Julius Caesar + Juno + + Kate + Katherine + Keats + Kemp + Kent + King + King's Council + King of Naples + King of Navarre (Ferdinand) + King James + “Knight's Conjuring, A” + + Laban + Laertes + Lamb + Langland, William + Launce + Lear + Leatherhead + Lee, Sidney + Leicester, Lord + Leontes + Lessing + Leveson, Sir Richard + Lieutenant of the Tower + “Lives” (Plutarch) + “Lives of the Poets, The” + Lodge + Lodovico + London + Longaville + Lope de Vega + Lord Governor of England + Lord of Comedy + Lord of Humour + Lorenzo + “Love's Labour's Lost” + Lucetta + Luciana + Lucifer + Lucio + Lucius (“Julius Caesar”) + Lucrece + Lucy, Sir Thomas + Luther + Lyly + + Macbeth + Macbeth, Lady + Macduff + Malcolm + Malvolio + Mamillius + Marcus, Brutus + Marcus (“Titus Andronicus”) + Mardian (“Antony and Cleopatra”) + Margaret + Maria + Mariana + Marie + Marina + Marlowe + Mars, + Marston + Master of the Revels + Masque + May Queen + “Measure for Measure” + “Merchant of Venice” + Mercury + Mercutio, + Meredith, George + Meres + “Merry Wives of Windsor, The” + “Midsummer Night's Dream” + Milan + Milton + Miranda + Moliere + Montaigne + Mortimer + Motley + “Much Ado” + Naples + Neptune + Nerissa + Nessus + Nestor + New Place + Northumberland + Nurse + + Oberon + Octavia + Olivia + Ophelia + Orlando + Orsino, Duke (in “Twelfth Night”) + Othello + Otterbourne + Old Lady (“Henry VIII.”) + Oxford + + Padua + Page, Mrs. + Palace + Pandarus + Paris + Parolles + Paul + Pedro (Prince: “Much Ado”), + Pembroke, + Percy, Lady, + Perdita, + Pericles, + Phidias, + Philario, + Philippan, + Philippi, + Phoebus, + Pinero, + Pisanio, + Pistol, + Pity(?), + Plantaginet, + Plato, + Plutarch, + Poet Laureate, + Poins, + Polixenes, + Polonius, + Pompey, + Portia, + Posthumus, + Princess of France (in “Love's Labour's Lost”), + Proculeius, + Prospero, Duke, + Proteus, + Pythias, + + Queen Margaret + Queen to King Richard II., + Quickly, Dame, + + Raleigh, + Regan, + Rembrandt, + Renascence, + Renaissance, + Rialto, + Richard Coeur de Lion, + Richard II., King, + Richard III., + Richardson, John, + Roman, + Rome, + Romeo, + “Romeo and Juliet,” + Rosaline, + Rosalind, + Rosalynde, + Rosencrantz, + Rubicon, + Rowe, + + Salarino, + Salique, + Salisbury, + Salvini, + Sandells, Fulk, + Sappho, + Satan, + Satiromastix, + Sancho Panza, + “Saturday Review, The,” + Saturn, + Schiller, + Scoop, + Scott, Walter, + Second Gentleman, + Seleucus, + Senate, + “Sententiae Pueriles,” + Sidney, + Severn, + Shallow, Justice + Shottery + Shylock + Silvia + Slender, Master + Snitterfield + Solinus (Duke in “Comedy of Errors”) + Sophocles + Southampton, Earl of + Socrates Spalding + Spencer, Herbert + Spenser + Star Chamber + Stephanio + Stratford + Stratford Parish Church + Suffolk + Susanna + Swinburne + Sycorax + Syracuse + Sonnets: {Footnote 1} + {36 and 37} + {140} + {40} + {127} + {104} + {142} + {18} + {19} + {20} + {22} + {23} + {33} + {144} + {133} + {41} + {105} + {136} + {122} + {78} + {86} + {131} + {135} + {88} + {129} + {37} + Shakespeare + + {Footnote 1: Sonnets in brackets are mentioned especially on the pages + marked + opposite.} + + Shakespeare, John + Shake-scene + + Talbot + “Taming of the Shrew” + Tamora + Tearsheet, Doll + “Tempest, The” + Temple Gardens + Temple Grafton + Tennyson + Thackeray + Thames + Thane of Cawdor + Thersites + Thurio + Thyreus + Timbuctoo + Timon + Titania + Titian + Titus + “Titus Andronicus” + Tolstoi + Tourgenief + Toussaint l'Ouverture + Tower of London + Tree, Beerbohm + Trial Table of the order of Shakespeare's Plays + Trinculo + Triton + Troilus + Trojans + “Troilus and Cressida” + “Troublesome Raigne of King John, The” + Troy + “True Tragedie of Richard, The” + Tubal + “Twelfth Night” + “Two Gentlemen of Verona, The” + “Two Noble Kinsmen, The” + Tyler, Mr. + + Ulysses + + Valentine + Valiant-for-Truth + “Venus and Adonis” + Vernon + Veronese + Vienna + Villon + Vincentio, Duke + Viola + Virgil + “Vision of Piers Plowman” + Venice + Venus + Voltaire + + Ward, Rev. John + Warwickshire + Watts-Dunton, Theodore + Westminster + Westmoreland + Whately, Anne + Whittington, Thomas + William the Conqueror + Wilmcote + Wilmscote + “Winter's Tale” + “Wit's Commonwealth” + Wittenberg + Worcester + Wordsworth + “Worthies,” (Fuller's) +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Shakespeare, by Frank Harris + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN SHAKESPEARE *** + +***** This file should be named 9079-h.htm or 9079-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/0/7/9079/ + +Produced by Jon Ingram, Juliet Sutherland and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at + www.gutenberg.org/license. + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 +North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email +contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the +Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + + +</pre> + + </body> +</html> |