A Dish of Orts Part 8

To return to "Macbeth:" Why is the doctor of medicine introduced in the scene at the English court? He has nothing to do with the progress of the play itself, any more than the old man already alluded to.--He is introduced for a precisely similar reason.--As a doctor, he is the best testimony that could be adduced to the fact, that the English King Edward the Confessor, is a fountain of health to his people, gifted for his goodness with the sacred privilege of curing _The King's Evil_, by the touch of his holy hands. The English King himself is thus introduced, for the sake of contrast with the Scotch King, who is a raging bear amongst his subjects.

In the "Winter's Tale," to which he gives the name because of the altogether extraordinary character of the occurrences (referring to it in the play itself, in the words: "_a sad tale's best for winter: I have one of sprites and goblins_") Antigonus has a remarkable dream or vision, in which Hermione appears to him, and commands the exposure of her child in a place to all appearance the most unsuitable and dangerous. Convinced of the reality of the vision, Antigonus obeys; and the whole marvellous result depends upon this obedience. Therefore the vision must be intended for a genuine one. But how could it be such, if Hermione was not dead, as, from her appearance to him, Antigonus firmly believed she was? I should feel this to be an objection to the art of the play, but for the following answer:--At the time she appeared to him, she was still lying in that deathlike swoon, into which she fell when the news of the loss of her son reached her as she stood before the judgment-seat of her husband, at a time when she ought not to have been out of her chamber.

Note likewise, in the first scene of the second act of the same play, the changefulness of Hermione's mood with regard to her boy, as indicative of her condition at the time. If we do not regard this fact, we shall think the words introduced only for the sake of filling up the business of the play.

In "Twelfth Night," both ladies make the first advances in love. Is it not worthy of notice that one of them has lost her brother, and that the other believes she has lost hers? In this respect, they may be placed with Phoebe, in "As You Like It," who, having suddenly lost her love by the discovery that its object was a woman, immediately and heartily accepts the devotion of her rejected lover, Silvius. Along with these may be cla.s.sed Romeo, who, rejected and, as he believes, inconsolable, falls in love with Juliet the moment he sees her. That his love for Rosaline, however, was but a kind of _calf-love_ compared with his love for Juliet, may be found indicated in the differing tones of his speech under the differing conditions. Compare what he says in his conversation with Benvolio, in the first scene of the first act, with any of his many speeches afterwards, and, while _conceit_ will be found prominent enough in both, the one will be found to be ruled by the fancy, the other by the imagination.

In this same play, there is another similar point which I should like to notice. In Arthur Brook's story, from which Shakspere took his, there is no mention of any communication from Lady Capulet to Juliet of their intention of marrying her to Count Paris. Why does Shakspere insert this?--to explain her falling in love with Romeo so suddenly. Her mother has set her mind moving in that direction. She has never seen Paris. She is looking about her, wondering which may be he, and whether she shall be able to like him, when she meets the love-filled eyes of Romeo fixed upon her, and is at once overcome. What a significant speech is that given to Paulina in the "Winter's Tale," act v. scene 1: "How? Not women?" Paulina is a thorough partisan, siding with women against men, and strengthened in this by the treatment her mistress has received from her husband. One has just said to her, that, if Perdita would begin a sect, she might "make proselytes of who she bid but follow." "How? Not women?" Paulina rejoins. Having received a.s.surance that "women will love her," she has no more to say.

I had the following explanation of a line in "Twelfth Night" from a stranger I met in an old book-shop:--Malvolio, having built his castle in the air, proceeds to inhabit it. Describing his own behaviour in a supposed case, he says (act ii. scene 5): "I frown the while; and perchance, wind up my watch, or play with my some rich jewel"--A dash ought to come after _my_. Malvolio was about to say _chain_; but remembering that his chain was the badge of his office of steward, and therefore of his servitude, he alters the word to "_some rich jewel_"

uttered with pretended carelessness.

In "Hamlet," act iii. scene 1, did not Shakspere intend the pa.s.sionate soliloquy of Ophelia--a soliloquy which no maiden knowing that she was overheard would have uttered,--coupled with the words of her father:

"How now, Ophelia?

You need not tell us what lord Hamlet said, We heard it all;"--

to indicate that, weak as Ophelia was, she was not false enough to be accomplice in any plot for betraying Hamlet to her father and the King?

They had remained behind the arras, and had not gone out as she must have supposed.

Next, let me request my reader to refer once more to the poem; and having considered the physiognomy of Ajax and Ulysses, as described in the fifth stanza, to turn then to the play of "Troilus and Cressida,"

and there contemplate that description as metamorphosed into the higher form of revelation in speech. Then, if he will a.s.sociate the general principles in that stanza with the third, especially the last two lines, I will apply this to the character of Lady Macbeth.

Of course, Shakspere does not mean that one regarding that portion of the picture alone, could see the eyes looking sad; but that the _sweet observance_ of the whole so roused the imagination that it supplied what distance had concealed, keeping the far-off likewise in sweet observance with the whole: the rest pointed that way.--In a manner something like this are we conducted to a right understanding of the character of Lady Macbeth. First put together these her utterances:

"You do unbend your n.o.ble strength, to think So brainsickly of things."

"Get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hands."

"The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures."

"A little water clears us of this deed."

"When all's done, You look but on a stool."

"You lack the season of all natures, sleep."--

Had these pa.s.sages stood in the play unmodified by others, we might have judged from them that Shakspere intended to represent Lady Macbeth as an utter materialist, believing in nothing beyond the immediate communications of the senses. But when we find them a.s.sociated with such pa.s.sages as these--

"Memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck only;"

"Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't;

"These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad;"--

then we find that our former theory will not do, for here are deeper and broader foundations to build upon. We discover that Lady Macbeth was an unbeliever _morally_, and so found it necessary to keep down all imagination, which is the upheaving of that inward world whose very being she would have annihilated. Yet out of this world arose at last the phantom of her slain self, and possessing her sleeping frame, sent it out to wander in the night, and rub its distressed and blood-stained hands in vain. For, as in this same "Rape of Lucrece,"

"the soul's fair temple is defaced; To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, To ask the spotted princess how she fares."

But when so many lines of delineation meet, and run into, and correct one another, a.s.suming such a natural and vital form, that there is no _making of a point_ anywhere; and the woman is shown after no theory, but according to the natural laws of human declension, we feel that the only way to account for the perfection of the representation is to say that, given a shadow, Shakspere had the power to place himself so, that that shadow became his own--was the correct representation as shadow, of his form coming between it and the sunlight. And this is the highest dramatic gift that a man can possess. But we feel at the same time, that this is, in the main, not so much art as inspiration. There would be, in all probability, a great mingling of conscious art with the inspiration; but the lines of the former being lost in the general glow of the latter, we may be left where we were as to any certainty about the artistic consciousness of Shakspere. I will now therefore attempt to give a few plainer instances of such _sweet observance_ in his own work as he would have admired in a painting.

First, then, I would request my reader to think how comparatively seldom Shakspere uses poetry in his plays. The whole play is a poem in the highest sense; but truth forbids him to make it the rule for his characters to speak poetically. Their speech is poetic in relation to the whole and the end, not in relation to the speaker, or in the immediate utterance. And even although their speech is immediately poetic, in this sense, that every character is idealized; yet it is idealized _after its kind_; and poetry certainly would not be the ideal speech of most of the characters. This granted, let us look at the exceptions: we shall find that such pa.s.sages not only glow with poetic loveliness and fervour, but are very jewels of _sweet observance_, whose setting allows them their force as lawful, and their prominence as natural. I will mention a few of such.

In "Julius Caesar," act i. scene 3, we are inclined to think the way _Casca_ speaks, quite inconsistent with the "sour fashion" which _Ca.s.sius_ very justly attributes to him; till we remember that he is speaking in the midst of an almost supernatural thunder-storm: the hidden electricity of the man's nature comes out in poetic forms and words, in response to the wild outburst of the overcharged heavens and earth.

Shakspere invariably makes the dying speak poetically, and generally prophetically, recognizing the ident.i.ty of the poetic and prophetic moods, in their highest development, and the justice that gives them the same name. Even _Sir John_, poor ruined gentleman, _babbles of green fields_. Every one knows that the pa.s.sage is disputed: I believe that if this be not the restoration of the original reading, Shakspere himself would justify it, and wish that he had so written it.

_Romeo_ and _Juliet_ talk poetry as a matter of course.

In "King John," act v. scenes 4 and 5, see how differently the dying _Melun_ and the living and victorious _Lewis_ regard the same sunset:

_Melun_.

. . . . . this night, whose black contagious breath Already smokes about the burning crest Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun.

_Lewis_.

The sun in heaven, methought, was loath to set; But stayed, and made the western welkin blush, When the English measured backward their own ground.

The exquisite duet between _Lorenzo_ and _Jessica_, in the opening of the fifth act of "The Merchant of Venice," finds for its subject the circ.u.mstances that produce the mood--the lovely night and the crescent moon--which first make them talk poetry, then call for music, and next speculate upon its nature.

Let us turn now to some instances of sweet observance in other kinds.

There is observance, more true than sweet, in the character of _Jacques_, in "As You Like It:" the fault-finder in age was the fault-doer in youth and manhood. _Jacques_ patronizing the fool, is one of the rarest shows of self-ignorance.

In the same play, when _Rosalind_ hears that _Orlando_ is in the wood, she cries out, "Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose?"

And when _Orlando_ asks her, "Where dwell you, pretty youth?" she answers, tripping in her role, "Here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat."

In the second part of "King Henry IV.," act iv. scene 3, _Falstaff_ says of _Prince John_: "Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh;--but that's no marvel: he drinks no wine." This is the _Prince John_ who betrays the insurgents afterwards by the falsest of quibbles, and gains his revenge through their good faith.

In "King Henry IV," act i. scene 2, _Poins_ does not say _Falstaff_ is a coward like the other two; but only--"If he fight longer than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms." a.s.sociate this with _Falstaff's_ soliloquy about _honour_ in the same play, act v. scene 1, and the true character of his courage or cowardice--for it may bear either name--comes out.

Is there not conscious art in representing the hospitable face of the castle of _Macbeth_, bearing on it a homely welcome in the mult.i.tude of the nests of _the temple-haunting martlet_ (Psalm lx.x.xiv. 3), just as _Lady Macbeth_, the fiend-soul of the house, steps from the door, like the speech of the building, with her falsely smiled welcome? Is there not _observance_ in it?

But the production of such instances might be endless, as the work of Shakspere is infinite. I confine myself to two more, taken from "The Merchant of Venice."

Shakspere requires a character capable of the magnificent devotion of friendship which the old story attributes to _Antonio_. He therefore introduces us to a man sober even to sadness, thoughtful even to melancholy. The first words of the play unveil this characteristic. He holds "the world but as the world,"--

"A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one."

The cause of this sadness we are left to conjecture. _Antonio_ himself professes not to know. But such a disposition, even if it be not occasioned by any definite event or object, will generally a.s.sociate itself with one; and when _Antonio_ is accused of being in love, he repels the accusation with only a sad "Fie! fie!" This, and his whole character, seem to me to point to an old but ever cherished grief.

Into the original story upon which this play is founded, Shakspere has, among other variations, introduced the story of _Jessica_ and _Lorenzo_, apparently altogether of his own invention. What was his object in doing so? Surely there were characters and interests enough already!--It seems to me that Shakspere doubted whether the Jew would have actually proceeded to carry out his fell design against _Antonio_, upon the original ground of his hatred, without the further incitement to revenge afforded by another pa.s.sion, second only to his love of gold--his affection for his daughter; for in the Jew having reference to his own property, it had risen to a pa.s.sion. Shakspere therefore invents her, that he may send a dog of a Christian to steal her, and, yet worse, to tempt her to steal her father's stones and ducats. I suspect Shakspere sends the old villain off the stage at the last with more of the pity of the audience than any of the other dramatists of the time would have ventured to rouse, had they been capable of doing so. I suspect he is the only human Jew of the English drama up to that time.

I have now arrived at the last and most important stage of my argument.

It is this: If Shakspere was so well aware of the artistic relations of the parts of his drama, is it likely that the grand meanings involved in the whole were unperceived by him, and conveyed to us without any intention on his part--had their origin only in the fact that he dealt with human nature so truly, that his representations must involve whatever lessons human life itself involves?

Is there no intention, for instance, in placing _Prospero_, who forsook the duties of his dukedom for the study of magic, in a desert island, with just three subjects; one, a monster below humanity; the second, a creature etherealized beyond it; and the third a complete embodiment of human perfection? Is it not that he may learn how to rule, and, having learned, return, by the aid of his magic wisely directed, to the home and duties from which exclusive devotion to that magic had driven him?