Shakespearean Tragedy Part 4

For nature, crescent, does not grow alone In thews and bulk,

who can help feeling that Shakespeare is speaking rather than Laertes?

Or when the player-king discourses for more than twenty lines on the instability of human purpose, and when King Claudius afterwards insists to Laertes on the same subject at almost equal length, who does not see that Shakespeare, thinking but little of dramatic fitness, wishes in part simply to write poetry, and partly to impress on the audience thoughts which will help them to understand, not the player-king nor yet King Claudius, but Hamlet himself, who, on his side,--and here quite in character--has already enlarged on the same topic in the most famous of his soliloquies?

(_g_) Lastly, like nearly all the dramatists of his day and of times much earlier, Shakespeare was fond of 'gnomic' pa.s.sages, and introduces them probably not more freely than his readers like, but more freely than, I suppose, a good play-wright now would care to do. These pa.s.sages, it may be observed, are frequently rhymed (_e.g._ _Oth.e.l.lo_, I. iii. 201 ff., II. i. 149 ff.). Sometimes they were printed in early editions with inverted commas round them, as are in the First Quarto Polonius's 'few precepts' to Laertes.

If now we ask whence defects like these arose, we shall observe that some of them are shared by the majority of Shakespeare's contemporaries, and abound in the dramas immediately preceding his time. They are characteristics of an art still undeveloped, and, no doubt, were not perceived to be defects. But though it is quite probable that in regard to one or two kinds of imperfection (such as the superabundance of 'gnomic' pa.s.sages) Shakespeare himself erred thus ignorantly, it is very unlikely that in most cases he did so, unless in the first years of his career of authorship. And certainly he never can have thought it artistic to leave inconsistencies, obscurities, or pa.s.sages of bombast in his work. Most of the defects in his writings must be due to indifference or want of care.

I do not say that all were so. In regard, for example, to his occasional bombast and other errors of diction, it seems hardly doubtful that his perception was sometimes at fault, and that, though he used the English language like no one else, he had not that _sureness_ of taste in words which has been shown by some much smaller writers. And it seems not unlikely that here he suffered from his comparative want of 'learning,'--that is, of familiarity with the great writers of antiquity. But nine-tenths of his defects are not, I believe, the errors of an inspired genius, ignorant of art, but the sins of a great but negligent artist. He was often, no doubt, over-worked and pressed for time. He knew that the immense majority of his audience were incapable of distinguishing between rough and finished work. He often felt the degradation of having to live by pleasing them. Probably in hours of depression he was quite indifferent to fame, and perhaps in another mood the whole business of play-writing seemed to him a little thing. None of these thoughts and feelings influenced him when his subject had caught hold of him. To imagine that _then_ he 'winged his roving flight' for 'gain' or 'glory,' or wrote from any cause on earth but the necessity of expression, with all its pains and raptures, is mere folly. He was possessed: his mind must have been in a white heat: he worked, no doubt, with the _furia_ of Michael Angelo. And if he did not succeed at once--and how can even he have always done so?--he returned to the matter again and again. Such things as the scenes of Duncan's murder or Oth.e.l.lo's temptation, such speeches as those of the Duke to Claudio and of Claudio to his sister about death, were not composed in an hour and tossed aside; and if they have defects, they have not what Shakespeare thought defects. Nor is it possible that his astonishingly individual conceptions of character can have been struck out at a heat: prolonged and repeated thought must have gone to them. But of small inconsistencies in the plot he was often quite careless. He seems to have finished off some of his comedies with a hasty and even contemptuous indifference, as if it mattered nothing how the people got married, or even who married whom, so long as enough were married somehow. And often, when he came to parts of his scheme that were necessary but not interesting to him, he wrote with a slack hand, like a craftsman of genius who knows that his natural gift and acquired skill will turn out something more than good enough for his audience: wrote probably fluently but certainly negligently, sometimes only half saying what he meant, and sometimes saying the opposite, and now and then, when pa.s.sion was required, lapsing into bombast because he knew he must heighten his style but would not take the trouble to inflame his imagination. It may truly be said that what injures such pa.s.sages is not inspiration, but the want of it. But, as they are mostly pa.s.sages where no poet could expect to be inspired, it is even more true to say that here Shakespeare lacked the conscience of the artist who is determined to make everything as good as he can. Such poets as Milton, Pope, Tennyson, habitually show this conscience. They left probably scarcely anything that they felt they could improve. No one could dream of saying that of Shakespeare.

Hence comes what is perhaps the chief difficulty in interpreting his works. Where his power or art is fully exerted it really does resemble that of nature. It organises and vitalises its product from the centre outward to the minutest markings on the surface, so that when you turn upon it the most searching light you can command, when you dissect it and apply to it the test of a microscope, still you find in it nothing formless, general or vague, but everywhere structure, character, individuality. In this his great things, which seem to come whenever they are wanted, have no companions in literature except the few greatest things in Dante; and it is a fatal error to allow his carelessness elsewhere to make one doubt whether here one is not seeking more than can be found. It is very possible to look for subtlety in the wrong places in Shakespeare, but in the right places it is not possible to find too much. But then this characteristic, which is one source of his endless attraction, is also a source of perplexity. For in those parts of his plays which show him neither in his most intense nor in his most negligent mood, we are often unable to decide whether something that seems inconsistent, indistinct, feeble, exaggerated, is really so, or whether it was definitely meant to be as it is, and has an intention which we ought to be able to divine; whether, for example, we have before us some unusual trait in character, some abnormal movement of mind, only surprising to us because we understand so very much less of human nature than Shakespeare did, or whether he wanted to get his work done and made a slip, or in using an old play adopted hastily something that would not square with his own conception, or even refused to trouble himself with minutiae which we notice only because we study him, but which n.o.body ever notices in a stage performance. We know well enough what Shakespeare is doing when at the end of _Measure for Measure_ he marries Isabella to the Duke--and a scandalous proceeding it is; but who can ever feel sure that the doubts which vex him as to some not unimportant points in _Hamlet_ are due to his own want of eyesight or to Shakespeare's want of care?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 16: The famous critics of the Romantic Revival seem to have paid very little attention to this subject. Mr. R.G. Moulton has written an interesting book on _Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_ (1885). In parts of my a.n.a.lysis I am much indebted to Gustav Freytag's _Technik des Dramas_, a book which deserves to be much better known than it appears to be to Englishmen interested in the drama. I may add, for the benefit of cla.s.sical scholars, that Freytag has a chapter on Sophocles. The reader of his book will easily distinguish, if he cares to, the places where I follow Freytag, those where I differ from him, and those where I write in independence of him. I may add that in speaking of construction I have thought it best to a.s.sume in my hearers no previous knowledge of the subject; that I have not attempted to discuss how much of what is said of Shakespeare would apply also to other dramatists; and that I have ill.u.s.trated from the tragedies generally, not only from the chosen four.]

[Footnote 17: This word throughout the lecture bears the sense it has here, which, of course, is not its usual dramatic sense.]

[Footnote 18: In the same way a comedy will consist of three parts, showing the 'situation,' the 'complication' or 'entanglement,' and the _denouement_ or 'solution.']

[Footnote 19: It is possible, of course, to open the tragedy with the conflict already begun, but Shakespeare never does so.]

[Footnote 20: When the subject comes from English history, and especially when the play forms one of a series, some knowledge may be a.s.sumed. So in _Richard III._ Even in _Richard II._ not a little knowledge seems to be a.s.sumed, and this fact points to the existence of a popular play on the earlier part of Richard's reign. Such a play exists, though it is not clear that it is a genuine Elizabethan work.

See the _Jahrbuch d. deutschen Sh.-gesellschaft_ for 1899.]

[Footnote 21: This is one of several reasons why many people enjoy reading him, who, on the whole, dislike reading plays. A main cause of this very general dislike is that the reader has not a lively enough imagination to carry him with pleasure through the exposition, though in the theatre, where his imagination is helped, he would experience little difficulty.]

[Footnote 22: The end of _Richard III._ is perhaps an exception.]

[Footnote 23: I do not discuss the general question of the justification of soliloquy, for it concerns not Shakespeare only, but practically all dramatists down to quite recent times. I will only remark that neither soliloquy nor the use of verse can be condemned on the mere ground that they are 'unnatural.' No dramatic language is 'natural'; _all_ dramatic language is idealised. So that the question as to soliloquy must be one as to the degree of idealisation and the balance of advantages and disadvantages. (Since this lecture was written I have read some remarks on Shakespeare's soliloquies to much the same effect by E. Kilian in the _Jahrbuch d. deutschen Shakespeare-Gesellschaft_ for 1903.)]

[Footnote 24: If by this we mean that these characters all speak what is recognisably Shakespeare's style, of course it is true; but it is no accusation. Nor does it follow that they all speak alike; and in fact they are far from doing so.]

LECTURE III

SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGIC PERIOD--HAMLET

1

Before we come to-day to _Hamlet_, the first of our four tragedies, a few remarks must be made on their probable place in Shakespeare's literary career. But I shall say no more than seems necessary for our restricted purpose, and, therefore, for the most part shall merely be stating widely accepted results of investigation, without going into the evidence on which they rest.[25]

Shakespeare's tragedies fall into two distinct groups, and these groups are separated by a considerable interval. He wrote tragedy--pure, like _Romeo and Juliet_; historical, like _Richard III._--in the early years of his career of authorship, when he was also writing such comedies as _Love's Labour's Lost_ and the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_. Then came a time, lasting some half-dozen years, during which he composed the most mature and humorous of his English History plays (the plays with Falstaff in them), and the best of his romantic comedies (the plays with Beatrice and Jaques and Viola in them). There are no tragedies belonging to these half-dozen years, nor any dramas approaching tragedy. But now, from about 1601 to about 1608, comes tragedy after tragedy--_Julius Caesar_, _Hamlet_, _Oth.e.l.lo_, _King Lear_, _Timon of Athens_, _Macbeth_, _Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriola.n.u.s_; and their companions are plays which cannot indeed be called tragedies, but certainly are not comedies in the same sense as _As You Like It_ or the _Tempest_. These seven years, accordingly, might, without much risk of misunderstanding, be called Shakespeare's tragic period.[26] And after it he wrote no more tragedies, but chiefly romances more serious and less sunny than _As You Like It_, but not much less serene.

The existence of this distinct tragic period, of a time when the dramatist seems to have been occupied almost exclusively with deep and painful problems, has naturally helped to suggest the idea that the 'man' also, in these years of middle age, from thirty-seven to forty-four, was heavily burdened in spirit; that Shakespeare turned to tragedy not merely for change, or because he felt it to be the greatest form of drama and felt himself equal to it, but also because the world had come to look dark and terrible to him; and even that the railings of Thersites and the maledictions of Timon express his own contempt and hatred for mankind. Discussion of this large and difficult subject, however, is not necessary to the dramatic appreciation of any of his works, and I shall say nothing of it here, but shall pa.s.s on at once to draw attention to certain stages and changes which may be observed within the tragic period. For this purpose too it is needless to raise any question as to the respective chronological positions of _Oth.e.l.lo_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. What is important is also generally admitted: that _Julius Caesar_ and _Hamlet_ precede these plays, and that _Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriola.n.u.s_ follow them.[27]

If we consider the tragedies first on the side of their substance, we find at once an obvious difference between the first two and the remainder. Both Brutus and Hamlet are highly intellectual by nature and reflective by habit. Both may even be called, in a popular sense, philosophic; Brutus may be called so in a stricter sense. Each, being also a 'good' man, shows accordingly, when placed in critical circ.u.mstances, a sensitive and almost painful anxiety to do right. And though they fail--of course in quite different ways--to deal successfully with these circ.u.mstances, the failure in each case is connected rather with their intellectual nature and reflective habit than with any yielding to pa.s.sion. Hence the name 'tragedy of thought,'

which Schlegel gave to _Hamlet_, may be given also, as in effect it has been by Professor Dowden, to _Julius Caesar_. The later heroes, on the other hand, Oth.e.l.lo, Lear, Timon, Macbeth, Antony, Coriola.n.u.s, have, one and all, pa.s.sionate natures, and, speaking roughly, we may attribute the tragic failure in each of these cases to pa.s.sion. Partly for this reason, the later plays are wilder and stormier than the first two. We see a greater ma.s.s of human nature in commotion, and we see Shakespeare's own powers exhibited on a larger scale. Finally, examination would show that, in all these respects, the first tragedy, _Julius Caesar_, is further removed from the later type than is the second, _Hamlet_.

These two earlier works are both distinguished from most of the succeeding tragedies in another though a kindred respect. Moral evil is not so intently scrutinised or so fully displayed in them. In _Julius Caesar_, we may almost say, everybody means well. In _Hamlet_, though we have a villain, he is a small one. The murder which gives rise to the action lies outside the play, and the centre of attention within the play lies in the hero's efforts to do his duty. It seems clear that Shakespeare's interest, since the early days when under Marlowe's influence he wrote _Richard III._, has not been directed to the more extreme or terrible forms of evil. But in the tragedies that follow _Hamlet_ the presence of this interest is equally clear. In Iago, in the 'bad' people of _King Lear_, even in Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, human nature a.s.sumes shapes which inspire not mere sadness or repulsion but horror and dismay. If in _Timon_ no monstrous cruelty is done, we still watch ingrat.i.tude and selfishness so blank that they provoke a loathing we never felt for Claudius; and in this play and _King Lear_ we can fancy that we hear at times the _saeva indignatio_, if not the despair, of Swift. This prevalence of abnormal or appalling forms of evil, side by side with vehement pa.s.sion, is another reason why the convulsion depicted in these tragedies seems to come from a deeper source, and to be vaster in extent, than the conflict in the two earlier plays. And here again _Julius Caesar_ is further removed than _Hamlet_ from _Oth.e.l.lo_, _King Lear_, and _Macbeth_.

But in regard to this second point of difference a reservation must be made, on which I will speak a little more fully, because, unlike the matter hitherto touched on, its necessity seems hardly to have been recognised. _All_ of the later tragedies may be called tragedies of pa.s.sion, but not all of them display these extreme forms of evil.

Neither of the last two does so. Antony and Coriola.n.u.s are, from one point of view, victims of pa.s.sion; but the pa.s.sion that ruins Antony also exalts him, he touches the infinite in it; and the pride and self-will of Coriola.n.u.s, though terrible in bulk, are scarcely so in quality; there is nothing base in them, and the huge creature whom they destroy is a n.o.ble, even a lovable, being. Nor does either of these dramas, though the earlier depicts a corrupt civilisation, include even among the minor characters anyone who can be called villainous or horrible. Consider, finally, the impression left on us at the close of each. It is remarkable that this impression, though very strong, can scarcely be called purely tragic; or, if we call it so, at least the feeling of reconciliation which mingles with the obviously tragic emotions is here exceptionally well-marked. The death of Antony, it will be remembered, comes before the opening of the Fifth Act. The death of Cleopatra, which closes the play, is greeted by the reader with sympathy and admiration, even with exultation at the thought that she has foiled Octavius; and these feelings are heightened by the deaths of Charmian and Iras, heroically faithful to their mistress, as Emilia was to hers.

In _Coriola.n.u.s_ the feeling of reconciliation is even stronger. The whole interest towards the close has been concentrated on the question whether the hero will persist in his revengeful design of storming and burning his native city, or whether better feelings will at last overpower his resentment and pride. He stands on the edge of a crime beside which, at least in outward dreadfulness, the slaughter of an individual looks insignificant. And when, at the sound of his mother's voice and the sight of his wife and child, nature a.s.serts itself and he gives way, although we know he will lose his life, we care little for that: he has saved his soul. Our relief, and our exultation in the power of goodness, are so great that the actual catastrophe which follows and mingles sadness with these feelings leaves them but little diminished, and as we close the book we feel, it seems to me, more as we do at the close of _Cymbeline_ than as we do at the close of _Oth.e.l.lo_. In saying this I do not in the least mean to criticise _Coriola.n.u.s_. It is a much n.o.bler play as it stands than it would have been if Shakespeare had made the hero persist, and we had seen him amid the flaming ruins of Rome, awaking suddenly to the enormity of his deed and taking vengeance on himself; but that would surely have been an ending more strictly tragic than the close of Shakespeare's play. Whether this close was simply due to his unwillingness to contradict his historical authority on a point of such magnitude we need not ask. In any case _Coriola.n.u.s_ is, in more than an outward sense, the end of his tragic period. It marks the transition to his latest works, in which the powers of repentance and forgiveness charm to rest the tempest raised by error and guilt.

If we turn now from the substance of the tragedies to their style and versification, we find on the whole a corresponding difference between the earlier and the later. The usual a.s.signment of _Julius Caesar_, and even of _Hamlet_, to the end of Shakespeare's Second Period--the period of _Henry V._--is based mainly, we saw, on considerations of form. The general style of the serious parts of the last plays from English history is one of full, n.o.ble and comparatively equable eloquence. The 'honey-tongued' sweetness and beauty of Shakespeare's early writing, as seen in _Romeo and Juliet_ or the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_, remain; the ease and lucidity remain; but there is an accession of force and weight.

We find no great change from this style when we come to _Julius Caesar_,[28] which may be taken to mark its culmination. At this point in Shakespeare's literary development he reaches, if the phrase may be pardoned, a limited perfection. Neither thought on the one side, nor expression on the other, seems to have any tendency to outrun or contend with its fellow. We receive an impression of easy mastery and complete harmony, but not so strong an impression of inner power bursting into outer life. Shakespeare's style is perhaps nowhere else so free from defects, and yet almost every one of his subsequent plays contains writing which is greater. To speak familiarly, we feel in _Julius Caesar_ that, although not even Shakespeare could better the style he has chosen, he has not let himself go.

In reading _Hamlet_ we have no such feeling, and in many parts (for there is in the writing of _Hamlet_ an unusual variety[29]) we are conscious of a decided change. The style in these parts is more rapid and vehement, less equable and less simple; and there is a change of the same kind in the versification. But on the whole the _type_ is the same as in _Julius Caesar_, and the resemblance of the two plays is decidedly more marked than the difference. If Hamlet's soliloquies, considered simply as compositions, show a great change from Jaques's speech, 'All the world's a stage,' and even from the soliloquies of Brutus, yet _Hamlet_ (for instance in the hero's interview with his mother) is like _Julius Caesar_, and unlike the later tragedies, in the fulness of its eloquence, and pa.s.sages like the following belong quite definitely to the style of the Second Period:

_Mar._ It faded on the crowing of the c.o.c.k.

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.

_Hor._ So have I heard and do in part believe it.

But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.

This bewitching music is heard again in Hamlet's farewell to Horatio:

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.

But after _Hamlet_ this music is heard no more. It is followed by a music vaster and deeper, but not the same.

The changes observable in _Hamlet_ are afterwards, and gradually, so greatly developed that Shakespeare's style and versification at last become almost new things. It is extremely difficult to ill.u.s.trate this briefly in a manner to which no just exception can be taken, for it is almost impossible to find in two plays pa.s.sages bearing a sufficiently close resemblance to one another in occasion and sentiment. But I will venture to put by the first of those quotations from _Hamlet_ this from _Macbeth_:

_Dun._ This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses.

_Ban._ This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, b.u.t.tress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle; Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed, The air is delicate;

and by the second quotation from _Hamlet_ this from _Antony and Cleopatra_:

The miserable change now at my end Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts In feeding them with those my former fortunes Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o' the world, The n.o.blest; and do now not basely die, Not cowardly put off my helmet to My countryman,--a Roman by a Roman Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going; I can no more.

It would be almost an impertinence to point out in detail how greatly these two pa.s.sages, and especially the second, differ in effect from those in _Hamlet_, written perhaps five or six years earlier. The versification, by the time we reach _Antony and Cleopatra_, has a.s.sumed a new type; and although this change would appear comparatively slight in a typical pa.s.sage from _Oth.e.l.lo_ or even from _King Lear_, its approach through these plays to _Timon_ and _Macbeth_ can easily be traced. It is accompanied by a similar change in diction and construction. After _Hamlet_ the style, in the more emotional pa.s.sages, is heightened. It becomes grander, sometimes wilder, sometimes more swelling, even tumid. It is also more concentrated, rapid, varied, and, in construction, less regular, not seldom twisted or elliptical. It is, therefore, not so easy and lucid, and in the more ordinary dialogue it is sometimes involved and obscure, and from these and other causes deficient in charm.[30] On the other hand, it is always full of life and movement, and in great pa.s.sages produces sudden, strange, electrifying effects which are rarely found in earlier plays, and not so often even in _Hamlet_. The more pervading effect of beauty gives place to what may almost be called explosions of sublimity or pathos.

There is room for differences of taste and preference as regards the style and versification of the end of Shakespeare's Second Period, and those of the later tragedies and last romances. But readers who miss in the latter the peculiar enchantment of the earlier will not deny that the changes in form are in entire harmony with the inward changes. If they object to pa.s.sages where, to exaggerate a little, the sense has rather to be discerned beyond the words than found in them, and if they do not wholly enjoy the movement of so typical a speech as this,

Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar will Unstate his happiness, and be staged to the show, Against a sworder! I see men's judgements are A parcel of their fortunes; and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike. That he should dream, Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued His judgement too,

they will admit that, in traversing the impatient throng of thoughts not always completely embodied, their minds move through an astonishing variety of ideas and experiences, and that a style less generally poetic than that of _Hamlet_ is also a style more invariably dramatic. It may be that, for the purposes of tragedy, the highest point was reached during the progress of these changes, in the most critical pa.s.sages of _Oth.e.l.lo_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_.[31]

2

Suppose you were to describe the plot of _Hamlet_ to a person quite ignorant of the play, and suppose you were careful to tell your hearer nothing about Hamlet's character, what impression would your sketch make on him? Would he not exclaim: 'What a sensational story! Why, here are some eight violent deaths, not to speak of adultery, a ghost, a mad woman, and a fight in a grave! If I did not know that the play was Shakespeare's, I should have thought it must have been one of those early tragedies of blood and horror from which he is said to have redeemed the stage'? And would he not then go on to ask: 'But why in the world did not Hamlet obey the Ghost at once, and so save seven of those eight lives?'